Like most reporters, Lucy detested police press conferences. They always seemed to feature the same self-congratulatory parade of pompous officers reciting identical litanies of praise for each other’s organizations: “We could never have brought this case to a successful conclusion without the help of Chief Zero Tolerance and his entire department…” and “I want to acknowledge the selfless dedication of Assistant District Attorney Got Hisman…” and the inevitable “Teamwork is what made the difference.” These productions were as tightly scripted as the annual Oscar awards show, without even the mild suspense offered by the wait for the winners to be announced. And, like those so-called town meetings held by the president, questioning was only allowed by those who had displayed unswerving fidelity to the police community. Any reporter who included the merest hint in a news story that something wasn’t quite kosher about an arrest or an investigation soon became invisible when it was time for questions.
Lucy figured today’s conference would be worse than usual. It was the first since Chief Crowley’s retirement and the new chief, Frank Kirwan, would be eager to strut his stuff. Nevertheless, attendance was necessary, if only to pick up the official press release, and Lucy wasn’t surprised to find a crowd in the basement bomb shelter-turned-crisis management center at the police station. The Boston and Portland media, from TV to radio to newspapers, were well represented. Chief Kirwan would be pleased.
Lucy found a seat in the front and waited impatiently for the dog and pony show to begin, promising herself that she’d get out of there as soon as the press releases were distributed. She hoped that Audrey, the department secretary, had fired up the Xerox machine and was printing them out at this very moment.
But when the procession of officials began filing into the room, led by Chief Kirwan, the secretary and her pile of fresh-from-the-copier press releases were conspicuously absent. There was a collective sigh of resignation from the assembled journalists as they opened their notebooks and switched on the cameras and recorders.
It wasn’t until the official square dance of thank-yous and acknowledgements and hymns to cooperation had ended and the DA was answering questions that the evidence against Fred Stanton was even mentioned, and Lucy found it less than compelling. The fact that Fred’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon was hardly surprising; after all it was his knife, from his house, and he might have used it to cut a ham sandwich. More interesting to Lucy was the mention that a witness reported seeing him leave the house in what the DA described as “an agitated state” on the day of the murder. Lucy had doubts about the value of that information, too. It seemed to her she left the house in an agitated state most mornings due to the fact she was often running late, or the girls were dawdling or the dog had gotten into the trash. There was always something. She raised her hand.
“Yes, there, you in the back,” said the DA, pointing to her.
“I was wondering if you have any information about the body that was found in the harbor this morning? Has the man been identified and was there any foul play?”
There was a flurry of interest from the reporters, but the DA wasn’t giving anything away. “No, we have not made an identification and no, there were no signs that his death was anything but an accidental drowning, but as you know it’s up to the medical examiner to determine the exact cause of death.”
“And when do you expect that report?” asked someone in the front row.
“That also is up to the medical examiner,” said the DA. “Now, I’ll take one more question before closing.”
Lucy was hurrying out of the police station, finally clutching the not-very-informative official press release, when she ran into Barney Culpepper.
“Hi, Barney. How’s Marge coming with the triathlon? And how’s Eddie doing over there in Iraq?”
“Eddie’s counting the days ’til he comes home—and so are we,” he said, looking grim.
“We all are,” said Lucy, who could imagine how worried they must be.
“Marge says I need to get my mind off the war. She wants me to start training with her,” he said, glumly, hitching up his pants. He fastened his belt underneath his sizable belly and it tended to slip. “She’s threatening to get rid of my La-Z-Boy.”
“Oh, no.” Lucy knew how much Barney enjoyed reclining in his favorite chair, watching football and baseball games, even golf if nothing else was on.
“She hid the remote. Said it’s good for me to get up and change the channels on the TV.”
“Well, maybe she has a point,” said Lucy.
“Have you ever tried to switch from channel five to channel sixty-three by pushing that little up button one channel at a time?”
“Can’t say I have,” said Lucy, spotting an opportunity. “Listen, you can watch TV at my house if you do me one itsy bitty little favor.”
“Oh, no. I can’t. The new chief wouldn’t like it.”
“How do you know he won’t like it? I haven’t even told you what it is.”
“C’mon, Lucy. If the chief won’t mind why don’t you ask him, hunh?”
“Because you’re right, he’ll probably mind. But I really want to know if the medical examiner has got a cause of death on that guy they pulled out of the harbor this morning.”
Barney gave his jowls a thoughtful scratch. “It just happens I know somebody who works over there. Luke Martin, remember him? Good little shortstop, maybe a year or two younger than Eddie and Toby.”
“He’s working in the ME’s office?”
“Yeah, flunked out of pre-med.” Barney was already dialing the phone and, after a brief discussion of the Red Sox prospects for the Series, learned that preliminary toxicology tests had revealed a blood alcohol level of 0.19.
“So he was drunk?” asked Lucy.
“Drunk as a skunk,” said Barney.
“Thanks. I owe you big time,” said Lucy, blowing him a kiss and dashing for the door. She was already writing the story in her head as she hurried along the sidewalk to the Pennysaver office, but soon realized that apart from the when and where she didn’t have the least idea as to the who, why, and even the what. The tests seemed to indicate death by misadventure due to drunkenness but Lucy had her doubts. There’d been no sign of booze at the homeless man’s camp, in fact, he was extraordinarily neat and tidy for a drunken bum.
CHAPTER 13
When Lucy got back from the press conference, Ted had left the office and Phyllis was stuffing subscription renewal notices into envelopes.