The Whole Truth

by James Scott Bell

  Then the engine wouldn’t turn over.

  He kept trying and kept getting the grinding in return. Got to where he was screaming at the car to start, cursing at it. Grinding, cursing, screaming. Until his throat got raw.

  And then he sat back and started laughing. Hysterically. Steve Conroy was the biggest joke in the world. The butt of a joke, actually. It was enough to keep him laughing all the way back up to his apartment, where he fell back on his sofa, knowing he wouldn’t sleep.

  TWELVE

  Tuesday.

  In the morning, Steve had his car towed to a shop and got a loaner. A Camry. After the Ark it felt like he was driving an eyeglass case.

  At least he’d managed to stay clean one more night. Nights were the worst. Now, in the light of day, he could pretend he was a lawyer again.

  He wanted to be a lawyer. He started out with the plan to be the best. From foster home to college, from college to law school, a great American success story. Going into law, he’d be able to tilt the scales of justice in a way that had been denied him.

  In moments of reflection over beer or bourbon, he’d sometimes think he was trying to be Archimedes. Give me a lever and a place to stand and I can move the world. That project alone was enough to keep his mind from the bad things. The yesterdays.

  He remembered clearly the day the idea got in his head.

  He was ten and his mom was dead and they had a little funeral. His aunt came out from New Jersey, Aunt Kate, the only time in his life Steve ever saw her. She had stringy hair and fat lips. She didn’t sit next to Stevie in the chapel. The only one who sat next to him was Mrs. Bloom, who lived two houses down. She was a nice old lady, a widow who his mom used to borrow eggs from.

  There weren’t more than six or seven others there. His mom was in a casket at the front. Organ music was playing somewhere. It was like in a haunted house movie.

  Then a red-faced man with a funny collar came out with this smile on his face. It looked fake. He stood in front of the casket and said, “This was a lady.”

  He started saying some things about Steve’s mom. But he’d never seen this man before in his life.

  Then it hit him. For some reason he knew that this guy hadn’t ever known his mom at all. That he worked at this place. That he gave speeches about people who were dead. If somebody wanted that kind of thing.

  He knew that Aunt Kate had set this up. And he hated her for it.

  Then the man stopped talking and invited people to come and view “the dear departed.”

  What? Get up and look at her?

  No.

  Yes. Mrs. Bloom took his hand and walked him forward. Behind Aunt Kate, whose wide ride swayed under a blue print dress in a way both sickening and mesmerizing to Stevie.

  The waxwork that was supposed to be his mother lay in a white satin hollow. The moment Stevie saw it, a chill that would soon lead to hot tears started swirling in his chest, an iceball behind the sternum.

  It couldn’t be Mom. She never looked this still. And the grotesque upturn of her mouth was horrifying.

  For some odd reason he thought of a flashlight then, how if you put the two batteries in wrong the thing wouldn’t light up. No life, no juice. Maybe they’d put his mother in wrong. Maybe if they turned her around in the box there’d be a spark and she’d be alive again.

  It was too soon for her to be dead.

  He burst out crying. Once the tears started he knew he couldn’t turn them off and he pressed them out harder and harder.

  Mrs. Bloom put her arms around him. Aunt Kate looked back at him, disgust on her face.

  Maybe that was the moment she decided she didn’t want anything to do with Stevie. He suspected she was like that anyway.

  Stuff happened after that. Mom’s possessions went to Aunt Kate. She left the trunk with the pictures, and Stevie raised such a stink he somehow got to keep it. When he went into foster care, they let him bring the trunk.

  He would never give that up. They’d have to put him in a casket if they ever wanted to get it.

  When he got to his office, he retrieved the envelope with the money, opened it, and spread the bills on his desk.

  Fifty crisp Benjamins.

  Probably dirty. The fruit of some sort of crime. Maybe even counterfeit.

  Or maybe laundered.

  If laundered, clean. And if clean, he could spend it.

  He decided to drink it over. Pulled out the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. But as he started to pour, something stopped him. A little voice. Maybe it sounded like Sienna Ciccone. Maybe he wanted it to sound like her. Whatever, he stopped and tried to keep a clear head.

  Johnny LaSalle had told him something only his brother would have known. Steve did remember the stories Robert used to tell. Arnold and Beebleobble. Names that would make him cry when he was seven and eight and missing Robert terribly. Knowing he helped put Robert in the house that got burned down.

  What about that? Could it really have been another kid in there? But the dental records. What about the records?

  Might there have been a mistake?

  Or something else. Steve’s brain started writing screenplays for Oliver Stone. This would all mean conspiracy.

  Data is what he needed now. He put the bills back in the envelope and woke up his computer. Robert had died in Verner, California. Steve googled the coroner’s office in the county where Verner was situated. Came up with a number for the county sheriff.

  Called. Got a receptionist. A woman.

  “I’d like to speak to the coroner’s office,” Steve said.

  “This is it. The sheriff is the county coroner. Would you like his voice mail?”

  “Maybe you can help me.”

  “I’ll try.” Her voice was young and informal.

  “I’m interested in the records of an autopsy from July of 1983.”

  “I can connect you to Lieutenant Oderkirk. He’s the chief deputy coroner.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “One moment.”

  Steve hefted the envelope of bills as he waited.

  “Oderkirk.”

  “Hi, my name’s Steve Conroy. I’m a lawyer in LA.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “We’re not all bad.”

  “Kidding. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m interested in an autopsy that was done back in 1983. Are those records available?”

  “Sure. Back then they’d be on paper, but we’re in the process of putting them on microfiche. Is this some official business?”

  “For me it is. It was my brother, Robert Conroy.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “Well, let me see what I can come up with. You have the exact date of death?”

  “It was July of 1983. That’s all I know. In a town called Verner.”

  “Sure. Mountain town. I can look into it. What was the name again?”

  “Robert Conroy.”

  “All right. You have a fax?”

  Steve gave him the number.

  “Let me see what I can do,” Oderkirk said. “I’ll try to get it to you by close of business. If not, then tomorrow.”

  “Anything you can do. Thanks.”

  “You bet.”

  Steve thought about calling Ashley again. This time he wouldn’t be asking for money. But he’d be able to tell her about LaSalle and the prison and five thou. She was really the only one he trusted.

  But he decided against it. Whenever he called her now, there was part of him hoping she’d say, “Come on home, Steve. All is forgiven.” He had to get over that, had to accept the fact his marriage wasn’t going to be put back together again.

  The door opened and Milos Slbodnik walked in as if he owned the place.

  Which he did.

  “So,” he said. “Here you are.” Slbodnik was in his fifties, with a head like an unshaved coconut. He seemed to have hair coming out of every cavity and crevice. His substantial pot belly masked the fact that he was once a wrestling champion — a fact he loved to repe
at as often as he demanded rent.

  “A knock on the door would be appreciated,” Steve said.

  “You making good or what?”

  “You’ve got a payment.”

  “I got a nephew.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You make threat with law, I got law.”

  “Mr. S, I just finished a case. I’m due to get paid.” Steve shot a quick look at the envelope on his desk. “And I may just have a major new client. Before you file anything, give me at least a week of good time.”

  The landlord lowered his substantial eyebrows. “One week. And what you are owing is four thousand.”

  “I got it.”

  “I hope you got it.”

  He grunted and left.

  THIRTEEN

  Steve’s fax bleeped at 4:20. The cover page had Oderkirk’s name on it. And then a report, which began with a doctor’s letterhead.

  Walker C. Phillips, M.D.

  Pathology

  Traynor Memorial Hospital Verner, Calif.

  Re: County Coroner’s Case #83 – 015

  Name: Robert Conroy

  Age: 7 years

  Date of Death: 07-14-83 at 0122

  Date of Autopsy: 07-16-83 at 1530

  Place of Autopsy: Bruck Mortuary

  Witness: Leon Bruck

  CAUSE OF DEATH:

  CARDIAC AND RESPIRATORY FAILURE

  due to

  SECOND AND THIRD DEGREE BURNS OVER 85%

  OF BODY

  EXTERNAL EXAMINATION

  The body is that of a normally developed Caucasian juvenile measuring 4 feet 5 inches in length and weighing approximately 95 pounds.

  Steve stopped then, swallowed hard. Saw on the movie screen of his mind the little charred body of his big brother. If it was Robert. The report went on for four pages with medical jargon relating to different bodily organs. Steve flipped through them, but stopped for the final paragraph:

  A review of the ante-mortem dental records revealed recent tooth loss at the site noted on the victim (see exhibit). This information in addition to routine odontological forensic landmarks aided in concluding a positive identification of the victim.

  So there had been a dental ID. Plus, his mom must have seen the body. Steve couldn’t ask her about it now, and she never spoke about it to him while she was alive. She did everything she could to give Steve a normal life. She just wasn’t able to dig deep enough.

  Steve guessed nobody could have. You’re pretty much alone in this world and you’re dealt certain cards. Some people pair up aces or get a flush draw. Others get nothing, and draw nothing.

  You deal with it.

  Right now he had to deal with five thousand and the mystery of Johnny LaSalle. How could he be Robert in light of this autopsy report? If he was, then somebody messed up on the ID of a dead kid’s body. The body in Robert’s grave would be somebody else. That was too wild to believe.

  Stranger things had happened. But if LaSalle really was Robert, would Steve want to get to know him? He was split down the middle, like a crack in a house foundation. If LaSalle was Robert, maybe Steve could root out the dark inner core that had been weighing him down for a quarter century.

  On the other hand, the guy was a convicted felon. A bad guy. Would he want to think of Robert this way?

  The five thousand, which had a promise of doubling, was helping Steve make the decision. He was a lawyer. He represented bad people all the time. Why couldn’t he do the same here? No matter who LaSalle turned out to be, he was a paying customer.

  And that sounded pretty good.

  FOURTEEN

  A week went by. Steve didn’t hear from LaSalle or his buddy, but he did spend their money.

  He gave Slbodnik another check, one that wouldn’t bounce. And bought a new suit. Not an expensive one. Off the rack. But it at least made him feel like he was on the way up again.

  There was a DUI that settled on Monday. If it had gone to trial, Steve would have been able to get another fifteen hundred dollars from the client. But he well knew most of the time that things settled. DUIs were a volume business. You could scrape by if you got a lot and pled out most. But this was the only DUI on Steve’s plate. He started counting the days when LaSalle would get out and hand him five more grand. At the very least he could have a good long talk about what happened, what kid was burned in that fire. And why LaSalle was contacting him now, after all these years.

  Steve spat out a form motion for reduced sentence and credit for time served, to be used in the Mendez sentencing.

  On Thursday afternoon he was in his office and got a call.

  “Wanted to check in,” Sienna said. “I hadn’t heard from you.”

  “What? Was I supposed to call you?”

  “I’m checking to see if you’re okay.”

  “Sure I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be okay?” He stopped himself.

  “Look, sorry, okay? I was sort of on the downslope back there. Now maybe I’m on the upslope. A paying client and everything.”

  “LaSalle?”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “It was only a week ago.”

  “Yeah, LaSalle.”

  “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know yet. He’s not out.”

  “You may need some help.”

  Steve laughed. “You would still consider working with me? After the way I treated you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m still looking for some work.”

  “When do you want to start?” He imagined her walking into his office again, saw her at the door. Keep hope alive, Reverend Jackson.

  “Anytime,” she said.

  Go for it. “How about now?”

  “Now?”

  “How long will it take you to get here?”

  An hour, as it turned out. She was dressed in a soft blue blouse with a silver cross necklace, and jeans. She had her hair down. It was long and silky. Made Steve think of a Fourth of July picnic, and the green flecks in her eyes were sparklers.

  “Do you know anything about dead bodies in California?” Steve asked.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” she said.

  “Come on in.” He closed the door behind her. “The law of exhumation. As in, if I want to have a body exhumed, what do I do?”

  “You want me to find out?”

  “That’s what I hired you for, isn’t it?”

  “Hired?”

  “I’ll cut you a check right now.”

  As she typed away at the computer, researching in a California-specific legal database, Steve looked at her silver cross.

  “So, are you a Catholic like Madonna?”

  She kept her eyes on the screen. “Nobody’s a Catholic like Madonna.”

  “Good point. Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “Fundamentalist? Evangelical?”

  “Christian.”

  “Theocratic government type? Or laid-back, pro-choice type?”

  She cast a quick look at Steve. “You want me to research here, or talk about religion?”

  “You ever heard of multitasking? Come on, I’m interested.”

  “You know, don’t you, that under California law you can’t ask me that question.”

  “As a basis for employment. I’m just asking as a fellow human being. I still qualify there, don’t I?”

  She stopped typing. “Okay. You have to file a request with the court and cc the county coroner’s office. There’s a form with points and authorities. You want me to print it?”

  “You’re very good,” Steve said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” She hit the print command and Steve’s printer started spitting pages.

  “Maybe now would be a good time to formalize our agreement,” she said. “How does fifty an hour sound?”

  “Expensive.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes too.”

  “On a per project basis,” Steve said. “I don’t want you billing me while you’re playing golf. You
can do that after you pass the bar.”

  “Done,” she said.

  He would have paid her twice that. Because he wanted her around. He was liking her. She was smart and attractive. Not surface-level beautiful like some airbrushed model on the cover of Vogue. Hers was a more substantial allure.

  Like Ashley’s. She was an Ashley type, and he was on the rebound.

  So what? What was wrong with a rebound? It could be the best thing in the world bouncing your way, and you could miss it, and he had missed so many things already. Years of missing things, feeling things were just out of reach — like a sense of normalcy. Big deal. Rebound. Take it. Start majoring in the art of forgetting Ashley.

  “It’s almost dinnertime,” he said. “You have any plans?”

  She narrowed her gaze. “It’s also not wise for an employer to make a social move.”

  “You going to sue me?”

  “I am going to go home. I’ll be available next week.”

  “For dinner?”

  “For research. Thanks for the check. Are you ready for Monday?”

  “What’s Monday?”

  “Mendez sentencing.”

  “Oh, right. As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “If you need me, you know the number.”

  FIFTEEN

  Steve almost called her Monday morning. But that would have been a little too obvious.

  Carlos Mendez never had a chance of getting a reduced sentence. He did collect some credit for time served in custody. But his home for the next five years was going to be the California Men’s Colony north of San Luis Obispo.

  News which was not greeted with good cheer by the extended Mendez family.

  Mrs. Mendez started in just outside the courtroom doors. “You lying son of a — ”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Mendez — ”

  “Lie, lie, lie!”

  “Ma’am, I never lied — ”

  “You say Carlos come home!”

  “Ma’am, I — ”

  “You say it!”

  “No, ma’am, I said there would be an appeal — ”

  “I no talk to you no more!”

  “Ma’am, there’s a little matter of the bill. I — ”