Favorite Sons (28 page)

“Mr. Kelso, I'm doing some research on a case that you investigated back in nineteen seventy-one, and I wanted to see if I could ask you a few questions.”

“You got a name?”

“I do. It's Van Buren. Hutchinson Van Buren.”

His right eye closed to a slit and his left brow arched as he chewed on the name, which probably sounded familiar from my campaign ads, but he didn't seem to make the connection. “You a newspaper reporter?”

I shook my head. “No, sir. Actually I'm the Summit County prosecuting attorney.”

He let this information settle for a moment, then drew his knife down the wood, creating a thin scrap that curled up in front of the moving blade. “Now, what could possibly be so interesting about a . . .” He paused while he did the math. “ . . . thirty-three-year-old case in Jefferson County that the Summit County prosecutor would personally show up at my door to ask me about it?”

I grinned. “The man who went to jail for rape and murder in Jefferson County is now living in Summit County and he's causing me some degree of heartburn.”

“Don't you have any investigators?”

“This is kind of personal.”

“I see. So, this fella who's causing your indigestion, what's his name?”

“Jack Vukovich.”

Sky Kelso slowly shook his head, sucked on his teeth, and made a few other facial gyrations, before saying, “That's not ringing any bells, partner. What case is it?”

“It was a rape-murder case. The victim's name was Petey Sanchez.”

He continued to squint. “Petey Sanchez,” he repeated, again drawing the knife down though the wood. “The name's familiar, but you're going to have to help me out. I investigated a lot of murders in my day.”

“He was seventeen years old and was found dead up on Chestnut Ridge, west of Crystalton. He had been raped and killed with a rock.”

A look of recognition consumed his face, and he appeared a little surprised that it had come to him so quickly. He nodded twice. “Oh yeah, yeah, I remember that one.” He tapped his forehead with the second knuckle of the index finger that was wrapped around his knife. “Retarded kid—took a rock to the head. What was his name again?”

“Petey Sanchez.”

He frowned. “No, the perp.”

“Vukovich. Jack Vukovich.”

“Yeah, Vukovich, he was a janitor down at a school in Crystalton, wasn't he?”

“He was, at the junior high. In fact, you arrested him at the school.”

“I remember that now, but how did you know that?”

I had been exposed early in the game. “I was there.”

“You're from Crystalton?” I nodded. “Well, that makes this conversation a lot more interesting. So, you were there the day Vukovich got arrested and now you're the prosecutor in the county where he's living?” I nodded. “That's an odd coincidence, isn't it?”

“Not as much as you might think. Mind if I sit down?”

He pointed with the knife to an empty rocker across the porch. “Help yourself. You got my curiosity up now. What kind of issues are you dealing with?”

“The kind I'm not at liberty to talk about just yet, but I can tell you that a leopard doesn't change his spots, and neither do child molesters.”

He nodded. “No big surprise there. So, what is it that you want to know?”

“You didn't believe that Vukovich killed Petey Sanchez, did you?”

He looked down at his wood and knife, debating, I assume, whether to answer the question. “That's an interesting question, but I'm not sure things are adding up. Just how does my opinion on an old murder case figure into your current investigation?” He was on his guard and trying to turn the tables on me. It was evident that he was not going to give up anything easily, especially when he still didn't know my motivation. “Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that I didn't believe this Vukovich was guilty of the murder. How would you know that?”

“I've been doing some research, talking to some people.”

“Uh-huh. You done blowin' smoke up my ass?”

I laughed. “The night after Vukovich was arrested on the rape charge, you went down to Crystalton to talk to a kid that Vukovich said threw the rock that killed Petey Sanchez, but you never got to talk to him. His dad wouldn't let you near him. I'm just curious what happened.”

He squinted at me again. “Were you that kid?”

“No, I wasn't.”

“What's your name again?”

“Hutchinson Van Buren.”

He squinted. “That wasn't it.”

“Was it Adrian Nash?”

His brow crinkled above his left eye and he nodded. “Yeah, that's it. Nash. He was a good ballplayer, as I recall. His dad is the banker. Yeah, that was him. I went down to try to talk to him, but I couldn't get past the old man. Me and the old man, we knew each other, talked once in a while, but he wouldn't come near me after that night.”

“Okay, so that you won't think I'm blowing smoke up your ass, here's what I really came to ask: If you believed Vukovich and thought Adrian Nash killed Petey Sanchez, why didn't you pursue it?”

“What makes you think I didn't?” he said, his voice, tinged with anger, rising for the first time.

“He was never charged and Jack Vukovich went to prison for the murder.”

He took a long breath, brought the whistle up near his face and eyed it down his nose, then commenced whittling. “Vukovich admitted to the rape, but said he didn't kill the kid. I believed him. It wasn't like he said the murder was committed by some kid he didn't know—he was real specific about who did it and how it happened. Vukovich said it was the Nash boy and, as I recall, he said some of Nash's buddies were up there with him. When old man Nash wouldn't let me near his son, I was going to track down his compatriots and squeeze their balls. It wouldn't have been too difficult to figure it out. Kids get scared and talk, especially if they weren't the one who threw the rock.” He lifted his head from his work. “And, unless I miss my guess, you're one of the ones whose balls I'd have been squeezing.”

It was a guess, but a damn good one. “What happened? How did you go from believing Adrian Nash killed him to sending Vukovich to prison?”

“If this ever comes back on me, I'll deny it to my dying breath.”

“Understood.”

“I was told, in no uncertain terms, that the Nash boy would not be charged. He was off limits.”

“By who?”

“Who do you think? The goddamn prosecutor. I hadn't even talked to him about it, but I got a call one day and was told not to bring up the Nash kid's name under any circumstances. I told him that was horse shit. Vukovich's story was too detailed to ignore and we needed to give the kid a look, but he said I was wasting my time because there would never be an indictment; he wouldn't even think about taking it to the grand jury unless I had a photograph of the Nash kid throwing the rock. He said even if it was true, we were not going to ruin a kid's life when we had a chance to get a pervert like Vukovich off the streets. He said he didn't care if the murder conviction was bogus, Vukovich was a sick fuck and he'd be off the streets. Don't get me wrong, I can't say that I disagreed with his assessment of Vukovich, but I wasn't thrilled about having a guy
go to prison for a crime he didn't commit. The next thing I know, they indict the son of a bitch for murder with death penalty specs.”

“Why didn't Vukovich fight it?”

Kelso snorted. “Fight it! With what? We had a dead retarded kid that he admitted to molesting. It wouldn't be much of a leap to convince a jury that he killed him. The possibility of going to the electric chair will take the fight out of most men. He was going to prison for a long time for the rape, anyway, and as I recall the time was all rolled in together as part of the deal. Basically, if he wanted to avoid the electric chair, he had to keep his mouth shut and take the fall.”

“Alfred Botticelli was the prosecutor, wasn't he?”

“Yeah, the fucking hypocrite. He put on a big show about sending Vukovich to prison while he knew all along he didn't do it.” He skinned the train whistle, the muscles and tendons in his forearms tightening. “His kid took over as prosecutor when the old man got elected to Congress. Alfred Junior. He's a weasel, and the little prick is cut from the same piece of cloth as the old man.”

“Why didn't you take your story to the newspaper?”

“Yeah, I could have just slit my wrists, too. It would have been the same result. My political career would have been over. You ever play football?”

“Sure.”

“Then you understand the importance of working within a system. The same rules pertain to the Democratic Party in Jefferson County. You want their support, you play by their rules. Botticelli held a lot of sway with the head of the party.”

I rocked for a moment while he used the tip of his knife to hollow out a hole. “So, Botticelli didn't want to ruin a young kid's life and wanted to make sure a child molester stayed put away for a long time. There are probably a lot of people around Steubenville who would have considered his motives somewhat noble.”

“Noble?” He said it like he wanted to spit. “Alfred Botticelli never did a noble deed in his entire, pathetic life. He would put on a big show in the courtroom, pretending to be this goddamn monument to justice, then put his hand out behind his back and expect someone to fill it.”

“What's that mean?”

He tooted twice into the whistle and it produced a shrill noise. He chuckled to himself. “Oh, you strike me as a pretty smart boy. I'm sure you can figure that out.”

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Kelso.”

I started to push myself out of the chair when he said, “I've got a couple questions I'd like to ask you.”

“Shoot,” I said, lowering myself back into the chair.

“I'm not sure what you're up to, or what you're up against, but unless I miss my guess, either you want to clean your conscience, or you're concerned that this is all going to come out anyway, and I'm betting on the latter. This Vukovich, is he squeezing someone?”

“He is. How'd you figure that out?”

“Doesn't take a genius. A guy goes to prison for a crime he didn't commit and knows who the real perpetrator was, he spends a long time in there with his wick doing the slow burn. It gives him a lot of time to think, a lot of time to plot revenge. Can't say that I blame him. Is he after Nash and his family?”

“Why would you think that?”

“The old man's still president of the bank, isn't he? He's got the money.”

He reached around his shoulder and grabbed his cane, using it to help steady himself as he stood. “I have a young man waiting for a train whistle.” He extended his hand. “Nice meeting you Mr. . . . damn, I forgot your name again.”

“Hutchinson Van Buren.”

“Yeah, Mr. Van Buren. Why is that name familiar to me?”

“You've probably heard it around. I'm the Republican candidate for attorney general.”

He snapped his fingers. “That's it.” He thought about that for a moment, then started laughing. He pointed at me with his cane and laughed harder. Finally, he said, “Now I get it.
You're
the one getting squeezed.” He opened the front door, laughing and shaking his head. “It's the perfect storm, isn't it? He knows you were up on that hill; he knows you kept quiet about the truth for thirty-some years, and now you're running for attorney general. Now, that's sweet justice.”

D
riving down Sunset Boulevard, I passed the Hollywood Shopping Plaza, where I worked weekends in high school at the Mr. Wiggs department store, and Harding Stadium, home of the Steubenville Big Red. The exit to Market Street, the main east-west corridor through downtown, branches off to the right. I slowed to allow a woman hunched with age and pushing a shopping cart to cross Market Street just east of the railroad tracks, and was stopped at the light at Fifth Street. The once-proud downtown business section lay crumbling before me, and I tried to remember what stores had filled the empty lots and shuttered buildings. It was a far cry from the bustling steel city I had known as a boy. Mom and I went to Steubenville nearly every Saturday morning. She would get her hair done, or shop, or meet a friend at the Green Mill Restaurant on Fourth Street. To me, it was a great adventure as I was allowed to roam through the stores and look for items on which to squander my allowance. The Hub department store, the Paramount Theatre, the five-and-dimes—S. S. Kresge Company, McCrory's, W.T. Grant— were gone, as was the bakery where the aroma of fresh-baked donuts had wafted through the streets. In my youth the sidewalks were always full, but on this morning only a few old men shuffled along the streets. Smoke once billowed out of steel mill smokestacks at such a rate that it choked the sky and blocked the West Virginia hills, evidence that the mills were strong, men were at work, and all was well in the Ohio Valley. The sky was now clear and azure,
unemployment was rampant, and the mills were on life support. The light turned green and I cruised slowly down Market Street. It was just sad. I turned right on South Court Street, pulling into a parking space on the street.

Before I could turn off the ignition my cell phone hummed. It was Shelly. There was no use putting if off any longer. I flipped open the phone and said, “Good morning, my love.”

“Where the hell are you and what are you doing?”

The tone was more anger than worry. Whether Shelly Dennison was acting in the capacity of campaign manager or girlfriend, her modus operandi was one of total control. If she could cajole me into a speaking engagement that I didn't want to do, good. If she could decline my invitation to spend the night, better. Once I left town unannounced, the strings to her marionette had been snipped and it was no doubt driving her to the point of a rash.