Four Years from Home

by Larry Enright

  “Roh roh.”

  He held out the bag. “Just drop the dog in the bag, wise guy.”

  I complied unwillingly. Jerk. I was going to give Astro to Beth.

  Inside the station, a policewoman, Officer Williams, greeted us at the front desk. She smiled broadly at James and then at me. That was a mouthful of teeth. I guessed she was in her forties. “Hi Dick. Did you bring my dinner? I’m famished.” She didn’t look famished. She looked like she could go a few weeks without food and be none the worse for it.

  James handed her a Coke and her bag of a six-piece and fries. He also gave her my Happy Meal bag of disgusting, uneaten nuggets, and Astro. “Here you go, sweetie. I got you a toy, too. Take good care of it.”

  She looked in the bag, ignoring the mess of my leftovers. “How cute. Thanks, Dick.”

  I glanced over at him and he gave me a shit-eating grin. Dick the dick wasn’t being very nice. He’d make a great bully in my kingdom.

  “You must be Mr. Ryan. I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re a regular celebrity at the college. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand and I shook it. “I hope Detective James has been nice to you.” She leaned closer to me and said in a stage whisper, “He can be such a dick, if you know what I mean.”

  James laughed gruffly and pushed me toward an office in the back of the station. “I’m treating him like a regular visiting dignitary, Jane.”

  She was wagging her finger at James as he slammed the door behind us. “You know the Captain doesn’t like it when you mistreat our guests.”

  “Sit down,” the detective motioned to a chair in front of his desk. At least I assumed it was his desk. It had that trademark appearance of the front seat of his car, though it did smell better. He removed his trench coat and hung it on a nail on the wall and sat down in his seat. It looked a lot more comfortable than mine. That was probably intentional to make the grillee more uncomfortable than the griller. When he leaned back, pressing his hands to his temples as if to quell a massive headache, his sport coat opened enough for me to see his shoulder holster and the gun resting in it.

  “I hope I’m not the reason for your headache,” I said innocently, taking my appointed seat.

  James said nothing, staring at me with that look I had come to dislike, the one that made me feel like I was being violated.

  “I’m just curious, but what made you come looking for me anyway?”

  Leaning forward and folding his hands on the desk, James never took his eyes off me. A staring contest ensued. I won. He looked down at a folder on his desk and opened it, pretending to flip through the pages to find the answer to my question. Loser. Score one for the big guy.

  “Well?” I persisted, now holding the upper hand.

  “The school called us. Said you’d been missing classes and the other crap you kids do and that no one had seen you in over a week. They called your home and your parents said they hadn’t seen you…” He closed the folder and looked up. “…in four years.”

  The bell had rung for round two of the staring contest. I was totally unprepared for it and looked down at my boots. Damn. Now it was one to one. “Oh.”

  “So, you haven’t been home since you left for school four years ago? Seems kind of odd, doesn’t it? I’m guessing they still pay your bills… still take the heat for your young, impetuous actions.” James had closed the file and was tapping his fingers on his desk.

  He was ready for round three. I wasn’t. I didn’t even look up. “Maybe, but I don’t see that my relationship with my family is any of your business.”

  “It is when a crime’s involved.”

  Now I was ready. I looked up and met his gaze squarely. “What crime? What have I done wrong?”

  “Maybe nothing. I don’t know at this point. But when the school called us in on it, it became an official police matter.”

  “Well, I’d say case closed then, wouldn’t you? I mean, here I am, alive and well.”

  James grunted and reached for his phone. He blinked. I won round three. “Have you been able to roust Doc Miller? Good. How’s the chicken? Great. And what about the dog? Did you get Billy?” There was a pause while James’ face turned red. He was fuming. “I don’t give a shit if he’s not on duty. Tell him to get his ass over here. I need him now. Offer him overtime if you have to.” He slammed the phone down.

  “Is there anything I should know?” I asked innocently again while his color returned to its dull white.

  “Nothing special, we’re just going to have Doc Miller give you an examination. It’s routine in cases like this… To make sure you’re not suffering any post traumatic injuries.”

  “I’m flattered you care.” He didn’t seem to be particularly averse to questions, so I asked another. “Why did you look for me at the bridge? Isn’t that one of the college’s dirty little secrets? How’d you know to look there?”

  His laugh was unnerving. Clearly, he held the college in low esteem — another reason to hire him on when I ascended to my rightful throne. “That place has a lot of dirty little secrets, but I know them all. And that trestle is the first place I’d look for trouble. They ought to tear it down and reroute the railroad.”

  My thoughts returned to Beth. She must have been frantic when Harry disappeared, but she didn’t show it. She only showed her happiness at Harry’s being back and in one piece. Harry was a lucky guy, damn him. He could have died a hundred times over from the things I had done to him, yet somehow he always pulled through. A charmed life — that’s what Dudley Do-Right led — until this. Could it be that he had finally been bested by a Snidely Whiplash more powerful than me? It didn’t seem possible… all those dastardly deeds I had done to Harry… it just didn’t seem possible. If anyone could have killed him, it was me. It was my right. And I wasn’t averse to picking up the pieces with Nell…

  “You look a little old for college.” James pulled out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag. He exhaled in my general direction.

  I remembered the first cigarette I had snuck out in the woods by our house — a Winston. It was Dad’s brand. Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should. It was supposed to make me look cool, but it made me sick to my stomach. “If you want to sear your lungs, why don’t you become a fireman? I hear it takes a lot less time. Or better yet, if you want to poison yourself, I know some things way more effective and painless.”

  “Really, Mr. Know-it-all? Like what?”

  He was baiting me and I was like a stupid fish on his line biting harder on the hook to try and get away. I really needed to shut up and just get this over with, although my only clear plan at this point was getting out of there and back to the college. I was at a loss as to what to do about finding out any more about Harry. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know any more. “There’s arsenic in that thing you’re smoking. Why not just drink a cupful and get it over with?”

  “Arsenic?” He looked at the cigarette and the lazy whiff of smoke trailing from its end. How could anything so cool looking be so poisonous?

  I picked up the pack of Marlboros from his desk and read, "Warning: The Surgeon General Has Determined that Cigarette Smoking is Dangerous to Your Health, and it causes coughing, wheezing, emphysema, bad breath, B.O., and death.”

  “You’re full of crap. I feel fine.”

  I shrugged. “If you throw a frog into a pan of boiling water it will jump right out. If you throw it into a pan of cold water and then turn on the heat, it will stay in the water as it warms and eventually boil to death.”

  “Huh?”

  “Haven’t you read any murder mysteries where the poison is administered over time, and the victim slowly dies without even realizing that he’s been poisoned?”

  Detective James scowled at his cigarette like a kid who’d been told that his favorite candy was rotting his teeth. He smashed the thing out in his ashtray and got up and left. Through the window I could see him heading toward the restroom. The battlefield conditions had changed and a new plan of attack e
volved. I grabbed the file on Harry and opened it.

  Stapled to the left side was a brief chronology of the case beginning with the call from the school. Dean Edwards had made the first call to report Harry missing. Williams had taken the call and forwarded it to James for follow-up. Each notation on the list identified the person making the entry. Police were very efficient that way. James called Edwards back the next day — apparently a missing person wasn’t of any particular priority that required an immediate call back — and Edwards was “excited and distraught.” James’ handwriting was terrible — worse than mine. Something about “hasn’t been seen in a week, missed an important event...” That figured. Edwards was more interested in what Harry was doing for the school than in Harry himself. I considered making my own entry, but I was pressed for time. I quickly scanned the rest of the list. “Met with Edwards.” “Met with Hayward.” “Met with Caplets.” James had written “asshole” next to his name. I saw no mention of Mrs. Hoople or Beth — not very thorough police work. I reconsidered my decision to hire James on when I became king, but instead figured I’d just lower his pay. He’d catch on soon enough with a little training from me. There were several motel names listed, each with the word “no” written next to it. The last entry was “Pancake House — see report.”

  A yearbook photo of Harry was clipped to the right side of the folder, and the rest of the case file contained loose papers and notes in no particular order. There were a few photos of the footprints on the trestle showing them leading from tie to tie to a point out over the river and all facing in one direction. James was so stupid. Apparently he’d never been an Indian scout who could cover his tracks by retracing them exactly. I used that trick all the time when we played in the woods next to our house. Sucker the enemy into thinking you were hiding in a spot by making obvious footprints leading to it and then retrace and hide in ambush while they walked right into the trap. The area of railroad ties where Harry had stopped was tramped down pretty well, as if he had turned around in a circle, but nothing I could make out indicated he had fallen.

  Stapled together were a shot of Harry’s keys and a page of fingerprints. The word “inconclusive” was written at the bottom of the fingerprint page. Then a stapled set of photos of Harry’s dorm room and another fingerprint page. “No match” was written on that page. I guess Harry wasn’t a known criminal in their files.

  I found the Pancake House page. Amy Sillborn was the girl’s name. Yes, she remembered Harry. Yes, he was hurt and she helped him out. Yes, she would make a formal statement to the local police. It wasn’t attached. “Call Saint Clairesville police” was written sideways by this. The next part was scribbled quickly and hard to read, but it looked like “He was trying to get home.” Odd.

  “Having fun?” Detective James stood over me menacingly, which was apparently the only way he ever presented himself.

  I closed the folder and slid it back toward his half of the desk. “Just curious.”

  “That’s what gets people in trouble.” James walked around to his side of the desk and picked up the file. After a cursory examination, probably to make sure I hadn’t taken anything, he slid it into his center drawer. I could feel a speech coming on, but a commotion in the outer office caught his attention. I looked over my shoulder. It was a young, punkish looking kid working his way to us, muttering obscenities at no one in particular. James yelled to him through the open doorway, “Get your ass in here, Billy.”

  Billy came to the office and leaned on the doorjamb. Both forearms were covered in tattoos. “Do you know what freaking time it is?”

  “What do I look like, a clock? I don’t give a crap what time it is. Fingerprint Mr. Ryan here and get a boot cast while you’re at it.” I looked back at James but he was ready for me. “Just trying to nail down some loose ends. You got some objection to that?”

  “Do I have a choice? It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong.” Well, that was the end of my little charade. Once they checked my prints against Harry’s the jig was up, but telling him now would not be a good idea. I should probably call him from Pittsburgh. I needed to get home anyway. Mom and Dad were probably worrying about me.

  “Well, sonny, you can either do it voluntarily or we can arrest you and do it anyway. One way you walk out of here a free man tonight and I take you home. The other, you spend the night in jail.”

  “Arrest me on what?”

  “I’ll think of something. And when morning comes and I drop the charge, you’ll have nothing to show for it but black fingertips, a sore back from sleeping on a jailhouse cot, and blisters on your feet from the walk home. So what’s it going to be?”

  I didn’t exactly like either idea and it was a long walk back to the college. That’s often how things get decided in my life. Not that one choice is better or right or even noble — it just hurts less. I got up and gestured to Billy.

  “This way,” he pointed. This will only take a minute and we can both get out of here.”

  I had never been fingerprinted before. I had always been the one doing the fingerprinting. The newness of the experience did little for the humiliation of having a punk kid grab my hand and press my fingers on a stamp pad and then onto a police sheet. I thought about grabbing him by the hair and twisting his silly head back until he cried uncle — just like I had done to many a kid I’d bullied on the Saint Catherine’s playground — but he had backup. And his backup was packing heat. Billy gave me a cleaner to use when he was done and I did my best to get the ink off. For some reason I was thinking of Beth while I was doing that. The ink stains where unmistakable. I would need something to cover them up. I made a note that next time I was unexpectedly dragged in for interrogation and fingerprinting to stop at the Golden Arches and pick up a few blueberry pies for the ride home. But what if McDonald’s only had apple that day?

  The boot cast was a fairly innocuous procedure. I handed him my boots. I waited. He came back in a few minutes with my boots. When he was done with me, Billy escorted me back to James’ office, gave James the finger, and left.

  “Nice kid,” I said, sitting down again. “Nice tattoos.”

  James scowled at me. “You never get tired of being a jackass, do you? It might interest you to know that Billy used to be a dealer. He was fifteen then and he kept those college buddies of yours supplied with whatever they wanted.”

  I didn’t react — they weren’t my buddies.

  “Only he got a hold of some bad shit and didn’t know it, and he unloaded it at the school to the wrong people. Some jocks. One of them almost died. The others beat the crap out of him and their parents brought in the cops to take care of the rest. Billy took the fall and went to the state pen in Columbus. He got twenty years. He was out in four on good behavior and I gave him a job here. Nobody else would hire him. He’s been clean for five years now. He’s done his time, paid his debt, so shut the hell up.”

  So Billy was thirty years old. He looked seventeen, maybe eighteen. I had thought the punk look was self-inflicted, but the piercings, gashes, and burn marks must have come from those years in prison. I could definitely find a place in my army for Billy. “Can I go now?” It was getting late and I was a little worried about Mrs. H, well actually more about Beth, but I was worried. It was an odd feeling — to be worried about someone other than myself.

  “I want Doc Miller to check you out, just to be safe.”

  I knew what he really meant, but I wasn’t worried. There were no incriminating marks or wounds on me. “Suit yourself. You are taking me back to school, right?”

  “You’ve been such a model prisoner.”

  “Prisoner? Does that mean I am being charged with something?”

  James waved off my concern. “Just a figure of speech. Yeah, I’ll take you back when we’re done here.”

  Had he suddenly mellowed or did I miss something? The doctor walked in and my thoughts moved back to my immediate concern of getting back to Gambier.

  James came around his desk to
greet Doc Miller, an elderly gentleman — that was really the only way to describe him. He reminded me of my granddad. He wore a beat-up sports jacket, dark wrinkled pants, and carried a small black doctor bag. Maybe more like Robert Young as Marcus Welby, M.D. than my granddad — Granddad was always a little soused and this old gent had clear, scrutinizing eyes that were examining me before he ever laid hands on me.

  “How’s it going, Marcus?” James asked. “Sorry to drag you over here so late, but we finally found the Ryan kid and need you to check him out for us.”

  So I was the Ryan “kid” and James had “found” me, eh?

  “It’s no problem at all, Dick. I was done for the day at the office anyway.” The doctor looked at me again. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryan. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, Doctor Welby, and nice to meet you, too.”

  He laughed. “I love that show. Martha and I watch it every week. Robert Young is a heck of an actor, isn’t he?” Doc Miller had already opened his bag and was retrieving some standard doctor things. Nothing to be alarmed about… no needles. I really didn’t like being stuck with a needle. “Why don’t you just sit back down and I’ll see what’s what, okay?”

  The exam was about as thorough as the one I had gotten every fall in high school that qualified me to be tortured in phys ed class. Stick out your tongue. Say “ah.” Look left. Look right. Follow my finger. G.P.s were so non-intrusive in their checkups. I wondered if they ever did find anything wrong with anybody. When was the last time someone died from saying “ah” the wrong way?

  “Hmmm, this feels a little odd,” he frowned slightly, feeling around my scalp. Parting the hair he fingered an area that was slightly sensitive to his touch. I didn’t even flinch. “See this, Dick? Looks like Mr. Ryan had a nasty bump here and not too long ago either. It’s still a little swollen. The cut’s healed over though, and no sign of infection.”