Eight Perfect Murders(47)
Our waitress put down our beers, a Stella for Marty and a Belhaven for me. We were in a back booth at Jack Crow’s Tavern that felt like its own tiny room, reminding me of the pews at the Old South Church. We each sipped our beer.
“Good to see you, Marty,” I said. I’d seen him fairly recently, but he looked older to me. His white crew cut was sparser than ever, the skin underneath speckled with dark spots. And the large-knuckled fingers of his hands were bent in a way that suggested arthritis.
“I’d forgotten about this place,” he said, leaning out from our booth to look at the busy bar. “Last time we came here we got nachos that had brussels sprouts on them.”
“Really?” I said. “I don’t remember that.”
“I’ll never forget it. Who puts brussels sprouts on nachos?”
“Now I remember,” I said. “Let’s stick to beer tonight.” We touched glasses.
“You find out anything new?” I said. I’d been debating whether I should tell him I’d gotten my own information on Nick Pruitt, especially what I’d heard about the gun collection, but I hadn’t decided yet.
“Found out a little bit,” Marty said. “Don’t know if it will help you, but he’s no saint, Nick Pruitt.”
“No?”
“He’s been arrested twice, once for DUI, and once for drunk and disorderly after, get this, a Christmas Eve service. He got caught trying to steal a box of those little white candles they hand out. Also, he’s had two restraining orders filed against him. Hold on.” He reached into the pocket of his wool blazer and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook plus a pair of reading glasses. “The first was Jodie Blackberry. This was in Michigan, when he was a graduate student. She said she caught him peering through her window and following her around campus. The other one was much more recent. Just three years ago, filed by a Jillian N-G-U-Y-E-N. I won’t do her the indignity of trying to pronounce it. Kind of the same type of thing. Ex-girlfriend who claimed he wouldn’t leave her alone. He’d broken into her house.”
“So, nothing violent on his record? Nothing gun related?”
“Nope. But that fits, doesn’t it? If Nick Pruitt was the one who wanted Chaney dead, then he’d get someone else to do it. He’s not really a killer even though he’s clearly a peeper and a guy who can’t hold his liquor. Besides, I looked into the alibi and it’s rock solid.”
“His alibi for when Norman Chaney was killed?”
“Yep.” Marty looked down at his notebook again. “It was March of 2011. Nick Pruitt was in California at a family reunion. It checked out. But like I said, I don’t think he’d be the type who would beat his own brother-in-law to death, but he very well might be the type to have someone do it for him. Or maybe he asked someone to just rough Norman Chaney up and it went too far. Either way, he got away with it. My guess is, if you really want to know, it would be possible to shake it out of him, get him to make some sort of confession. I know his type, and if you bent him a little, I think he’d give it up. I’m not suggesting, just saying.”
“Got it,” I said. “No, all I needed was the information. It’s helpful, Marty, thanks.”
“No, thank you. I actually felt useful this week. First time in what feels like forever. The FBI still questioning you about this Chaney homicide?”
I took a long sip of my beer, wondering, once again, how much to tell Marty. “They haven’t, no,” I said. “Apparently it all had something to do with a list I made on the Old Devils blog about a hundred years ago.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. You ever go to our blog?”
“I don’t know what the fuck a blog even is,” Marty said.
“I don’t do it anymore, but when I started at Old Devils, it was an online place where I wrote little articles. Reviews of new books. Lists of my favorite authors. That type of thing. I wrote a piece once about my eight favorite perfect murders in books, and someone in the FBI saw a connection between my list and a couple of recent unsolved homicides. They were pretty thin connections, though, so I don’t think they’ll follow up.”
“What else did they ask you about?” he said, clearly interested.
“A death down in Connecticut, someone who was found near the tracks of a commuter train. And they asked me about that newscaster, Robin—”
“Robin Callahan, sure,” he said, jumping in. “Her husband did it. I can’t believe they haven’t made an arrest yet.”
“You know that?” I said.
“I don’t know it, but, yeah, she was the one who wrote the book about how adultery was good for marriages. I think I’m safe in saying they ought to take a hard look at the husband.”
I laughed. “Yeah, so, I think I overreacted.”
“I don’t know if you overreacted. It sounds like they overreacted. They asked you about all these cases?”
I could tell he was getting more and more interested, and I just didn’t want to involve him. He reminded me of a dog with a bone, and if I told him all about the copycat murders, he’d start looking into it. Not to mention that I’d actually given him the name of Norman Chaney.
“They just asked me if I had any relationship with them, with Norman Chaney, or this guy down in Connecticut, or Robin Callahan. And I said no. I asked you about Norman Chaney because for whatever reason they seemed more interested in that. Honestly, though, it was nothing. At least I hope it was nothing. Your daughter still coming to visit?”