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

I was ready to play one of my trumps, and I intended to study his reaction very carefully.

“Geraldine Duffy,” I said slow and plain.

Brossard’s eyes actually grew, and his mouth dropped open just a bit before he caught himself. He couldn’t very well deny that he knew who she was, though, so he made the best of it.

“That poor girl,” he said. “I certainly had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

“Then why did you leave St. Winifred’s?”

“I already told you. Better prospects. A man has a right to build his career, doesn’t he?”

“The timing is curious,” I said. “Just months after Geraldine Duffy disappeared, you left for greener pastures.”

“That’s a coincidence. One had nothing to do with the other. Now, you’ve made some heinous accusations here, Miss Stone, and I’m trying to hold my temper. But—”

“I haven’t made any accusations, Mr. Brossard,” I interrupted. “I’ve merely asked you questions that you have answered, some truthfully, others not.”

“I did not kill those girls!” he yelled, and pounded his fist on the table, causing his pencil and glass of water to jump into the air. “Now I’ll ask you to leave.”

“What were you doing on the Mill Street Bridge at one thirty in the morning after Darleen Hicks disappeared?”

Just then Mrs. Worth burst through the door. “What was that noise?” she asked. “We heard shouting.”

“Sorry about that,” said Brossard, forcing another smile. He could do nothing to the hide the red in his face, though. “I dropped a book on the floor. Miss Stone and I are just talking here. Everything’s fine.”

Mrs. Worth withdrew, casting a severe look my way. I nodded that it was okay. Once the door was closed, Brossard started to pace.

“Look,” he said. “I apologize for losing my temper there. But you must understand that I’m innocent, Miss Stone. It’s very disturbing to be asked such questions.”

“You don’t have to answer them,” I said.

“But how would that look? You’ll print it in your paper, make me appear guilty for the whole town to see.”

“What were you doing on the Mill Street Bridge at one thirty in the morning?” I repeated.

He retook his seat, his mind working furiously to find an escape. He wiped his perspired brow, smoothed his oiled hair, and took several deep breaths. I waited.

“I have . . . a problem,” he began, his face burning fuchsia, nearly purple. I didn’t enjoy this, but I was damned if I would let him off the hook. In contrast to his red face, I couldn’t shake the blue of Darleen’s dead skin from my thoughts. “It’s something my father struggled with as well,” he continued. “I’m a dipsomaniac. It’s a terrible curse, and I pray to Jesus and all the saints for deliverance each day. But there are times when I relapse. I’m weak.”

I watched him, his shaking hands, the sweat on his forehead, the licking of his lips. He wasn’t looking at me. He just stared at the floor, ashamed, as if he were cataloguing his sins to an invisible priest in a confessional.

“December twenty-first was one of those days when I succumbed. I drank and drank at that banquet. First wine, then a Manhattan. Then three more. Manhattans have always been my weakness. And that day I was thirsty. So thirsty. I couldn’t stop, I tell you. Even when Mr. Endicott pulled me aside and told me to get a grip on myself, I still snuck into the bar and downed a shot of rye.”

I listened intently, my mouth clamped shut, even though I wanted to scream bloody murder at him. All I could think of was substituting child molester for dipsomaniac in his confession.

I’m a child molester, a child killer. It’s a terrible curse, and I pray to Jesus and all the saints for deliverance every day. But there are times when I relapse. I’m weak.

“So that’s how I ended up on the bridge at that hour. I was drunk, Miss Stone,” he said, looking to me for pity or forgiveness. But all he got in return was another question he couldn’t answer.

“Why were you coming from the South Side? Where had you been?”

The intercom on Brossard’s desk buzzed. It was Mrs. Worth again. She said Mr. Endicott wanted to speak to him urgently. Brossard’s head fell into his hands, but then he must have seen his chance to escape. He wiped his eyes and brow with a handkerchief and excused himself. I was sure he wasn’t coming back.

If I had harbored any doubts about Louis Brossard’s guilt before my interview with him, they were gone now. The man seemed a tortured pervert to me. Remorseful, perhaps, deep down, and ashamed of his base urges and his inability to control them, but he knew what he had done was wrong and would condemn him to hell until Judgment Day. Make no mistake, Louis Brossard was a strict Catholic in anguish. I felt some pity for him. But not enough to take my foot off the gas until he’d admitted what he’d done.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“I’m not going to release Ted Russell, Ellie” said Frank Olney. “The DA says he can’t make a case, but I still think he’s my best bet. It won’t hurt to hold him a little longer.”

“Come on, Frank,” I said. “He’s innocent.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Well, I can tell you who killed Darleen Hicks. And, in case you want to score some points with some of your fellow cops downstate, I’ll give you the name of the man who murdered a thirteen-year-old girl named Geraldine Duffy in Hudson three years ago.”

“What are you on about?” he asked, eyeing me as he rocked in his chair.

“Louis Brossard murdered Darleen Hicks.”

He stopped rocking and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “The assistant principal?”

I nodded. “I know he was on the Mill Street Bridge at one thirty in the early morning hours of December twenty-second.”

Frank stared at me. “And?”

“And the river was frozen from Canajoharie to Lock 11 on the west