All Things Lost (27 page)
Authors: Josh Aterovis
“Don't you even want to know what I found out?”
“I'm sure you'll tell me eventually. I have news for you too.”
“You do?” My curiosity fought with my desire to gloat, but curiosity, that never-sated demon, won out. “You go first,” I proposed.
“How gentlemanly.
I made a few phone calls concerning our friends Terry and Becky Haynes.”
“Terry is the husband, right?”
“We'll make a detective of you yet,” he said a tad sarcastically. “Yes, Terry is the husband. Anyway, it seems my hunch was right. Terry and Becky Haynes have no children, or rather; I should say they no longer have any children.”
“No longer…you mean?”
“They had a son. He would have been ten this year. He died when he was two.”
“Oh my God!
That's horrible.”
“It gets worse. Apparently he died from injuries resulting from child abuse at his daycare center.”
“Around here?”
“No, this all happened in upstate
They moved down here after the trial was over. The caretaker was convicted.”
“I can't say I blame them for wanting to get away.”
“And yet did they get away?”
“What do you mean?”
“They moved right next door to another child abuser.”
“Oh my God,” I said again as the implications became clear.
“Yes indeed,” Novak agreed as he read the dawning on my face.
“So you think they killed Ira?”
“I didn't say that. It's a possibility, maybe even a strong one, but right now we don't have any evidence, just a guess. We don't know that they did absolutely anything except try to aid Caleb however they could. It warrants more investigation, certainly. Now, what was your big news? You were practically bubbling over with excitement when you arrived.”
With the impact of Novak's news I had almost forgotten my own. I quickly began to fill him in on my antagonistic exchange with Nadine. He wasn't too happy that I had possibly alienated a potential suspect; or at least a source of information since we weren't seriously considering her a suspect, but he cheered up considerably when he learned I had finally gotten in to see the elusive Mrs. Fields. As I told him about my conversation with the elderly widow he leaned back in his chair and began to rub his chin in what I was beginning to recognize as his thinking posture.
“Interesting.
Very, very interesting,” he mused when I had finished my narrative.
“So you think it's important?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you always have to be so darn cautious?” I griped.
He looked askance at me. “You would like a little praise perhaps?”
“Would it kill you?”
He applauded for a few seconds.
“Job well done, kid.
You've confirmed that Caleb was indeed meeting someone covertly in the barn at the very least. What was your impression of Mrs. Fields? Is she a reliable witness as far as the gender of our unknown guest?
“Well, she is on the blind side,” I admitted, “but she's still a sharp lady and I'd side with her intuition any day. Besides, Caleb is gay so it makes sense that he's be meeting a guy.”
“You're assuming that they were meeting for a romantic rendezvous.”
“I found that condom-”
“And that is what is known as circumstantial evidence. We don't know that the condom and those nocturnal visits are connected. It seems reasonable to assume they are but there is no room for assumptions in an investigation. They can be costly if they are incorrect. Cold, hard, undeniable evidence is what we trade in, kid, the kind we have precious little of at the moment. We don't know that the Haynes's are anything except the victims of a tragic crime and we don't know that Caleb was having a sexual relationship with his creeping caller, or anyone at all for that matter.”
“So we need evidence, then. How do we get it?”
“We don't look for evidence to prove our wild guesses. We discover facts and decipher them, piecing them together like a puzzle until we have something to build our case around. And while I'm talking about puzzles it occurred to me today that we've been overlooking a fairly large piece of this particular puzzle.”
“We have? What is it?
“There is one person we haven't given due consideration in our investigation thus far.”
“Who?”
“You tell me.”
“Novak!”
I cried in exasperation.
“Think, kid.
Use your little gray cells as
Poirot
would say.”
“As who would say?”
I was becoming hopelessly confused amidst Novak's dizzying speech and esoteric references.
“Dear Lord, the child isn't just dense he's uncultured too!”
“Will someone please tell me what he's talking about?” I appealed to the ceiling.
“Haven't you ever read
Agatha
Chris
tie?”
“No,” I admitted, “I read mostly fantasy when I read.”
“Bah!” He spun around in his swivel chair and wheeled over to the bookcase that housed his collection of mystery books, mumbling under his breath all the while. He chose two volumes after studying the shelves for a minute and slid them across the desk. I picked them up and read the titles,
Murder on the Orient Express
and
And
Then There Were None
. They were both by
Agatha
Chris
tie.
“Read them. That's an order. Consider it part of your training.”
I tucked the books into the seat next to me and looked at him expectantly. He stared back at me, equally expectant.
“Well?” I said after the staring contest began to get a little old.
“Well what?” he volleyed back.
“Aren't you going to tell me who we've been overlooking?”
“I was sitting here waiting for you to tell me precisely the same thing.”
“That's insane!” I screeched. “You know. I don't!”
“Bingo,” he said as if I had proven his point.
“We've talked to every single person that we know of who could possibly have any bearing on the case with the exception of this mystery person who Caleb may or may not have been banging in the barn. We can't have overlooked him since we don't even know who he is.”
“Ever so eloquently put,” he said dryly, “but wrong nonetheless.”
“We can't talk to Ira, he's dead!”
“You're getting warmer.”
“Are we going to hold a séance?”
“No, the person I'm talking about isn't necessarily dead, although we've been led to believe they are.”
“Caleb's mother?”
I guessed.
“Bravo! I thought I was going to have to draw you a picture. Yes, I'm referring to Rachel Cohen, the wife of the late Ira Cohen and mother to young Caleb.”
“But Caleb said she was dead. Why would he lie to us about that?”
“Maybe he doesn't know he's lying.”
“Huh?”
“Are you always this slow or are you just having a bad day?”
“Can we quit with the insults already?”
Novak sighed. “Fine, but I hope you realize you are ruining my fun. Ira Cohen told his young son that his mother had passed away, but we really only have his word for that and we know he wasn't exactly the most trustworthy personage.”
“If she's alive then where has she been all this time?”
“Aha! It would behoove us to find that out, now wouldn't it?”
“Be-who?”
“Do I have to add the dictionary to your ever growing list of assigned reading?”
“I thought we were done with the insults. Do you
know
that she's alive or is this just another of your hunches?”
“No, no, I don't know anything for sure yet, just a little thought that occurred to me today.”
“You have the strangest thoughts.”
“They serve me well. What would you suggest we do next?”
I thought a minute before answering. I was tired of getting zinged for one day and wanted to make sure that I got the answer to his pop quiz right this time.
“Well, as I see it, we have three avenues that we need to follow,” I began carefully. Novak's eyebrows arched slightly and I continued, “We need to follow up on the Haynes, find out if they had strong feelings of protectiveness or responsibility for Caleb. We need to keep digging into our mystery guest at Chateau Barn Loft. Who is he and is he a suspect or possibly an alibi for Caleb? And we need to find out if Rachel Cohen is really dead, and if not where is she?”
“Surprisingly sound thinking,” he said approvingly.
“I'm not finished,” I said quickly. “We can't rule out Nadine completely. Just because we know she left hours before Ira was killed doesn't mean she couldn't have come back later and made firewood out of him.”
With a proud smile, Novak began to applaud. “There's the deviously brilliant mind I knew existed in that pretty little head of yours.”
That was twice today someone had commented on my attractiveness. If this kept up I was soon going to have a swelled head.
“So which of those avenues do you wish to travel next?”
I thought a minute, “I want to talk to Caleb.”
“And ask him what?”
“Well, like
who
was he meeting in the barn loft?”
“An excellent question, although one I doubt he'll be too eager to answer. You can go first thing tomorrow.”
“Why can't I go now?”
“Because I have other cases, you know.
Paying ones, ones that fund your exorbitant salary.”
“Burger flippers at Mickey-Dees make more than I do,” I snorted derisively. I went to work feeling a little peevish and more than a little anxious to talk to Caleb. The drudge work seemed even more drudgery than usual as I couldn't get my mind off Caleb. Of all the directions this case seemed to be taking Caleb was the one that fascinated me the most. He was the one constant in the whole thing and yet he was perhaps the one we knew the least about. What made him tick? Was he capable of killing his father in cold blood?
I could barely wait to see him face to face the next day.
* * *
For my second visit ever to the
Once again, I was led down an antiseptic hallway to the sparse cinder block and metal visiting room. I sat down on one of the cold metal stool facing the glass divider. It was about ten minutes before Caleb made his appearance, looking sullen and pale. He seemed surprised to see me. A greenish-purple bruise surrounded his left eye and his lower lip was swollen and split.
“Wow, you look like hell!” I gasped.
“Gee thanks, you really know how to make a guy feel special,” he said sourly. He sat down across from me, but I somehow got the impression he didn't really want to talk to me.
“Did they do anything to the guys who did this to you?”
“Are you kidding? Nobody gives a damn. I'm just a fucking faggot who chopped his dad up with an ax.”
“I…you…did you?”
He cocked his head to one side. “What?”
“I mean…well, did you chop your dad up with an ax.”
He sat for a minute without moving. I held my breath and the only sound was the suddenly loud ticking of the clock on the wall. Then he calmly stood up and started for the door.
“Caleb, wait!” I called. “I need to hear you say it. Please.”
He stood for another few seconds with his back to me, and then slowly he turned around. He leaned in until his face was just a fraction of an inch from the glass that separated us, each breath fogging slightly as it struck the cool surface. I leaned back in spite of myself as he began speaking in a raspy voice so low I could barely make out what he was saying.
“I was five years old when my mom died. I don't really remember her at. My first clear memory is of my dad getting mad at me because I'd spilled a glass of milk. He hit me so hard I flew all the way across the room. For years I lived never knowing what I would do next that would earn me my next beating. The excuses started getting weaker and weaker and soon we didn't need a reason at all, it was a complimentary gift. Thanks for staying, here's your beating. Do you have any idea what it's like to live your whole life-twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year-in constant fear? Never knowing when you would turn around next and get the shit beat out of you for no reason? For a long time I hope,
I prayed
, that someone, anyone, would do something,
anything
, to get me out of there. Just make it stop, I'd beg God. It didn't take too long to realize that nobody was going to do anything. Nobody cared, not even God. I was on my own.