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Authors: Gary Braver

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BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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A
round eleven, the black Mercedes pulled into an abandoned lot about six miles west of Jacksonville.
Phillip was waiting for him. Oliver had ditched the dark blue Chevy that had doubled as an unmarked police car in the woods, then walked half a mile to the rendezvous site.
They drove another six miles to a dirt road that led to Lake Chino just below the Georgia border where they had left their DeHavilland Beaver floatplane in a black little cove.
Travis was still asleep under his blanket, and he would probably remain so for another couple hours. When he woke up, they would feed him because he probably hadn’t eaten since breakfast. On the floor under the boy sat a large Igloo filled with sandwiches and drinks. They were still cool in spite of the hours the plane had baked in the sun.
Using a self-inflating raft, they floated him to the plane in the dark and loaded him into a seat in the rear, then strapped him in securely and covered him with a blanket. The night air was cool and the plane’s heater was faulty.
Oliver, an experienced pilot, got behind the controls while Phillip took the passenger seat.
A little before midnight, in clear cloudless skies, the Beaver lifted off the black water, then banked to the right, heading northeast which would take them through Georgia, the Carolinas, Virginia, and, eventually, all the way up the coast to New England. It was not the kind of long haul Oliver liked to fly, especially at night. At a cruising speed of 110 knots, the flight would take
about twelve hours with two stops for refueling. He had preselected small airports where you could roll up to a fuel pump and pay with a credit card like that Amoco station back there. And he had a fake credit card so he wouldn’t be tracked. Because he was flying on visual, he did not have to maintain contact with regional operations as he would were this an instrument flight. Which meant no record or tracking of their plane.
When they leveled off to ninety-two hundred feet someplace over the southern Georgia interior, he looked over his shoulder. The kid was in a deep slumber, but breathing normally.
“He’s got himself a good-looking kid here,” he said to Phillip.
Phillip gave a cursory glance over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He was more interested in the lights of the city in the distance.
“Too bad about the scratches on his face,” Oliver said.
“Like we’re going to have to take him back.”
“Right.”
Phillip checked his watch against the clock on the instrument panel. “Twelve hours. I’m getting tired of these long hauls,” Phillip said.
“Take a third as long in a Lear.”
“Except you can’t land on water and do midnight drops. What did you fly in the service?”
“F-1011s. Quite a comedown, huh? Doing kiddie runs in a Beaver floatplane.”
“But the pay is better.”
“There’s that.”
“But you made good money as a PI,” Phillip said, popping open a can of beer. “How come if you were such a crackerjack bringing in fugitives you stopped doing it?”
“Because it’s against the law for a convicted felon to be a detective, private or otherwise.”
“That’s what’s wrong with this country—they get everything backward. If you wanted to know how bad guys think, hire a crook, right?”
“And pay him good.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Phillip looked over his shoulder at the boy. He was sound asleep. “We got another drop tomorrow night, but the forecast calls for a storm.”
“Uh-uh,” Oliver said. “No more repeats of the last time.”
COLD CREEK, TENNESSEE
V
ernon and Winifred Dixon lived in a single-level brick structure that could not have been more than thirty feet long and half as wide. If it had wheels, it could have been a trailer home made of brick.
The place sat at the edge of an endless woodland about twenty miles northwest of Chattanooga in an area of Cold Creek called Gad’s Buck Knob, according to the map. Greg had no idea what the name meant; neither did Sergeant Andy Kemmer, the Tennessee State Police detective who had been assigned the Dixon case since the boy’s disappearance sixteen months ago.
Kemmer, a tall, thin nervous-looking man about forty, met Greg at the Chattanooga Airport. He was dressed casually and driving a squad car, so there was no need for Greg to pick up a rental. Before they left the airport, Greg bought a bouquet of flowers.
On the phone, Greg had explained to Kemmer that he was here to investigate the similarities between the Dixon case and another he had been working on for three years. What Greg didn’t mention was that he was here on his own money and time, which was why they were meeting on Saturday. As far as anybody at the Sagamore station knew, he was off fishing for the weekend.
Kemmer gave him a copy of the Dixon boy’s complete file, including the names, addresses, and depositions of everybody they had interviewed since the boy’s disappearance as well as his medical and dental records. “Ten pounds of notes, and zero leads,” Kemmer said.
The drive took over an hour, mostly through backcountry roads. On the way, Kemmer warned Greg that the Dixons weren’t keen on the police.
Apparently a few years back, Vernon Dixon had threatened a bank loan officer with physical harm because he couldn’t make mortgage payments. When the sheriff’s officer came by to investigate, Vernon met him with a rifle. He was arrested, put in jail for three days, and fined two hundred dollars for threatening an officer. “He’s one of those people who just doesn’t trust the law. Grady disappeared, and he refused to accept how we couldn’t find him. Bitched and moaned we weren’t doing enough, which was bullshit, man, since we had half the county looking for him, including dogs specially trained to sniff out cadavers. We musta covered twenty square miles of woods—and out there it’s as thick as fur.”
“Do you have kids?”
“Two.” Then Kemmer considered the question. “Yeah, maybe when it’s your own it’s different. But, man, we hit stone. Not a flipping lead. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say we felt exonerated when he turned up your way. But the old man’s still pissing on us, so prepare yourself is all I gotta say.”
As small as it was, the Dixon place was tidy and cheerful looking, belying the agony the inhabitants must have suffered. Against the red brick was crisp white trim, including a porch banister running the length of the place. Pots of red geraniums hung from support poles. The upkeep was no doubt an expression of the Dixons’ hope against all odds. Greg wondered where people found such strength.
Kemmer pulled the car under a large shade tree. Sitting on a crushed gravel driveway was a battered gray station wagon. Attached to the side of the house was a propane tank. From a nearby willow hung a tire swing. A wading pool lay nearby. The water was bright green. What caught Greg’s eye was the faded yellow ribbon tied around a tree at the edge of the drive.
Greg got out of the car and instantly he felt perspiration bead across his brow. The heat and humidity were borderline lethal.
Vernon Dixon came out to greet them. He was a heavyset man, with thick hamlike arms, a balding head, and broad unfriendly red face. He was dressed in blue jeans, yellow work boots, and a black T-shirt. He nodded at Kemmer who nodded back and introduced Greg who handed Dixon a business card.
Dixon scowled at the card and the flowers in his hand.
“I’m very sorry about your son, Mr. Dixon.”
He gave Greg a nod.
“What kind of a name is Zakarian?”
“Armenian.”
Vernon grunted. “We don’t get many of your kind down here.”
“I guess not.”
“Is that like Arabian?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Is that important to know?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Sometimes.”
“
Sometimes?
What the hell kind of answer is that? You do or you don’t.”
“Mr. Dixon, are we really going to stand out here and argue my religious convictions?”
“I guess not. But I don’t believe in the bastard anymore, because He let somebody take my kid.” Then he tossed his head toward the house. “It’s cooler inside.” And he led the way.
The interior was cooler with the help of a small AC humming in a rear window and a fan on the coffee table. They had entered a small living room with oversized chairs upholstered in green imitation leather. Mrs. Dixon was standing at the threshold to the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. She was a solid-bodied woman with a drawn white face and short-cropped brown hair. She said hello to Kemmer and shook Greg’s hand.
Greg handed her the bouquet of flowers. “I’m very sorry about your son.”
She thanked him and went to get something to put them in.
“You boys want something to drink?” Dixon asked. “Beer? Lemonade? Dr Pepper? The lemonade’s fresh. Winnie just made it.”
Through the door Greg spotted an open container of frozen drink by the sink. “The lemonade will be fine, thank you.”
“Ditto,” Kemmer said. While Vernon went to get the drinks, Kemmer looked at Greg and rolled his eyes to say,
I told you so
.
Greg made a noncommittal smile and looked around. Most of the room was taken up by the couch and chairs. A faux fireplace mantel sat against the wall. On it sat several photographs of Grady. And one framed illustration of Jesus, his face raised into the light, his hands pressed in prayer.
Dixon returned with a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. “Do your people up there have any idea how Grady died, cuz the boys down here don’t have a damn clue?” He said that without even a glance at Kemmer.
“Not really,” Greg said. “But I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions because we may have a similar case.”
“We’re goddamn questioned out. It’s answer time.”
Mrs. Dixon returned with the flowers in a glass vase and set it on the mantel next to the boy’s photos. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying in the kitchen. “They’re lovely, thank you very much,” she said.
Greg nodded.
From a pack of Newport Lights, she punched out a cigarette and returned to the kitchen where she turned on a burner from the gas stove, stuck the cigarette into the flame until it started burning, then sucked it to a blush. She then returned to the living room. She looked shaky. “Do you have children of your own, Sergeant Zakarian?”
“No, I don’t.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of a name is Zakarian?”
This was becoming tiresome. “Armenian.”
“That’s Christian, right?”
“Yes,” he said, hoping she wasn’t going to begin another inquisition.
“Well, we had a proper Christian burial for our boy last week. Malcolm Childers, the reverend at Mount Ida’s Baptist, gave a very special service for Grady. And after, his wife, Pammie Rae, held us a lunch. It was simply lovely. I swear half the county turned out.” Her voice cracked, and she struggled to maintain composure. “There I go again, and I thought I was cried out.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“You know, just to give us closure.”
“Closure!” Vernon grunted. “There’s no such thing. Never’s any closure when your kid’s been murdered.” He shook his head. “I just hope he didn’t suffer, is all.” His voice hitting gravel.
“Well, I feel better cuz he’s home where he belongs.”
“Only way I’ll feel better is if I had five minutes in the room with the sumbitch who did this to him. Five minutes is all.” As he said that, the muscles in his neck and arms tightened, and rage darkened his face. Greg could understand how Dixon had run afoul of the law.
Greg got up and went to the mantel to inspect the photographs. Several shots of the boy outside on the tire swing, at a birthday party, in the wading pool. “Handsome little guy.”
“Here’s the most recent one,” Vernon said. “It was his first school picture. And his last.” And he held up a T-shirt advertising missing children. On it was a picture of Grady along with his date of birth, height, weight, coloring, and an 800 number for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
The boy was smiling brightly. He was a sweet-looking kid with a bright chipped-tooth smile, and Greg tried to shake away the image of the specimen on Joe Steiner’s desk.
“They posted his picture at airport kiosks, in public buildings, on the Internet, you name it. Mailed it all over the country, and even had a billboard on Highway 27 outta Chattanooga,” Mrs. Dixon said.
“Lotta damn good that did,” Vernon growled.
There were two rooms off the living room, and one of them was closed. On the door was a sticker with a cartoon bear. Greg walked over to it.
“We called him ‘Lil Bear,’” Mrs. Dixon said. She got up. “You can take a look if you like. All the other officers did.”
“He didn’t come for that,” Vernon said. “Fact is, I’m not sure what he came for.”
“I would like to see his room, thank you,” Greg said. He did not pick up on Vernon’s bait. It wasn’t the right time.
From a dish on the mantel, Mrs. Dixon removed a key and unlocked the door.
The room looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the boy’s disappearance. The air was close and scented with mothballs. There was a small bed with a stuffed bear lying at the foot. One wall was covered with banners and drawings signed by his classmates and teachers: “Come home soon” and “We Love You, Grady” and “We Miss You.” Another wall had decals and pictures of cartoon bears, snapshots of the boy and a dog, a UT football banner, a poster-board drawing of the Dixon house with the tree swing, signed by Grady; another of Jesus in a pasture with children and sheep. On a small table sat a nearly complete truck fashioned intricately with Legos. A box of loose pieces lay by it in expectation.
“He liked to build things,” Mrs. Dixon said. She opened a bureau drawer and pulled out some photos of Grady posed proudly with several different structures. “He’d sit in here for hours working away, his tape machine playing his stories.” She nodded at a yellow plastic device and a stack of tapes. “He was a very neat boy, always picking up after himself at the end of the day. I almost never had to speak to him. Some kids are pretty messy, especially boys, but not him.”
Against the rear wall was a small desk with a neat arrangement of books and a kid’s Fisher-Price electronic keyboard toy.
“We were saving to get him a computer for Christmas.” Mrs. Dixon
sighed and began to close the door. “We had nothing to go on, but we always hoped he’d come back.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I prayed every day he’d come home.” Vernon put his arm around her.
Greg picked up Grady’s baseball glove. On the strap that went over his left wrist Grady had printed his name with a black marker. As he stared at it, he wondered how these people could go on. They had so little and now they had lost everything that mattered. But he sensed that they
would
go on, and he drew from their strength.
They returned to the living room. “I want you to know that the investigation is ongoing in Massachusetts. We’ve not given up on Grady,” Greg said. “And that’s why I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may, because we’ve found some similarities to another case.”
Vernon Dixon didn’t look pleased.
“’Spose it can’t hurt,” Mrs. Dixon said.
“Three years ago, we found the remains of another child—a boy about Grady’s age—also in the waters of Massachusetts. We’re trying to determine if there’s a connection.”
“I know what you’re gonna ask,” Vernon said, “and the answer is no. It’s what I told him. We got no idea how he ended up in Massachusetts. We’ve never even been to Massachusetts. We ain’t even got relatives or acquaintances in Massachusetts. ‘Cept for you, I don’t think I ever met anybody from Massachusetts.”
Mrs. Dixon nodded in agreement.
“I understand that,” Greg said. “But the other child we found had markings on the skull similar to Grady’s.” Greg could not get himself to use the word
holes.
“I’m wondering if you can tell me what kind of neurological procedure he had had.”
Mrs. Dixon’s face was a perfect blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer. What markings?”
“The perforations, the holes.” Greg raised his finger to the side of his head.
“What holes?”
He flashed a look at Kemmer for an explanation. Greg knew Joe Steiner had notified Gene Grzywna, the Gloucester case officer, about the holes, and he in turn had sent a report to Kemmer. Or he was supposed to have.
BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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