“I’m starting to think it’s something about me and not the dog.”
“The odds are better. Oh, and Eunice Shriver called again.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t give her your cell phone number and I really wish you would. I would have, but she hung up before I had a chance.”
“She hung up on you?”
“She was pretty pissed she couldn’t get hold of you. This is none of my business, Ruzak, but I don’t think that old woman is quite right in the head. She threatened to cut me out.”
“Cut you out?”
“Of the story. Well, her exact words were, ‘I’ll be forced to red-pencil you.’”
“Have you ever heard of the string theory?”
“No, but I get the feeling you have, and now you don’t have anything better to do than to tell me.”
“Boiled down to its nub, basically there are an infinite number of possible existences, and everything that could possibly happen does happen in one of these, um, alternate realities.”
“Wow. What’s that have to do with string?”
“Maybe reality is like a rope, which is made up of thousands of tiny individual strands of fiber or strings, each one having its own integrity but part of the larger intertwining.”
“Intertwining?”
“Right. So maybe in this rope there’s a string where I am a fictional character.”
“And another string where you’re not?”
“The question is, Which string am I in?”
“It seems pretty far out there, Ruzak. The possibility that you’re the product of an eighty-six-year-old woman’s imagination.”
“It’s lost some of its luster in the scientific community,” I admitted. “And even if it were true, what can I do about it?”
“Beg her to let you win the lottery.”
“A lot of money would be nice, but I’d rather have the answer.”
“The answer to what?”
“Oh, you know, what’s it for. If there’s a purpose. If the unconnectedness is an illusion and God really does have a plan.”
Above me, in the moonless sky, the stars shone winter-bright in the dark matter—the stuff that made up 98 percent of the universe, the stuff that scientists had so much trouble understanding, which meant we couldn’t grasp 98 percent of the reality surrounding us.
“Ruzak, are you there?”
“I guess I am. I hope so,” I said. “Felicia, do you think I should have slept with Amanda?”
She didn’t say anything at first. “Does it matter what I think?” “I mean, I’m not talking about the carnal act per se, though it’s been some time since I—”
“Ruzak, I’m really not comfortable talking about this.”
“I don’t mean her personally, that’s the thing. And not the sex part, but the idea that we’re only afforded a finite number of opportunities to … to … to …”
“Connect with someone?”
“Or forget that we can’t. That ultimately, because of the dark matter that separates us, we can’t.”
“You’ve lost me, Ruzak. Look, you need to walk away from this. You need to drive back to Knoxville right now, and in the morning you can give the police what you know and let them handle it. It’s their job, Ruzak. Your job is to study for the PI test, because it’s next month, and if you flunk that test I’ll never forgive you. Do you hear me? I will never forgive you, Ruzak.”
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Teddy—”
“Somebody’s calling through,” I said. “I’ll call you right back.”
“Mr. Ruzak,” Liz Matthews said after I picked up. “I hope you’re not too far down the road.”
“Not too far,” I said.
“I have a confession to make.”
“So do I. I’m not down the road. I’ll be up in two minutes.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Robert had showered and changed into a pair of jeans and an ETSU sweatshirt. He occupied the lounger in one corner, the flyer crumpled in his hand. With the fingers of the other, he nervously combed his damp hair. Maybe they put the kid to bed or locked him in his room, I didn’t know, but he wasn’t around to bring me any more presents. Liz was sitting on the sofa next to her father-in-law, Reginald “Jumper” Matthews, thin-faced like his son, white-haired, splotchy-skinned and shrunken-looking in a denim shirt two sizes too big for him. I guess the shirt belonged to Robert. And the baggy jeans. And the athletic socks on his jittery feet.
“Is this for real?” Robert asked, waving the flyer in my direction.
“It’s for real,” I said. “And if Reggie helps us nab this guy, he gets every penny.”
“You hear that, Dad?” Liz asked. Reggie nodded. She turned to me. “You understand, Mr. Ruzak, we wanted to clear all this with Reggie first.”
“You bet,” I said. “What did you see, Reggie?”
“Hold on,” Robert said. “Maybe we need to talk about it first. How do we know you won’t take this information and keep the money? Maybe we should talk about some kind of up-front money.”
“That’s not the offer,” I said. “The reward hinges on the arrest and conviction of the killer.”
“Look, Ruzak, a couple weeks ago my old man shows up at my door scared shitless. Look at him—he’s still scared shitless. Me, I’m thinking he’s gone out of his head again with the booze or God knows what else, saying they’re comin’ for him next, and today you show at my door looking for him, and what am I supposed to think but maybe he’s right, maybe somebody is after his ass. So I gotta think after his safety, you know what I mean? I gotta look out for Reggie. If this is on the up-and-up, I don’t see how a little earnest money’s gonna hurt. Maybe ten percent down, fully refundable if the information doesn’t pan out.”
“I’d be okay with that,” I said. “If we put the money in some kind of escrow account.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed. “What, you don’t trust me?”
“Looks like there’s a lack of that on both sides.”
“Not me,” Reggie spoke up for the first time. “I trust you.” He looked at Robert. “He’s got a good face.”
“Christ, Pop,” Robert said.
“I don’t understand why you’re offering it in the first place,” Liz said to me. “Who put up this reward money?”
“If you’re asking who hired me to find Jack’s killer, nobody did. The money is mine.”
“So why, Ruzak?” Robert asked. “Who’s Jack to you?”
“Nobody—except I’m the one who found him, and that’s the issue.”
“You’re like the Good Samaritan, huh?”
“Well, as I remember the story, the guy he helped actually lived to tell the tale.”
I looked at Reggie. “We don’t need to complicate this. Reggie gets the cash when I get the killer.”
“And when you screw up and the crazy mothers come after my dad, then what? You cover the funeral expense?”
“Well,” I said, trying to puzzle it out—I had no idea how I’d stumbled into such a complicated negotiation. “Maybe we can set up some kind of protection program along the lines of the FBI—”
“And who foots the bill for that? We got him back into treatment, but my insurance don’t pay for that or his Prozac, and who’s gonna pay for his upkeep until these bastards go to trial?”
“Robert,” Liz said. “We had this problem before Mr. Ruzak showed up.”
“It’s Reggie’s information,” I said, hunting for the shears to cut the Gordian knot. “Maybe it should be Reggie’s decision.”
Everyone looked at Reggie. He didn’t say anything. Robert finally said, softly, “Reggie ain’t been capable of making a decision for twenty years.”
“You’re my boy, and listen at the way you talk to me,” Reggie said. “Maybe I just won’t tell nothin’ to nobody.”
He crossed his arms over his thin chest and stuck out his grizzled chin defiantly toward Robert.
“Here’s what I’m wi
lling to do,” I said. “Half the reward deposited in an interest-bearing account in Reggie’s name, plus half his living expenses until we get this guy behind bars.”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Reggie said, “because I ain’t no charity case. I’m leavin’ tonight.”
“Right, Pops,” Robert said. “That’s what I’m workin’ on here.” He turned to me. “Deal, but you’re protecting him henceforth and henceforward, Ruzak. Understand? I got a wife and little kid to think about.”
We shook hands on it, and Liz asked if I wanted another cup of coffee. I accepted, hoping the caffeine would suppress the gnawing hunger in my belly: I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch at the mall. She went into the kitchen. Reggie called after her, asking her to fetch him a glass of ice water.
“One thing first,” Reggie said to me. “I ain’t goin’ back to Knoxville.”
“I don’t see how we can avoid that,” I said.
“They said they would kill me if they ever saw me again.”
“Who?”
He looked away. His hands worried with each other in his lap. The knuckles were oversized, or maybe he just had thin fingers. Liz returned with my coffee and his ice water. She told Robert she was going to check on the kid and she disappeared down the hallway.
“Who killed Jack Minor?” I asked.
Reggie muttered, “‘Bout two in the mornin’, me and Jack was on Church, walkin’ toward Gay Street. They come walkin’ up the other way. Three of ‘em. One of ‘em’s singin’.”
“Singing?”
“The big one. One big, one medium-sized, one little—scrawny kid.”
“A kid?”
“They all kids. No more’n nineteen or twenty, I’d say. Drunk. They come up on me and Jack, and the big one say, ‘Give me your hat, old man.’”
I swallowed. “He wanted the hat?”
Reggie nodded. “Jack told me somebody gave it to him, didn’t even have to ask, just gave it. So Jack tells the kid, ‘No; it’s my hat.’ Big kid, he starts shovin’ Jack around, tryin’ to grab it off his head. I say, ‘Caddy, ain’t worth it; give it up.’ But Caddy don’t listen. So ‘nother one, the medium-sized one, he sneaks around Jack’s backside while he slappin’ with the big kid and grabs it off his head. So Jack goes after him, and the big one jumps him from behind.” He set his glass on the floor between his feet and hid his face behind those large knuckles. “They took turns on him, ‘cept the skinny one. He was like me, both of us yellin’ for ‘em to stop. Didn’t do no good. Big one drug him into the parking lot, and the other one finds this two-by-four lyin’ in the alley there … they take turns on him with that two-by-four, and the big one, he’s wearing the hat. He’s wearin’ Jack’s goddamned hat while he beats him to death!”
Reggie broke down then, putting his head between his knees, his narrow shoulders shaking. I looked over at Robert, who was looking back at me.
“What were you doing during all this?” I asked.
Reggie lifted his head and the look in his eyes forced me to look away.
“Nothin’, Mr. Ruzak,” he said. “Nothin’ at all.”
TWENTY-SIX
The skinny kid noticed Reggie take off down Church, and shouted something to his buddies. One of them chased him down—Reggie wasn’t sure which one—screaming, “You’re next! You’re next, motherfucker!” But the kid was drunk and gave up the chase after a few blocks. Reggie hid in the Hilton parking lot, debating whether to find a cop or return to the alley to check on his friend. After a couple of hours, he risked it, finding Jack and my hat in the alley behind the Ely. He left Jack there, but took the hat.
“Why didn’t you go to the cops?” I asked.
“Ain’t you been listenin’? They said they was goin’ to kill me! I hitched a ride out of town at first light.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Liz said gently.
“You were afraid they’d suspect you?” I asked Reggie.
“I been to prison six times,” Reggie said. “Last time Bushy State. I ain’t goin’ back to prison.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Big one, the hitter, he was blond, bright blond, like it was dyed, you know? Had a crew cut and a goatee. Medium one real small eyes, pig eyes, and the little guy, long hair down to his shoulders, baby-faced, hardly no chin. Don’t remember much else. Big one wearing a UT sweatshirt but, you know,” he shrugged. “It’s football season.”
“How about names? You catch any names?”
Reggie shook his head. “Called each other ‘bro.’”
“’Bro’ like brother?”
“Yeah, like brother.”
I walked him through the story again, to see if he’d remember more detail and also to see if he remained consistent. He lost it again at the part where “the big one” found the two-by-four.
“Who is Yahweh?” I asked suddenly.
“Don’t know any Yahweh.”
“So you don’t know what the letters Y-H-W-H mean?” I pressed.
He slowly shook his head. Robert said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What do they mean?”
“Somebody took a sharp object and carved those letters into Jack’s forehead,” I said, looking at Reggie.
“Then they must’ve done it after I took off,” Reggie said.
“Any idea why somebody would do that, Reggie?”
Again, he shook his head. He muttered something like “God, I need a drink,” and lowered his head, hands kneading his bony knees.
Liz left the room. I sipped my cold coffee. Robert stared at me, and Reggie stared at his own lap.
“You have to go to the cops,” I told him.
“No, Mr. Ruzak. No cops.”
“You have to tell them what you saw.”
“They’ll kill me.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“They’ll arrest me. They’ll think I did it.”
“They will question you,” I said. “And maybe get your DNA and probably polygraph you. I can help you find a lawyer, if you want.”
“I ain’t nothing but a broken-down drunk, Mr. Ruzak, and the doctors got me on pills to control my moods now, but I ain’t crazy.”
“I know the detective in charge of the case. She’s very sharp, and I also think she’s very fair. I promise you she’ll take you seriously.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“What about Jack?” I asked. “Don’t you want to do right by him?”
“Right by him?”
“You want them to get away with it, Reggie? Is that what you want? Because I guarantee you they will if you don’t come forward. He’s not high on their list, Reggie; the police aren’t going to pursue this unless we make them, you and me. And you and me, we’re all Jack has now. Are you going to turn your back on him?”
“There ain’t nothin’ I can do for him now.”
I ignored him. Things that had been simmering were beginning to boil over the lip of the pot. “Maybe not, but if three kids on a lark can get away with beating a homeless man to death, we’ve reached the bottom of it. As low as we can get, and if you turn away now you’re not just turning away from Jack, you’re turning away from the next guy these kids decide to kill simply because they can.
“I don’t know if you’re a religious man. I’m not or never thought I was, but I’ve lost a lot of sleep since I saw the name of God on your friend’s forehead, and I think it says somewhere in the Bible that what you do to the least of these you do to him, and you could look at it that way, if you’re a religious man, that God was murdered that night. If he’s in us and we’re in him, God is murdered every night. And what’s been getting to me is the fact that we’ve used up the not-knowing-what-we-do excuse. By God, if we don’t know by now what we’re doing, we’re in big trouble and not just in the theological sense.
“We can’t be as good as God and, if he’s really there, I don’t think he expects us to. I just think he expects us to be human—not as in a species, but as in his … crop. Y
ou know, the dinosaurs had their time—their season—now it’s our season. It’s our turn until he decides to let something else have a chance to get it right.”
Liz returned during my rant, standing at the juncture between the hall and the family room, staring at me, a beat-up brown knapsack in one hand.
“What the hell was that?” Robert asked. “What the hell was that?”
“Sorry,” I said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Take care of my old man, Ruzak,” Robert told me at the door. “Or I’ll slap a wrongful death suit on your ass and you’ll be out a helluva lot more than twenty-five grand.”
“I gotta kiss him good-bye,” Reggie announced and shuffled down the hall before anyone could stop him.
Liz put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Mr. Ruzak,” she said. She was holding my hat. I took it from her but hesitated before setting it on my head. It didn’t feel right, wearing evidence to a capital crime.
“His pills are in the bag,” Liz said. “Make sure he takes them. And you better get rid of any alcohol in your house.”
“He isn’t allergic to dogs, is he?” I asked. “I have a short-hair, but there may be dander issues.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Reggie rested his gnarled hand on my forearm to steady himself on the way down the stairs. I could feel his son’s eyes on the back of my head as we descended. First I adopted a dog, now a homeless man. I was going to need a bigger apartment if I kept this up.
At the intersection of State of Franklin Road, as we waited for the light to change, Reggie said, “You know Steve Spurrier, the football coach? He went to high school here. You like football, Mr. Ruzak?”
“I used to play it,” I said.
“Yeah? What position?”
“Left guard.”
“I could see that.”
“I like to watch it—it’s great to fall asleep to on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Don’t watch TV like I used to,” Reggie said.
“Golf is good, too, for a nap,” I said. “And tennis.”
I pulled off the interstate to hit the Wendy’s late-night drive-thru. I asked Reggie if he wanted anything. He leaned forward, squinting at the menu, rubbing his thighs.
The Highly Effective Detective Goes to the Dogs Page 11
