by Dorien Grey
“Dick Hardesty, right?” he said as he took the stool next to me.
“Right.” I extended my hand.
The bartender, without asking what he wanted, reached into the cooler for a Millers, popped it open, and set it on the bar in front of him, then moved off down the bar to another customer.
Oaks took a long swig of beer, and said “ahhhhhhhhhh!” as he put it back on the bar. “So what can I do for you, Dick?”
“Well, I’m working on a case involving a group Brian works with at Qualicare, and I’m trying to find out as much about everyone in it as I can. I understand that there was an incident in Brian’s past that he might be reluctant to talk about, and I was wondering if you could fill me in. And I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t mention to Brian that I’ve been in contact with you.”
Oaks shrugged. “Like I said on the phone, Brian and me aren’t too close.”
“It happens. What I’m wondering about is the death of his partner several years ago. What can you tell me about it?”
We both took a drink of our beers, and Oaks turned slightly to put both his forearms on the edge of the bar and hunched forward, holding his glass with both hands.
“I don’t know too much. I knew they were having problems. Kent, Brian’s other half, was a drinker, and it was getting worse. They’d bought a twenty-acre parcel of land in the woods near where they lived and were planning to build a house there on a hill overlooking the forest. Brian sent me a picture of it. Anyway, one day they had a big fight over Kent’s drinking, and Kent disappeared. One minute he was there, the next minute he wasn’t. A week later some kids out playing in the woods found Kent’s body at the top of the hill. He’d been shot. They found the gun about twenty feet from the body. The first thing the cops assumed was that Brian had done it: he’d told them all about the argument and the problems they’d been having when he filed the missing person’s report. They hauled Brian in and questioned him for several hours. Then the tests on the gun came in, and apparently the only fingerprints on it were Kent’s. So they finally ruled it a suicide and that some animal had dragged the body from where it had happened to where it was found.”
Jeezus!
He drained his beer and set the empty bottle on the far edge of the bar to attract the bartender’s attention. “Brian was cleared, of course, but it was a relatively small town and gossip just wouldn’t let it go. Brian’s practice fell off, and he finally moved back here.”
“Where was this? And when?”
Oaks thought a moment, idly scraping the label off his beer bottle with his thumb. “Freeport, Illinois. Three, maybe four years ago.”
“Brian sure as hell has had rotten luck with alcoholics,” I immediately felt a flush of embarrassment realizing that I was quite probably talking to another one at the moment.
Oaks grinned and shook his head. “Not luck: Brian’s a savior. He looks for people he thinks he can save from themselves. And the sad thing is he hasn’t got a clue that’s what he’s doing. He hates drunks, but he’s bound and determined to ‘save’ them. Strange duck, my brother.”
He turned his head to look at me. “Anything else you want to know?”
Good question. “Uh, and his current partner? Chad?”
Oaks shrugged. “Same song, different verse. And what he just doesn’t get is that some people don’t want to be saved.” He picked up his beer and tilted it in my direction with a nod and a raised eyebrow.
*
Damn, damn, damn! Dinner with Tim and Phil was fun, as always, but would have been a lot more fun if I’d been able to stop thinking about this damned case for two minutes. I hoped my being distracted wasn’t too apparent to the others, who all seemed to be having a great time. Phil’s contract as official underwear model for Spartan Briefs had just been renewed, and he was being recognized on the street because of the latest Spartan campaign which featured Phil’s considerable talents on the sides of city buses. He’d been doing some traveling for the company, which he didn’t much care for since it took him away from Tim more than either of them would have preferred. Tim was busy as always at his job at the coroner’s office. He’d been taking a couple of courses in forensics, which really fascinated him, and hoped to turn his career in that direction.
Jonathan, of course, wanted to know how all their fish were doing, and dropped another hint in my direction that Tim and Phil (the fish, not the people) would really like to have a much larger aquarium so they could have more room to roam around, and we could maybe get them a couple more fish to play with. Jonathan was big on subtlety.
I filled Tim and Phil (the pe…well, I guess you can figure it out) in, as best I could, on the case which was taking up far, far too much of my life, and they were, as always, supportive and confident that I’d have it solved in no time.
After dinner we ran out to Griff’s to hear Guy Prentice do a couple of sets, and then home to bed. Jonathan suggested we might fill up the bathtub and play the Scuba Diver and the Merman in honor of our trip to Reef Dwellers, but I convinced him we should hold off until we had a little more time to figure out how to keep the apartment from flooding, and settled instead for a gentle, loving…well, ‘exchange of affection.’
*
As a card-carrying agnostic, I’m not too strong on organized religion, and the more fundamental the religion the more uncomfortable I tend to be with it. But the M.C.C. was really relatively non-denominational and attracted gays and lesbians of all faiths who felt their regular churches did not exactly want “their kind.”
But Jonathan liked to go, occasionally, so we did. And I really liked Tony Mason, the pastor of the church. Every time we’d go, Jonathan would find an excuse to run next door to Haven House, the shelter for gay and lesbian throwaway kids. Jonathan had spent a little time there when I first met him, and although the kids who had been there at the time had moved on, he enjoyed just going over and talking with whoever was there. Actually, I was glad he did; he was something of a role model to show them that there was light at the end of the tunnel for those willing to work to get there.
We left the apartment about an hour early so we could drive to an industrial area of town where there were lots of huge parking areas. Since it was Sunday, they were all empty, and I figured it would be a good place to let Jonathan practice his driving. He intended to get his license as soon as he could, but he hadn’t driven in over a year, and had never driven an automatic, so I wanted to make sure he had a little practice before just plopping into a car with an examiner at the DMV. I needn’t have worried; he did fine, though a couple of times he instinctively moved his left foot to find the clutch that wasn’t there.
We entered the church just before the service started, and I looked around to see if I could spot John. Jonathan saw me looking and nudged me, pointing to the third row from the front, where I saw him. We took a seat near the rear; when the service ended we moved against the wall and waited for John to come up the aisle.
John saw us and nodded a greeting, which we returned and waited until he came over.
“Want to go downstairs for coffee?”
“Sure,” we echoed and joined a large segment of the congregation headed down the steps to the basement, where coffee waited. As usual, there was also a huge assortment of cake and cookies and rolls donated by members. I’d told Jonathan that we’d go to brunch as soon as I’d talked to John, but the minute we had our coffee, Jonathan made a beeline for the donuts.
We exchanged greetings with various people we knew as we made our way to an empty table. John and I waited until Jonathan returned with not one but three donuts. He offered one to John, who said “no thanks” and to me, which I also refused.
“Gee, I guess I’ll just have to eat them all myself.” His tone told me that was exactly what he’d intended to do all along.
After a few sips of coffee and some small talk about the service, John said: “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
I told him as much as I
thought he needed to know at the moment: that I was a private investigator and that Andy had not been the first member of the group to disappear. He paled visibly and set his coffee down quickly. I could sense that up to that moment he’d convinced himself that Andy’s being gone was just a fluke; that he’d turn up, he’d be okay. That worked for one missing person, but to know Andy wasn’t the only one opened obvious possibilities I’m sure he was not ready to consider—and if he were aware of just how many were missing…I was relieved that he didn’t ask.
“When, exactly, did Andy disappear? And was there anything unusual that happened just before, that you can remember?”
“It was the seventeenth. A Sunday. Andy usually goes to A.A. on Sunday night, and there was no clue that anything was wrong. He left around six-thirty, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I don’t know if he even made it to the meeting. When he didn’t come home, I got that sick feeling I always get when I know he’s out drinking. But when he wasn’t home when I got home Monday night, I knew something was really wrong. When we first got together, he went off for three days, once. I called his work on Tuesday, but he hadn’t been in and hadn’t called. He very seldom misses work. But by Thursday…”
I waited until he picked up his coffee for another sip before I continued. “Tell me about Andy and you, and Andy in the group. Did you ever get a sense that something wasn’t quite right? Something someone might have said?”
He just shook his head. “No, nothing from the group.” He paused. “Carl really went off on him one time, but that was before you and Jonathan joined, and Brian didn’t let it go too far.”
“What happened?”
John took a long, deep breath. “Well, Andy loves me. I know he does. We joined the group because I insisted that we had to get some sort of counseling or the drinking would destroy us. He didn’t have to, but he said okay because he knew it was important to me.” He was silent a moment, staring into his Styrofoam cup.
“Andy turned forty-five last September, and it scared him. He was starting to lose his hair and put on a little weight. He compensated by cruising pretty blatantly, just to reassure himself that he was still attractive to other guys. I understood. Really, I did. And I don’t think he ever actually did anything about it, but like I said…. And Carl thought that Andy was coming on to Jay and he blew up. Poor Jay, I really don’t know how he can put up with Carl. Carl really, really hates alcoholics. I can’t imagine that he really realizes that every time he goes off on how alcoholics just don’t have the guts to straighten themselves out—one of his favorite themes, as you probably noticed—he’s hurting every alcoholic in the group, and especially Jay. But I think maybe it’s just that he is so frustrated because Jay is still drinking.”
He paused again and looked at Jonathan. “So are you really an alcoholic, Jonathan, or were you just lying to get into the group?”
Jonathan waited until he’d fully chewed and swallowed the last bit of donut.
“No, I’ve been sober for a long time, but I’m still an alcoholic, and I can never forget that.”
“I envy you. Maybe someday Andy will be able to…” He let the sentence trail off as he, I’m sure, heard the whispers of his soul that Andy would not be drinking again.
I could read his thoughts in his face, and hastened to divert them, somehow.
“So how about anyone else in the group? Any specific feelings about any one of them? Any sense of something not being right”
He gave a weak grin. “Half the group are alcoholics: the other half have to live with them. I’d say definitely something was not being right somewhere in there.”
We left John shortly thereafter, after getting his promise to think carefully about his entire association with the group and writing down anything he could think of that might help. I was again very glad he had not asked me who else was missing, but I suspect he didn’t really want to know.
*
Monday morning was devoted to preparing a list of questions I wanted to ask each member of the group when I had a chance to talk with them. I didn’t want to just wing it, since I inevitably forgot to ask something important whenever I tried. I’d be contacting John Ellison again, anyway, so I used our meeting the day before as sort of a guide. I knew full well that one of these guys was responsible for the disappearance of five—and quite probably six—men. Just how T/T’s friend Charles Whitaker fit into all this I wasn’t sure, but I was pretty positive he did fit in, somehow.
And since one of the men I’d be talking to was the guy I was looking for, I had to watch my step. I wanted to spook him enough so that he’d think twice before being the cause of another disappearance, but not so much so that he’d panic and have a chance to possibly get rid of evidence he might know of that I didn’t.
I’d start calling them when I got home and schedule appointments to see them. Individually would be preferable, but I didn’t know if that would really be either feasible or possible.
But the first one I wanted to contact was one Brian Oaks.
*
At 11:30, Marty Gresham called.
“Dick, hi. Lieutenant Richman’s in a meeting but said he wanted me to call and tell you.”
He sounded excited by having some sort of news and pleased that Lieutenant Richman had asked him to convey it to me.
“I appreciate that, Marty. And that news is…”
“They started work converting the old Brauer landfill into a park today…”
Landfill? my mind said. Let me guess!
“…and we have two bodies.”
Bingo!
Chapter 9
If the bodies were indeed two of the group’s missing, that would, of course, effectively bring the full weight of the police department into the case and my involvement in it to a close. And to be perfectly honest, by this point I didn’t really care. I did care, of course, about knowing who had committed the murders and why. The why was fairly obvious: because they were alcoholics. Perfectly good reason to kill someone. Ample justification. I suppose comfort could be taken in the fact that it was alcoholics the killer was after, as opposed, say, to people with brown eyes.
Okay, Hardesty, you’re rattled. Just cool it.
The fact that bodies were starting to turn up was a major—okay, let’s face it, the only—break in the case. And the prospect that it would now be taken out of my hands wasn’t a happy one. I’d never started a case I didn’t finish, and I hated the thought that this might be the first. Ego’s a pretty odd and powerful force.
The bodies—or whatever might be left of them—had been sent to the police forensics lab for possible identification. Richman had kept Captain Offermann posted on what I had been working on, and indicated to Officer Gresham that if either or both of the dead might be on Gresham’s Category Twelve list, Captain Offermann would undoubtedly request an extensive search of the landfill. Offermann had, upon the discovery of the bodies, immediately asked for the list of missing men so dental records could be obtained.
I then thought of Tim and his new interest in forensics. Since the police forensics lab shared facilities with the coroner’s office, knowing Tim, he’d probably try to talk his superiors into letting him work on the bodies—or at least observing—as a learning experience. I had no idea how long these things take, but I determined to call him when I got home to find out what I could.
And as for starting to call the Qualicare group members, well, the wind had been taken out of my sails for the moment. No point in doing anything further until I found out if I was still on the case or not.
Still, rather than just sit there and stare at the walls, I got out a pencil and pad and started to jot down my impressions of the remaining guys in the group.
1. Carl Sweeney: a loose cannon with vibes of potential violence;
2. Jay Tabert: a nice guy totally under Carl’s thumb; maybe just shy, or maybe afraid of something. (Carl?)
3. Keith Hooper: gaunt, likes military surplus shirts. Hard to read. Quiet—
maybe too quiet. Bible and 12 Steps? Probably a lot more going on inside than he lets on.
4. Victor LaVallee: Mutt to Keith’s Jeff. Typical jovial heavy guy. Always joking. Maybe too much joking? Assumed at first he was the alcoholic. Wrong.
5. Paul Carter. Nice guy. Friendly. Manipulator.
6. Frank Reese. Butch exterior. Plays Mother Hen to Paul.
Well, that little exercise led absolutely nowhere.
*
I’d just walked into the apartment and hadn’t said a word yet when Jonathan came out of the kitchen with my Manhattan, took one look at me, and said: “Bad day?”
I wasn’t aware it showed, but he was getting pretty good at picking up vibes I wasn’t aware I was sending out. “Mixed bag,” I said as I took my drink from him and gave him a hug.
“Well, let me go get my Coke, and you can tell me about it.” We released from the hug and he turned back toward the kitchen.
When we were seated on the couch, I told him everything that had happened—or, more accurately, hadn’t happened—during the day.
“When do you think they’ll know? About the bodies, I mean?”
I shrugged and glanced at my watch. “I’ll call Tim in a few minutes. Phil had said something about a photo shoot today, so he probably isn’t home yet, and Tim always runs late.”
I suddenly realized that my ego was still in total control over everything else, and I felt a twinge of embarrassment. “So how was your day?” I asked.
He grinned. “Fine. We started delivering the trees to Qualicare today, and guess who I saw?”
“Brian Oaks?”
He shook his head. “No: Nowell. They’re pouring sidewalks near one of the new buildings, and he was there, working.”
Interesting, I thought, though I guess not too surprising with a body like that. And while I didn’t know what his relationship to Brian Oaks was, it was fairly logical that he wasn’t making a living just being Oaks’ part-time receptionist.
Jonathan looked at me and gave me a sexy grin. “He had his shirt off. He’s got a fantastic body,” I was aware he was watching me, but trying to be casual about it. “Great arms. Nice pecs.” Still watching. “Hairy chest. He was sweating, and…” I didn’t think I was reacting, but Jonathan laughed and said: “See? I knew you thought he was hot!”
