Breaking Point

by Jon Demartino

  I had Wood drive me to the airport on Sunday. The roads were pretty good, with most of the icy stuff salted off and just the wispy snow blowing across from the fields. At ten AM, the sun was already a brilliant presence in the cloudless sky. I felt pretty good. Woody felt even better and couldn't stop talking about Melanie. She'd told him about her new global positioning device and promised they'd spend a day in the woods soon, figuring out precisely where they were at all times. From his enthusiasm, the idea must have appealed to him. I listened, nodding or adding a few words when he paused, which wasn't often. He dropped me off at the front of the airport, with a wave and a big smile. I didn't think he was going to miss me.

  After a short layover in St. Louis, my plane set down in L.A. at about four thirty. An hour later, I was tooling along the California highway system in my rental, a new Ford Explorer. I'd been thinking of trading the Grand Am in on one, so this seemed like a good way to do a test drive. I found Everly easily enough. I'd phoned the Wilsons again from the airport and finally caught them at home. Lois said they'd been at some relatives over Thanksgiving and had just gotten in. She put Clyde on to give me directions to their house, which was near a shopping center. It sounded easy to find, and was.

  Clyde Wilson was a big burly man in his sixties. He sported a dark gray mustache. Balding, he still retained enough of the dark waves to hint at a formerly thick head of hair. Charlie had more of his mother's features, smaller boned and fair complexioned. Clyde answered my knock and led me to the sitting room off the entrance. Lois was seated on a small sofa in front of which was an oblong coffee table, already set with a pitcher of iced tea and three tall glasses. I accepted one and took a chair opposite the sofa, where Clyde had seated himself beside his wife.

  I laid a copy of the photo on the table and Lois snatched it up, smiling. "That's it. That's it. That's our Charlie getting the Kiwanis award. Wherever did you find it?" Clyde leaned over her shoulder for a better look.

  "That's the day they gave him the plaque, but it was a day I remember more for what it meant to us," he said. "Charlie had been in some minor trouble; you know, graffiti, shoplifting, that kind of thing. Stuff that boys seem to have to try out. Anyway, the judge was smart enough to see that our boy just needed some guidance. He assigned him to community service and he stayed over at Saint Martin's for the summer, to help with the grounds work and with some of the kids, too." Clyde pointed to the photograph. "That's what this plaque was for. He lived over there, stayed right in the boys' home for the whole summer. Came home for dinner once a week, though, just like we asked. I think that experience really straightened him out, maybe made him appreciate what he had."

  "So, do you know all the other people in the picture?" I asked.

  Lois furrowed her brow. "It's been a long time, but we can probably remember their names. Is it important?"

  I replied that I was just gathering all the information I could. They looked more closely at the photograph and I pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. "Just start from the left side, if you can, and tell me who they are."

  "Well," Lois began. "The nun is Sister Alex. She was in charge of the volunteers at Saint Martin's. The boy beside her left Saint Martin's right before the end of summer. I remember because he turned eighteen and Charlie said they were having a party for him before he left. I wanted to bake a cake to send over but Charlie didn't want me to. Oh, what was the boy's name, Clyde, do you remember?"

  Clyde shook his head. "I don't remember. He was an orphan I think. Charlie'd told me the boy was in some gangs before he came to the Children's Home." His finger punched at the boy's image. "He was a tough customer, I think. Look at the expression on his face. That boy was trouble. You can see that."

  "The next one there, he died that same summer. He was Stanley Dalton. I worked with his father over at the bank. Sad case. Bob Dalton was really broken up over it."

  Lois chimed in, her memory seeming to improve as she looked at the picture. "The boy in the wheelchair is David Watters. He has Cerebral Palsy. I heard he's in a group home now, someplace up in the northern part of the state. His parents live up there near him, so it's better for all of them. The next one is our Charlie, of course, and then the man from the Kiwanis Club. What was his name, Clyde?"

  "I don't remember. He was from the Los Angeles Chapter, I think. Ken would know. He was supposed to give the award but he'd been in a skiing accident on vacation and was still laid up." He got up and went out of the room, calling back over his shoulder. "I'll get the phone book and call Ken. He'll know the guy's name."

  Lois and I made small talk and I tried to find out more about the people in the photograph and their relationship with her son, but she was in the proud mother mode. Everyone loved her Charlie and he was a perfect son.

  Clyde returned in a few minutes and handed me an envelope. He'd scribbled two names on the back, Bert Wilder and Ken Davidson There was a phone number under Davidson's name.

  "Ken said Bert Wilder was the guy who came down for the ceremony. He lives over in L.A. someplace, like I thought. He said if you need Bert's phone number, just call him at his law office on Monday and he'll get it for you. Ken keeps all his Kiwanis stuff at work."

  Clyde didn't have any insight into any other connections between Charlie and the other people present on the stage that day. He didn't know if Charlie had ever seen Bert Wilder again after that day, either. I thanked them for the tea and left them a copy of the picture. I still had two more in my suitcase. They walked me over to the door. Before I left, I thought of another question.

  "Do you have the address of that Saint Martin's Home? Maybe somebody there can offer some insight."

  "Oh,” Lois said softly. "I'm afraid the institution isn't there any more. All of those people were put into group homes a few years ago." She brightened up a little. "Sister Alex might be there, though. It's still a convent and I've seen a few nuns on the grounds or going in and out over there." While Lois looked up the telephone number of Saint Martin's, Clyde told me how to get to it.

  Armed with the telephone number and address, I climbed back into the Explorer and was almost back to the highway when my cellular phone chirped. I pulled into the shopping center parking lot and answered. It was Woody.

  "Rudy," he said. "You got a phone call here and I thought I'd better tell you. Oh, and the Wilson lady called and said she had to talk to you, so I gave her your number."

  I asked what the first call had been about and he went on. "A guy from the camera place, name of Matt Barr, called earlier today. Mel answered the phone. I was...um...in the shower. Anyway, the guy wanted to know if you found the negatives you were looking for. Mel came and asked me and I told her to tell him yeah and thanks anyway."

  "OK, that's no problem," I said. "How are you and Melanie getting along?"

  "Great," he said. He told me they'd jogged out to the lake and had seen a couple more bald eagles. Before he hung up, he managed to mention Melanie at least two more times. "She's a little kookie, you know?" he said. She's always thinking of new stuff to try and saying things I don't expect. It keeps me off balance." He sounded happy about it and I was glad for his enthusiasm. While I was still parked in the shopping center, my cell phone rang again. Iris Wilson was calling and she sounded like she could use a tranquilizer.

  "Rudy, listen, there's something I should have told you but I forgot all about it until today. Gary thought it could be important so we called right away." Her voice started to waver. "I've just been so upset about the fire and losing my house and all my..." She started crying then. Mercifully, Gary Omar came on the line.

  "Here's what happened, Rudy," he began in a calm tone. "A couple of months ago, the little recording tape went bad on Iris' answering machine. She'd seen a tape the same size in one of the boxes of pens and paper clips and little things that she'd brought from Charlie's apartment. It fit, so she just dropped it in her machine and forgot all about it. She's been using it since then. Last week, I think it was Tuesday, she need
ed to listen to one of her messages a second time and tried to replay it. The tape must have rewound all the way to the beginning, though, and she heard some messages that would have been left for Charlie at his place. One of them sounded like it might be something important. At least she thought it was odd."

  "Was it a man's or a woman's voice?"

  "A man, but Iris didn't recognize him. She said the man wanted to change the time of a meeting, I guess between him and Charlie. He said he couldn't make it until about eleven o'clock that night. Then he said that he'd meant what he said and that this would be the last meeting." I was aware of Iris's voice in the background, verifying Omar's words.

  "Did he mention the place or the date of the meeting? I asked. I could hear Gary relaying my question to Iris.

  "No. That was all she can remember. Do you think it could be about a meeting the night Charlie died?"

  "Maybe. Where's the tape now?"

  "Well, that's part of the problem. Iris didn't tell me about it until we got back. When we were getting ready to go visit my folks over Thanksgiving, she decided she'd just try to forget about the whole thing for a few days. She took the tape out of the machine and put it back in one of the desk drawers. It...um...looks like the tape got burned up in the fire."

  Shit. It had been right there in the desk when Wood and I had broken in. I hadn't even looked for anything like an answering machine tape. I let out the breath I'd been holding. Well," I said, "at least she did remember now, and that helps."

  "I don't know how much help it will be," Omar said. "It wasn't exactly a threat but it was enough to worry Iris. She didn't know what Charlie could have been involved in. I guess that's when she called you to stop the investigation. When we got back from Sioux City and found her house had been burned down, well she was so upset about losing her home and all her things that she got really scared. That's when she told me about the tape. When she repeated what the caller had said, I insisted she tell you right away, just in case it's important." I heard him say something away from the phone, presumably to Iris, while he muffled the mouthpiece. "Listen, Rudy. I told Iris that it's more important than ever that you continue your investigation. She's still terrified but she understands that we have to let you do your job and get to the bottom of all this." I promised him that I would.

  Before hanging up, Gary gave me his phone number. I assured him that telling me about the tape was the right thing to do and that I was still on top of the case. That wasn't quite true, of course. I felt like I was running about a half lap behind the clues as the case sprinted away from me. I wasn't really any closer to knowing what happened than I was a few days earlier. I knew that Frank Goodwin had knocked the wind out of me in my parking lot to scare me off the investigation. His main concern seemed to be the meth, though, and his drug operation. He'd seemed genuinely perplexed by my mention of the negative. To a man like Goodwin, Charlie Wilson probably didn't pose much of a threat. Frank sure didn't have any regard for Wilson's cleverness.

  The tape had been destroyed in the fire, or maybe even removed by the arsonist before he set the blaze. The caller could very well have been talking about a meeting the night Charlie Wilson drowned at the dam. I'd like to have heard his voice, but there was no use beating that one into the ground. At least I had the gist of the message. Maybe it would be useful someplace down the road.

  In the morning, I'd call the local Kiwanis guy, Ken Davidson, and get Wilder's phone number in L.A. After tying up the loose ends here in California, I'd fly back to Oak Grove and try to sort it all out. In the meantime, I had the directions to Saint Martin's, so that was my next stop.

  Chapter 24

  The convent was situated on several acres of ground, dotted with plenty of flowering shrubs and mature trees. Around the perimeter stood an iron fence that would dissuade the most ardent escapee. The fencing was at least eight feet tall, with a long pointed spire every six inches or so along the top. At the entrance to the property was a double iron gate, rising above the rest of the enclosure. An oval placard hung on the right side of the gate, announcing that this was Saint Martin's Convent, the home of an Order of Dominican Sisters. The left gate was pulled back along the gravel driveway. I drove in. Up close, I could see that the gate was rusting and in need of repair.

  Ahead of me was a three-story, red-brick building with a portico that towered above the driveway. Several other, smaller buildings extended off to the left of the main one and seemed to continue to the rear. No one was outside as I parked under the roofed portico and walked up the steps to the porch. Everything here seemed oversized, from the wrought iron fencing to the ten foot oak doors that were now before me. Kind of intimidating. I wondered how those little boys had felt when they'd lived here, in a building of such gargantuan proportion. I pressed the bell beside the right-hand door three times before I realized it wasn't working and rapped my knuckles against the thick oak instead.

  The door opened and a tall woman in a white habit greeted me, stepping back and inviting me into a three-story entrance hall, which was partially illuminated by an immense chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Most of the bulbs seemed to be burned out. The furnishings were sparse but it all had the look of recent cleaning and polishing. There was a faint lemon scent lingering in the room.

  "Sorry about the bell," she said with a smile. "We keep meaning to get it fixed but something always comes up." She folded her long thin hands and tilted her head expectantly in my direction. "How can I help you?"

  "Is there a Sister Alex here, who used to work with the children's home?" I could almost hear my echo in the open hall.

  "Yes, Sister Alex is here. I can call her if you'd like to have a seat. May I have your name, please?" I gave her one of my cards and saw her raise her eyebrows slightly as she turned to leave the hallway. She motioned me to come along and went through an arched doorway and down a short hall. The ancient sound of the swishing white garb echoed in the nearly empty space and reminded me of eight years of Saturday morning Catechism classes at St. Rose's. She led me into an office on the right side of the hall. It seemed small compared to the three-story entry, but was probably fifteen feet square.

  She indicated with a wave that I should have a seat as she moved behind the desk, plucked the telephone off its base and pressed one button. She pushed the stiff headpiece an inch or so to the rear and managed to get the telephone's earpiece in place. Her side of the conversation was brief and to the point. "Sister, there's a gentleman here to see you. His name is Rudy Murdock and he's here from Iowa." There was a brief pause, then, "Yes." She returned the phone to its base and smiled at me.

  "Sister will be right here. Would you like some coffee or a soft drink?" I thanked her and declined. What I wanted, besides information, was a hamburger, but I figured I'd get that as soon as I left here. I'd noticed several fast food places on the way over. While we waited, she introduced herself as Sister Sarah Baron. I asked what the sisters here did all day now that the children's home was closed. Apparently they did quite a lot.

  "There are only three of us in full-time residence here at the convent," she explained. "Nine other sisters live and work in the community, both locally and in Los Angeles. We try to live in the area where we are needed and to minister to those in the greatest need."

  I said I thought that might be a pretty big undertaking for anyone and Sister Sarah Baron agreed. She said they each had received a calling from God, which made the choice and the work much easier. She also said I could simply call her Sarah. Wondering how they supported themselves in the community, I asked and was surprised by the answer.

  "Of the nine sisters, seven have full-time jobs, from cooking hamburgers to packaging cookies in a cookie factory," she said. "They work to pay the rent and utilities for the modest apartments where they live, and that enables the other two to be full-time volunteers at shelters and soup kitchens. Our sisters work and live with the poor in all parts of the world. It is our mission, you see, and each of us has followed God
's beckoning and chosen to serve Him."

  "What about this place," I asked, gesturing with my arm.

  "We're here to be a shelter and a refuge for the sisters when they need a time to meditate and rest from the world for a few days. The three of us maintain the convent and support the sisters with our prayers. Of course," she added, " There are also those poor souls who stop by here for spiritual renewal or just for a warm meal from time to time. We do what we are able, with the Lord's help," she said simply.

  Another woman stepped into the room and Sister Sarah excused herself and left. I assumed this was Sister Alex and was told I was correct. I guessed her age at the early sixties, sixty-three tops. I stood and she offered her hand.

  "Mr. Murdock?" she said. Her dark hair was streaked with gray. It was cut in an attractive style, short and curving in toward her face. She was wearing dark blue slacks and a white blouse with a small pin on the collar. The outfit reminded me of the one Caroline had been wearing when I'd seen her the first time, at the mission. Apparently Sister Alex had opted for a less formal style of clothing than did Sister Sarah. I got right to the point and told her I was investigating Charlie Wilson's supposedly accidental death. When she'd expressed her regret at the news, I asked her about his time volunteering here.

  "That was a long while ago," she said, "maybe twenty-five years. Charlie was fifteen that summer, I think.. He'd been in some trouble and had to do community service. His parents lived fairly close by so he was assigned here to help. He lived with us for over three months." She looked at me before continuing. "He wasn't a particularly trustworthy boy. I always had the impression that he was pulling the wool over our eyes, but we never actually caught him doing anything wrong." Suddenly, she smiled at me. "Do you remember the Leave it to Beaver television show?" she asked. "Well if anyone reminded me of Eddie Haskel, it was Charlie Wilson. I'm sure, to this day, that he made the smaller boys do the chores that he was assigned." She shook her head at the memory. "Would it surprise you if I said he was not a very likeable young man?"