For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation

by Kristen Houghton

  “Marie tells me you’re a female private investigator. You don’t look like what I imagined. ”

  “What did you think I’d look like?”

  “Oh, kinda big, tough-looking. Brassy blonde-type. You’re blonde but you’re not big and brassy.”

  I grin. “Well, I am a private investigator and I can be tough when I have to be.”

  “That right? I guess girls do just about every job that men do nowadays.”

  “I guess. We girls like to be called women, though. Boys to men, girls to women, you know.”

  “You sound like my wife used to. Standing up for women’s rights and all. That’s good; that does mean you’re tough, young lady.”

  I thank him and, remembering what Marie said about how he can talk for hours, I tell him I have to get to work. Then I tell him that when I’m done I’ll bring back the key and we can talk some more. I’m hoping he’ll talk about Joshua and the spring he went missing ten years ago.

  “Well I’d like that. I’ll make you some of my special Irish coffee. Got some real whipped cream to go with too, Miss Cate. Let me warn you, the coffee’s got quite a kick.”

  “I look forward to it. Thanks Mr. O’Leary.”

  ****

  When you enter a house that’s not your own and the owner is not there, there's a vague feeling of being someplace that you shouldn't be. Everything in the house is personal to the owner, from the family photos on the mantle to the hand soap in the kitchen, and you're touching and examining it all. To do a thorough job a private investigator has to go through drawers, cabinets, and closets; all places that are usually off-limits to strangers. And I am a stranger to Marie even though we have had some serious talks and shared a dessert together at The Curry Club.

  From the front door I can see the stairwell with the faded wallpaper and the large painting of a sad-faced Jesus with a shepherd’s crook, holding a baby lamb. I start with the living room, opening the drawers to the end tables, feeling under the drawers for false bottoms, and checking the backs of the framed photos and that of the mirror hanging over the fireplace. There’s nothing really, certainly nothing that can be unlocked with the key from Joshua’s backpack. There are no locks.

  There’s nothing underneath the furniture I upend, either. Nothing stuffed in an opening made in the bottom fabric of a couch or loveseat. The furniture is old and heavy and I pause before tackling the dining room.

  These old houses were built for families, nothing like the houses or condos today, which all boast great rooms and open floor planning. These homes had real rooms separated by walls. I admire the built-in breakfront and the open stained glass door that, when closed, can hide a messy kitchen. The breakfront yields nothing but the usual things like cutlery, chipped china, and assorted glassware including jelly jar glasses. In the linen drawer, wrapped in yellowing white cotton napkins, I find broken glass rosaries, religious prayer cards, and a couple of medals with pictures of saints. We're a real Irish-Catholic family, Marie had said yesterday at the restaurant. It sure seems that way.

  Then a memory strikes me; Marie had also told me something else when she had first approached me about taking on the cold case. In describing that last letter from her brother she told me, It’s his handwriting, no mistake. Usually he just says not to forget him. He’s never asked me to pray for him before though. That scares me. Josh doesn’t believe in God.

  A boy from a devote Irish-Catholic family, broken rosaries carefully kept as religious icons too precious to throw away, a picture of Jesus in the stairwell; what had made him not believe in God? Was the clue to that in this house and if it was, did it also lead to another clue that would tell me what happened to Joshua McElroy?

  I finish with the dining room, even checking under the fake Oriental rug beneath the table, and move to the kitchen. Everything is in perfect order and the cabinets are filled with food. I empty them one at a time so that when I'm finished checking one I can replace the contents easily before going on to the next one. The kitchen drawers have nothing much except old menus for take-out, measuring spoons, ladles, and two pancake turners. Nothing there to try my key on.

  The refrigerator and freezer are stocked for one person and I see a half frozen crown roast defrosting in a bowl of water. That must be for Marie's dinner date on Saturday night. Looks good. I guess that she’s a better cook than I am. In my hands it would turn to something resembling an old leather handbag.

  I look under the stove, under the cabinets, inside the dishwasher and find nothing, not even a speck of dust.

  On the stairwell, I check behind the picture of Jesus just to be sure there’s no tiny box affixed to the back and I check the stairs for any movable wooden pieces where something can be hidden. Upstairs I go through Marie’s room first, thoroughly turning out the closets and drawers before putting everything back. A religious picture hangs on one wall and a picture of Marie and Josh, pre-teen, is next to it. There’s a white pearl rosary on the top of her dresser beside a ceramic statue of a guardian angel. I look under the bed, comb the tops of the closets; nothing out of order. It’s the same when I carefully go over the small bathroom in the hall.

  The room that must have belonged to her parents still has a portable commode in a corner possibly for use by her mother after the stroke. A heavy crucifix hangs over the center of their bed. Family pictures are prominently displayed on the dressers and a rosary is on a nightstand. The room holds sadness. I can imagine the couple talking in the stillness of the night, wondering where Josh was, and trying to comfort each other. Still I have to do what I have to do. I methodically check everything and every inch of their room with no results.

  Josh’s room is last. Ten years after his disappearance, it still looks like a TV version of a teen boy’s room. Robots, a poster of the 1983 movie Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, a bicycle wheel hanging on the closet door, and a radio; all silently waiting for their owner to come home.

  It’s not unusual for families to make a shrine out of a lost family member’s room. Everything is made to stay exactly the way it was when the person was there. This is even true of families who have lost children in combat. Keep everything intact.

  I worked on a case where the mother of a runaway girl left the girl’s bed unmade for years because that was how her daughter had left it. Nothing gets changed even though the rooms are dusted and kept as pristine as a doll’s house. The unspoken thought is that if anything in the room is disturbed, the missing or dead person is lost forever.

  Josh’s closet is neat and there are about five pairs of sneakers all perfectly lined up. In fact, everything is in perfect order. There’s no mess. I turn over the hamper in his closet and check inside. The only thing that falls out is an air-freshener.

  There’s something not quite right here, though. Most teenage boys do not have pristine bedrooms. It looks as if instead of keeping Josh’s room exactly the way it was on the day he left, either her parents or Marie straightened it up. That’s a bit strange and out of the ordinary for families of those gone missing.

  The two-shelf bookcase near his closet yields titles similar to the list Brenda Rosehill from the library had sent to me. I go through Josh’s room inch-by-inch and even pull up a loose piece of carpet under his bed only to find a bag of old pennies marked pirate treasure. A typical kid’s thing; finding make-believe treasure. I would bet that he buried it there as a little boy and forgot about it.

  Checking his small desk I find artists’ pencils and drawing pads. I leaf through them and see the same theme as the ones found in the notebook from his school backpack. Innocent animal families with the evil predator looming in the background. The day is hot but the pictures make me shiver. It’s the same as reading the graphic horror comics that are so popular today. They’re drawn to scare you or give you a message about evil.

  There’s actually one drawing that is very graphic and different; a lion cub that seems as if it has wandered off by itself in the tall grass. It’s all alone and has no idea of
a hyena in a crouching position, with saliva-dripping fangs showing.. This time, it is the animal’s family in the distance seemingly unaware that the cub is in danger.

  There are no fake drawers or locked boxes in his desk or on the small bookcase. I make a note that his is the only bedroom in the house without any religious articles.

  I’ve spent over an hour and a half checking the first floor rooms and all three of the upstairs bedrooms. Now it’s on to the attic and basement.

  There are pull-down stairs to the attic and I take out the small flashlight I carry in my back jeans pocket. In the attic, the beam from my flashlight locates a light switch at the top of the stairs. Flipping it on and surveying the room in front of me, I find myself looking at probably over forty years of family storage. Sighing I begin methodically checking through holiday things, old rollerblades, sleds, and boxes with blankets, discarded toys, and old clothes. I still don’t find anything that needs a key to open it. My arms ache from moving heavy boxes of mementos.

  Before I tackle the basement I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and to get a drink using a paper cup from the dispenser Marie has there. It’s a frilly old-fashioned bathroom and I sit on the edge of the narrow tub to try to regroup. Okay, now what? I’ve searched two floors of rooms and the attic. Assuming there's a box that fits this key, where is it? The basement is a possibility.

  The McElroy basement is gloomy and mostly empty, except for a washer/dryer combo and a ping-pong table. No hidden wall openings, no breaks in the cement floor where someone could hide personal items. These older homes don’t have garages; when they were built very few people had cars so the only place left for me to search is the grounds.

  When I come out the back door I see Mr. O'Leary still doing the gardening. He waves at me and calls out, “Whenever you’re ready for that coffee, I’ll be here.”

  I smile and wave back then turn my attention to the yard. The lot is a narrow twenty-five by seventy-five foot property. There’s a big dogwood tree near the back of the lot and that's where I head. Something about trees and kids. Maybe Josh had a hiding place in that tree, a squirrel hole or one he carved out himself.

  The tree is a sturdy one and has some low-lying thick branches. I grab the bottom-most one, plant one foot on the trunk and haul myself up. I haven’t climbed trees since I was a kid but I haven’t lost the knack. Climbing higher I take in the view. Nice, peaceful, you can see a lot from this vantage point; the whole layout of the small community. There are some birds sitting on the roof of the McElroy house watching me.

  I don’t see any holes in the base of the tree. Looking closer I see little berries hidden by the foliage. A flurry of activity in the top branches of the tree and the sudden sharp bird calls from the roof of the house tell me that someone takes me as an intruder. I see two birds above me with the small berries in their beaks; they look panicked. Poor things!

  Careful not to disturb them any more I climb downward one branch and jump to earth just as I did as a kid, remembering to bend my knees as I land. My dad used to tell me my landing was as graceful as that of a trapeze artist. This time however, even with the bent knees, I fall backwards and land, ungracefully, on my ass. I’ll have to practice my landing for next time … if there is a next time. I get up slowly and dust myself off.

  I walk the perimeter of the property carefully looking for any signs of a depression in the earth that would signal something had been buried there. Crisscrossing the yard I do the same thing. But, the same as in the house, I come up empty. Maybe I’m reading too much into a simple key. Who knows? It’s possible that it was a friend’s key or something he found and kept for who knows what reason. Still, my instinct tells me differently. The more I learn about Josh the less inclined I am to think he did anything frivolously. He had a reason for everything. The key has to have been for some lock that he had. I just haven’t found it yet.

  Mr. O’Leary is sitting on his porch watching me.

  “Mr. O'Leary? I could go for that coffee now.”

  “You’re goin’ to need it, miss. Got the wind knocked out of you there.”

  While he goes in the get the “coffee with some kick” I look over at the McElroy house trying to imagine Josh as a young boy and where he might have hidden what was important to him.

  Mr. O’Leary comes back with two steaming tall mugs of coffee and I can smell the whiskey in them. He’s also brought out four thick slices of raisin bread.

  “I figured if you’re goin’ to drink my Irish coffee, you need something solid in your stomach. This bread’s from the mom and pop store two blocks from here. I like to walk there to get milk and a few staples. The lady who owns the place makes the bread. Best damn bread around. Got raisins, pieces of macadamia nuts too. You’ll like it.”

  He goes on talking about the neighborhood, the stores, and the people and I let him. I’ll know when it’s time to ease in with a question about the time Josh went missing ten years ago.

  After letting the coffee cool a bit, I take a sip, and practically choke. It’s loaded! Mr. O’Leary laughs and says, “I told you it’s got a kick. Got my own distillin’ barrel and kit in the basement. Try dippin’ the bread in it. That’ll ease the whiskey down your throat.”

  A suburban moonshiner! I do as he suggests and he keeps on talking about mundane things until he surprises me by saying,

  “So, what’s goin’ on at the McElroy house? Marie told me you were lookin’ for something that might’ve belonged to young Joshua.”

  I pause. Marie is a little too free with her words I think, but I say that yes, that's what I was doing. Then I ask him how well he knew Joshua and the entire McElroy family.

  “Oh the Macs were regular people. Shame what happened. Nice family. Marie was quite a tree-climber, kinda like you used to be I guess. Saw you fall, you seem okay though.”

  “I’m fine, just some injured dignity.” I laugh. “What about Josh?”

  “Young Joshua, he climbed the tree, the drain pipes; saw him climb in and out of the upstairs windows too. Nimble kid, nice boy. He once sent a baseball through my picture window. Came over to apologize and said he’d pay for it from his allowance. He did too, no tryin’ to get out of it like some kids would. I liked him for that.”

  “You and Josh ever talk about anything?” The detective in me is asking much-needed questions.

  “Sure. He spent a good deal of time over here, especially after my wife passed. We played chess. Josh was damn good at the game, careful and in charge of his every move. He wasn’t rowdy like some boys. Quiet most of the time. He’d sit here with me and I’d do most of the talkin’. He said he liked hearin’ about old days. Liked talkin’ to old people too. He was very polite and helpful when some of the folks from Madison Methodist came over the day I buried my wife.”

  I don’t say anything and he makes an assumption about my silence.

  “You surprised? You thought I was a Catholic. Well, lady detective, I’m not. Name like O’Leary, you think Catholic, but no. I’m what the Old Catholic Church in Ireland used to call Black Irish; Protestant through and through goin’ back to the fifteen hundreds. An Orangeman; you know anything about the religious problems in Ireland you'll know what that means. My family was all Anglicans but my wife was a Methodist so I kinda went her way. Been goin’ to the Madison Methodist church for over sixty years.” He stops and looks at me. “You a Catholic?”

  “No. My parents weren’t any religion. My dad once told me that he had gone to church too much as a boy and it had turned him off to formal religions. The only grandparent I remember was more spiritual than religious and she lit blue candles for peace. So no, I’m not a Catholic or really anything else.”

  “Believe in God?”

  “I’d like to think I do. Got to be something out there.” I smile. He nods.

  “ ‘Course I respect any body's religious beliefs; don't have to agree with ‘em, just respect ‘em. The Macs were Catholics, you know. Marie goes to that Saint Matthew�
�s over on the other side of town every Sunday. Parents went there too.”

  “And Joshua?”

  “He went. He was an altar boy. Funny because he told me once that he didn’t think there was a God. I always got the feelin’ that he hated goin’; sometimes boys do, you know.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You get to a certain age and you start questioning authority in all its forms, God included. You start thinkin’ that all grown-ups don't know anything and you start to see the flaws and badness in adults; you feel as if you want to bust out of the life they want for you and become your own person. I felt like that. You grow up and it passes. Would’ve passed with that boy too.”

  “Girls question authority too, Mr. O’Leary. God knows I did and still do.”

  “Yep, I guess that’s true. Never thought of that,” he says taking a long sip of his coffee.

  I decide to come to the real reason I’m sittin’ here with him.

  “Mr. O’Leary, do you remember the weeks leading up to the day Joshua McElroy went missing?”

  He takes his time before answering. “Yes, damned shame. Joshua was a good kid and for him to just disappear like that doesn’t make much sense. But I’ll tell you this, miss. Something was bothering that boy, some deep, heavy thing weighin’ on his mind. I knew it then and I know it now. Something was troublin’ him.”

  “Do you know what was bothering him?”

  Mr. O’Leary shakes his head. “I wish I did. Maybe I could have helped him, but the one time I told him that if anything was on his mind, we could always have a man-to-man talk and I’d help him the best I could he just looked at me kinda sad. We were in the middle of a chess game and he was beatin’ me. Well anyway, then he smiled, real bitter-like and asked me if I knew why he liked to play chess. I said I thought it was because he just liked the game. He said no, that wasn’t it. Said that unlike his life, he was in control of that board game, and then he laughed. Never spoke about it again.”

  “What about the day he disappeared? Do you remember any details or what happened?”