The Prudence of the Flesh (21 page)

“The body was found on Wednesday afternoon. It would have happened earlier that day or late Tuesday.”

“I tape my broadcast on Wednesday morning.”

“There you are.”

“I haven't done anything about a DNA test. Of course, I would have to get something of her son's.”

Roger was thoughtful for some moments. “Maybe that won't be needed now. With Bunting dead.”

What caught Agnes Lamb's attention was the 911 call. She had it played over several times: an excited male voice, the blunt message, and then the connection was broken. If the call had been made from the place where the body was found, he must have used a cell phone. There were three local cell phone companies, and Agnes visited them all. The first one bristled at the request for a list of their local customers.

“You're right,” Agnes said. “Until I get a court order, that is. In the meantime, why don't we check the calls made last Wednesday afternoon. Say about midafternoon.”

Privacy is a lost concept in the information age. Everything is recorded somewhere—ATM transactions, credit card uses, cell phone calls. Neither of the first two companies recorded a midafternoon
call to 911 on the previous Wednesday. The third service neither refused to let her see the list of their customers nor hesitated to check the calls. There it was, 3:15
P.M.
Actually, there were half a dozen calls in the relevant period, but only one to 911.

“Whose number is that?”

The list of subscribers was printed out for her, and Agnes, feeling she had violated more than a penumbra of the Constitution, took it as if it were the most routine thing in the world.

“Check it out,” Cy Horvath said when she reported to him.

Pasquali, Pasquali. Why did the name sound familiar? She went downtown and fooled around with the departmental computer, doing a search for Pasquali. There it was, in a complaint from a librarian at the Benjamin Harrison branch.

She pulled into a handicapped spot and went into the library, in uniform, complete with cuffs and pistol and a belt filled with mean-looking rounds. She felt as if she were entering a saloon in a western.

The woman behind the counter lit up at the sight of her. “Finally,” she cried. “Look at them.” She pointed at the bank of computers, all commandeered by shady-looking men staring at the monitors with popped eyes.

“Inquiring minds?”

The woman leaned over the counter. Her name tag said
MADELINE MURPHY
. “Pornography.” She whispered the word, separating the syllables.

Agnes shook her head, hoping her expression mirrored Madeline's disgusted one. “Is Mr. Pasquali in?”

“He won't do a thing about it.”

“I'll talk to him.”

She paused at the computers, adjusted her belt, and hummed into the ear of one of the users. He was no one to be downwind from. A glance at the antics on the monitor screen made her want to call a cop.

The man turned, looking sheepish. Then he noticed the uniform and slid off the stool. “It's all yours.”

“Get rid of the garbage.”

He hit a key, and the screen went blank. The other scholars now noticed what was going on. Her uniform had the same effect on them.

“Which of you drives a 1999 Ford?”

They were almost flattered to be thought affluent enough to own an automobile, but one by one they drifted away, like the accusers of the woman taken in adultery. Agnes was born again and knew the wrath that was to come.

“They'll be back,” Madeline said desolately.

“So where's Pasquali's office?”

The one with MR. FREDERICK PASQUALI on the door, as it happened. Agnes knocked, turned the knob, and walked in.

He was seated at his desk but turned toward his computer. He might have been one of the derelicts outside, except that on the screen was the Web site of the library. Finally he turned. At the sight of her, he started to rise, then remained seated. “What do you want, Officer?”

“We had a complaint.”

“Oh my God. Look, Officer, there is nothing I can do about those damned computers. Ask anyone. It's a free country, damn it.”

“I also wanted to thank you for the 911 call reporting the body of Ned Bunting in the river.”

The statement might have flustered him. He might have got angry. He might have denied it. He did none of these things. He just stared. “How did you know?”

“Cell calls are recorded.”

He thought about it, then nodded. “I suppose they are.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

It was clear he didn't, but what could he do? He was silent for a time, preparing what he had to say. “It's a delicate matter, Officer. Do you know what that area is called?”

“Lovers' lane. An odd description of a parking area.”

“I was with someone. We got out and took a walk, down to the river. That's when we saw the body. So I called 911.”

“And got out of there?”

“Look, I did what any citizen should do. What more could I have done?”

“You thought he was dead?”

“He was dead.”

“How could you tell?”

“It was obvious.”

“You thought he had drowned?”

“I thought he was dead. I called 911.”

“We figure the body was already dead when it was transported there, then dragged through the underbrush and thrown into the river.”

Pasquali opened his hands. “How could I know that?”

“Who were you with?”

“I don't think you have a right to know that.”

“It would have been hard for one person to carry a man that big, or drag him, even, to the river.”

Pasquali leapt to his feet. “Now wait a minute.”

“You're right. You should have a lawyer.” She unhooked her phone and called Cy Horvath. “I've got him, Cy. What next? Okay, I'll wait right here.” She hung up and looked around the office. “Nice place. You're going to miss it. What are those?” In the corner was a pile of folded plastic sheets.

“They wrapped the paintings we have here.”

Now he got on the phone. “Gloria, Fred. Who was that lawyer you were telling me about? The one with the tweed hat. Get hold of him and tell him to come to my office immediately.”

“Have him meet us downtown,” Agnes advised. “Where is your car parked?”

“Don't you have one?”

“Oh, we'll be impounding yours. Who's Gloria?”

He became a Trappist; his lips were sealed. The little round bald spot on the crown of his head contributed to the impression. He had done all the talking he intended to do.

The first thing that had impressed Cy Horvath about Agnes was the fact that she drove Peanuts Pianone crazy. The second thing was that, although she had been hired in a gesture of affirmative action, she turned out to be a natural cop. When she phoned from Pasquali's office, he was waiting for the call. He might have told her to bring the librarian in, but it seemed wiser to go to the scene.

The first surprise when he entered the library was seeing at the checkout counter the woman who had accused Gregory Barrett of misconduct as a priest years ago. He showed her his identification and considered verifying who she was but decided he had better back up Agnes. “Mr. Pasquali's office,” he said.

“The officer is in there with him.”

“I know. Show me where it is.”

And leave her post? Why not? As they passed the bank of computers, the woman said, “She cleared them all out of here.”

“Ah.”

The woman shook her head. “Day after day, they come in and spend hours looking at pornographic sites.”

Then he remembered the complaints that came weekly, doubtless from this woman.

“Why should a library provide free Internet access?” Cy asked.

“Exactly!”

She moved on, and Cy followed her to Pasquali's door. “Thank you.” He waited for her to leave, which she did with some reluctance. Then Cy opened the door and went in.

A mute head librarian sat at his desk, hands to his cheeks, eyes closed. Agnes was standing at ease near the door. She turned to Cy.

“He is the man who made the 911 call.”

“Good work, Lamb.”

He touched her arm and went to the desk. “I'm Lieutenant Horvath.”

“I will say nothing until my lawyer is with me.”

“Except that you will say nothing until your lawyer is with you? All right. I think we had better have our conversation downtown. Let's go.”

“Is this an arrest?” Pasquali's eyes widened. “Are you putting me under arrest? What is the charge?”

“Why don't we wait until your lawyer joins you downtown?”

“I can refuse to go.”

“Of course you can. Then we will arrest you.”

“My God.”

He rose as if his legs were unequal to the task. “I do this under protest.”

Agnes opened the door, and Cy led Pasquali back to the main desk. Madeline Murphy looked at the procession of three with wonderment. Pasquali stopped at the desk but failed to find words to express his situation.

Agnes said, “Mr. Pasquali is coming downtown to help us with an investigation.”

With that slim protection of his dignity, Pasquali walked at Cy's side to the front door.

“Who's your lawyer, Mr. Pasquali?”

“A man named Tuttle.”

“Are you serious?”

“What's wrong?”

“Not a thing.” If Cy had been a smiling man, he would have smiled. He wondered what expression Agnes wore. He turned to look. All her teeth were on display and her eyes sparkled. Tuttle!

Downtown, before Tuttle arrived, Cy had Agnes go over what they knew. Pasquali need say nothing, Cy told him. So Agnes presented her case.

Pasquali had made the 911 call from lovers' lane on the opposite
side of the Fox River. He admitted it. This put him in a privileged position to help them find out what had happened to Ned Bunting. The body had been found in the river, but the man had died of a broken neck. That suggested he had been killed somewhere else and transported to the site. The suggestion was reinforced by the discovery of a large sheet of plastic that had been thrown into the weeds below the parking area. Tests were being made on it now. Of course, Mr. Pasquali's car would be examined—

It was then that Tuttle arrived, bustling, tweed hat on the back of his head, suit jacket open, expansive belly on display. He went immediately to Pasquali and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I want to be alone with my client.”

“Of course. Agnes, take Mr. Pasquali and his lawyer to one of the visiting rooms upstairs.”

“In the jail?” Tuttle cried. “Have you put this man under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

Tuttle looked as if he would like to perform for his client, but even more he wanted to learn from Pasquali what was going on. He took his client away with Agnes as escort.

Cy went in to tell Phil Keegan what was happening. “You think he did it?”

“I don't think, I'm a cop.”

“A librarian?”

“He's head of the branch that has been complaining about bums looking at pornography on their computers all day.”

Phil shook his head. “I put it to Jacuzzi. He tells me there isn't anything that can be done about it.”

“Funny thing, Phil. Madeline Murphy, the woman who accused Gregory Barrett, is a librarian there. She probably thinks we've taken Pasquali in for corrupting derelicts.”

Agnes looked in. “I put them in a visiting room upstairs. I'm going back to the library, all right? I want to talk with the woman at the desk.”

“Good idea.” When she was gone, Cy said, “That is one good cop.”

“Do we have any bad ones?”

As if in answer, Peanuts shuffled in. “Someone told me Tuttle was here.”

“He's with a client.”

“No kidding.” Peanuts shuffled out. It would have been cruel to tell him what Agnes, his nemesis, had been up to while Peanuts was napping in the pressroom.