The True Detective

by Theodore Weesner

She nods; once more he turns back to his food. “So how did things go with the mother on TV?” she says.

  “Fine, I think. I think she did a fine job. We told her to keep it simple and direct. To imagine she was speaking only to her son. Directly. To just ask him to come home. You’ll see.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “The reason I think she was effective is that she just spoke clearly. And slowly, too. I mean she wasn’t slow, but the TV people, you know, their voices are so quick, and here was this woman who just says, ‘We love you Eric. We miss you. Please come home.’ It shot me through for a minute, you know. I think it did everyone who was there.”

  “She works at Boothbay?”

  “Yeah, she’s just an ordinary person who works. Lives in an apartment with her two boys. A single mother. The touch in the paper calling her ‘a divorcee who works as a barmaid’ was inaccurate. The newspaper people amaze me. I guess that kind of thing sells.”

  “She’s a nice person?”

  “She’s a fine person. She’s been working as a waitress on weekends, working two jobs just to keep her family together. Then this happens.”

  He doesn’t say any more. Nor does he eat any more, although he has food left on his plate, and he never leaves food on his plate. “I’m going to have a drink,” he says. “You want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  While he is up then, Bea says to him, “What should I say if people ask me things?”

  “Say,” he says, “that you and your old man never discuss his work.”

  “It’s so sad, isn’t it?” she says. “In a little town like this.”

  CHAPTER 18

  VERNON SLIPS BACK TO HIS HIDING PLACE IN THE HOSPITAL parking lot. He has driven here on another thought of laying the boy at the door of the emergency room. And going on his way. Going hack to the cottage, doing his school work, returning to his life. Taking his chances.

  He sits in the dark car, though, looking over the tops of cars. It is quiet; visiting horns are over.

  A car is entering then. Pulling into the lot, it parks in the crowd of cars close to the building. Vernon watches. He feels distant, even absent. Nothing happens to the car for a moment, until a man emerges, closes the door—no sound comes to Vernon, as if there is an overall drone of generators—and walks away, into the overlapping buildings. Vernon feels he has a vantage point, all at once, on existence itself, here in his hiding place.

  A woman is coming from one of the buildings. She is on a sidewalk, where she pauses under a floodlight. She wears a dark coat and does not appear to have on white stockings or white shoes, like so many others. She slips into a car in the main concentration of cars, and in a moment, soundlessly, the car’s exhaust lifts into the darkness. Her headlights come on; as she pulls around to drive away, another car is entering.

  “Wake up,” Vernon whispers to the boy, as he looks at him.

  Then it comes to him that he doesn’t really want the boy to wake up. If the boy would join him, and make a game of imagining why people are coming and going from the hospital, it would be wonderful. It would be all he ever wanted.

  But he won’t, Vernon thinks. Not now or ever.

  He settles back and looks up through the windshield as if it were a skylight. No stars are visible. Low clouds look pink in the darkness as they reflect light from below. A capability is in him, he sees, and he is merely waiting. He is merely waiting. It has come to this.

  CHAPTER 19

  MATT IS STANDING. HE HAS NO FEELING TO SIT DOWN. THE news is almost there. He stands behind the couch where his mother is sitting. What if Vanessa sees his mother on television? he thinks. Would she ever speak to him again? Everyone will see his mother, he thinks.

  “Mom,” he starts to say.

  “Shh,” she says. “Don’t talk now. Let’s just watch this.”

  “It’s only a commercial,” he says.

  “I said be quiet! Why don’t you sit down?”

  He was only going to ask how long she thought she’d be on. He stands there with his hands on the back of the couch, as a couple is shown at a desk. Anchorman and anchorwoman. The woman leads off, saying something about nuclear disarmament talks breaking off or starting up. The man returns a headline about missing POWs, and then the woman says, “Meanwhile, in Portsmouth tonight a mother appeals for the return of her missing twelve-year-old son, whose whereabouts remain unknown.”

  Matt stands there. He seems to think, okay, that wasn’t so bad. Other headlines are given, followed by commercials and then the man is talking about Southeast Asia. Matt doesn’t take in any of the words. Then—all at once it seems—the woman is talking about Eric Wells, who is twelve, who lives in Portsmouth, who was last seen Saturday evening . . . and the words are ringing, striking into Matt’s mind, going by too quickly.

  There is his mother. He is shocked by her looks. She is pale, small, and old in comparison to people on television. She speaks so slowly. “Matt and I both love you,” her voice says into their living room. “We want you to come home.”

  Matt feels lost. He feels as he did once when he saw a man and a woman fighting, physically, on the sidewalk. For moments afterward, he felt lost. So does he also miss the following, quickly spoken stories now; they fly past him. Matt and I both love you, he hears again. Is that all there is to life? he wonders.

  “What did you think?” his mother says, turning to look at him at last.

  “About what?”

  “Well, what do you think?” she says.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it okay?” she says. “Did you think it was okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “My gosh, is that all you can say?”

  “What do you expect me to say? I thought it was okay.”

  She is looking to the screen again, and Matt wanders into the kitchen. He looks around there, feeling he doesn’t know what to do. Does he love Eric? he is wondering. Does he? What is love? He had thought it was the amazing feeling he had had for Vanessa Dineen. Yet he thinks and sees—in this moment—that he feels something, too, for Eric. It’s like the ground or the air, he thinks. It’s not rainbows and flash floods. It’s the two of them talking in the dark at night in their bedroom when they were supposed to be going to sleep. Or walking somewhere, That’s what he misses all at once, what appears to be gone in this moment.

  Love for his brother. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? Why would some man pick him up? How could anyone be interested in a little kid like Eric for something like that?

  Matt stands next to the sink in the kitchen. His eyes are confused with everything. It comes into his head that he has to say it aloud, speak it out, declare it, if it’s going to do any good in bringing his brother home again.

  He listens to the sounds of their life. The refrigerator hums. Other things hum. A weather report is spilling from the TV in the other room; a man is chirping—“low pressure . . . cold front . . . chance of precipitation . . .” Matt imagines his mother watching, imagines Eric gone from her mind.

  It must be said aloud, he knows, and he utters, “Rockport, come on home, man. I love you.”

  Time pauses.

  “Did you say something, Matt?” his mother says.

  “What?” he says.

  “I said did you say something?”

  Wandering back into the living room, he leans on the couch behind her, keeping his eyes on the screen. “What’s the weather?” he says.

  “It’s not very good,” his mother says, sitting there under him.

  CHAPTER 20

  DULAC IS IN THE BATHROOM WHEN THE CALL COMES. Beatrice, coming to the door, tells him the duty officer is on the phone.

  Getting himself together, going to the phone in the hall, he hears the officer explain that they have a call from a man who says he will speak only to the lieutenant, because he knows from the paper that the lieutenant is in charge of the case. Also, this guy says that he has to do the telephoning, because he will not give out his number
. “Maybe he’s a crackpot,” the officer says.

  “He wants my home number?”

  “Right. He’s going to call back in a minute to see if you’ll give it out.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “Sort of arrogant, maybe. He was—”

  “Local?”

  “It was a local call.”

  “Give him my number. Tell him to call right away. Tell him I’ll be waiting.”

  To Beatrice then, who is in the bedroom watching the Late Show and waiting, Dulac knows, he says he’s going downstairs to take a call, and he slips back into his shirt and pants.

  “You mean about the little boy?” she says.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe.” He has no wish to tell her, no wish to build up hopes.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, he has fixed a cup of cocoa—tearing a packet, heating a splash of water from the hot water faucet—before the telephone at the cookbook desk rings.

  “Hullo,” he says.

  “Lieutenant Dulac?” the man says.

  “That’s right.”

  “I just thought I should call,” the man says. “But I’m not going to identify myself. I want you to know that at the outset.”

  “Okay,” Dulac says. “Can you tell me why you’re calling?”

  “I saw it in the paper,” the man says. “About the missing boy. Then I just saw the mother on television.”

  “Okay. Do you know the mother—or the boy? What is it you have?”

  “Well, I’m reluctant to say. I don’t mean to be evasive. I just can’t afford to get involved in anything myself. I mean I want to help, but there are other considerations.”

  “Okay,” Dulac says. “Okay. Just let me know what you have. We’ll talk about it.”

  “I just want to be a good citizen,” the man says.

  “Sir, do you have someone to report? A suspect?”

  “That’s exactly what I have.”

  “Do you know this person’s name?”

  “Not really. I don’t think so. That is, he gave me a name, but I have a feeling it wasn’t the truth.”

  “What name did he give you? Could you be more specific?”

  “Let me back up a little if I can. Again, I’m sorry to be evasive.”

  “Okay,” Dulac says.

  “I’m gay,” the man says. “And I’m a professional. If this were to come out, it could cost me dearly. Financially. Professionally. At the same time, I want to be a good citizen, like anyone else. Am I making sense?”

  “I think so,” Dulac says. “At the same time, you wouldn’t need to worry about your identity being disclosed by me; I don’t work like that.”

  “That’s fine,” the man says. “It’s not a chance I’m willing to take, though. Sorry.”

  “What is your profession—would you mind telling me that?”

  “Come on, don’t play games now.”

  “I don’t mean to play games. Tell me about this suspect.”

  “Well, I don’t know much. It’s a person I met.”

  “Who is the person? When did you meet him?”

  “I’m not going to tell you where I met him.”

  “Sir, listen. I understand your concern. About your identity. I appreciate that. Okay? If you have some information, though—and if you do want to be a good citizen—then I have to ask you to be a little more forthcoming. We do have a twelve-year-old boy out there somewhere—if he’s still alive—and to tell you the truth, we need all the help we can get.”

  When the man doesn’t respond, Dulac says, “Why are you suspicious of this person?”

  “I just want it understood that the so-called gay community is not irresponsible,” the man says. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Loud and clear. Now please tell me what you have.”

  Dulac listens; there is nothing.

  “In a gay bar,” the man says then. “Saturday. Early evening. Happy hour. I picked up this young guy. It came out in conversation—he was interested in boys. Young boys, I believe, although I’m not sure he was even gay. He was different. I took him to my place, but nothing worked out. He became upset. Visibly upset. He just took off. It was perhaps six forty-five when he left. The paper said the boy disappeared about seven.”

  “Were you within ten minutes’ driving time of Islington Street—near downtown?”

  “Yes,” the man says.

  “Really?” Dulac says.

  “Yes,” the man says.

  “Would it be out of the way for him to end up on Islington Street?” Dulac says.

  “Not at all.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s exactly on the way. That’s why I’m calling.”

  Dulac pauses. “Listen,” he says. “If we should lose this connection, be sure and call me back. What I want you to do right now—and I’m going to be taking this on tape, too, which I hope doesn’t bother you; it’s only for recall purposes—what I want you to do is give me a full description. Everything you can think of about this person. Did he have a car?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did you get a license number?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Was it in-state?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure.”

  “Make and model?”

  “I’m not sure of that either. It was silver. Or gray. A recent model. Fairly recent. Small. A coupe. Like a two-door coupe. As for the make, I just don’t know. I’m not into cars.”

  “Were you inside the car?”

  “No. He followed me.”

  “Okay. Start with him. With a description. This may take some time, but it’s important that we do it right away, so we can act on it. Start with a physical description of this person. Start with his age, please. How old was he? Did he say? Did he indicate his age in any way?”

  As the man talks then, even as his tape-recording device is running, Dulac scratches around with a pencil, making notes of details such as early to mid-twenties, childlike, emotional, seemed educated. Some fifteen or twenty minutes later, when he has covered everything he can think of and has persuaded the man to telephone him at his office number at nine o’clock in the morning—“to maintain contact,” Dulac tells him, “because this sounds promising and I’m sure I’ll think of something between now and then I forgot to ask you,”—Dulac thanks him and immediately telephones the special desk, to put out a general alert on a small silver car. He telephones the chief at home then, waking him, tells him that they have what sounds like a possible suspect and that they need to meet first thing in the morning, to come up with some way to protect the identity of the man who called. “I need to get at this guy, get more dope from him, get him to rack his brains, help with a composite, and so on.”

  The chief is less frantic. They do have a secret witness program, he explains. On the books somewhere. Although in a small town like this, not many things would stay secret very long.

  “Eight o’clock,” Dulac says. “We’ll pull it out. I want to have it ready by nine, when this guy calls back.”

  At several minutes after one, when he has told himself not to get worked up—it may prove to be nothing—Dulac turns off the lights and returns upstairs. In the dark bedroom, when Beatrice says, groggily, “Well?” he says, “Knock on wood. It’s all I can say right now. It sounds possible. Knock on wood.”

  Lying in the dark, though, lying on his side and seeming to stare through the house, through the walls and out over the countryside, he finds his thoughts keep returning to the implications of time and place, of motivation. Then again, his thoughts run over the implications of time and place, of motivation. And then again, as he lies there.

  PART FOUR

  AN ACT OF COWARDICE

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1981

  CHAPTER 1

  SOMETHING AWAKENS HIM, IN TERROR. AN ALARM HAS GONE off in his heart and is now quiet, in terror’s aftermath. During the night he awakened again and again, but not to alarm. Straightening now, in
the driver’s seat, feeling the cold from the windshield and side window, he sees there is nothing out there to have alarmed him. Anxiety-filled already, realizing he has unfolded some of the sleeping bag to cover himself, knowing the boy is still there, he tosses it back. Don’t move, don’t say anything! Vernon imagines snapping at him. He sees there is some light in the sky. Another day. Goddamn you, he thinks at once, still not touching the boy, nor even looking at him to ascertain that he remains alive. I have to get rid of you.

  He sits still. His jaw is clenched and he wonders if what has crossed his mind was a passing thought. He doesn’t know, could pursue it no further in his mind it seems if he wanted to, as he is looking over the parking lot, cars, buildings, questioning again what it was that awakened him to such a frightened feeling. All looks still, and he wonders if a car went by and tooted its horn. Stupid cops, he says to himself all at once. Stupid idiot cops. Why is it so easy to outsmart them? How can anyone be so stupid? Why aren’t they here?

  He touches the boy then. Reaching, finding his arm, he shifts to his uncovered wrist, turns it upside down and with two fingers searches for his pulse. He searches and searches, without concern. He finds it then, feels its message of life telegraphing through to him.

  Life and death. They are that close. Odd disappointment is in him. As the faint pulse under the boy’s skin keeps lifting, Vernon knows it was an end he was looking for, not a continuation.

  He drops the boy’s wrist and returns his attention to the sky. What to do? he thinks. What to do and where to go? There seems a continuous sound of ocean in the air; otherwise there is stillness. There is both sound and stillness. Another day. Moments to be counted. This is what it is to be alive. Counting moments. Then when the telegraphing stops, life is over; who knows what part of it has been a dream and what follows thereafter.

  Nothing follows thereafter, Vernon thinks. Nothing. A thought stirs in his mind and loins to have sex with the unconscious boy; he tells himself this is ludicrous even as he marvels at the egocentricity of his libido. A cock has a mind of its own. A hard-on has no conscience. He feels new desperation. He could do it, he thinks. He isn’t going to, but he could. The horrible psychology of it excites and angers him, until he gets himself to look away from the idea in even more anger.