In the Drink (25 page)

The kid behind the desk got up and went to the door, which the vacating student had left open. “There is a Mackenzie Dalton here to see you. She said she's not a student and she doesn't have an appointment.” His tone—impatient with the vaguest hint of disgust—made it clear what he thought of the situation.

I half expected Erik Hermann to turn me away, but he surprised me by saying, “Fine. Send her in.”

The young man looked disappointed as he waved me in.

I entered the back office, which was a larger version of the outer one: desk, chair, overflowing bookcase. Only here there was also a credenza along the wall by the door. The top of it was covered with stacks of papers and books except for an area at the end closest to the door, where there sat a coffeemaker.

Erik Hermann was seated behind the desk, his eyes red-rimmed, his face a road map of tiny veins. I didn't smell booze on him now, but I wouldn't have been surprised to find a bottle in the drawers of the desk or credenza.

“You,” Erik Hermann said as I entered and shut the door behind me.

I realized then that the name hadn't triggered anything for him, but my face had.

“You're here to talk about my sister, aren't you?”

I nodded, and then remembering my listening devices, I said, “Yes, I am.” I scanned the items on top of his desk and immediately noticed a book off to his right. It was a high school yearbook with the year 2003 stamped in gold on the cover. I did some quick math and realized it wasn't Erik's graduation yearbook, but rather the one from the year when Lori and Anna were murdered. I wondered why he would have it out, but before I could give it too much thought, Erik's objections to my presence switched my focus.

“I thought I made it clear when you came to my house that I have nothing to say on the matter.”

“You said that, yes, but I don't believe it. Do you want to know why?”

“I couldn't care less what you believe.” He folded his arms over his chest and swiveled in his chair to stare at the credenza, effectively dismissing me.

“I'll tell you anyway,” I said. “I, too, lost someone I loved to murder. And while I know how difficult it can be to talk about it, not knowing the truth is even worse.” I anticipated another objection, and pushed on before he had a chance to speak. “I'm sure you loved your little sister, and based on her diary you also cared about Lori Gruber. So I find it hard to believe that you wouldn't want to know who did this horrible thing to them.”

“The police think I did it.”

“I don't.” I said this without hesitation even though I wasn't sure. But I knew that if he didn't believe me, I wouldn't stand a chance.

He shot me a look, his expression haunted. After a few seconds he looked back toward the credenza and his shoulders sagged. He looked broken, troubled, and vulnerable. I felt for him, understanding all too well the emotions he was feeling. And in that instant, for the first time, I truly started to believe he hadn't done it.

“I know you didn't do it, Erik,” I said, inching closer to the desk. I wanted to get my hands on that yearbook and find pictures of his sister and Lori. Seeing them might trigger a cascade of emotions in him, and get him to open up. “I want to find out who did do it, and see to it that they're punished. I want to see justice for your sister, and for Lori.”

He shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. “It's too late for that. You don't understand.”

“I understand the pain you're feeling.”

He scoffed at that. “The hell you do. You don't know or understand a damned thing.”

He leaned his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. Whatever memories he was playing in his mind must have been painful, because tears formed at the corners of his eyes. I was within reach of the yearbook so I went ahead and picked it up. I opened it and saw Erik's name handwritten in the top left corner of the inside cover, and dozens of signatures and notes written below it. I wanted to read them, but felt it could wait. Right now I wanted to get to those pictures. I flipped through some pages and found the start of the freshman class pictures. I was about to start turning the pages one at a time when a noise across the desk distracted me. Before I had a chance to so much as raise my eyes, Erik rose from his chair and ripped the book out of my hands.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he bellowed. He stood across the desk glaring at me and he looked angry enough to kill at that moment. I started to rethink my stand on his innocence.

He flung an arm out and pointed toward the door. “Get out,” he seethed. And then with the suddenness of flipping a light switch, his arm dropped and his expression softened. “Please,” he added.

“Erik, I—”

“Get out!” The switch had flipped again, and I wondered if it had a kill mode.

The kid at the front desk watched me leave without saying a word, but he looked smug. I hooked up with Mal and Tyrese in the hallway and we formed a silent trio as we left the building. Once we were outside, Mal said, “We were just about to come busting in there. It sounds like you hit a nerve with him.”

“Yeah, his emotions were all over the place.” I told them about the yearbook and added, “Looking through that book really pushed his buttons. And his pain is clearly acute, almost as if Lori's and Anna's deaths had just happened.”

“Guilt, perhaps?” Tyrese suggested.

“I don't know, but to be honest, I don't think so.”

“And you're basing that on what, exactly?” Tyrese asked.

“The rawness of his pain, for one thing. His voice tasted like a mix of jalapeño and Tabasco, which suggests to me that he's angry, extremely angry, seething in fact. But there is also a very visceral pain to the taste, and that tells me he's hurting badly. I think that's why he drinks, to dull the pain.”

“That's not exactly proof,” Tyrese said. “He can still mourn and miss his sister even if he was the one who killed her. In fact, if anything I'd expect him to have stronger emotions if he was the one who did it.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I think it would take a level of coldness and calculation, a certain degree of detachment to be able to kill one's own sister in the first place. And that sort of emotional mindset doesn't strike me as conducive to the level of pain Erik Hermann has all these years after the fact. He cared for his sister, and I think he also cared for Lori.”

“I don't know,” Tyrese said. “Guilt is a powerful emotion.”

We got into the car and our ride back to the bar was a silent one until Tyrese pulled up out front. “I have some things I need to do,” he said, keeping the motor running. “But if you come up with any other ideas, give me a call.” He then gave me his phone number, and as soon as Mal and I got out, he drove off.

Mal started to head inside but I stopped him. “Let's not go back in yet. I think it's time you and I got some religion.”

 

 

As we got out of Mal's car and walked up to St. Paul's Church, we paused long enough to admire the structure.

“This is a fascinating building,” Mal said. “It's a great example of late nineteenth-century Richardsonian Romanesque ecclesiastical architecture, built using red sandstone from Lake Superior.”

“For someone who has supposedly eschewed religion, you sure know a lot about this church.”

“It's not about the religion, it's about the architecture. I've spent a great deal of my time in this city studying the various buildings and visiting places like this. In fact, I've been here before. There's also a building on the grounds made from Cream City brick.”

“What is Cream City brick?”

“It's a type of light yellow–colored brick made from clay found in the Menomonee River Valley and along the western banks of Lake Michigan. Quite a few structures in this area were built using it, including a few of the area lighthouses. At one time it was so common that Milwaukee became known as Cream City because so many of the buildings had that light-colored brick. Hence the brick is now known as Cream City brick.”

I found it fascinating but also a bit troubling that Mal, a relative newcomer to the city, knew tidbits about Milwaukee that I, a lifer, did not. Maybe my life had been too insular up until now.

We approached the entrance under the big rosette stained-glass window that Cora had shown me in the picture on her phone. Above the window was a sharply peaked roof and standing sentinel on either side of this were two square-shaped towers. The tower on the left, which was taller and had a rounded turret on one corner, appeared to be a bell tower; the one on the right looked more like something you'd expect to see on a Scottish castle.

We walked inside—I half expected the building to be locked, but it wasn't—and stopped just inside the door. There wasn't anyone in the main church area that we could see, and while the interior appeared quite modern compared to the outside of the building, it had that same hushed, slightly hollow feel that many old churches have. The nave featured four columns of pews that marched toward an arched apse. The sanctuary was fronted by a stone altar with a large cross that was suspended from the ceiling behind it. The back wall of the sanctuary featured heavy wood paneling at the bottom, topped off by an array of organ pipes.

We walked down the center aisle until we reached the transept, where I stopped and gawked at the stained glass on either side of me.

“Wow, these windows are beautiful,” I said to Mal.

“They should be. Several of them are Tiffany originals.”

We stood admiring the windows for several minutes before I remembered why we were there. “We should try to find an office of some sort,” I said. “The fact that the coffee-scented filter was in that envelope along with the other clues makes me think that whatever or whoever we're looking for must have something to do with a meeting room or office.”

We wandered back out of the church and into another part of the building until we found the church office. Seated inside was a heavyset woman who looked to be in her fifties. She had short, brunette hair streaked with gray, thick glasses, and a pleasant face. The name plaque on her desk said
MARY FROMME
.

“Hi, how can I help you folks today?” she asked with a smile.

I realized then that I hadn't thought up a cover story for being here and for a moment I was tongue-tied. Mal jumped in to save the day. “We're looking to join a church in this area and wondered if we might get some information, maybe a tour?”

“Certainly,” Mary said. “Did you just move to the Milwaukee area?”

Mal nodded and I shook my head. Realizing our faux pas, I jumped in and ran with Mal's story. “Mal is new to the area, though I've lived here all my life. I've never been much of a churchgoer but Mal has convinced me to be more open-minded, so we're exploring the possibilities.”

“I see,” Mary said. “Well, all comers are welcome here.” She shifted her focus to Mal. “Have you been a member of the Episcopal Church before?”

Mal shook his head. “But I attended the Catholic Church a lot growing up. One of my parents was Catholic.” I was a little disappointed that he didn't mention how the other parent was Jewish. I imagined it would have made for an interesting and lively conversation.

Mary got up from her seat and grabbed a set of keys. “Let me forward the phones,” she said, punching some buttons, “and I'll give you a quick tour.”

We followed her out of the office, which she locked behind her, and spent the next half hour touring the building and the grounds. She took us back into the church proper and gave us some of the history of the place, including the Tiffany windows. From there we headed to the basement where there was a meeting hall and a small kitchen. As Mary filled us in on some of the events and services the church offered, Mal and I poked around in the kitchen area like we were looking to buy the place. There were some coffee urns on a counter, and other coffee-making paraphernalia in some drawers and cupboards, but there was nothing that looked like the next message for me. Mary watched us closely, looking a bit concerned, but she let us explore to our heart's content.

When the tour was done, she invited us to return to the office so she could get some contact info from us. I hoped this might be the moment when she realized who I was and gave me whatever package had been left for me, but after providing us with some brochures and highlighting some of the programs, she thanked us for coming and said she hoped to see us at the Sunday service. It was our cue to leave, but I stood there, perplexed and unsure of what to do next.

After several awkward seconds ticked by, Mary's smile faded. “Is there something else I can do for you?” She sounded put out, making it clear that she had other things to do.

“I don't suppose my name means anything to you, or that you have a package or something like that for me?” I asked her.

Mary furrowed her brow. “What sort of package?”

“Something like an envelope, or a courier package.”

“Can't say that I do.”

I looked around her office, which was neat and organized, looking for anything that might have been what we needed. There was nothing. So I tried a different tack. “Is there a minister, or priest, or someone like that I can talk to?” I saw Mal bite back a grin.

Mary cocked her head to one side. “Sorry, Father Manx is out making hospital rounds and other visitations. Would you like me to set you up an appointment with him?”

“Yes, I would. Any chance I could meet with him later today?”

After consulting a calendar book, Mary said, “Sorry, he's booked up for today. How about tomorrow at noon? Would that work for you?”

It was cutting things close, but I didn't see any other choice. “Yes, it would,” I said. “In the meantime, is it all right if Mal and I go take another look at the church? Those Tiffany windows are so beautiful.”

“They really are spectacular, aren't they?” Mary said, bustling with so much pride you would have thought she'd made them herself. “Please feel free, and if there is anything else I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask.”

We thanked her and left the office, heading back to the main church area.

“That lady thinks you're a bit off plumb,” Mal said in a low but amused voice.

“I don't care what she thinks,” I said irritably. “I'm scared, Mal. I'm scared that we have this one wrong.”

“I'm assuming you made the appointment with the minister because you think he might have your next envelope?”

I nodded. “I'm hoping so, yes. But in the meantime, I think we need to take another look at the church proper, check out every pew, every book rack, every nook or cranny that might be hiding something.”

We spent the next half an hour doing just that, exhaustively searching any potential hiding spots except for whatever was behind a locked door located on one side of the sanctuary.

“That leads to the sacristy,” Mal said. “That's the area where the sacred robes and table dressings are kept, where priests and other church attendants vest before a service.”

“That would be the perfect place to keep something like one of those envelopes,” I said, looking longingly at the locked door.

“We can't break in there, Mack.”

I sighed in frustration.

“If Father Manx has the next envelope, you'll get it tomorrow.”

“And what if he doesn't have it? What if we're wrong? There won't be much time left.”

“Come on,” Mal said, taking my arm and tugging me toward the exit. “Let's go back to the bar and think things out. Sometimes it helps to get a little distance or perspective on a situation.”

I gave him a halfhearted nod and let him lead me out of the church and back to his car. We rode in silence, huddled inside our respective thoughts to ward off our fears the way our bodies were huddled inside our respective coats to ward off the cold.