The True Detective (27 page)

“Well, I wasn’t there, so they didn’t prove it to me. Not yet. So why don’t you answer my questions, so I can get on my way.”

“There’s nothing new under the sun,” the man says then.

“You’re pretty sure?” Dulac says.

“Okay—whatever good it will do,” the man says. “Film played here a week. Six days. Saturday was the last day, ’cause we don’t open on Sunday. When it ran, it was continuous showings, Evenings, five p.m. until midnight. Saturday, ten in the morning until midnight. That’s it. All within the law.”

“What’s the content?”

“Well, I’m not so sure I know. Standard stuff, I guess.”

“Did you see the film?”

“Some of it. Not much.”

“What is standard stuff?”

“Regular bondage stuff, like it says in the title. On the soft side.”

“Which means?”

The man hunches. “Just a make-believe world,” he says.

“The title says children, too.”

“Well, that too. What it is, people are tied up, given a few swats and so on. People get off on it. It’s their business.”

“Any other violence, besides being tied and swatted?”

“That’s it.”

“By people, you mean children?”

“You could say that was the idea.”

“What else could you say?”

“They’re like actors acting like they’re children. Otherwise it wouldn’t be legal.”

“What about actors with false birth certificates?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“In the film—how many children? What ages were they supposed to be?”

“Two children. They’re supposed to be just coming into their own, whatever age that is.”

“Male or female children?”

“One each.”

“What happened to them? What’s the story?”

“That’s about it. They get tied up and swatted.”

“How tied?”

“Well, their hands and feet are tied.”

“Necks?”

“Yah, I think so.”

“How are they swatted? With what?”

“Well, a switch, I believe. Maybe there was some leather.”

“How hard?”

“Oh. Enough to raise small welts. That’s it.”

“Did you see or notice anyone in particular on Saturday? In the way of customers?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you see anyone come to see the film more than once?”

“Nope.”

Dulac takes in a breath, looking at the man. Then he says, “You the owner?”

“That’s right.”

“Didn’t this use to be an orchard?”

“That’s right. That’s what it used to be.”

“Family farm?”

“That’s right.”

“Your family?”

“That’s right.”

“I think your forebears would be really proud of you.”

“I make a living,” the man says.

Turning, walking to the door, Dulac leaves.

Outside, in the cooler air, he pauses to light a cigarette, At his car then, he stands—touching the opened door as if it were a fence rail—smokes slowly and looks around. Three of the cars and both pickups are gone. Must be a side exit, he thinks. Realizing how little information he has gathered, how the man did not actually cooperate, he feels anger in his neck again and cautions himself to take it easy. He wonders why he is so angry, why something in this has become so personal. He thinks it may be his age. He may be turning a corner in life, while others are taking things for granted.

In the driver’s seat, the door shut, he has yet to start the motor. He continues to pause. It isn’t likely to lead to anything anyway, he thinks. He knew that in the first place, and if he had had anything better or more promising to do, he wouldn’t even have driven out here. Still, he is angry. Disappointed. He might have just lost money playing cards. Or been ridiculed. And lost time on his case besides. He should be in his office. Until he is cleared, the father has to remain their primary suspect. The man who offered Eric a ride is also a primary suspect, until he is cleared.

In the next moment, however, Dulac is climbing back out of his car and walking back across the open space to the door he just left. He walks in. The man looks directly at him this time as he enters.

As he reaches the counter, the hair on Dulac’s neck is a little alive. The counter comes just above his waist as he leans forward to speak softly. “Your answers are unacceptable,” he says. “I want you to start over and I want you to cooperate this time. Just in case there is a connection.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Maybe. I’m not leaving this time until I know you’re being straight with me. I didn’t drive all the way out here to play a little game. Is that threatening? Call the police.”

The man stands in place.

“I don’t care what you do here,” Dulac says. “It’s your fucking life.”

The man only looks at him, without expression.

“Where’s the film?” Dulac says.

“It’s in Portland,” the man says.

“Where?”

“It’s not there yet. It’s on the way.”

“What is the name of the place?”

“It’s called the Playground.”

“That’s neat. How is it transported?”

“Parcel post.”

“What else didn’t you tell me?”

“There’s a little violence in the film. They draw blood on the girl.”

“Real blood?”

“I believe so.”

“Just on the girl.”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. I don’t deal in child porn.”

Dulac stands looking at him.

“There
was
a guy here,” the man says. “For whatever it’s worth. He asked for kiddy porn; he went to the movie.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s a young guy. Mid-twenties.”

“White?”

“Yes.”

“How tall?”

“I don’t know—average.”

“Five ten?”

“About that.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Sort of clean-cut, as I remember. I’d forgotten him until a minute ago.”

“A working man?”

“I don’t think so.”

“White-collar?”

“I don’t know; I couldn’t say. More like that.”

“Clerical?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to say.”

“Glasses?”

“No.”

“Hair color?”

“I don’t remember. Brown maybe.”

“Long hair? Short?”

“Average, I’d say.”

“The guy went to the movie?”

“I saw him go in.”

“What time?”

“Between one and two—about that time.”

“What was the movie’s playing time?”

“About fifty-five minutes.”

“What time did he come out?”

“I didn’t see him come out. I never saw him again.”

“Did you see what he was driving?”

“No.”

“He
asked
for kiddy porn? What did he say?”

“I don’t know. ‘You sell young stuff?’ Something like that. It’s not unusual.”

“Blue jeans?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Heavy, thin?”

“Average.”

“Muscular?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. Average.”

“Was he a bad-looking guy? Homely? Scary?”

“Just an average guy. I didn’t look that close at him. I saw his face, but that’s about all. They come in all the time.”

“He was alone.”

“I think so. One thing I remember. His cheeks were sort of reddish. Ruddy, whatever you call it.”

“You noticed that?”

“He stuck his face up close, when he asked for kiddy stuff. I noticed his face.”

“His cheeks were reddish?”

“They had color, the way some people do.”

“Anything else you remember about him?”

“No. That’s it.”

“Eyes?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thanks. I may ask you to look at some mug shots.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Look, it’s a living,” the man says. “I did two tours in Vietnam.”

“Why tell me?” Dulac says.

“I’m owed,” the man says.

Dulac walks away, leaves through the door without responding.

M
ATT IS IN A CHAIR AGAINST THE WALL
. H
IS MOTHER IS TO
his left, near the desk where the detective sits. The detective—Lt. Dulac—has his suit coat off and his tie loosened. He is talking, but Matt is listening only in part. There is a file cabinet behind the man. He looks as wide as two file cabinets put together, Matt thinks, although mainly he is thinking of Vanessa. And of Eric. This is what Eric would like, talking with the police, he thinks. But then Eric never knew what it was like, when something was really wrong. When it’s you. To Eric, it was like seeing something on television, Matt thinks, and he imagines telling him this when he sees him.

In fact, when it’s you, Matt thinks, it doesn’t feel good at all. It isn’t fun. It’s like being in a waiting room, going to see a doctor and not knowing what he might do to you with his knives and needles. It isn’t fun at all.

“Does that bother you?” his mother says, turning to him.

“It simply should be done,” Dulac is saying. “We had intended to ask you to do one, too, Mrs. Wells, but we’ve talked to half a dozen people already who are certain that you were in the Legion Hall dining room throughout the entire evening, so it isn’t necessary.”

They are talking, Matt knows, about his taking a lie-detector test.

“It’s just another thing I’d like to move on right away,” the large man says. “It isn’t that I feel Matt is a suspect in any way. I want you to understand that. It’s regular procedure for
all
family members. If an outside inspector came and reviewed the steps we’d taken so far, he’d say what about a polygraph for this family member? What’s going on here? And so on. You have to start as close to home as possible and go from there.”

“Well, Matt?” his mother says.

“I don’t care,” Matt says. “What’s it like, though?”

“It’s just some diodes and a printout. It’s nothing much, believe me.”

“Do you feel anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Well, does it make you say things you might not want to say?”

“Matt, what is this?” his mother says.

“I don’t care,” Matt says. “I’ll take it. My gosh, can’t I say anything?”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Wells. Matt, it’s not like a truth serum, if that’s what you’re thinking. It doesn’t probe. If you cheated on a test at school, it’s not going to tell on you or anything like that. The questions will only have to do with Eric, and with anything you might know about his whereabouts. That’s it. The idea is just to
clear
you, not to implicate you.”

“I can’t believe you’re carrying on like this,” his mother says to him.

“I said I’d do it!” Matt snaps.

Dulac lights a cigarette. Matt, not looking at him, knows he is being looked at. He still doesn’t look back at the man. It will show in his face that he is withholding something, he thinks, even if he isn’t.

“As I was saying,” the broad detective says, “we want to move quickly on this and on several things we’re suspicious about. I’ve called you both in, at the same time, to ask you some more questions. Some direct questions, to which I want direct answers. Again, you see, someone knows something, even if they don’t know they know it, and the most likely candidates are you. Someone you know. Something you heard. That kind of thing. Okay? It’s always kind of difficult to interview family members in a situation like this, but it has to be done. Eric’s been missing almost two days now. This means things have become quite serious.”

Matt, keeping his eyes down as he listens, feels his face burning with confusion. He hears his mother say something about the police finding Eric in their regular work.

“This
is
regular work,” the detective says. “We don’t know where to look unless you give us some clues. Okay? Mrs. Wells, listen. I don’t mean to be insensitive. Or rude or anything. We have to move quickly on this, on what we have so far. Things are critical. They’re bleak, I’m afraid. You need to know that . . . it’s my job to tell you . . .”

She doesn’t know it, Matt is saying to himself. She doesn’t hear it or believe it because she just doesn’t want to.

“Chances are,” the detective is saying. “You both need to know this. Chances are there is some kind of
sexual
motivation involved in Eric’s disappearance. That’s usually what it is.”

“A little boy?”
his mother says.

Jesus don’t be so dumb, Matt says to himself.

“Mrs. Wells, listen now,” the detective is saying. “Let’s not be naive. Eric may be having a wonderful time camping out somewhere like Huck Finn. I hope he is. For our part, though, we have to assume other things. Things which aren’t so nice. It’s important that you understand what I’m saying.”

At once, Matt is feeling bad for his mother, as if a friend in school were being reprimanded by the teacher for not being able to understand something. She doesn’t think bad things, he wants to tell the detective.

“The unfortunate truth,” the detective is saying, “is that immediate family members, as statistics prove, are the most likely perpetrators where there is foul play of any kind, including that which is sexual. Okay? After family members, we have to be concerned about relatives, friends and neighbors, teachers, friends’ parents, acquaintances at work, and so on. Persons known. If Eric got into a car with someone, chances are it’s someone he
knows.
Okay? I don’t mean to seem hard, but it’s Eric we want to get back and we can’t do that if we don’t take a hard look at things. Don’t worry; we’re not going to implicate anyone in any way—we’re careful about that—and no one is going to know anything about what is said in this room. Okay?”

His mother doesn’t respond, and Matt glances over at her. She just won’t hear it, he is thinking.

“If Eric is being held,” the detective is saying, “we’re hoping—because he seems like a resourceful little guy—that he’ll get away.”

His mother still doesn’t respond.

“At any rate,” the detective says, “we have to get down to specifics. We’re assuming at this time that Eric has been picked up. Our first suspect, Mrs. Wells, even as we know you have grave doubts, is Mr. Wells.”

“Oh no,” Claire says.

“Well, we hope to clear him as soon as we can.”

“I don’t believe he’d be sober long enough,” Claire says.