Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

“How magnanimous of you,” I said. “Itching for a fair fight?”

“Not really,” said the DA. “If I think a guy’s guilty, I don’t care if he’s got a trained monkey for counsel. In fact, I prefer it. But I’m not convinced yet. There’s some circumstantial evidence, but this doesn’t look open and shut to me.”

“It does to me,” said Frank. “I got the girl’s dead body not four hundred yards from the guy’s house, plus a signed love letter and another handwritten note from him to the victim.”

“But why did he kill her?” I asked. “What was his motive?”

“I got a theory,” he said, and the DA and I waited for it. “She was planning to run off with another guy—that Wilbur Burch out in Arizona. Russell didn’t like the idea. Maybe he couldn’t stomach losing her.”

I exchanged a glance with the DA. “Seems pretty thin to me,” said Don to the sheriff. “But we’ll go slow on this and see. Maybe he’ll say something stupid to Ellie.”

I had one more nit to pick with the sheriff.

“Have you checked Ted Russell’s handwriting against the love letter and the note you found in the lunch box?” I asked.

“Yes, I have,” said Frank. “And they match. Both letters were written by the same hand.”

“No, I meant did you check them against a writing sample from Ted Russell?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But what are you driving at anyway? You don’t think he wrote those?”

I shook my head. “I’m positive he didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“You’re not going to like it,” I said. “And neither will the adoring public.”

“Just tell me who you think wrote those letters to Darleen.”

“Teddy Jurczyk.”

“Holy hell,” said Frank, sitting up straight in his seat. The DA whistled through his teeth. “Are you saying that an All-American, straight-A, basketball hero murdered Darleen Hicks?”

“Of course not. But I believe he wrote the notes. According to Irene Metzger, he’s been in love with Darleen for years.”

“But the letter and the note were signed ‘Ted,’ not ‘Teddy,’” said Don.

“He told me he hates the name Teddy,” I said. “So he wouldn’t have signed the letters that way.”

Frank consulted a page from the open file on his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed. After a couple of rings, he asked for Leonard Platt, Ted Russell’s attorney.

“This is Sheriff Olney,” he said once he’d reached his party. “I’d like you to come over to the jail, if you don’t mind.” The man at the other end of the line said something, and Frank explained. “I need a handwriting sample from your client, and I want the whole thing to be done above board.” Another pause. “Well, I understand it’s Saturday, Mr. Platt, but I think this is a reasonable request.” Frank waited some more, frowned, then tried again. “Gunsmoke isn’t on till ten. You’ll be home long before that.” Another pause. “Don’t tell me you’re watching Lawrence Welk.” He listened a bit more then lost his temper. “Of course you’re not getting paid enough to come over on a Saturday night. You’re a public servant, you jackass. Just forget it. We’ve already impounded his car. We’ll check the briefcase he had inside. Good night, counselor,” and he slammed down the receiver.

At times like these, I truly admired Frank Olney.

“What?” he asked, noticing my adoring stare. “The guy deserves a better lawyer than that.”

“So do I get to talk to Ted Russell or not?”

I met the prisoner in a room reserved for interrogations and meetings with counsel. He entered the room in a gray county jail shirt and trousers. No stripes, but “Montgomery County Jail” was stenciled across the front and back of the oversized shirt. His hands were shackled before him. A precaution to protect me, I figured, just in case he really was a murderer. He was also sporting a large, white bandage on the right side of his neck. He looked scared.

“How are you, Ted?” I asked once he’d sat down.

He shrugged and said he was okay. “I agreed to meet with you, Ellie, because I want you to tell the world I’m innocent. I want you to print a story about me in the paper right away explaining that I did not kill Darleen Hicks.”

“How about you convince me first?” I said.

“I just can’t believe this is happening. It’s all one giant mistake.”

“How well did you really know Darleen Hicks?” I asked. “Is it true that you wrote her love letters and notes to arrange secret meetings after school and on the weekends?” Of course, I knew he hadn’t, but I wanted to get him talking.

“What? No! Never. I swear to you that I only knew that girl because she was in my music class. I never wrote her any notes or letters.” His eyes blurred just a touch with his last pronouncement, as if he’d just remembered something significant.

“This is the time to tell me everything, Ted,” I said. “If you want me to make your case, I have to believe you. Even if it looks bad, tell me now. It will only look worse later when it comes out.” I paused. “And it will come out.”

“There was nothing,” he said. “Yes, I wrote one note to her, but it was perfectly innocent. I even signed it ‘Mr. Russell.’”

“What was in the note?”

Ted chewed on my question for a good while, squirming in his seat and taking several long, deep breaths. I waited. I don’t like to fill dead air when I’m interviewing a subject. Eventually, people start talking, and if the hole in the conversation is large enough, they try to fill it.

“It sounds bad, but it really was innocent, I swear,” he said finally. “Look, she’d asked me to do her a favor, and the note I wrote to her was to tell her that I would do it.”

I stared deep into his eyes, almost gazing, not judging, but blank, inviting him to go on. He was sweating.

“She asked me