The True Detective (31 page)

Love for his brother. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? Why would some man pick him up? How could anyone be interested in a little kid like Eric for something like that?

Matt stands next to the sink in the kitchen. His eyes are confused with everything. It comes into his head that he has to say it aloud, speak it out, declare it, if it’s going to do any good in bringing his brother home again.

He listens to the sounds of their life. The refrigerator hums. Other things hum. A weather report is spilling from the TV in the other room; a man is chirping—“low pressure . . . cold front . . . chance of precipitation . . .” Matt imagines his mother watching, imagines Eric gone from her mind.

It must be said aloud, he knows, and he utters, “Rockport, come on home, man. I love you.”

Time pauses.

“Did you say something, Matt?” his mother says.

“What?” he says.

“I said did you say something?”

Wandering back into the living room, he leans on the couch behind her, keeping his eyes on the screen. “What’s the weather?” he says.

“It’s not very good,” his mother says, sitting there under him.

D
ULAC IS IN THE BATHROOM WHEN THE CALL COMES
. Beatrice, coming to the door, tells him the duty officer is on the phone.

Getting himself together, going to the phone in the hall, he hears the officer explain that they have a call from a man who says he will speak only to the lieutenant, because he knows from the paper that the lieutenant is in charge of the case. Also, this guy says that
he
has to do the telephoning, because he will not give out his number. “Maybe he’s a crackpot,” the officer says.

“He wants my home number?”

“Right. He’s going to call back in a minute to see if you’ll give it out.”

“What did he sound like?”

“Sort of arrogant, maybe. He was—”

“Local?”

“It was a local call.”

“Give him my number. Tell him to call right away. Tell him I’ll be waiting.”

To Beatrice then, who is in the bedroom watching the
Late Show
and waiting, Dulac knows, he says he’s going downstairs to take a call, and he slips back into his shirt and pants.

“You mean about the little boy?” she says.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe.” He has no wish to tell her, no wish to build up hopes.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he has fixed a cup of cocoa—tearing a packet, heating a splash of water from the hot water faucet—before the telephone at the cookbook desk rings.

“Hullo,” he says.

“Lieutenant Dulac?” the man says.

“That’s right.”

“I just thought I should call,” the man says. “But I’m not going to identify myself. I want you to know that at the outset.”

“Okay,” Dulac says. “Can you tell me why you’re calling?”

“I saw it in the paper,” the man says. “About the missing boy. Then I just saw the mother on television.”

“Okay. Do you know the mother—or the boy? What is it you have?”

“Well, I’m reluctant to say. I don’t mean to be evasive. I just can’t afford to get involved in anything myself. I mean I want to help, but there are other considerations.”

“Okay,” Dulac says. “Okay. Just let me know what you have. We’ll talk about it.”

“I just want to be a good citizen,” the man says.

“Sir, do you have someone to report? A suspect?”

“That’s exactly what I have.”

“Do you know this person’s name?”

“Not really. I don’t think so. That is, he gave me a name, but I have a feeling it wasn’t the truth.”

“What name did he give you? Could you be more specific?”

“Let me back up a little if I can. Again, I’m sorry to be evasive.”

“Okay,” Dulac says.

“I’m gay,” the man says. “And I’m a professional. If this were to come out, it could cost me dearly. Financially. Professionally. At the same time, I want to be a good citizen, like anyone else. Am I making sense?”

“I think so,” Dulac says. “At the same time, you wouldn’t need to worry about your identity being disclosed by me; I don’t work like that.”

“That’s fine,” the man says. “It’s not a chance I’m willing to take, though. Sorry.”

“What is your profession—would you mind telling me that?”

“Come on, don’t play games now.”

“I don’t mean to play games. Tell me about this suspect.”

“Well, I don’t know much. It’s a person I met.”

“Who is the person? When did you meet him?”

“I’m not going to tell you where I met him.”

“Sir, listen. I understand your concern. About your identity. I appreciate that. Okay? If you have some information, though—and if you
do
want to be a good citizen—then I have to ask you to be a little more forthcoming. We do have a twelve-year-old boy out there somewhere—if he’s still alive—and to tell you the truth, we need all the help we can get.”

When the man doesn’t respond, Dulac says, “
Why
are you suspicious of this person?”

“I just want it understood that the so-called gay community is
not
irresponsible,” the man says. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Loud and clear. Now please tell me what you have.”

Dulac listens; there is nothing.

“In a gay bar,” the man says then. “Saturday. Early evening. Happy hour. I picked up this young guy. It came out in conversation—he was interested in boys. Young boys, I believe, although I’m not sure he was even gay. He was different. I took him to my place, but nothing worked out. He became upset. Visibly upset. He just took off. It was perhaps six forty-five when he left. The paper said the boy disappeared about seven.”

“Were you within ten minutes’ driving time of Islington Street—near downtown?”

“Yes,” the man says.

“Really?” Dulac says.

“Yes,” the man says.

“Would it be out of the way for him to end up on Islington Street?” Dulac says.

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

“It’s exactly on the way. That’s why I’m calling.”

Dulac pauses. “Listen,” he says. “If we should lose this connection, be sure and call me back. What I want you to do right now—and I’m going to be taking this on tape, too, which I hope doesn’t bother you; it’s only for recall purposes—what I want you to do is give me a full description. Everything you can think of about this person. Did he have a car?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you get a license number?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Was it in-state?”

“I think so. I’m not sure.”

“Make and model?”

“I’m not sure of that either. It was silver. Or gray. A recent model. Fairly recent. Small. A coupe. Like a two-door coupe. As for the make, I just don’t know. I’m not into cars.”

“Were you
inside
the car?”

“No. He followed me.”

“Okay. Start with him. With a description. This may take some time, but it’s important that we do it right away, so we can act on it. Start with a physical description of this person. Start with his age, please. How old was he? Did he say? Did he indicate his age in any way?”

As the man talks then, even as his tape-recording device is running, Dulac scratches around with a pencil, making notes
of details such as
early to mid-twenties, childlike, emotional, seemed educated.
Some fifteen or twenty minutes later, when he has covered everything he can think of and has persuaded the man to telephone him at his office number at nine o’clock in the morning—“to maintain contact,” Dulac tells him, “because this sounds promising and I’m sure I’ll think of something between now and then I forgot to ask you,”—Dulac thanks him and immediately telephones the special desk, to put out a general alert on a small silver car. He telephones the chief at home then, waking him, tells him that they have what sounds like a possible suspect and that they need to meet first thing in the morning, to come up with some way to protect the identity of the man who called. “I need to get at this guy, get more dope from him, get him to rack his brains, help with a composite, and so on.”

The chief is less frantic. They do have a secret witness program, he explains. On the books somewhere. Although in a small town like this, not many things would stay secret very long.

“Eight o’clock,” Dulac says. “We’ll pull it out. I want to have it ready by nine, when this guy calls back.”

At several minutes after one, when he has told himself not to get worked up—it may prove to be nothing—Dulac turns off the lights and returns upstairs. In the dark bedroom, when Beatrice says, groggily, “Well?” he says, “Knock on wood. It’s all I can say right now. It sounds possible. Knock on wood.”

Lying in the dark, though, lying on his side and seeming to stare through the house, through the walls and out over the countryside, he finds his thoughts keep returning to the implications of time and place, of motivation. Then again, his thoughts run over the implications of time and place, of motivation. And then again, as he lies there.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1981

S
OMETHING AWAKENS HIM
,
IN TERROR
. A
N ALARM HAS GONE
off in his heart and is now quiet, in terror’s aftermath. During the night he awakened again and again, but not to alarm. Straightening now, in the driver’s seat, feeling the cold from the windshield and side window, he sees there is nothing out there to have alarmed him. Anxiety-filled already, realizing he has unfolded some of the sleeping bag to cover himself,
knowing
the boy is still there, he tosses it back.
Don’t move, don’t say anything!
Vernon imagines snapping at him. He sees there is some light in the sky. Another day. Goddamn you, he thinks at once, still not touching the boy, nor even looking at him to ascertain that he remains alive. I have to get rid of you.

He sits still. His jaw is clenched and he wonders if what has crossed his mind was a passing thought. He doesn’t know, could pursue it no further in his mind it seems if he wanted to, as he is looking over the parking lot, cars, buildings, questioning again what it was that awakened him to such a frightened feeling. All looks still, and he wonders if a car went by and tooted its horn. Stupid cops, he says to himself all at once. Stupid idiot cops. Why is it so easy to outsmart them? How can anyone be so stupid? Why aren’t they here?

He touches the boy then. Reaching, finding his arm, he shifts to his uncovered wrist, turns it upside down and with two fingers searches for his pulse. He searches and searches, without concern. He finds it then, feels its message of life telegraphing through to him.

Life and death. They are that close. Odd disappointment is in him. As the faint pulse under the boy’s skin keeps lifting, Vernon knows it was an end he was looking for, not a continuation.

He drops the boy’s wrist and returns his attention to the sky. What to do? he thinks. What to do and where to go? There seems a continuous sound of ocean in the air; otherwise there is stillness. There is both sound and stillness. Another day. Moments to be counted. This is what it is to be alive. Counting moments. Then when the telegraphing stops, life is over; who knows what part of it has been a dream and what follows thereafter.

Nothing follows thereafter, Vernon thinks. Nothing. A thought stirs in his mind and loins to have sex with the unconscious boy; he tells himself this is ludicrous even as he marvels at the egocentricity of his libido. A cock has a mind of its own. A hard-on has no conscience. He feels new desperation. He could do it, he thinks. He isn’t going to, but he could. The horrible psychology of it excites and angers him, until he gets himself to look away from the idea in even more anger.

“I could take you to the door of the emergency room and drop you off,” he utters to the boy. “I could do that, but I’m not going to because I’d get caught then and I don’t want to be caught. Do you understand how angry I am with you? Do you?”

Where a high span of horizon is visible between buildings and trees, he discerns the faintest washing into the sky of day-light. A watercolor sweep along a straight line. Day is breaking. Vernon has a feeling that something from the heavens has spoken to him, in the moments before daybreak, has spoken
of life and death and of the revolutions of planets through the universe.

No one counts, he thinks. Or ever has. Even as some names linger longer than others, all simply disappear into nothing, carry less weight than particles of sand washing up on beaches down through the ages, through eons. Life is a passing moment. A momentary gift. A brief pleasure in seeing something and thinking something, afflicted entirely with a need for love. A cruel paradox.

A car entering brings him back. The car’s headlights pass before him; he watches the car pull into a parking space. Its lights go off. In a moment, doors on both sides open and close and two women appear, walking in the direction of the hospital buildings. Going on duty, Vernon thinks. He decides in this moment to move out of here, to attempt to do something. It seems a moment of clarity, a span in his own anxious horizon, although he doesn’t know what to do or where to go. To go on duty. He has to get out of trouble, he thinks. He has to get away from this trouble. He has to do what has to be done. He has no choice anymore.