In Plain View (12 page)

“Yeah. Wouldn’t watch TV. Except the Weather Channel. Always had to take a moment, you know, when he sat down to eat. Praying and shit. Me, I got no problem with that. Doesn’t bother me. Some of the other guys, it took ’em a while getting used to that kinda thing. Vegas helped him fit in.” The captain tipped his head in the direction he’d dismissed the younger man.

“The other man we were talking with, he was a friend of Tom’s?”

“More than a friend. They partnered on the ambulance.”

Maybe that explained the odd expression when I’d mentioned family. Tom’s partner was definitely someone we would want to speak with again.

“Pat’s last name is Vegas?”

“No.” The chief shook his head. “Vegas is his nickname. Everybody in the station’s got one.”

“He’s a Las Vegas fan?”

“Doubt he’s ever been there. Pat’s a dealer.” The captain snorted a little chuckle. “Always got something going on, you know?”

Ainsley went ahead and put the camera back on his shoulder. “This isn’t privileged info, is it, Captain? Could I get one more shot? I’m not sure about the last one.”

The captain gave him the Big Man’s affirmative. “Tommy and Pat rode the ambulance together. Both of them are…were paramedics—EMS.” He sighed and stepped back. “That all you need to know?”

I smiled some more. “Were they friends?”

“Yeah, sure. Pat had been here a while already when Tommy got hired. Kind of took him under his wing. Tommy was small for a firefighter, you know. Some of the boys had trouble with that at the start. But he was a good man. Fearless. He’d do things nobody else would, you know?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Fearlessness is the first requirement of unbalanced competition. “Tom ever go into a fire?”

“Oh, yeah. Did it not one month ago. House fire. Got a sticker in the window, says there’s a kid in there. I’m about to call for volunteers, Tommy’s already suited up. The guy had stones, I’m telling you. He came to us better trained than most of those babies out of fire school, ’cause he’d worked VFD for the Amish. He knew fire. Unafraid.”

“How does it work out there, if there’s a fire on Amish land?”

“If? Shit, they get them all the time. They’ve got barns full of sawdust and kerosene lamps. They live in wood buildings and use candles. And wood-fucking-stoves! I’m surprised there aren’t more fires out there.”

“Do you get a lot of calls out there?”

He pursed his lips and shook a no. “Most of them are too isolated. By the time we hear about it, not much we can do. If it’s bad and it’s not too far out—and somebody calls us—we’ll send a pumper. That’s what they usually need. Sometimes, a guy in full gear will go in after someone. The Amish VFD don’t use air tanks.”

“Why?”

“Mask won’t fit over the beards.”

“How’s somebody do that?” Ainsley piped up. “How do you actually walk into a fire, even with a tank?”

“Most of the good ones, they think about it ahead a time. Get it set in their head, who they’re going in for—their wife, their kids, their mother.” The captain leaned back against the shiny fire truck, just another old salt waxing poetical. “Tommy had that and something else. He was the kind of guy who liked a test.”

I cocked my head and wrinkled my brow, keeping my voice off the recording. My face said it all,
explain that.

“He was always setting tests for himself. Asking how many runs did that guy do? Pushing himself. The other guys on his shift, they saw right away he was a man who’d do the job. That meant a lot to him. Tommy cared what the guys thought. That letter from the cop—” Captain frowned, his jowls shaking with discouragement, “—knowing what people were thinking about him, after that letter, it messed him up. Maybe just about the worst thing could’ve happened to him, you know?”

“What did people think about Tommy,” Ainsley asked before I could, “after the letter?”

The captain had warmed up. He seemed almost relieved to tell his side of the story. Sometimes that happens. Usually, it’s where you find a guilty conscience.

“Hell, they thought he was a pervert! All this time, Tommy was never anything but a paramedic and a firefighter—a damn good one—but he seemed to have no life, no…urges—you know? He was a robot, a shiny robot. That’s how he got his name,” one side of his mouth crooked in a half-forgotten smile of genuine fondness, “guys called him Tinman.”

“Tinman?” I repeated, hoping to draw out more detail.

“From
The Wizard of Oz?
” Ainsley prompted. “The Tinman had no heart.”

“Thank you. I get it now,” I ground out before turning to the captain to ask, “So your Tinman got busted for copping a feel on Dorothy?”

“Can you believe?” The captain opened his hands, all shocked innocence. “We were pretty surprised. He caught some grief about that, too.”

“Any idea who the girl was?”

“He never talked about her.”

Ainsley tried again. “Um, Captain? What sort of ‘grief’ did the guys give Jost, exactly?”

The captain waved it off. “No more than the usual. Few jokes. Put stuff in his locker, you know? Just grief.”

Just grief.

“How did Pat handle it?” Ainsley asked.

“What?” The question startled him. He was suddenly self-conscious, trying to remember how much he’d said.

“How did Pat handle Tom’s trouble?” I said. “You mentioned they rode the ambulance together.”

“Oh, they were fine mostly. Yeah. No problems. They had words now and then, maybe, like anybody working together. Nothing unusual. I’m sure it was a coincidence they argued the before—” The words came to a sudden halt. He turned his shoulder to the camera as if he’d forgotten something behind him. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work now.”

“You think Pat might be willing to talk to us?”

“No. Can’t help you there. Against department regulations.” The captain was back in charge. He held up a hand, like a crossing guard warning of a stop. “That’s all now.”

“Anyone else you know I should talk to? Any other friends of Tom’s?”

“No. Nobody—except that school teacher. He used to go see her, have Sunday dinner or something. That’s it.” He stepped back, both hands up now as if he’d push us away if we tried to follow him. He backed up, two steps, turned and hustled off into the cavern of the firehouse.

“Thanks,” I called.

“That was weird,” Ainsley summed up, as the camera came down.

“That, my boy, was not weirdness. That was guilt.”

2:40:31 p.m.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Ainsley said again.

“I heard you the first time.”

Traffic was a mess. We crawled past town hall for the second time. It was smack in the center of the main drag. From the front, it looked like the live location shots used half a century ago for
Mayberry, R.F.D.
Wide stone steps led to a columned portico. Doors tall enough to accommodate NBA superstars. Surrounding the building was a park that extended a full city block behind the place. As we circled the area looking for a place to park, I could see banners and booths advertising for the animal shelter, the art league, Republicans and various other gun nuts.

“What is all this?”

“City’s celebrating the 150th anniversary of incorporation,” Ainsley said. “They’ve been planning it for two years. It’s a pretty big deal.”

“I’ll bet.” I felt a sudden whoosh of relief, as I realized how close I’d come to being ordered to do a story on sesquicentennial weekend for network television. All due respect to Charles Kuralt.

“There’s produce and animals in that big tent, like a mini state-fair market. City hall’s open for tours. Carnival rides in the Catholic church parking lot. I heard there’ll be Amish here for the market. I figured that would be the place for us to get those filler shots.”

Not bad; the boy had come through with a plan for getting the Amish on camera. However, his parking karma was the pits. Even the spots reserved for Town Hall Business Only were taken by huge Lexus-style sedans straddling two spaces. Damn lawyers.

“Maybe we should stick to the sesquicentennial party,” Ainsley repeated. “Leave Sheriff Curzon alone for a while?”

Here in the boondocks, the county seat was also the sheriff’s palace. So it just so happened that Curzon had an office in the old downtown town hall courthouse; although the jail itself was in the modern extension grafted onto the back of the building.

“We’re here anyway. We need to ask about the letter.” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. I like my work. I like asking people hard questions. “Don’t worry. Curzon’s going to get a big kick out of seeing us again. I promise to make every effort not to piss him off. All I want is five minutes of clean interview with the letter-writing cousin,” I dreamed aloud. “Park right there.”

“It’s marked Deliveries Only.”

“I know.” I gave the boy a friendly shot to the arm. “Good reason to go see the sheriff. We’ll ask for a press pass.”

Ainsley looked a little bug-eyed, but he didn’t argue.

I think he was getting used to me.

Inside the town hall, the air was old-stone cooled. We followed a clump of modern signs glued to the marble, directing us to the sheriff’s office. The place was bustling with activity. Folding tables were set up with handouts, balloons, people educating the citizens about programs for recycling hazardous waste, invader bugs eating local trees and how to fingerprint your kids for their protection.

The hallway swarmed with people, dressed casually and talking loudly, many using the building as a cut through to the park area out back. A pair of kids darted around us with balloons in tow.

“Ainsley!” a woman in a suit called from across the hall.

College hissed something under his breath, then answered her with a big, welcoming smile. “Hi, Mom.”

That turned my head.

“Maddy O’Hara meet Phyllis Prescott, my mother,” Ainsley coughed, “the mayor-elect.”

“How do you do?” I said. What else is there to say to a mayor-elect?

“I’m so glad you came to our little celebration today, Ms. O’Hara. You are planning on taking a tour of the mayor’s office, I hope?” Phyllis Prescott struck me as the kind of woman who maintains a narrow standard deviation of appearance. Her hair was a widely available chemical gold, styled and sprayed solid. Nice open smile, decent handshake. She wore slacks with a suede jacket that sported appliqué leaves, pumpkins and Indian corn.

“Ainsley was saying perhaps you could arrange a special tour for us?” I smiled at our college boy. He was not an idiot; he encouraged her with a nod.

“Did he?” She looked pleased. “Well certainly. I’d enjoy that. I’m busy for at least another hour. But hopefully we can meet—”

There was a shout and a sudden interruption of feet pounding toward us, echoing against the stone up into the high-ceiling hallway. My heart jumped. Low threshold for startle response.

A big teenage boy in Amish clothes shoved past us, bumping Mrs. Prescott against a table in his hurry. “Pardon, ma’am,” he called.

“Hey!” Ainsley called, steadying his mother with one hand.

I caught a bright line of blood down the boy’s face, from his nose to his chin. He didn’t stop. He sprinted toward the bright light of the main doors, lunging around the crowd toward the exit, like a critter on the wrong end of the hunt. His fan club appeared down the other end of the hall. There were five of them.

The Amish boy had already cleared a path through the crowd, so the boys chasing him were able to move quickly up the hall.

It flashed through me so fast, I couldn’t say how I went from angry to action. I put my best boot forward and turned the boys running toward us into a split of bowling pins: three in front toppled, two in the back still wobbling.

Ainsley had stepped forward to shield his mother. I stepped back, swung my camera off my shoulder and started shooting photos.

“What the hell!”

“Quit taking my picture, bitch!”

“That’s enough!” Mrs. Prescott snapped. “You watch your mouth, mister, or you’ll be in more trouble than you can handle.”

As the two boys in front scrambled to their feet, a swarm of uniformed cops hustled up the hall. I hadn’t seen them coming, being too busy looking through the lens. All the men were very concerned about Mrs. Prescott and very un-concerned about the tumbled teenagers. One of the cops put a heavy hand at my back and directed me up the hall toward a door labeled Sheriff’s Department.

We all trooped past the front desk, to an open desk zone, full of busy people and the constant under-hum of electronic services: a scanner, two-way radio buzzer going off, telephones. The usual. Felt like a newsroom to me—except the men were more butch.

The Amish boy had been nabbed as well. He was sitting in a wooden armchair, with a paper towel full of ice melting against his nose. He looked like a kid waiting to see the principal.

“I’d better go with Maddy,” Ainsley told his mother after the paperwork had been organized. She waved him on, deep into a tête-à-tête with one of the officers. Sounded like the boys would be picking up tot-park litter until they graduated college if she had her way. Power used for good is so appealing.

Curzon appeared in the doorway next to where the Amish kid sat waiting. He stepped back and thumbed the kid into his office. Before he shut the door, he shot a glance my way.

Guess who was next for the principal’s office?

“You still plan on asking Curzon for a press pass?” Ainsley sounded sorry for me.

“Sure. No harm in asking,” I answered. “So your uncle runs the local television station and your mom is the mayor-elect. Any other family members you want to tell me about?”

“Um…no?” Ainsley waved at one of the cops who’d raised a hand in greeting.

Shit, my boy was better connected than a Daley democrat.

I crossed my arms and propped my butt against the desk behind me. “What does being mayor-elect get you in this town anyway?”

“A parking place. Free rides on fire trucks.” He smoothed his sunny hair back off his brow with a casual brush that mimicked a cartoon
whew.
“Oh, and a cable television show.”

“Maybe I should ask your mom for the press pass.” I would have laughed out loud if there weren’t men everywhere. “Cable, huh?”