Slow Burn

by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

  “He hooked up with Tina Montgomery, didn’t he?”

  “That would be accurate.”

  So there was a piece of the puzzle in place, why Jacob had been there when the fire broke out. Point to Detective Fielding. Yet, like every other piece so far, it solved absolutely nothing.

  “You really think Aaron’s innocent?” Eric said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Less and less, I think.”

  “He stood on the lawn and said he was going to kill everyone. I didn’t hear that, but lots of people did.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So what’s Helen say?”

  “Helen?”

  “Yeah. What’s she say about Aaron?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her.”

  “She won’t talk?”

  “I just haven’t tried yet. I don’t have her number.” I left out my conversation with trial attorney Janet Crenshaw of Smyth, Sanner, Stacy and Franko.

  “Oh,” Jenkins said. “Do you want it?”

  When I checked my e-mail at home I saw the state had produced the report on Eddie Miller’s suicide. No mention of the bad news he’d supposedly received just prior, but otherwise looked pretty basic. Wrapped a bedsheet around his neck between guards’ rounds, tied the other end to a window latch, and dropped to his knees, strangling himself. Besides that it told me nothing I didn’t already know. The one-page report mentioned a concurrent state patrol investigation. I thought about requesting that, then thought about the paperwork involved. Instead, I called the number for the Portsmouth patrol post in southern Ohio.

  “Andy,” said trooper Billy Maxwell when he called me back ten minutes later, “what’s going on? You got another case?”

  “Manner of speaking,” I said. “Got a favor to ask.”

  “Ask away. I owe you, man. Got a nice commendation for helping out on that little dealio last year.”

  That little dealio had involved two murders separated by a couple of decades, false identity, and a whole lot of heartache, not to mention an ongoing federal investigation into a $50 million Ponzi scheme. It took Maxwell’s help to bring it all to light. I told him what I needed.

  “Way out of my jurisdiction,” he said. But before I could voice disappointment, he said, “But I got a favor or two coming my way from central office. Might be a day or two.”

  “Day or two’s fine.”

  “Still gotta have that beer,” he said. “Talk some football.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  After that I left another message for Molly “Mary” Custer. Ignoring me, or referring the calls to Dorothy? Guessing the former. Next, mindful of Crenshaw’s prohibition about calling her clients, I texted the number for Helen Chen that Eric Jenkins had passed on. Spirit of the law and all that. No answer either way.

  Late in the afternoon I dropped by Dorothy’s house to update her on my progress.

  “It doesn’t sound promising,” she said.

  “Lot of loose ends,” I said. “They’re just not leading anywhere yet.”

  “I appreciate you keeping me apprised.”

  “I left messages for Molly,” I said. “Has she contacted you?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll keep trying, if that’s OK.”

  “Be my guest. I doubt she’ll call back.”

  “Because she knows I’m working for you?”

  She nodded. “That, and everything else. But it’s your case.” She smiled. “As long as you remember who’s in charge.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been a week. I’ll probably need some additional funds soon.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Can I write you a check?”

  “Whatever’s convenient.”

  A check was convenient, and I left with it a few minutes later tucked in my wallet. I thought about finding a bank branch nearby and taking care of it immediately, but decided against it. I had more pressing matters to tend to.

  It was a semiarduous journey to India Oak Grill two blocks north, where I went inside, settled on a bar stool, and tackled a couple of draft Yuenglings and an Italian sub sandwich that my spreading gut told me I didn’t need. Fuel for the adventure ahead, I told myself.

  It was starting to get dark when I drove up the road, got on Interstate 270, and drove west for about fifteen minutes, marveling at the ever-expanding number of all-glass corporate office buildings cropping up on either side, before getting off at the exit for Dublin. A few minutes later, I found myself driving slowly through a well-heeled subdivision, listening to the voice on my phone direct me to the address I was looking for. Within another minute I was slowing as I drove past the home of Glen Murphy, president of Murphy Drilling and Excavating. I had imagined him living in some kind of McMansion monstrosity, but I wasn’t even close. He had a bigger two-story house than you might see in less desirable zip codes, on a bigger lot with a bigger garage. But for the most part, nothing you wouldn’t find in any other decent suburb in America. It came replete with a couple of yard signs signaling the presence of one high school runner and one high school softball player dwelling within. I tried to imagine Suzanne as a stepmother to Murphy’s kids, living a suburban life so far from her hectic job on the grittier streets of the city. “Snublin,” she’d said derisively of this very suburb more than once, when we’d been together. Yet surprisingly, I found I could see it. She’d always had a homey side to her, bravado aside. And I had changed since those days, or so I told myself. Why couldn’t she? I circled once more around the block, seeing if I could catch a glimpse through the living room window of Murphy, the kids, the girlfriend, Suzanne, or anyone, but all was quiet.

  I headed home, needing another beer. Or two.

  18

  I left another message for Molly Custer the next morning. I then spent a couple of strenuous hours drinking coffee, reading the paper, trying to solve that day’s Easter Egg hunt clue in the Dispatch, going over my notes on the fire, and pushing Hobble-along into and out of my backyard. Eventually, with no response and nothing better to do, I decided to just drive to Molly’s house. The address was a two-story white home on Indianola in Clintonville with a “Welcome Friends” mat in front of the door. I knocked but got no answer. I slipped my card between the screen and the door jamb and left.

  I had better luck late that afternoon, returning after additionally strenuous hours getting the van’s oil changed and reading up on all the requirements to renew my investigator’s license. Lunch and a nap factored in there someplace.

  A teenage girl answered the door. Hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, wearing a Whetstone Braves sweatshirt, jeans, and a frown. She called for her mom, then disappeared.

  Molly Custer came to the door with the same frown. I handed her another card and made my pitch. With obvious reluctance, she agreed to let me come in.

  “This is a fool’s errand,” she said as we entered the living room and she offered me a chair. Hardwood floors, stone fireplace set off by a ceramic tile front, big windows. Framed photos lined the mantel. I examined the one in the middle. The girl who’d answered the door, though a little bit younger-looking, standing beside Aaron, with more hair.

  “He’s a good-looking kid,” I offered. “I met him.”

  “That’s Mike,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s my late husband. Mike.”

  I took a closer look. “Quite a resemblance,” I said.

  “What people say.”

  I found an actual photo of Aaron two pictures down. The feeling came over me again, from the prison. A resemblance to someone that went beyond familiarity with his ubiquitous picture. Beyond his resemblance to his father.

  “I don’t mean to bother you,” I said, sitting down. “I just like to touch as many bases as I can on a case like this.”

  “OK,” she said.

  “Do you think he’s innocent?”

  “I don’t know. I suppos
e not. He doesn’t seem like the same boy anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  “As the one who grew up here.”

  I heard a sound. Looked over and saw her daughter standing at the edge of the room, listening.

  I said, “Things went downhill after your husband died. And his grandfather.”

  Molly stared at me.

  “I mean, from what Dorothy said.”

  “That’s right, I guess. She would know.”

  “They were close. Frank and Aaron.”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Aaron and his dad?”

  “Close enough,” she said.

  “Some tension?”

  “Like I said, close enough.”

  I thought about that. Thought about the old joke. Grandparents get along so well with grandchildren because they share a common enemy.

  “Sounds like Mike had a difficult time,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The business. Olen-Tangy-Tots.”

  “What about it?”

  “Going under.”

  “It wasn’t great, no.”

  “That what Mike did? Restaurant business?”

  “He did a lot of things. Some better than others.”

  “What about Mike and his father?”

  “What about them?”

  “Did they get along?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Then why ask?”

  “Part of the job, I guess.”

  “Seems like your job is being nosy.”

  “One way of putting it. So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “Mike. And his dad.”

  “They had their ups and downs, OK? Like any father and son.”

  I wondered about that. But I said, “Mike’s suicide. That must have been hard on Aaron.”

  “Yes.”

  “On top of his grandfather’s death.”

  “You seem to know everything about us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Just trying to understand Aaron a little more.”

  “I don’t know how much there is to understand. He’s a troubled kid. I hate to admit it, because I still love him. But it’s true.”

  “You and Mike divorced.”

  “That’s right.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “No.”

  “Hard on Aaron too, I’m guessing.”

  “You guessed right.”

  “How long had you been married?”

  She hesitated. “Twenty years.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You and Mike.”

  “Ohio State.”

  “Same year?”

  “Yes.”

  We might have been the same class, I thought. Had I graduated on time.

  “You’re from Columbus?”

  She nodded. “Grew up just down the street.”

  “And you go by Mary now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any reason?”

  “My given name. I always liked it better.”

  “Dorothy called you Molly.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Old habits.”

  I said, “What do you do?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sales,” she said. “Business marketing for Time Warner.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I said. “How do you like it?”

  “Pays the bills,” she said. “I like it some days more than others.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The girl was gone.

  “Your daughter?” I said.

  “Yes. Sophia.”

  “Still in high school?”

  “Junior. At Whetstone.”

  “How’s she doing? With everything?”

  “OK, I guess. Better now than before.”

  “She and Aaron close?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Are they in touch?”

  “Not really. She doesn’t want to go to the prison. I don’t blame her, and I don’t force her.”

  “How often do you go?”

  “Most weeks.”

  “How do you think he’s doing?”

  “Not really sure. He’s sober, so that’s something.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  And that was about it. We talked a few minutes more, then I thanked her for her time. I stood up, took one last look at the photos on the mantel, and showed myself out. I could see why Dorothy was calling the shots, I thought as I drove away. Molly-Mary just didn’t seem to have the energy. Could you blame her?

  19

  “It’s no big deal,” I said the next morning as I climbed into Roy’s van just after dawn. “I’m usually up this early on a Saturday anyway.” Barely an hour had passed since he’d awakened me from a deep sleep with a request for help.

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll remember that the next time the neighbor’s cat tries to get into Lucy’s chicken coop at 4 a.m. Anyway, you should be grateful.”

  “Grateful?”

  “Think how much time you would have wasted watching cartoons and eating Cap’n Crunch if I hadn’t called.”

  “Now I feel even worse,” I said.

  We drove the next few minutes in silence, sipping the coffee Roy had brought along in a large steel Thermos. We drove through downtown, which like us was just starting to wake up, and a few minutes later parked on the grass along the running trail by Confluence Park. A few minutes after that we were back in the homeless camp we’d visited a few nights earlier.

  Three people sat around the fire, warming themselves against the April chill. The rest of the camp was still quiet. Most of its residents were asleep in their tents and makeshift cabins. Like normal people on a Saturday. The men around the fire were drinking coffee from cups they’d filled from a pot perched on a grill above the flames. Roy topped them off from a second Thermos he’d toted along.

  He said, quietly, “Trouble last night?”

  After a moment, one of the men nodded.

  “Guys in the camp?”

  Another nod. “Drunks. Seen them here before.”

  Roy introduced him as Benny. I said hello. He ignored me.

  “Hurt anybody?” Roy said.

  Benny shook his head.

  “Do any damage?”

  “Knocked a couple clotheslines down. But Sam chased them off.”

  “She around?”

  “Still asleep.”

  “She OK?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Know who they were?”

  Another shake of his head.

  “You looking for me?”

  We turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. She was thin, wearing jeans and two or three sweaters. Age indeterminate, with heavy black-framed glasses that didn’t fit with the size of her face and hair hidden under a Columbus Crew pull-down winter cap.

  “Hello, Sam,” Roy said. “Coffee?”

  She approached without speaking, sat down, held out a chipped white mug.

  “You know Andy?” Roy said.

  She looked at me, holding both hands around the cup. “Nope,” she said after a moment. “Don’t want to, either.”

  “He’s not a bad guy,” Roy said. “Once you borrow money from him.”

  Sam frowned and sipped her coffee.

  “Ran off some troublemakers last night,” Roy said to her. It wasn’t a question.

  “College kids,” she hissed.

  “Sure about that?” Roy said.

  “How the hell should I know?” she said. “Been college kids before. Chased them up High Street one time. Probably college kids now.”

  I tried to picture this wisp of a woman pursuing a bunch of drunken college kids. It didn’t seem probable, but I liked the imagery.

  “Shameful,” she said.

  “Want the police to pay a visit?” Roy said.
/>
  “Already tried that,” Benny said.

  “And?”

  “Dispatcher said she needed a better address than ‘a bunch of woods by the railroad tracks.’” Everyone laughed.

  “You need help, you let me know,” Roy said. “Doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “Always been like that,” Sam said. “Always gonna be like that.”

  “Doesn’t have to be,” Roy said.

  We stayed another thirty minutes, drinking coffee and chatting. A couple other men joined us. Roy distributed the rest of the coffee, then handed out some water bottles he’d carried in. Then we stood, said our farewells, and left. Sam had disappeared by that time. The sun was up and joggers and bikers were passing in both directions when we emerged from the woods and walked back to Roy’s church van.

  “How’d that guy call 911?” I said.

  “Two cans with a string stretched between them,” Roy said.

  “Seriously.”

  “How do you think? With a phone.”

  “They have phones?”

  “Some of them. Radios, too, sometimes DVD players even. Very twenty-first century.”

  “How do they charge them?”

  “Same as everybody else. They steal electricity from coffee shops, library, wherever. Being homeless doesn’t make them cavemen.”

  “OK, OK,” I said. “Next question.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a hard time believing college students would do something like that.”

  “You’d be right. That’s all in Sam’s head. Could have been anyone. High school kids, drunks from the Arena District, headbangers who stay near campus. You name it.”

  “She said she chased them all the way to campus.”

  “Maybe she chased them up High through campus. Who knows?”

  “On foot?”

  “She’s got a bike. Rides everywhere. Rode to Toledo and back once, so she claims.”

  “You believe her?”

  He shrugged.

  “She all there?”

  “On her meds, she’s pretty cogent. Comes to church every so often. Prettiest soprano voice. By and large, she’s in and out. That’s why we came so early. You never know where she’ll be.”

  “How long has she been in the woods?”

  “She was there when I came back from Iraq in 2006. Then she left and lived with a sister or someone for a while. Then she came back, and then right away got some kind of transitional housing. She showed up again about a year ago, couple years maybe. St. Clare’s working with her. Trying to find something permanent.”