Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

at the picture for a long time. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll have to run it by Artie.”

At noon, I phoned Frank Olney for an update. He told me that Dick Metzger was cooling his heels in a cell downstairs on suspicion of statutory rape, sodomy, corruption of a minor, and child molestation.

“What about Wilbur Burch?” I asked.

“He’s still in city jail,” said Frank. “But I spoke to the DA. He says that Burch is under nineteen, and, therefore, is considered an underage offender. Don’t hold your breath waiting for him to pay for this.”

This was crazy. The newspaper refused to publish the salient details of Dick Metzger’s crimes against nature, and the state considered a nineteen-year-old child molester underage. Plenty of folks were looking out for the rapists and the molesters, but no one seemed to care for the fifteen-year-old girl.

“Did Don say anything about Metzger?” I asked.

“You’re not going to like it,” said Frank. “He said that the diary alone probably isn’t enough to charge him.”

“What?”

“The language in the diary is too vague, he says. The girl never actually spelled out what he was doing to her or what he was making her do. And Don says the diary is hearsay anyway and inadmissible as evidence.”

I swore at Frank down the line, and he urged me to calm down. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he said. “I’m on your side here. And, though I shouldn’t be telling this to the press, I took the opportunity to bang Metzger’s head into the doorframe of my cruiser when I was putting him inside.”

“That seems to be your usual way of helping criminals into cars,” I said, remembering how he done the same to Frankie Ralston.

“Not officially. But I can tell you it felt damn good.” He paused. “For me, not him. He swore a blue streak at me, and he’s got a nice shiner under his right eye. Oh, and I gave him a ticket for an expired registration on his truck, too.”

Sometimes I wished I were as big as Frank Olney. I would have loved to bounce Dick Metzger’s head off the car door. And maybe slam the door two or three times more on his head while I was at it.

“So when do you have to let him out?”

“I’ll release him in a couple of hours. I just don’t have enough to keep him locked up.”

“What can we do, Frank?”

“I wish I could tell you,” he said. “But can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you think Dick Metzger killed Darleen?”

I took my time before answering. Not that I was considering the question at all, but I was trying to find an answer that would derail what I assumed Frank was going to say next. Finally I had to admit that, for all the hatred I harbored for him, I did not think Dick Metzger had murdered his stepdaughter.

“Then let me tell you something that I think you should consider. Darleen is gone. Metzger can’t harm her anymore. But there is a murderer on the loose, and we both want to catch him. I suggest you swallow your disgust and disappointment and concentrate on finding something that will stick to Brossard.”

After a suitable pause to digest his advice, I had to admit that it was the most practical course to follow. Dick Metzger may or may not molest another young girl. Maybe he was an opportunistic rapist, who took advantage of Darleen because she was handy. Had there ever been talk of him bothering other children? I didn’t know. But one thing I did know was that Louis Brossard had killed before and probably would again if he weren’t stopped. But how to catch him? The trail had gone cold in the four weeks since December 21, and I didn’t know where to turn for ideas.

“Okay, Frank. For now, I’ll put that pervert to one side. But once we nail Brossard, I’m going to make a nuisance of myself and investigate every last detail of Dick Metzger’s worthless life until I get him.”

At two thirty, I was outside the junior-high-school parking lot again, this time waiting for Gus Arnold and Carol Liswenski. I wanted to retrace my steps and badger the witnesses until one of them gave me something new to go on. Perhaps the bus driver was frightened and holding back what he knew. If he could just place Louis Brossard in the snow hills after four thirty on December 21, I was confident the DA could make a case against him.

And then there was Carol Liswenski, the weak link in the circle of Darleen’s friends. She knew a lot, some of which she’d shared with me, and more still she was keeping to herself. I was sure of it.

The buses had started to arrive, and number 63 pulled into its usual parking space along the wall. I switched off the ignition of my Royal Lancer and climbed out. Gus Arnold was not happy see me.

“I already told you everything,” he whined.

“Come on, Mr. Arnold,” I said. “You were parked behind the snow hills, not fifty yards from where Darleen Hicks was killed. And, it seems, at the exact same time. The sheriff found her gloves right there.”

“But I told you, it was dark. And I was hidden behind those trees. I couldn’t see the car.”

“What?”

“I mean, if there was a car there, I couldn’t have seen it.”

“You saw a car,” I accused.

“I didn’t see nothing.”

I glared at him. “So far, you’re the only person we know who was there that day. You have no alibi, and the sheriff’s getting heat to arrest someone for this crime. If I were you, and if I hadn’t seen a car there, I’d jolly well invent one.”

“I didn’t see a car. I can’t lie and say there was one.” He paused. “But I thought I heard one.”

That was new.

“I went to the back of the bus and opened the pint,” he continued. “I laid down and took my