The True Detective

by Theodore Weesner

  Pausing a moment at the corner, looking in all directions, he turns to walk back. It was that big detective he saw driving in, he thinks. He’s certain it was, and in another moment, he tells himself—he’s building up to it, be knows, and when it takes over in him, be will be doing it—he is going to walk across the street and enter through a door, following the arrow to the side as indicated, and ask if he can speak to the detective in charge of the Eric Wells case—the little boy they found earlier, in that parking lot, he will explain.

  And who knows? After a talk with the big detective, after a full explanation and a promise never to do anything like that again, who knows how things might work out? He probably wouldn’t make his afternoon class, but he’d sleep tonight, at last, somewhere, and who knew what would happen tomorrow?

  Yes, he’d explain everything to the detective, and he imagines the big detective smiling at him, warmly, understanding, as they sit on opposite sides of an official desk and he promises, he assures the man, who watches him closely with his eyes to be sure of his candor and conviction, that he will never, ever, not ever in his life do anything like that again. Never. He will dedicate the rest of his life to making a contribution—

  CHAPTER 20

  THE TELEPHONE IS RINGING AS MATT ENTERS THE OUTSIDE door. It keeps ringing as he goes up the stairs and as he enters. No one is home, he realizes. His mother isn’t here—Eric isn’t here—as he steps into the kitchen and lifts the receiver from the hook, places it to his ear, and says, “Hullo?”

  There is static on the line, and the hollowness of distance, into which a voice says, “Matt?”

  He doesn’t say anything. He knows who it is and his heart is racing. His thoughts are jumbled at once with confusion.

  “Is that you, Matt?” the voice says. “It sounds like you.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Who’s this?” His eyes are filling; he is trying yet again not to cry.

  “It’s your father, Matt.”

  Matt has the phone to his ear. He doesn’t say anything to this. He looks over the kitchen to the window, sees where they live. Even as he has waited all these years for such a call, a nervous wish is in him to have it over.

  “Matt, I heard what happened to little Eric,” the voice says.

  Matt still doesn’t know what to say.

  “Matt, are you there?”

  “Where are you?” Matt says.

  “Well, I’m down here in New Orleans,” the man says. “Someone called me.”

  “Who?” Matt says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

  “Just someone I know. An old friend. How are you holding up?”

  “You’re where?” Matt says then. It is his father on the phone; still, he wishes the call would end.

  “New Orleans,” the man says. “Matt, I’m so sorry about little Eric. I just can’t believe it.”

  Matt holds the phone, having no response to this, as if it is beside the point.

  “It just breaks my heart,” the man says.

  Matt doesn’t respond.

  “Matt, is your mother there?”

  “She’s not here,” Matt says.

  “She’s not there?”

  “No, she’s not here. I guess she’s at Betty and John’s. I just came in.”

  “Where were you, Matt?”

  “Oh, nowhere. I was just out. They told me in school.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Matt, I remember your voice. It’s good—hearing your voice.”

  “Oh,” Matt says.

  “Can you—I want you to do something for me, Matt, if you can. I’m in pretty bad shape, Matt. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what I mean, Matt? I’m not in the best of shape. I’m trying to get things together so I can come up there. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” Matt says, even as his answer seems more a question.

  “Matt, do this. Ask your mother, will you, if she’ll have me charged if I come back up there. Arrested. I need to come back up there, Matt. Do you know what I mean? I want to go to the funeral. But I won’t be able to if I get arrested. Would you tell your mother that—ask her that for me, Matt?”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know what else to say, Matt. I feel so bad. What kind of world do we live in?”

  Matt holds the phone; he has no reply to this.

  “Tell her, Matt, that I’ll call again in a while. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” Matt says.

  “Okay. That’s what I’ll do. Then you can tell me.”

  “Okay,” Matt says.

  “Matt, I’d really like to see you,” his father says.

  A moment later, the telephone hung up, Matt catches himself standing in the silent mid-afternoon kitchen as if uncertain again of what has happened, of why he is so filled with nervousness.

  Should he go over to Betty’s or call her? he wonders. All at once, now that the call is over, he wishes they were talking again. He doesn’t know what he’d say, but he wishes it were so. His mother will go ape, he thinks, on another rush to his eyes. She will go absolutely ape, and all at once he can’t wait to tell her. New Orleans, he thinks. New Orleans, Louisiana.

  CHAPTER 21

  STANDING YET ON THE TABLE IN THE SQUAD ROOM, DULAC is answering questions about the suspect and the photographs of the suspect which Shirley has passed out. In casual groups, people stare at the face in the photograph and look up and listen to Dulac’s account of things. They want more photographs; Dulac, promising more for later in the day, has looked to Shirley and received her nod. He hasn’t said anything of the death photos in his shirt pocket and wonders again if he should, if he should pass some of them around to validate what he has said about the condition of the body, to let them see as well the innocent size and shape of a twelve-year-old boy lying lifeless on a stainless steel table. He decides no, of course not. They were perceptions for him to absorb, for him to carry; how could he think such a thing?

  He says instead, “Are there any questions? I have other things to do.”

  So many hands and voices come up that he lifts his hand once more and says, “I can take only a few.”

  “Who are the witnesses? We’re told you have eyewitnesses. Who are they? When can we talk to them?”

  “Who discovered the body, Lieutenant?”

  “One at a time,” Dulac says. “As for the witnesses, their identities will not be disclosed at this time, for obvious reasons.”

  “What obvious reasons?”

  “So they won’t be harassed by you,” Dulac says. “So they won’t be compromised if and when we go to trial.”

  “Do you think their lives would be in danger?”

  “No, I don’t,” Dulac says. “Still, we do have a murderer. An alleged murderer. Who is at large. So we aren’t going to identify witnesses at this time. That’s not a very smart question. I have—”

  “Who discovered the body, Lieutenant?”

  “I said, before, it was a man who had business there. He has been cleared.”

  “Was he a suspect?”

  “No, he was not a suspect. We have a suspect. Nonetheless he was checked out.”

  “What about the time of death, Lieutenant? How was that determined?”

  “It was determined by the pathologist, whose name I gave you five minutes ago.”

  “How was it—”

  “You can ask him the question. I’m not a pathologist.”

  “Twelve to twenty-four hours, Lieutenant—is that as close as it can be called?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Lieutenant, that means he was harbored from Saturday until yesterday or this morning when his body was dropped. Do you have any idea where he was kept?”

  “Not at this time; we’re working on that.”

  “Lieutenant, are you thinking of calling in the big boys on this?”

  “Who are the big boys?”

&nb
sp; “No offense, Lieutenant. Experts from Boston. Homicide people. Forensic people. The FBI. After all, this is a small town.”

  “The answer is no. And we do take offense. Lots of people, a whole staff of people, have done and are doing a lot of work, and we feel we’re doing the job. As good as anyone else could do it. The state police lab is providing forensic expertise.”

  “Nonetheless, Lieutenant, there’s a killer on the loose. What if he strikes again? Will you ask for help then?”

  “We’re doing all that we can to bring him in,” Dulac says. “We’re being assisted all the way around by other law enforcement agencies, local, state, and federal.”

  “What do you mean, ‘all the way around’?”

  “In all capacities—what do you think I mean?”

  “Is it believed the killer is still in the area?”

  “That’s what we’re working on.”

  “Do you think this could be related to other groups or other activities coming into the area?”

  “Such as?”

  “Kinky groups, Lieutenant.”

  “Kinky groups. Well no, we don’t believe at this time that there is any such association. At the same time, we’re not closing our eyes to anything.”

  “Are you going to call in psychics?”

  “No comment.”

  “That mean yes or no?”

  “It means no comment.”

  “Was the boy tied when he was found, Lieutenant?”

  “I said he wasn’t tied. I said that earlier.”

  “You said he was tied? He had been tied?”

  “That’s right. There were marks on his wrists and ankles.”

  “Any connection with pornography in this area, Lieutenant?”

  “Not that we can determine so far. As I said.”

  “There is a line of investigation?”

  “There are some threads or loose ends we’re working on.”

  “Lieutenant, what about free sex or loose sex? Everybody knows what’s going on in this town.”

  “Well, who knows?” Dulac says. “Is that—what you say—what is going on here? Or is it going on everywhere? I don’t know who could give the right answer to that.”

  “Is this the act of a sick person?”

  “No comment.”

  “The boy was definitely sexually molested?”

  “We would say definitely, yes.”

  “How is that known? Was there mutilation?”

  “No. There was no mutilation, say, of that kind. He did suffer anal trauma.”

  “What other signs, sir?”

  It is at this point that Shirley appears below him at the table, catches his attention by signaling to him to crouch, and as he does so, hands him a folded slip of paper. Straightening upright, Dulac reads: Car found in Shaw’s parking lot, Islington St.

  “Signs of what?” Dulac says to the reporters, as they wait and watch.

  “Molestation.”

  “We’re not certain,” Dulac says. “The tests and so on are being done right now. Molestation can take many forms, such as fondling, which do not leave marks. Even language, words, can be a form of molestation.”

  “When will the body be released for burial?”

  “This afternoon, I believe. I don’t know the details right now.”

  “Lieutenant, the state hasn’t executed anyone in quite a few years. Would you see this crime as a reason to bring back capital punishment?”

  “No comment. Any more questions? I’m afraid I have to go now.”

  “Who identified the body?”

  “Mrs. Wells, his mother.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “No comment.”

  “Lieutenant, was he a street kid? Eric Wells? Was he a troublemaker?”

  Dulac looks up at the person asking this question, a young man in a plaid sports coat. “This will be the last reply,” he says. “No, Eric Wells wasn’t a troublemaker, From all we’ve been able to tell, he was a good kid. He was a little shy. He was well liked. He was twelve years old is all, and he had a special interest in military things, in building things. He was a general, average boy who caused no problems, for his mother or for the police or at school. That’s what he was. Children aren’t troublemakers.”

  Down from the table, ignoring other questions as the reporters move, as some of them push and run, approaching Shirley, feeling angry with the charging mob, Dulac leads her from the room and across the hall to his cubicle, where he closes the door. “Who spotted the car?” he asks.

  “Someone called in. Mizener’s there. It’s just up the street from where the body was found.”

  “It’s positive?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s positive.”

  “Jesus, I hope he hasn’t touched anything. Did he say if it was locked or if the trunk was open?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Okay, I’m going there. Will you call the lab people? Tell them we have the car. I’m going there. Anyone wants me, that’s where I’ll be. Tell Claire Wells, I don’t know, the secret witness—just say I’ll be back. If you want me, that’s where I’ll be. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Dulac slips on his jacket then, as Shirley leaves, and checks his hardware, as always, by feel. Something remains on his mind, near three-dimensional images in the front of his mind; still he cannot get them to come into focus. He keeps rushing along, uttering to himself, he’s here. He’s been here all along!

  He slips out and along the hallway, sidestepping people; turning, he slips outside through the side door. He starts along the side of the building to where his car is parked. He is in the chilled winter air. And it is here, in this moment, that he knows and sees what has been picking at his mind. His gait lets up, as if a switch has been thrown; a pins-and-needles chill is passing over him.

  He turns to walk the other way. All parts of him but especially his forehead, temples, and ears seem to be buzzing. It isn’t the pathology that was nudging his mind. He comes around the end to the red brick building; the disappointment he feels lasts but a second or two.

  There he is. There is a young man, near the corner, across the street; he has just turned to walk this way. It is him; it is the person they have been looking for, the young man whose photograph is now in his pocket.

  Dulac keeps walking, into the street, crossing the street, headed for the other side. He is going to bring him in, is what is on his mind. He is going to bring him in. He is going to carry him back across the street, carry him over his shoulder as the creature which has befouled the garden, and drop him before all of them to see, hold his foot on his neck, and say, this is him, this is him.

  He is spotted. The suspect is alive, in shock, along the sidewalk, is backing away, moving away at once. Dulac lets up a little, but keeps walking. It is only now that he sees what a mistake he has made, what a mistake it could turn out to be if the suspect decides to run,

  Oh, it is him. But he is moving away sideways, already at the corner and turning. “Just wait a minute,” Dulac hears himself call out. “I’d like to talk to you. Let’s talk this over.” He hurries, strides hard to the corner, has him in view again.

  His words don’t seem to work, for the suspect keeps moving, sidestepping, looking at him as he moves. Maybe his face gives him away, Dulac thinks. For he is not calm. He is seized, he is wild to get his hands on the young man. And even as he tries to moderate his hard walking, tries to calm himself and his face, he cannot do it, can think it but cannot do it. “Just wait,” he calls. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

  It doesn’t work. It is so false; Dulac is angry with himself, as he strides, that he cannot come up with something, with the right word. Talk will not follow, he knows. He doesn’t really wish to talk to the suspect. He will take him in both hands first, and turn him to the ground, handcuff him. That’s what he will do. If only he had his beeper, which at that moment is in the door pocket of his car. “You, stop. Right now! I’m a police officer!”

 
It’s the old standby, and it doesn’t work. Not this time. It is even less effective, he sees, than his previous approach, for the young man is moving more certainly away, looking over his shoulder as he does so, appearing terrified, increasing the distance between them to forty or fifty or sixty feet.

  “Vernon!” Dulac calls. “We know who you are, we know what you’ve done. Just stop now; we’ll talk about it,”

  Nor does this work. Looking more charged than ever, more terrified, the suspect keeps moving, is all but running as they are approaching the next corner. Here he angles into the street, as if aiming to cross at the coming corner. He slips around a moving car, as Dulac also angles into the street. “Listen you, stop right there!” Dulac calls after him, not disguising any of his anger this time. “Don’t turn that corner. Halt!” he bellows.

  He is disobeyed; the suspect is out of sight. Half running now, Dulac moves after him, headed for the corner, working to unlatch his pistol.

  Coming around the edge of a building, Dulac presses after him, sees him angling across this street as well, receiving a honk from an oncoming Mercedes. On a sinking feeling, Dulac sees that the worst possible small town thing is happening, that he is caught up in a foot race with a twenty-two-year-old man who is determined to run away from him. Nor can he get off a shot here, and he works to relatch his pistol as he moves. And he bellows as he moves, “Halt! Police! Stop that man!”

  Few people are there and no one puts anything together anyway. Dulac presses after him, however much his lungs are already begging for air. He cannot see any alternative—if he stopped to call for help he would lose him—and he still has him in sight. He presses on. He thinks how it’s like a lousy television show. Only no one knows about the lung capacity of old cops, Goddamn sonofabitch! His lungs hurt; they seem able to draw in but slivers of air.