Irish Alibi (9 page)

“What am I looking for?”

It was a story about a statue that had been pulled down on the Notre Dame campus, with a photograph of a student who was responsible.

“He was in here Saturday night.”

“You remember all the boys?”

“This one I do. Isn't he good-looking?”

“It says he was pulling down a statue on the Notre Dame campus Saturday night.”

“He was here. How could I forget a face like that?”

“You're making me jealous.”

“Oh, he was just a kid.”

“I used to be a kid.”

“So was I.”

The student's name was Malcolm Kincade, and he was from Memphis. Pulling down a statue seemed a strange way to celebrate a victory.

*   *   *

Downtown, Jimmy checked out the dead woman's purse and found out that her name was not Kelly but O'Toole. Madeline O'Toole from Atlanta. She seemed to own a condo in Memphis as well. There was a paperback novel in the purse, too.
Dancing in Charleston
by Madeline Butler. Jimmy wondered if there was a Mr. O'Toole. This Kincade boy seemed to be the only way he was going to find someone who had talked to the dead woman.

3

The shocking news that the statue of the third president of Notre Dame had been toppled from his pedestal on Saturday night provided a welcome topic of conversation at the Old Bastards' table in the University Club at the group's Monday lunch.

Armitage Shanks addressed his fellow emeriti with mock solemnity. “This may be only the beginning, gentlemen.”

“Iconoclasm,” said Bingham, once professor of law and now dispenser of free and irrelevant legal advice to the group.

“There was a man on campus Saturday selling a book about Notre Dame icons.”

“Is he in favor of clasm?”

“His name is O'Toole.”

“Not O'Clasm?”

“Why would they topple Corby's statue?” Potts asked.

“Do you remember him?”

“He was already in bronze when I joined the faculty.”

“Ah, the bronze age.”

“It is the destiny of presidents nowadays. Look at Ted and Ned.”

“Where?”

“In front of the library.”

“They put Moose Krause on a bench.”

“Don't forget Leahy.”

“And Saddam Hussein.”

“Was he a coach?”

“A president. They pulled down his statue.”

“I don't remember him.”

Debbie, the hostess, brought a copy of the
Observer
to the table and showed them the photograph of the student who claimed responsibility for bringing Father Corby to earth as a protest against the university's siding with the North in the Civil War. “Is it true?”

“What?”

“Did we take sides?”

“Ask Potts. He was a drummer boy.”

Horvath, who had taught history, began a lecture on Notre Dame's involvement in the War Between the States, but he was ignored, as he had been by generations of students.

“Who was General Sherman?” Debbie asked.

“Tanks.”

“You're welcome.”

The administration, doubtless fearing a precedent, had decided to make an event of replacing the statue on its pedestal.

“You would think a chapel had been desecrated,” Shanks said. “Is there a special blessing for past presidents?”

“Where are statues of the faculty?” Potts asked querulously.

“Hold that pose.”

“Potts in bronze.”

“I'll drink to that.”

Debbie summoned the waitress. “Another round.”

The OBs unwisely drank at lunch, the caution of their active years long forgotten. Now that smoking was banned in the club, a noontime drink was their only means of showing their scorn for the health nuts of the day.

Bingham, who drank mineral water, asked if they objected to wellness.

“I always object when adverbs are turned into substantives.”

“Have you stopped running?”

“Only at the nose.”

“His name is Kincade,” Debbie said, referring to the story in the
Observer
. “A nice-looking boy.”

“That is how serial murderers are usually described by neighbors.”

“Oh, come on. It was just a prank.”

“He was with the troops at Gettysburg,” Horvath said.

“That is what his statue commemorates. It was only later that he became president.”

“Of the North or South?”

Potts had removed his hearing aid in order to change the battery. This diverted the others. Potts explained the technology of the device as he stuffed it back in his ear. “Digital, programmed like a computer.”

“Does it work?”

“What?”

“Your hearing aid.”

“He can't hear you.”

Debbie left the paper with them when she rose to go, and Armitage Shanks read the story aloud. Afterward, the question was put as to what would be done to the student Kincade.

“Immediate expulsion,” Bingham said with relish.

“He's still here.”

“There will have to be a trial.” He leaned toward Potts. “A hearing.”

Before they left, Debbie returned with the news that the body of a football fan had been discovered in a motel on 31. Death was a touchy topic with the OBs, and they reacted without their customary facetiousness.

“And what was the cause of death?”

“They're calling it a homicide.”

“Good heavens.”

4

Sarah Kincade was buffeted by conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she was proud of the stunt her brothers had engineered and pleased by the reaction of the other women in her dorm. Everyone said that college boys had become too serious, thinking of careers and a remote future before they unpacked as freshmen, moving through the years of study as if they couldn't wait to be out in the real world working their heads off for some silly corporation. What memories could they have of their youth? They hadn't had any. In one fell swoop her brothers had erased that image of the college boy as prematurely serious. In the wee hours, Sarah went with a dozen others from the dorm to survey the scene.

A huge tow truck was parked on the lawn in front of Corby, its wheels having made deep ruts as it was backed toward the building. A chain still dangled from the uplifted derrick in the back of the truck. And there on the ground lay the bronze statue of the Notre Dame priest who had blessed the Union troops at Gettysburg. Her Southern blood thrilled at the justice that had been done.

“What will happen to them?” someone asked, shivering in the early morning air.

“Who did it?”

Sarah held her breath to see if the identification would be made. It was. Her brothers could have had the pick of the excited women ringing their handiwork, but then the two of them had always been shamelessly popular.

“I can never tell them apart,” someone said, squeezing her arm.

“Neither can they.”

“Can you?”

“Most of the time.”

The other girls seemed ready to carry her back to the dorm in triumph.

But another and conflicting emotion returned when she was back in her room. Caleb Lanier. Caleb was everything her brothers were not, serious, an excellent student, searching out professors like his hero Roger Knight as if he feared he wouldn't be worked hard enough by other professors or learn enough from them. And it was his article in the
Irish Rover
that had set her brothers off. If they should actually be expelled because of this, Caleb would somehow be to blame.

It was early in Memphis when she called home to tell her father the news. He was delighted. His sons had succeeded where he had failed.

“Tell me all about it,” he urged.

“The boys should do that.”

“I tried to reach them last night to get a report on the game. They must have turned off their cell phones.”

“Well, they were pretty busy, Dad.”

Her father thought it was past time for Notre Dame to set the record straight on its involvement in the war. He didn't have to specify which war he meant. “The Church is apologizing for everything else. They ought to apologize for this. Imagine, honoring that madman Sherman.”

Her mother came on. “Are the boys in trouble?”

“Oh, I hope not.”

“Such a strange story in this morning's paper. ‘The Writing O'Tooles.'”

“Tools?”

“O'Tooles. A husband and wife, both of whom write. I never heard of either. His book is on Notre Dame. What's odd is that she lives here in Memphis and he writes for a paper in Atlanta.”

Why was her mother going on about this?

“Sarah.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “See if you can get a copy of that book for Daddy.
Irish Icons.
They must have it in the campus bookstore. I'm sure he'd love it.”

Sarah promised.

After she had showered, she gathered her golden hair and carefully plaited a single braid. There was a call waiting for her on her phone. It was Caleb.

“Have you been to Mass?”

“No.” Another nice thing about Caleb was Sarah's sense that he would keep her on the straight and narrow. “There's a late Mass here tonight. Why don't we have breakfast?”

Everybody seemed to be talking about Father Corby's statue. Not the best topic for them.

“Well, I enjoyed meeting the great Roger Knight,” she said.

“Not as much as my uncle Magnus.”

“I was never clear who his friend was.”

“Oh, they're classmates. I don't think they'd seen one another in years.”

“Mother wants me to get a copy of his book for Daddy.”

“No kidding.”

“Have you read it?”

“Not yet. It's really not much of a book.”

“Well, aren't you loyal.”

She put a hand on his, and he actually blushed. It was all Sarah could do not to throw her arms around him.

“Want to go see the statue of Father Corby?” he asked.

“When I can sit here sipping coffee with you?”

“I wonder what your brothers thought of my article on Notre Dame and the Civil War.”

“What would anyone think?”

“What do you think of it?”

Here was the moment of truth. Loyalty to her brothers, to the South, to the great lost cause, or a little white lie telling Caleb she had loved what he wrote.

“I absolutely loved it.”

“You're just saying that.”

“Would you like me to sing it?”

“Roger Knight liked it.”

Her lower lip puffed out. “What more could you ask?”

5

On Saturday night Larry Douglas had to get Crenshaw, the head of Notre Dame security, to tell Jackson he had to leave his tow truck right where it was, on the lawn before Corby Hall.

“The hell with that,” Jackson said.

Larry had taken the precaution of pocketing the ignition keys. “Laura will give you a ride,” he explained.

“I don't want a ride. I want my truck. I'm in business.”

“At this hour of the night?”

“It's Saturday night. This is my big night.”

“Jackson, your truck has become evidence.”

The uniform was a powerful persuader, usually, but by now Jackson had to have noticed that Larry's uniform was after all that of a mere member of campus security. So he had a shield and handcuffs and a cell phone hanging from his belt; he didn't have a weapon. Someday he would, of course. Someday, he hoped, he would be on the South Bend police force, where he wouldn't have to explain the seriousness of their work to his colleagues. Crenshaw had been a real cop and taken the campus job after retiring. He obviously didn't want it interfering with his retirement.

So it was with some trepidation that he called Crenshaw and explained the situation. It was a good thing Jackson couldn't hear Crenshaw's side of the conversation. Larry's boss didn't seem to realize that pulling down the statue was an outrage and an investigation would have to be made.

“There should be prints on the steering wheel,” Larry explained, speaking so that Jackson could hear him.

“What the hell's the charge?” Crenshaw demanded.

“Stealing a truck, for one thing. Stealing a man's livelihood and then pulling down a statue of one of the great men of Notre Dame.”

Jackson seemed placated by this version of events.

“I told him Laura can take him back to his station.”

“Why don't you do that?”

Sometimes Larry thought he was the only one in campus security who understood the importance of their function. There was no point in telling Crenshaw that he was in charge of things. Crenshaw would probably insist that he call downtown and turn the whole thing over to the South Bend police. Ten minutes of conversation went by before Larry thought it was safe to let Crenshaw speak to Jackson. Jackson had trouble knowing which end of Larry's new phone to put to his ear, and when he talked into it he practically swallowed it. He had a radio in the truck with which to communicate with the station. Crenshaw, thank God, came through and convinced Jackson his truck would have to stay where it was.

“You own the truck?” Larry asked Jackson.

“If I did, I'd sell the damned thing.”

“The university will compensate you for your trouble.”

But it was the humiliation of having his truck stolen that sat heavily on Jackson. What ribbing awaited him when he returned without that tow truck?

Larry got on the phone to Laura and told her he had an assignment for her.

“An assignment! I don't work for you.”

“Orders from Crenshaw.”

“I'm not even on duty, for heaven's sake.”

Larry dropped his voice. “As a personal favor? As soon as I clear up matters here, we can get away…”

That did it. Get away? When Larry thought of getting away, it was Laura who receded into the distance.

She came, Jackson got into the passenger seat, and Larry thumped the roof over Laura's head. “Don't use the siren.”