Little Deaths(75)

Pete flushed and looked down. Ran his finger around the edge of his saucer and wondered what he was doing there. Why he was wasting his time on a guy who seemed to get a kick out of patronizing him.

And then Scott said quietly, “But you’ve confirmed what I needed to know. You’ve met Devlin in a social setting. And you know more about my client than I do right now. All of which is helpful.”

Pete looked at him and he was smiling again, but this was a real smile with warmth in it. Suddenly Pete wanted to help him, and not just for Ruth’s sake.

“Mr. Scott, I think . . . She’s not the only person the police should be looking at.”

He told Scott about Lou Gallagher. What he’d learned from Bette. What he suspected.

“He’s done this before—made a woman he was involved with get rid of a kid. He has a history of violence. The cops should at least be talking to him.”

Scott frowned at him. Stroked his chin as though he was thinking. There was a long pause and then he said, “That’s interesting, Mr. Wonicke, but the state’s case is all about Mrs. Malone. The police think she’s guilty. So it’s Mrs. Malone I must concentrate on.”

He stood and excused himself to make a phone call and Pete leaned back in his chair, glanced idly around the room and noticed a copy of the Herald discarded on a nearby table.


MALONE MOTHER SHOPS FOR DRESSES AS KIDS LIE DEAD

By Staff Reporter Tom O’Connor

QUEENS, Nov. 17—Mrs. Ruth Malone, who was arrested yesterday on charges of strangling her son Frank Jr. and her daughter Cindy, was shopping for clothes just hours after her children were killed, it was revealed today.

The day after reporting her children missing, and less than 24 hours after little Cindy’s body was removed from the weed-strewn lot where it was found, her mother was seen by witnesses at a local clothing store.

A police source said, “We thought that Mrs. Malone had gone shopping for groceries or perhaps personal items—although with family and neighbors rallying around, there was no real need. But we were shocked when she was seen entering a ladies’ dress shop.”

The source went on to say that the attractive cocktail waitress had purchased items from Debonair Doll, a small boutique on Main Street that opened three years ago.

The owner of the store told this reporter that Mrs. Malone bought two dresses, pantyhose and a new hat.

“She seemed absolutely normal. I remember she had on a lot of makeup, lipstick. Her hair was done. She didn’t look as if she’d been crying.”

A witness, who prefers to remain anonymous, saw the striking redhead cross the street to a car which is believed to have been driven by her estranged husband. As she approached the car, he leaned out and beckoned to her to hurry up. In response, the witness clearly heard her say,

“If we’re late, we’re late. This is important. I have to look right.”

Mrs. Malone’s thoughts were surely more with her own outfit than with her daughter, lying cold and alone on a morgue slab. And she was apparently focusing more on her appearance than on the continued disappearance of her son, aged just five years old.

Police and volunteer searchers spent hour after hour combing the neighborhood for the boy over the course of a long and difficult week. Most of those involved were parents themselves, and the moment when the child’s body was discovered was “a terrible blow” to all, according to one officer.

From the outset, the police suspected Mrs. Malone, who is expected to be released on bail in the next couple of days.





The piece was accompanied by a photograph of Ruth in a short dress and heels. Her head was bowed but her eye makeup was as clear and dark as the ink on the page.

Scott returned, took his seat, picked up his cup. Pete threw the paper on the table in disgust.

“Have you seen this?”

Scott nodded, his face expressionless.

“That’s bullshit. I don’t know what the real story is, but that’s just . . .”

But even as he spoke, Pete was aware that, until recently, he’d been part of that. That he’d written what he’d been told to write, that he’d portrayed shades of gray as black and white.

He felt a hot rush of shame and then, underneath, cool relief that his life was different now.

Scott was holding the paper, skimming the article.

“I hope so, Mr. Wonicke. Because this is the kind of thing the jury will be reading every day until the trial. That’s what I’ve got to work with.”

“But she’s . . . she didn’t do it. These people don’t know her. They don’t know her at all.”

Scott looked at him, and Pete had the strange feeling that the other man was seeing him for the first time.

“This is going to be a tough case, Mr. Wonicke. An ugly case. I don’t underestimate the sizable task ahead. My first opponent is Mrs. Malone herself.”

He saw Pete’s frown and nodded. “Oh yes. My first hurdles are Mrs. Malone’s appearance and her manner. The way she chooses to dress and the image she chooses to project are not those of a grieving mother. She is the very picture of a scandalous woman.”

“Christ. You sound just like . . .”

He raised his hand. “Please. I am on her side. My job is to think the way a typical jury will. Twelve average men and women who will have never met anyone like Ruth Malone. Who won’t be able to imagine the mind-set it might take to kill two children. Who will have condemned her out of hand just for being in this position.