A Carnival of Killing by Glenn Ickler Page A

was Brownie. “Homicidebrownholdtheline,” he said. I held for more than five minutes with the phone cradled on my shoulder, twisting two paperclips into an approximation of Swami Sumi’s Position No. 60, which had kept me awake well past midnight.
    “What can you tell me about Klondike Kate this morning?” I asked when Brownie returned.
    “She’s still dead,” Brownie said.
    “That’ll make a banner headline.”
    “On the record, we’re working very hard on this case, following a number of leads. Off the record, those leads are taking us nowhere. We’ve quietly interrogated all the Vulcans twice, which you can’t put in the paper, and three of them admit to being in O’Halloran’s but say they did nothing involving the victim and saw nothing happening to the victim. The others deny having been there at all. We brought in that Carlson character you suggested and got a very indignant denial when we asked if he had gone to O’Halloran’s. Says his wife will substantiate the fact that he was home long before Ms. Nordquist was seen leaving the bar. The upshot is that we still don’t know if there really was a fourth Vulcan in the joint or if one of the three who admit to being at the scene could be our man. I’d like to use a rubber hose on the whole batch of them.”
    “Bring back the good old days,” I said. “Any leads on the father of the baby?”
    “Nothing yet. The lab is working on DNA samples we got from all the Vulcans by giving them glasses of water during our chats with them. We’ve had a few crank calls about the baby, including a couple of creepy women telling us that Lee-Ann got what she deserved because she had sinned against God by having sex out of wedlock. Nice folks, these fundamentalists.”
    “Probably jealous of any woman married or otherwise who has a happy sex life.”
    “Exactly. That leaves me with nothing new to tell you except that the ME has released the body so the family can plan a funeral.”
    “Do you know when and where it will be?”
    “Not yet. She’s at O’Dell & Son if you want to call and ask. Have a good day.”
    I called O’Dell & Son and was told that services would be held at 11:00 a.m. on Thursday, with a calling hour starting at 10:00 a.m. I wrote it on my calendar and went to tell Al. I thought we both should be there, checking out the crowd.
    “It’s a date,” Al said. “There’s nothing like a good, rousing visitation and funeral service to brighten up a workday morning.”
    “Just be glad it’s not your own,” I said.
    “Speaking of that, Don says you’re setting me up to get clobbered by the late Klondike Kate’s lover boy.”
    “It wasn’t my idea. He says you’re the only one in the department who can outrun the guy after shooting his picture.”
    “Oh, now I’m supposed to run races with my subjects? Let’s just hope this one’s not a photo finish,” Al said.
    “That could have negative results for you,” I said.
     
     
    I’d finished reading the funnies and was about to head for the skyway to meet Esperanza when my phone rang. “Newsroom, Mitchell,” I said.
    “This is John Robertson, Jr.,” said an angry male voice. “Are you the Mitchell who gave my number to a nut cake named Morrie?”
    “I’m the one,” I said. “Did you enjoy the conversation?”
    “He called me twice yesterday and again this morning, bitching about the Russians and their radar. Why the hell don’t you keep your nut cakes to yourself?”
    “It’s to help with your OJT. I was told you’re trying to learn about all the jobs at the paper before you become your daddy’s right-hand man as associate publisher. Part of a reporter’s job is to deal with nut cakes.”
    “That part I don’t need. You send me any more of your wack jobs and I’ll come over there and bust your face.”
    “If you trip over any dead bodies on the way, take a minute to call your city desk,” I said. I put the phone down gently without waiting to hear his response