by Dorien Grey
I was pretty sure I couldn’t get the information on my own. I was also pretty sure a lawyer, especially one as powerful as Glen O’Banyon, might be able to get it, but I really didn’t want to impose on him or get him involved. And since this whole case would eventually (please, God!) end up in the hands of the police, I thought it best to go through them even if it meant my making a nuisance of myself.
Like that would be a first!
At twenty after nine, I gave up trying to pretend I was relaxing, and dialed the City Annex, asking for Lieutenant Richman’s extension.
“Lieutenant,” I said when I heard his voice. “It’s Dick. I need your help.”
I explained what I needed: an official police request for everything the Freeport, Illinois police might have on a three-or-four-year-old investigation into the suicide of a man whose first name was Kent but whose last name I did not even know, but in which a Brian Oaks had been questioned. I hoped that in a relatively small town, Oaks’ name, if not the incident itself, would ring some bells.
“You think Oaks might have been involved?”
“I honestly have no idea. From what I know, he wasn’t charged with anything, but the fact that Kent was an alcoholic, that Oaks once put his alcoholic father in the hospital, and that he’s running a counseling group for alcoholics, five of whose members have disappeared, tells me it might be worth looking into a little more closely.”
“Hmmm. Yeah, I suppose we can do that. I might ask to borrow Gresham again for a couple hours. Let me see what I can find out.”
“That’d be great. And again, thanks.”
*
I realized I’d not yet spoken individually to all the members of the group and that I really should, but decided to hold off a bit until I knew whether or not I should be zeroing in my questions more toward Brian Oaks.
That Jonathan had established something of a…what?…certainly not a relationship (I hoped!) with Nowell might forestall my talking with him for a while, anyway. Jonathan might be able to learn more than I could, since he and Nowell seem to have taken a liking to one another.
Har-des-ty…my mind cautioned. I realized that while I might be able to keep my green eyed monster in a cage, I couldn’t keep him from rattling the bars.
I thought again about Oaks’ offer to go to Thursday night’s meeting. Nobody in the current group beside Oaks knew I was a P.I., or about the other disappearances. Maybe dropping a couple of bombshells into the crowd might produce some sort of reaction I could pick up on. And I thought Jonathan might like the opportunity to say goodbye to everyone.
*
We talked it over at dinner, and Jonathan thought it would be a good idea.
“Will Nowell be there?”
“You mean at the meeting itself?” Having Nowell in the same room with the others hadn’t occurred to me, and despite the sound of bars rattling, I was glad Jonathan had mentioned it. “That might be a good idea. I’ll see what Oaks thinks.”
I suddenly wondered, too, just how much Nowell knew what went on at the meetings. He was, after all, right in the next room and the door was sometimes not fully closed—and even if it were, it wouldn’t take too much effort to eavesdrop if he wanted to. But since he’d never expressed much of an interest in anything or anyone…yes, yes, other than Jonathan…I couldn’t picture him standing with his ear against the door.
I noticed a pensive look on Jonathan’s face, and asked him about it.
“Nothing, really. I just feel a little guilty—when Nowell finds out what’s going on, he might be mad at me.”
“Well, don’t let that bother you. He hasn’t exactly been totally open himself. Did you talk to him today?”
“No, I saw him for a second, but they’re busy pouring sidewalks for that building next to where we have our meetings.”
We finished dinner and I cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink to wash while Jonathan was at his night class. Once again, I offered to take him to school as well as to pick him up, but he declined.
“Nah, I can take the bus, if you’ll pick me up after.” He gave me a big grin. “And pretty soon we won’t have to worry about it because I’ll be able to drive myself!”
I was once again inwardly tickled by how truly excited he could get over simple things.
After Jonathan left for class, and partly as an excuse to put off actually doing the dishes, I called Brian Oaks’ number and left a message on his machine asking him to call. I was pretty sure he never answered the phone directly.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, as I was using a towel to mop up the water I’d sloshed all over the kitchen floor (household tip: do not remove a pan half full of water from the stove and turn it over before you’re sure you’re fairly close to the sink), Oaks returned my call. I told him I’d decided to take him up on his offer to come to the next group meeting, and suggested that Nowell also be there.
“I would prefer not. Nowell isn’t technically a part of the group, and I don’t think it a good idea to involve him at this point. He doesn’t really know any of the members other than in his duties as clerk/receptionist, and it wouldn’t be fair to the others to have to expose their problems to anyone not directly involved.”
“I understand.” While I could see his point, I strongly suspected that his apparent disinterest aside, Nowell knew one hell of a lot more about the members and their “problems” than Oaks apparently thought.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
*
Jonathan seemed pleased to hear that we’d definitely be going back to the group one last time, and I had to admit myself that I’d certainly expanded my horizons on the subject of alcoholism and what it does to relationships. I couldn’t imagine what it might be like were Jonathan still drinking; on the one hand I doubted we ever would have gotten together; on the other…well, love does some very strange things to people.
Jonathan wanted to drive home and since it was well beyond rush hour and the streets were pretty empty, I agreed.
“Would you be able to take me to the DMV Monday so I can take my tests?” He asked as we stopped at a traffic light. “If I pass, I can start driving myself to and from class and save you all sorts of time and I can save enough money on bus fares to buy gas.”
He looked at me with a hopeful expression.
“Sure.” I reached over to lay my hand on his leg, “if you think you’ll be ready.”
“Oh, sure! I’ll study all weekend, and I’ll ask my boss if I can come in late on Monday, and…”
The light changed and I withdrew my hand from his leg so as not to distract him.
*
Thursday morning, just before noon, my office phone rang.
“Dick, hi. It’s Marty.” He didn’t have to tell me.
“Hello, Marty. What’s up?”
“Lieutenant Richman asked me to call the Freeport police, like you wanted.”
“And…?”
“They’re sending a copy of their complete file, but it won’t be here for a couple of days. But I did find out a couple of things you might find interesting. How much did you already know about this case?”
I told him what I knew, from what Ben Oaks had told me, about the circumstances of the body and the gun being found some distance apart, and Ben’s use of the word “apparently” when he talked about the fingerprints.
“Well, you’re pretty sharp,” Gresham said. “Cheadle’s…that’s the name of the dead guy…fingerprints were on the gun, but so were Oaks’.”
Chapter 11
Gresham paused for effect, then continued.
“Oaks explained that the gun was his. He had a license for it, and that he didn’t know it was missing until after Cheadle’s body was found. While it’s almost impossible to determine which prints were placed there first, Cheadle’s prints were more pronounced: Oaks’ were smudged.
“Anyway, the police knew all about Oaks and Cheadle long before Cheadle died: they’d responded to at least two domes
tic disturbance calls at their home. And we’re talking Freeport, Illinois here: gays tend to keep a pretty low profile, especially professional types like Oaks. Cheadle’s death sure didn’t do much good for Oaks’ practice.”
“Well, obviously the police didn’t have any real evidence against him.”
“Well, maybe not. I haven’t seen the report, yet, of course, but from what I gather, I think there were some strong doubts about Oaks’ story. The fact of the body being separated from the gun, the fact that Cheadle was pretty scraped up when they found him, the fact that they couldn’t even determine if Cheadle had pulled the trigger—there’d been a couple really heavy rainstorms since Cheadle disappeared, and any residue there may have been on Cheadle’s hand had been washed off. Oh, and of course the fact that Oaks found Cheadle’s body.”
!!! I thought. “I thought some kids had found it.”
“You thought wrong. Oaks says he went to the property on a hunch, which proved to be right.”
One of my little mind-voices whispered something I passed on to Gresham.
“Marty, when you get the reports, would you check to see whether Cheadle’s body was uphill or downhill from the gun? And see if there’s anything about how steep the hill is where he was found.”
Of course I was pretty sure the local police would have taken into account the fact that Cheadle may have shot himself and rolled down the hill, which would account not only for the distance between the body and the weapon, but for the scrapes on the body. But I wanted to be certain.
“Will do.”
We hung up shortly thereafter and I sat at my desk more or less just staring off into space, trying to sort out the inconsistencies between what Gresham indicated was in the police report and what Ben Oaks had said. Where had Ben Oaks gotten his information? Well, most probably directly from his brother. But if so, why the story about the two kids having found the body? Maybe it was just too painful for Brian to say that he was the one to have found it. Or maybe he didn’t want his brother to start wondering about the degree of his actual involvement. I still wasn’t sure where Ben had come up with the “apparently” when talking about the fingerprints on the gun, but…
*
The day passed, and I called Jonathan to tell him I’d pick him up from work to give us a little more time for dinner. I’d spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out exactly how I was going to handle the meeting that night and exactly what I hoped to find out. As to that last part, the answer was “probably not very much.” But I wanted whoever was responsible to know I was on to him, for whatever good that might do. Again, I felt guilty for not having just dealt with this whole mess head-on from the start. Andy Phillips may not have…disappeared.
Damn it, Hardesty, why can’t you bring yourself to say ‘died’? my mind demanded, impatiently.
Because I need to know where the bodies are before I can be absolutely positive, I thought weakly in my own defense.
Oh, yeah. Like you’re not absolutely positive now.
Which brought me back to a question I realized I’d somehow been managing to pretty well avoid all this time: exactly where in the hell were the bodies? It was pretty obvious they all must be in the same place—wherever that might be—or at least one of them would most likely have shown up by now. The landfill would be a natural place to look, but…or a lake or the river, but again at least one of them should have popped to the surface. Or a garden, maybe?
*
We arrived at the meeting ten minutes early, as usual. Jonathan brought along his driver’s test booklet and tried unsuccessfully to read it in the car, so carried it in with him. Nowell was seated at his desk, typing something, using the two-fingered, hunt-and-peck method. He looked up when we came in, looked from Jonathan to me, and said a flat: “Hi.”
“Hi, Nowell,” Jonathan said brightly. “How’s it going?”
“Ok.”
Period. He returned to his typing.
We moved into the meeting room to get some coffee. “What was that all about?” I asked Jonathan in a low voice as we approached the table.
Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, casually. “Nothing, probably. He’s just like that, I think.”
“Did you talk to him today?”
“Just for a minute. I told him I was taking my driver’s test Monday. That was about it.”
The sound of voices announced the arrival of Carl and Jay—early for the first time since we’d been coming to the meetings—and shortly thereafter Paul and Frank. As we stood around exchanging small talk, Victor and Keith came in. When everyone had their coffee, we gravitated to the circle of chairs and sat down.
At exactly seven o’clock, Brian Oaks came in, making sure to completely close the door behind him. He moved directly to his chair and sat down.
“Dick,” he said, looking directly at me, “I think you have something to say to the group?”
I did. I explained that I was a private investigator and that I was looking into the disappearance of five former members of the group. To say that got their attention would be an understatement. They all stared at me incredulously. I asked each of them to think very carefully of anything at all that might give me some idea of why these men had disappeared and who might conceivably have wanted to do them harm.
I listed the names of the five men: Sam Roedel, Fred DeCarlo, Benicio Martinez, Jerry Shea, and Andy Phillips. I also asked if any of them had known a Charles Whitaker, and tried to watch each one of their faces. The only one on which anything registered—and then so fast I might have been mistaken since I wasn’t looking directly at him at that instant—was Brian Oaks.
Ahhh, so! my mind said in a voice from an old Charlie Chan movie.
When I’d finished, to total silence, I waited a full minute for someone to say something, and when they didn’t, I said:
“Again I’d like each of you to think about this very carefully. If you think of anything…anything at all, please give me a call.” I handed each of them my business card, then sat back in my chair.
Still utter silence until Carl said: “What a bunch of bullshit!” And the floodgates opened. What twenty seconds before had been a clam convention was now Times Square at rush hour. Everyone talking at once, wanting details, wanting to know what had happened, where the missing men were, who I suspected was responsible, why had we deliberately tricked them all by joining the group under false pretenses…
When the hubbub abated slightly I did my best to respond to each comment. Jonathan stepped in to address the “false pretenses” issue by verifying that he was, indeed, an alcoholic (he didn’t mention the length of his sobriety) and stretched the truth a bit by saying that we well might have joined the group even if this missing persons thing had not come up. It wasn’t exactly accurate, of course, but it seemed to satisfy…Keith, I think it was who had made the comment in the first place.
It must have been a good half hour before Brian had a chance to say anything, and when he did, it caught us all by surprise.
“Under the circumstances, I think it would be best if the group suspended all meetings until this entire matter can be explained and resolved.”
He tried his best to maintain his professional calm, but I could sense a definite tension in his expression and body language. His announcement had come as a total surprise to me as well as to everyone else. I wasn’t so much surprised by the suspension of meetings, which was probably a good idea under the circumstances, but by the fact that I’d had no indication whatsoever, when we’d met at his home or when we’d talked on the phone, that he might be considering it. I got the gut-level sensation that something had changed, and I had no idea what that something was.
*
The meeting ended in a definite atmosphere of disarray. Brian suggested that since a normal meeting would be impossible under the circumstances, we should quit a little early. He said he would notify everyone when the sessions would resume, and hoped that everyone would come back when they did. C
arl simply got up and walked out without a word, leaving Jay to say a quick general goodbye and to hurry out after him. The rest of us exchanged handshakes and a few words of goodbye and encouragement, and everyone just dissolved away. I wanted to say something to Brian, but Victor came over to thank me for telling everyone what was going on, and to assure me that he would do everything he could to try to think of something that might help. By the time he left, Brian was gone.
I thought of following him to his office, but decided against it. I’d call him in the morning to see if I could figure out what was going on, and what had triggered his decision to suspend the group.
*
Friday morning, for the first time in memory, I overslept. Actually, we overslept—Jonathan had insisted, when we’d gotten home from the meeting, on staying up until past midnight studying both his horticulture textbook for an upcoming exam, and his driver’s manual. With no time for him to make it to work by taking the bus, I drove him, and as a result didn’t get to the office until a little after 9:00. There was a message on my machine to call Glen O’Banyon’s office, which I did immediately.
I got through to Donna, O’Banyon’s secretary, who asked if I could come by his office at 11:00 to discuss a possible assignment. I told her I’d be there.
While I didn’t really want to get involved in anything else while this missing persons thing was hanging over my head, the fact of the matter was that other than his retainer, I hadn’t been paid a cent for this case since Bradshaw had first walked in my door. Partly my fault, of course, for dragging my feet on sending him a bill. The case was far from over and had expanded well beyond what he’d hired me to do. So I couldn’t lose anything by seeing what O’Banyon had in mind.
*
It turned out that O’Banyon wanted me to go to St. Louis for two days the following week to do some investigative legwork on a pending case. I was hesitant, but realized that the way this missing persons case was going, a couple days wouldn’t matter. And O’Banyon paid very, very well. So I agreed. He said he’d have Donna order the airline tickets, and we agreed I’d leave Tuesday afternoon and return on Friday morning.
