In Plain View

by J. Wachowski

  “Do you get a lot of calls out there?”

  He pursed his lips and shook a no. “Most of them are too isolated. By the time we hear about it, not much we can do. If it’s bad and it’s not too far out-and somebody calls us-we’ll send a pumper. That’s what they usually need. Sometimes, a guy in full gear will go in after someone. The Amish VFD don’t use air tanks.”

  “Why?”

  “Mask won’t fit over the beards.”

  “How’s somebody do that?” Ainsley piped up. “How do you actually walk into a fire, even with a tank?”

  “Most of the good ones, they think about it ahead a time. Get it set in their head, who they’re going in for-their wife, their kids, their mother.” The captain leaned back against the shiny fire truck, just another old salt waxing poetical. “Tommy had that and something else. He was the kind of guy who liked a test.”

  I cocked my head and wrinkled my brow, keeping my voice off the recording. My face said it all, explain that.

  “He was always setting tests for himself. Asking how many runs did that guy do? Pushing himself. The other guys on his shift, they saw right away he was a man who’d do the job. That meant a lot to him. Tommy cared what the guys thought. That letter from the cop-” Captain frowned, his jowls shaking with discouragement, “-knowing what people were thinking about him, after that letter, it messed him up. Maybe just about the worst thing could’ve happened to him, you know?”

  “What did people think about Tommy,” Ainsley asked before I could, “after the letter?”

  The captain had warmed up. He seemed almost relieved to tell his side of the story. Sometimes that happens. Usually, it’s where you find a guilty conscience.

  “Hell, they thought he was a pervert! All this time, Tommy was never anything but a paramedic and a firefighter-a damn good one-but he seemed to have no life, no…urges-you know? He was a robot, a shiny robot. That’s how he got his name,” one side of his mouth crooked in a half-forgotten smile of genuine fondness, “guys called him Tinman.”

  “Tinman?” I repeated, hoping to draw out more detail.

  “From The Wizard of Oz?” Ainsley prompted. “The Tinman had no heart.”

  “Thank you. I get it now,” I ground out before turning to the captain to ask, “So your Tinman got busted for copping a feel on Dorothy?”

  “Can you believe?” The captain opened his hands, all shocked innocence. “We were pretty surprised. He caught some grief about that, too.”

  “Any idea who the girl was?”

  “He never talked about her.”

  Ainsley tried again. “Um, Captain? What sort of ‘grief’ did the guys give Jost, exactly?”

  The captain waved it off. “No more than the usual. Few jokes. Put stuff in his locker, you know? Just grief.”

  Just grief.

  “How did Pat handle it?” Ainsley asked.

  “What?” The question startled him. He was suddenly self-conscious, trying to remember how much he’d said.

  “How did Pat handle Tom’s trouble?” I said. “You mentioned they rode the ambulance together.”

  “Oh, they were fine mostly. Yeah. No problems. They had words now and then, maybe, like anybody working together. Nothing unusual. I’m sure it was a coincidence they argued the before-” The words came to a sudden halt. He turned his shoulder to the camera as if he’d forgotten something behind him. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work now.”

  “You think Pat might be willing to talk to us?”

  “No. Can’t help you there. Against department regulations.” The captain was back in charge. He held up a hand, like a crossing guard warning of a stop. “That’s all now.”

  “Anyone else you know I should talk to? Any other friends of Tom’s?”

  “No. Nobody-except that school teacher. He used to go see her, have Sunday dinner or something. That’s it.” He stepped back, both hands up now as if he’d push us away if we tried to follow him. He backed up, two steps, turned and hustled off into the cavern of the firehouse.

  “Thanks,” I called.

  “That was weird,” Ainsley summed up, as the camera came down.

  “That, my boy, was not weirdness. That was guilt.”

  2:40:31 p.m.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Ainsley said again.

  “I heard you the first time.”

  Traffic was a mess. We crawled past town hall for the second time. It was smack in the center of the main drag. From the front, it looked like the live location shots used half a century ago for Mayberry, R.F.D. Wide stone steps led to a columned portico. Doors tall enough to accommodate NBA superstars. Surrounding the building was a park that extended a full city block behind the place. As we circled the area looking for a place to park, I could see banners and booths advertising for the animal shelter, the art league, Republicans and various other gun nuts.

  “What is all this?”

  “City’s celebrating the 150th anniversary of incorporation,” Ainsley said. “They’ve been planning it for two years. It’s a pretty big deal.”

  “I’ll bet.” I felt a sudden whoosh of relief, as I realized how close I’d come to being ordered to do a story on sesquicentennial weekend for network television. All due respect to Charles Kuralt.

  “There’s produce and animals in that big tent, like a mini state-fair market. City hall’s open for tours. Carnival rides in the Catholic church parking lot. I heard there’ll be Amish here for the market. I figured that would be the place for us to get those filler shots.”

  Not bad; the boy had come through with a plan for getting the Amish on camera. However, his parking karma was the pits. Even the spots reserved for Town Hall Business Only were taken by huge Lexus-style sedans straddling two spaces. Damn lawyers.

  “Maybe we should stick to the sesquicentennial party,” Ainsley repeated. “Leave Sheriff Curzon alone for a while?”

  Here in the boondocks, the county seat was also the sheriff’s palace. So it just so happened that Curzon had an office in the old downtown town hall courthouse; although the jail itself was in the modern extension grafted onto the back of the building.

  “We’re here anyway. We need to ask about the letter.” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. I like my work. I like asking people hard questions. “Don’t worry. Curzon’s going to get a big kick out of seeing us again. I promise to make every effort not to piss him off. All I want is five minutes of clean interview with the letter-writing cousin,” I dreamed aloud. “Park right there.”

  “It’s marked Deliveries Only.”

  “I know.” I gave the boy a friendly shot to the arm. “Good reason to go see the sheriff. We’ll ask for a press pass.”

  Ainsley looked a little bug-eyed, but he didn’t argue.

  I think he was getting used to me.

  Inside the town hall, the air was old-stone cooled. We followed a clump of modern signs glued to the marble, directing us to the sheriff’s office. The place was bustling with activity. Folding tables were set up with handouts, balloons, people educating the citizens about programs for recycling hazardous waste, invader bugs eating local trees and how to fingerprint your kids for their protection.

  The hallway swarmed with people, dressed casually and talking loudly, many using the building as a cut through to the park area out back. A pair of kids darted around us with balloons in tow.

  “Ainsley!” a woman in a suit called from across the hall.

  College hissed something under his breath, then answered her with a big, welcoming smile. “Hi, Mom.”

  That turned my head.

  “Maddy O’Hara meet Phyllis Prescott, my mother,” Ainsley coughed, “the mayor-elect.”

  “How do you do?” I said. What else is there to say to a mayor-elect?

  “I’m so glad you came to our little celebration today, Ms. O’Hara. You are planning on taking a tour of the mayor’s office, I hope?” Phyllis Prescott struck me as the kind of woman who maintains a narrow standar
d deviation of appearance. Her hair was a widely available chemical gold, styled and sprayed solid. Nice open smile, decent handshake. She wore slacks with a suede jacket that sported appliqué leaves, pumpkins and Indian corn.

  “Ainsley was saying perhaps you could arrange a special tour for us?” I smiled at our college boy. He was not an idiot; he encouraged her with a nod.

  “Did he?” She looked pleased. “Well certainly. I’d enjoy that. I’m busy for at least another hour. But hopefully we can meet-”

  There was a shout and a sudden interruption of feet pounding toward us, echoing against the stone up into the high-ceiling hallway. My heart jumped. Low threshold for startle response.

  A big teenage boy in Amish clothes shoved past us, bumping Mrs. Prescott against a table in his hurry. “Pardon, ma’am,” he called.

  “Hey!” Ainsley called, steadying his mother with one hand.

  I caught a bright line of blood down the boy’s face, from his nose to his chin. He didn’t stop. He sprinted toward the bright light of the main doors, lunging around the crowd toward the exit, like a critter on the wrong end of the hunt. His fan club appeared down the other end of the hall. There were five of them.

  The Amish boy had already cleared a path through the crowd, so the boys chasing him were able to move quickly up the hall.

  It flashed through me so fast, I couldn’t say how I went from angry to action. I put my best boot forward and turned the boys running toward us into a split of bowling pins: three in front toppled, two in the back still wobbling.

  Ainsley had stepped forward to shield his mother. I stepped back, swung my camera off my shoulder and started shooting photos.

  “What the hell!”

  “Quit taking my picture, bitch!”

  “That’s enough!” Mrs. Prescott snapped. “You watch your mouth, mister, or you’ll be in more trouble than you can handle.”

  As the two boys in front scrambled to their feet, a swarm of uniformed cops hustled up the hall. I hadn’t seen them coming, being too busy looking through the lens. All the men were very concerned about Mrs. Prescott and very un-concerned about the tumbled teenagers. One of the cops put a heavy hand at my back and directed me up the hall toward a door labeled Sheriff’s Department.

  We all trooped past the front desk, to an open desk zone, full of busy people and the constant under-hum of electronic services: a scanner, two-way radio buzzer going off, telephones. The usual. Felt like a newsroom to me-except the men were more butch.

  The Amish boy had been nabbed as well. He was sitting in a wooden armchair, with a paper towel full of ice melting against his nose. He looked like a kid waiting to see the principal.

  “I’d better go with Maddy,” Ainsley told his mother after the paperwork had been organized. She waved him on, deep into a tête-à-tête with one of the officers. Sounded like the boys would be picking up tot-park litter until they graduated college if she had her way. Power used for good is so appealing.

  Curzon appeared in the doorway next to where the Amish kid sat waiting. He stepped back and thumbed the kid into his office. Before he shut the door, he shot a glance my way.

  Guess who was next for the principal’s office?

  “You still plan on asking Curzon for a press pass?” Ainsley sounded sorry for me.

  “Sure. No harm in asking,” I answered. “So your uncle runs the local television station and your mom is the mayor-elect. Any other family members you want to tell me about?”

  “Um…no?” Ainsley waved at one of the cops who’d raised a hand in greeting.

  Shit, my boy was better connected than a Daley democrat.

  I crossed my arms and propped my butt against the desk behind me. “What does being mayor-elect get you in this town anyway?”

  “A parking place. Free rides on fire trucks.” He smoothed his sunny hair back off his brow with a casual brush that mimicked a cartoon whew. “Oh, and a cable television show.”

  “Maybe I should ask your mom for the press pass.” I would have laughed out loud if there weren’t men everywhere. “Cable, huh?”

  “Everybody’s got to start somewhere.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, elbows locked.

  “What’s it called?” I asked.

  Cable shows are the pulp fiction of television. I concede a secret fascination for them.

  “One Heartbeat Away.” Ainsley’s grin stretched another inch. He cocked a shoulder in half-a-shrug. “I was into Tom Clancy at the time.”

  The sheriff’s office door opened and the Amish boy shuffled out, Curzon behind him. The boy was hunched over, elbows pressed to his sides, the brim of his hat clutched between his hands as if that black anachronism were the lifeline to his identity.

  Curzon pointed toward the way out. A man in uniform with a freshly shaved skull guided the boy away. Curzon’s back was to me. That world-weary slump wasn’t his usual stance. One hand came up to rub his forehead, in that classic masculine indication of simultaneous feeling and thinking. Always looks to me as though it gives them a headache. Suddenly, he snapped around to look at me. I expected hostility, but his expression was mostly wary, as if he wondered what do you see?

  I didn’t look away which was the only answer I knew.

  The things we see change us. I know this in my bones as much as in my head. I wouldn’t do what I do, if I didn’t believe it. That old saying, “the eyes are the window to the soul,” means more than just a view from the outside; it’s a way to enter someone’s soul, as well.

  The thing is, Sheriff Curzon and I probably had a lot in common. We both made a living walking through shadows looking at stuff nobody wants to see. Neither of our souls were all that shiny anymore.

  Of course, when I felt threatened and shot at things in the dark, nobody died.

  The sheriff signaled get in here with a snap of his head. I waved back.

  “I’ll go with you,” Ainsley said.

  “Oh, most definitely,” I replied, grabbing a handful of his jacket above the elbow to keep him close.

  Curzon held the office door open and I slipped past. Ainsley was stopped at the threshold.

  “Rick,” Curzon called. “Show Prescott’s kid the break room.”

  Rick was the skinhead cop who’d escorted the Amish boy. He had a chest circumference that would have matched Ainsley’s and mine combined. I could feel his voice, like bass notes through a subwoofer, when he reverberated, “Do they let you drink coffee yet, kid?”

  Ainsley answered with a long-suffering sigh as Rick led him away. He shot me a look over his shoulder that was part woe, part vengeance.

  “Trade with you,” I called out. I freely admit it’s easier to play hard-ass on home territory. I was not looking forward to a private meet in the sheriff’s inner sanctum.

  The wood blinds clacked against the office door glass as it shut behind him.

  “Talk,” Curzon rumbled.

  “Nice place you got here.”

  His office had an old-world gangbuster air. Dark, paneled walls, designed to muffle everything from shady deals to gunshots and a mahogany desk larger than some of the parking spaces downtown. On top of the desk sat a stack of files, a pad of paper and a phone. Everything was laid out in parallel precision to the desk’s edges. Including the shiny, brass plaque that faced a pair of parochial wooden chairs. It read Sheriff J. Curzon.

  The man himself took a seat behind the desk. “What’re you doing here, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “I came in for a press parking pass. There was a little altercation in the hall, and…” The intro sounded lame, even to my ears. I cut to the chase. “I heard your cousin is connected to Tom Jost’s suicide.”

  He folded both arms across his chest. “Says who?”

  Tough talk is a variation of playground rhetoric; to do it right you have to get in touch with your inner child.

  “Says me.”

  “They had an interaction almost a month before his suicide,” Curzon stated.

  “Which led to an ‘in
teraction’ with his boss over at station six. And further ‘interactions’ with his co-workers. You heard about any of that?”

  He smiled at me curiously. He wasn’t a bad-looking man under the right circumstances. But I didn’t like the glow behind those green eyes. Didn’t like the timing, either. According to playground rules, he shouldn’t be smiling.

  “Where are you going with this, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “Wherever it leads, Sheriff.”

  “Uh huh.” He opened a file on his desk and in an extremely polite tone of voice asked, “How is your niece-Jennifer-getting along these days? She doing all right?”

  My hands clamped down around the wooden arm rests. “I beg your pardon?”

  Curzon looked frighteningly sincere. “I’m sure it must be hard for both of you.”

  “How do you know anything about ‘both’ of us?”

  “According to the file, we never found the man who ran your sister down.”

  Double-shit. “No. You didn’t.”

  He spread his arms wide along the edge of his desk and pushed himself back, assuming the immoveable object position. His weapon bulged in a highly visible lump beneath the shadow of his armpit.

  The black handle caught me up short. I don’t know why. I’ve been around guns.

  They have a lot in common, guns and cameras. Most people have enough sense to be scared at first. Very few realize how bad it can get until the damage is done.

  “Why do you ask?” I snapped.

  “It seems relevant.”

  In a very calm voice I asked, “Do you think there is a conflict of interest? That I might be pursuing this story as a way of getting back at your fine-” useless, Mayberry, “-department?”

  “I think you have legitimate frustrations.”

  “I have legitimate questions, Sheriff Curzon. Such as, is it department policy to rat out somebody to their employer for minor violations of the civil code?”

  “No.”

  “Then why’d your cousin send Tom Jost’s boss a note, tattling that he’d been caught-what?-with dirty pictures and a high-school sweetie past curfew?”