Imperfect Daddy

by Gregg E. Brickman

  "I don't believe that's the way it was. Your dad told me about your mother and Buddy Lee because I was poking into his business. He had to tell me. The point is, I've known your dad since you were a small boy and never had any clue there was even a possibility he wasn't your biological father. He has never thought of you as anything but his son."

  "That's what he told me, too." Branden leaned against the screen doorframe.

  "So?" I asked.

  "I asked him if we could be tested, to see if he was my dad or not."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he was already my dad, and it didn't matter about the genes."

  "What do you think?" I said.

  "I think, maybe, Dad's right." Branden rubbed Sunshine's head, then picked him up, cuddling him close. "I'm curious. I want to know if I have a murderer's blood. Am I a bad seed?"

  46

  Early Saturday morning we deposited the dog at Connie's house. He'd become so accustomed to being there he trotted in and hopped onto her sofa. Then we caught the Turnpike at Coconut Creek Parkway, following the sign directing traffic north. We'd agreed on our agenda for the day—visit Kathleen in the hospital, collect Mikey for an afternoon of Magic Kingdom, and do Paradise Island after dark. We'd follow it with exhaustion for the night and MGM or one of the water parks on Sunday. I had to work Monday morning and planned to leave Orlando by mid-afternoon Sunday. I thought the compromise agenda would distract the two teenagers from their troubles for a few hours at least.

  The leading edge of a tropical storm flooded our path with wave after wave of blinding rain. Solid sheets of water swamped the windshield wipers of my little car and caused me to flutter along at the pace of a jellyfish. The kids stared in stunned silence, having never experienced a Florida summer storm.

  There were two things good about the whole mess. One, I had listened to the weather report, expected the storm, and taken in all the outside furniture and plants. Second, we'd be in Orlando, inland and out of range of this particular front. The storm's computer-generated path crossed the southern part of state and went west into the gulf. Orlando's forecast was for sunshine and occasional showers. Translation, hot and humid. We were prepared with cool clothes and a backpack full of sunscreen, ponchos, and umbrellas. I carried a sweater to combat air-conditioning.

  Rain has to stop somewhere and, to the amazement of the kids, I drove out of the rain onto dry pavement—like stepping out from under a waterfall onto a protected ledge. I accelerated to about eighty, hoping to be out of range before the next deluge assaulted the highway and my windshield. I was successful in my efforts, and we made good time. Kerri and Branden bantered back and forth—kid stuff, mostly about boys, and girls, and school, and I decided to take advantage of the time.

  "Tell me about your mother's relationship with Chief Ervin."

  Branden, who rode shotgun, looked at his sister over his left shoulder. "When did Mama start seeing Chief Jake? Originally, I mean."

  "About five years ago," Kerri said. "I remember because I was thirteen and had started babysitting around the neighborhood. I babysat for Chief Jake and his wife. They had a baby girl they called Little Bit. Then his wife left town and took the baby with her."

  "What was Little Bit's name?" I asked.

  "I don't know. I only heard them call her Little Bit. I think she had the same name as Mrs. Ervin. I remember someone saying that once." Kerri paused as if to collect her thoughts. "Anyway, shortly after that Chief Jake started coming around. At first, Mama wouldn't go out with him, but he'd come in for a beer. Then she started leaving with him."

  "How long did that last?"

  "Until I was a sophomore. They had a big fight. I remember hearing them yelling at each other in the middle of the night. She told him to get lost."

  I said, "I don't think Chief Ervin is a very nice man." That was an understatement if there ever was one. "How'd he take it?"

  Kerri continued, her voice drifting forward from the back seat. "He didn't hit her or anything. He yelled all sorts of things. He said she was throwing him out like she did my dad, she couldn't keep a man happy, he was better off without her, and she'd never get a man as good as him. Stuff like that. Mama didn't say much. Not that I heard anyway. Then the door slammed."

  "What was the fight about?"

  I watched Kerri's face in the rear-view mirror. She squinted at her fingernails and took a deep breath. "They were fighting about me. Chief Jake came to the house while Mama was working. He said he'd come over to fix the sink in the kitchen. Then he started trying to kiss me, saying stuff like I was prettier than Mama."

  "What did you do?"

  "I started yelling at him to stop. Then, I ran out of the house. Chief Jake told me not to tell Mama, but I did."

  "Interesting. I thought your dad told me your mother was with Ervin the night—ah . . . that night."

  Branden jumped into the conversation. "Friggin' asshole—oops, sorry Sophia—started coming around about six months ago. I asked Mama why she went out with him. She said she had to."

  "Mama told me that he made her go out with him," Kerri said. "Otherwise he'd arrest Branden for dealing drugs."

  I drove in silence for a moment, letting it all sink in. Ervin was worse than I imagined. I wondered if Ray knew any of this, and if he knew the hellhole he was walking into. "Did you tell your dad?"

  "No," they said at the same time.

  "Why?"

  "Because Mama made us promise not to tell. She was embarrassed, I think, but she didn't know how else to keep me out of trouble." Branden slid deeper into the seat. "The trouble was he kept after her for more and more stuff like favors at the bank, staying at his cabin on Craggy Lake, shit—oops, crap—like that. That's why she called Dad. Chief Jake was watching me all the time, catching me doing stuff, or making up stuff."

  "Kerri," I asked, "did Chief Ervin ever touch you again?"

  "No, Mama told him she'd kill him if he did. But, she didn't let him come in the house either. She met him at the lake or at his cabin in the mountains."

  "What cabin in the mountains?"

  "The old Halsey place. Chief Jake inherited it from his mother."

  Ray had said the cabin at the crime scene was the Halsey place. I wondered if that was where Elaine and Ervin had their final tryst.

  "Kids, we need to get your father on the telephone. He doesn't know any of this, and he needs to know it. He's walking into trouble."

  I extracted my cell phone from my purse and punched in Ray's speed-dial number while thinking that soon I'd have to take him out of my telephone book. I had no idea about Ray's travel plans. He hadn't offered the information, and I hadn't asked. When his voice mail picked up on the first ring, I assumed he was en route.

  I left a message asking him to call me before he talked to Ervin. Then, I called his partner, Lewis, and gave him a rundown of what the kids said. Lastly, I left a message on his parent's answering machine asking them to have Ray call me as soon as he arrived. I assumed he'd stay with them. Then I ran out of things to do.

  Instinct told me Buddy Lee Pyle was innocent of everything except maybe being stupid, which wasn't illegal. When Ray nailed down the time of Elaine's death with the medical examiner in Virginia, Ray would then confirm Pyle's alibi and the fact Ervin was blowing blame in the direction of any logical suspect. For my part, I wondered where Chief Jake Ervin was at the time of Elaine's murder.

  47

  We walked into Kathleen's hospital room at the Orange County Medical Center about two hours later than planned, but we were dry and safe.

  Mikey, dressed in his favorite Mickey shirt, jumped up and ran to me, dropping his electronic game—that looked like a spaceman— in the process. Kathleen was propped on pillows. I noticed she had a large print book, and I knew her vision had taken a hit from the MS.

  Kathleen seemed wrung out and tired in spite of the fact her color was good. She wore a bright yellow satin nightgown, and a yellow ribbon held her hair at the nape of her
neck. Her skin seemed to have lost its tone. I suspected she had a drawer full of cosmetics. On the plus side, Kathleen showed an interest in her appearance. That's a good sign of improving spirits.

  Kathleen's parents, Zach and Sarah Nelson, offered to take Mikey, Kerri, and Branden to the McDonald's on the hospital's first floor for lunch while Kathleen and I talked. Kathleen always said her mother was perceptive, and in this case, she perceived I had something to discuss with her daughter.

  I updated Kathleen on Pyle visiting my home and turning himself in. I told her he didn't kill his wife and family, didn't hurt Amber, didn't murder Dick, and probably didn't shoot Elaine.

  "Who hurt Dick then?"

  "That's a good question. I still think it was someone who was after Ray and didn't know the condo was sold or that Dick looked like Ray."

  Tears welled in Kathleen's eyes. "I was confused when Amber talked about her family. She told me her daddy hurt her and hurt her mother and brother. She sounded afraid of him. Then she'd talk about her poppy and asked why he didn't come for her. She sounded like she loved the man. I thought she meant her grandfather. But then I understood Poppy was her stepfather."

  "I've been led to understand Pyle adopted her," I said.

  "I didn't know that." Kathleen paused, looking at her hands. "I can't adopt her. I can barely take care of Mikey. That would mean Pyle can get legal custody—if he isn't guilty of murder, I mean."

  "Might not be a bad thing. It has to be better than a life in the Florida childcare system bouncing from one home to another. Did you ask her daddy's name?" I didn't comment on Kathleen's decision about Amber. There would be time for that later.

  "She said Jack. She told me her last name was Pyle, but she didn't know what it was before. She couldn't remember or didn't want to remember. Or maybe she isn't old enough to make the connection between parents and names."

  "I think she was a toddler when Pyle and her mother married. I doubt she even remembers living with her father, and if what I think is true, she no doubt blocks most of his visits from her mind. I suspect the visits were traumatic events."

  48

  Ray and I didn't connect on the telephone for the rest of the weekend. He left a message thanking me for the information and saying he'd talked with Lewis and was in the process of verifying the deed on the cabin. He added, in what sounded like an afterthought, that Pyle's alibi for the time of Elaine's death was solid and Ervin wasn't happy about having no suspects.

  On Monday morning, I went to work leaving the kids asleep—Kerri in the spare room, Branden on the sofa, and Sunshine in his crate. Ray planned to collect Kerri and Branden later, or maybe not, but I'd left plenty of snacks for them. I'd also drawn them a map to get to the neighborhood pool and told them to use the bikes in the garage. They'd do fine.

  After getting report, I sat at the nursing station desk in the Pedi ER to read the memos and mail I had in my mailbox. Funny how things accumulate on the weekend. I found a sealed envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL among the routine memos.

  Recognizing my lab-friend's return address, I held the envelope in my hand. Without permission, I'd submitted the samples. Ray had made it clear he didn't care. It didn't matter to him. I believed Branden would like to know he didn't have a criminal's genes. While Pyle was a man down on his luck and probably low on brains as well, the truth was that he wasn't such a bad apple. If I gave the information to Ray or Branden, Ray would know I'd been devious, again. I walked to the shredder and ran the envelope through, vowing to mind my business in the future.

  The kids were at my house when I got home. They'd been to the pool, walked the dog, and talked with their dad, who said he'd see them on Wednesday. That was fine with me. I was enjoying getting to know them.

  ***

  On Tuesday morning, I left the same kind of note for the kids, this time writing the note with rose-colored ink and leaving them money for lunch at the nearby artery-clog-o-rama. I figured they were young and fast food wouldn't have major lasting effects. I drew a careful map before rushing to work.

  When I walked out of the staff lounge and into the Pedi ER, a scene of total chaos assaulted me. Crying children, each of whom seemed accompanied by their entire family, occupied every stretcher. The weary-looking night-shift nurses were trying to bring order to the confusion, and three doctors debated a diagnosis in the corner of the room. One of the physicians frequently glanced at the isolation room in the opposite corner, and I presumed the small isolated boy was the topic of their discussion.

  I surmised I was witnessing the end of a blowout shift. Several of the larger children were swimming in adult hospital gowns rather than wearing appropriately sized and color-coded fishy print ones. The staff ran out of linen. I found the charge nurse and asked how I could help. Yveline, my coworker for the day, followed me into the unit and dove into the fracas as well.

  It was after ten when I had time to think about retrieving Amber's chart from medical records. It was time the child saw a familiar face, and I wanted to ask her some questions.

  From what Ray told me, I surmised the investigation was back on track, but the young detective who assumed Dick's caseload didn't have a lot of experience dealing with children. I thought I might learn something.

  We were bailing out from the morning's crisis, and I couldn't leave the ER. I retrieved Amber's medical record number from the computer and sent off an electronic request for the chart. I put the ER doc's name in the appropriate field, knowing I would finish reading the document long before the doc found it in the pile awaiting his attention.

  It was mid-afternoon before I looked at the record. Lucky for me, Connie completed the discharge paperwork. Connie never missed a detail. Those of us who knew her believed she wrote the most complete notes in the history of modern nursing. She received a compliment during our last Joint Commission inspection and first prize during a crazy Nurses' Week charting competition.

  I flipped to the discharge paperwork and found the caseworker's name, her title, office address, office telephone number, and cellular number. Bingo. I dialed the mobile number without first deciding what I'd say when she answered.

  The caseworkers had reputations for being overworked but compassionate folks, and I hoped Miss Robbins was no exception. She answered on the third ring. "Tamika Robbins," the crackly voice said. Traffic noise filled the background.

  I told her who I was, and where I worked. When she made no comment, I said, "Ms. Robbins, I took care of Amber in the ER, visited with her in Pediatrics, and am a good friend of Kathleen Schneider." I heard a blaring horn and thought she might have slowed to talk to me.

  "She's a nice woman."

  I plunged ahead. "I visited Kathleen in Orlando, and she wanted me to give Amber a gift to remember her."

  "I don't have time to deal with that. I'm sorry. Amber's in a good home. I have to move on to my other cases."

  "I appreciate that, really I do." I stalled, giving myself time to think. "Maybe I could drop it by if the foster home isn't too far from here."

  There was a pause. The traffic noise in the background was now distant. Maybe Ms. Robbins had pulled off into a parking lot or stopped at the next address on her agenda. "I'm busy. The people here expected me three hours ago." I looked at my watch. It was almost five.

  "Mrs. Schneider and Amber are close, and Mrs. Schneider is ill. In fact, she's in the hospital in Orlando suffering from an exacerbation of her MS. This means a lot to her. She doesn't want Amber to feel unloved. They had planned to be with each other until Mrs. Schneider's husband was murdered."

  "I'm not supposed to give out information on our children. The father is still on the loose. He could be looking for her, wanting to shut her up."

  Now, I had the opportunity to be truthful. I told her police had exonerated Pyle for the local crimes, and he was probably innocent of the murder in Virginia. "Please, call Detective Lewis at the police department. Verify the information."

  "Oh, okay. I'll give you the number at th
e foster home. Call before trying to visit her." She recited the number.

  "Thank you so much."

  After disconnecting, I signed onto the Internet using my AOL address, found a reverse-directory link, and typed in the number. The name and address of the foster parents displayed on the screen. I hit print, retrieved the page from the printer, and went back to work. There were three small children left from the day's activity, and the physician would discharge them within the hour. I planned to leave work on time and stop to see Amber on the way home.

  49

  Good home? I thought as I stopped in front of a large, corner house in the rattiest neighborhood in town. I couldn't call it a slum. The town of Coral Bay didn't admit to having slums.

  I inspected the area. There were no cars on blocks, but I saw two with flat tires. The condemned building across the street appeared occupied. The boards from a couple of windows leaned against the side, and a spacey youth loitered in the front yard. Crack house? Two or three other places looked almost as bad, but there were no space cadet ornaments in the front yards.

  Amber's foster home looked clean, though in need of paint and roof repairs, and boasted a huge fenced yard with an assortment of aging playground equipment. A casual glance at the tubular jungle revealed signs of fresh paint and shiny new bolts. Someone kept it in good repair.

  When a heavyset brown-skinned lady named Mrs. Doran answered the door, I introduced myself and asked to see Amber.

  Mrs. Doran was in the process of telling me she hadn't gotten a call from Ms. Robbins, the social worker, authorizing the visit when Amber ran in from another room.

  She called my name as she hugged me around the waist. "Have you come to get me?"