The True Detective (33 page)

Or does he turn to her so often because—? he wonders.

She knows. She knows that he knows that she knows. He knows, too, that her feelings are more or less the same. They have a thing. At the same time nothing has ever been articulated or consummated or acknowledged. Both seem to know—he has imagined—that the attraction may be sustained, may remain endlessly stimulating, so long as it is not admitted. They do not go to lunch together, nor does she enter his cubicle and close the door; they never discuss anything but business, and on various social occasions, each may chat with the other’s spouse in the most genuinely affectionate way.

The sweetness of fantasy, he says to himself now. An endless caramel available to his tired heart, an aid in bed, also, with Beatrice.

By seven thirty, though, Shirley has yet to arrive and he goes looking for the chief, to see if he has come in early. He has, as Dulac learns at the special desk, where he pauses to take a call himself and fill out a tip sheet. Standing next to the uniformed officer, who is on another phone, Dulac hears a fifteen-yearold high school girl, her mother in the background offering too much advice on what to say, tell of having seen a boy “forced into a car” on Saturday evening. Taking down her name, address, and telephone number, he asks if she knows Eric Wells; she does not, although his brother, Matt, although not a friend, is in her grade, she tells him. He asks her to describe what she saw.

What happened was, the girl tells him, this car pulls up, down on Congress Street, and it stopped beside this little boy who was walking on the sidewalk. This man got out on the driver’s side and went around to the sidewalk, where he sort of talked to and sort of forced this boy into the back seat of the car behind this woman who opened her door on that side.

“How did he force him?” Dulac asks.

He sort of pushed him and held his arm, the girl tells him, the mother in the background saying, you said he pushed him hard.

“What did the woman do?” Dulac says. “Was it a two-door or a four-door car? Did she have to lean forward, out of the way, for the boy to get into the back seat?”

Yes, yes, the girl tells him. It was just like that, and the boy looked like the picture of Eric Wells in the paper.

Dulac asks if she was alone, and looking up sees Shirley Moss entering through the main door, waves at her, winks a little, hears the girl say no, she was with her girlfriend, and hears the mother say, tell him her name.

Writing down the girlfriend’s name and address, telephone number and age, Dulac asks the girl if she knows what time it was that she saw the boy get into the car. The girl is able, as it turns out—on a couple more questions—to say almost exactly when it was because she and her girlfriend had just left Daddy’s Junky Music Store as it was closing at six o’clock. Did they stop anywhere else? No, the girl tells him. She’s absolutely sure of that? Dulac asks, reminding himself for the first time this morning not to close off his mind because they may have a suspect. They looked into windows, that was all, the girl explains, and together, the mother helping some more, they calculate that it was two and a half blocks later that they saw the boy being forced into a car.

Dulac asks several more questions, mainly about the car and about the description of the boy, and then he thanks the girl and tells her she will be contacted if any more information is needed. Still leaning over the desk, he completes the tip sheet, entering a C in its priority space—meaning no follow-up is required and places it in the wire tray next to the computer where it will be double-checked, entered in the computer file on the case, and the sheet itself filed in a drawer.

This done, mentioning to the chief’s secretary in passing that he will be right back, he goes looking for Shirley. Finding her at the coffee maker in the squad room, where Mizener as well as two uniformed officers are also gathered with styrofoam cups, he can tell at a glance that she has already heard the news. “Shirley,” he says, “there are some things I have to talk to you about right away, before I see the chief.”

As she follows to his cubicle, he says, “We need to set up a press conference for ten thirty or so. In the squad room, so we can make this afternoon’s paper. Anyone who calls, from the media, give them the message; call anyone who hasn’t called, and ask them to attend.”

“How
real
is this suspect?” Shirley says.

“I’m not sure; he looks real to me. I’ll know more as soon as I talk to the witness again. Which is what I have to see the chief about. Do you know anything about our secret witness program?”

“I guess I don’t. Why does it have to be secret?”

“The guy is gay, the witness; he’s afraid it would hurt his job if it got out.”

“Poor thing. What else do you have? Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“You said you had several things.”

“Well, this. We could have something here. If we do, and if the witness is good and cooperates, we could have a full description, even a composite, to put out at the press conference. Question is—what I wanted to ask you—if this is our guy, and if he is holding the boy, what do you think the effect on him would be, the impact, of a composite, a blast of info on him in the papers and on TV?”

“Gil, what are you saying?”

“The risk, you see. If we put out a blast of publicity, it seems a good chance that he’d snuff the boy, dispose of the body, and
if we picked him up at all, assuming he didn’t take off, claim not to know anything about anything. The critical thing would be forcing his hand. Assuming the boy is still alive.”

Shirley is looking at him. Pausing, she says, “You think he’s still alive?”

“We have no reason to think otherwise.”

“Gee, I don’t know, Gil. I’ll tell you what I think. I think the little boy was picked up by some creep Saturday night, and he never saw daylight again.”

“That’s your gut reaction?”

“I guess it is,” she says.

In his disappointment, Dulac glances down to avoid looking in her eyes. He feels stabbed. Is he being naive? Usually it’s women and children who believe in the impossible. “I have to see the chief,” he says.

As she starts away, he goes with her a step but turns back to his desk, as if he has forgotten something. Standing there, he feels once more as if he is going to break somehow. A faint anger comes up in him then and he goes on his way.

V
ERNON IS WALKING ON CAMPUS
. I
N HIS STATE OF MIND HE
knows he has parked again, left the boy again, in the Shop ’n Save parking lot. He had thought to look for Anthony but is not
looking for or at anyone. His nerves are so pinched that when someone calls his name his heart leaps up and wants to run.

There is Duncan, closing on him. “Quiet Man,” he says. “What in the world is going on with you?”

Vernon is unable to say anything to this.

“Leon says you’re pouting because he’s been so insulting. I said you have something going.” About Duncan’s face is an urge to smile.

Vernon is unable to respond, and Duncan says, “Well, what is it?” still appearing eager to smile.

“I’m in trouble,” Vernon says.

“Trouble—what do you mean?”

Vernon only looks, glances at him; he cannot say.

“What kind of trouble?” Duncan says.

“Life or death,” Vernon says.

Duncan does more or less smile now. Then he says, “What does that mean?”

Again Vernon cannot say, even as he is trying to think of something.

As with all else, a conversation appears hopeless. There is a flash in his mind of the town police towing his car, discovering the boy there, putting A and B together. Was it happening right then? It would be the moment in his life, he is thinking, beyond which nothing would ever be so bad. The worst would be over.

“Tell me,” Duncan is saying.

They are approaching a Y-intersection, where it seems to Vernon they will part to go in different directions. As he steps to the side, however, to let other students go by, Duncan stays with him. “Tell me what that means,” Duncan says.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Vernon says.

Duncan is shaking his head. “Vernon, you don’t look real good, you know that?”

“I’m not good,” Vernon says. “I’m not.”

“What’s the problem? Where are you sleeping?”

“In my car.”

“In your car? Jesus Christ—is it Leon? Where are your books?”

Vernon doesn’t say, cannot remember, although he is trying to think of something.

“Tell me you’re not sleeping in your car because of that fucking Leon,” Duncan says.

“I’m not,” Vernon says.

“If you are, goddamit, I will not stand for it.”

“I’m not,” Vernon says.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes—yes,” Vernon says.

Duncan is looking at him. “Vernon, listen,” he says. “If you’re having problems, personal or whatever, why don’t you talk to me about them. Okay? That’s what friends are for, you know.”

“Okay,” Vernon says. “I will. Later, though.”

“You get back tonight or later this afternoon, we’ll talk over whatever the problems are. Will you do that?”

“Okay,” Vernon says.

“I mean it. I don’t care what the problems are. However personal, you understand? Nothing’s so bad it can’t be talked over and worked out. Okay? Do you need money?”

“Money?”

“Are you fixed okay for money? I can loan you some right now if you need it.”

“No, no, I don’t,” Vernon says.

“You be back later?” Duncan says. “I want you to say you’ll be back. We’ll talk things out. Tell me you’ll be back?”

“I will,” Vernon says.

“Okay,” Duncan says. “Good. I have to go to class. But I’ll see you later. I mean it now.”

Vernon nods, as if in agreement.

“Don’t forget now,” Duncan says.

“I won’t,” Vernon says.

Duncan nods and goes on, taking the leg to the left. Vernon waits another moment before turning back in the direction from which he came. Maybe he could blurt it out to Anthony, he is thinking. Maybe even to his mother, even as he knew she would not help him go undetected, or help him get away, or call a lawyer for legal assistance, that she would simply rage at him with insane anger, with accusations, would scream at him
why? why? why?

At last though, or down deep, she would understand. Duncan would not understand, he thinks. Not ever.

He reverses direction. Acting out the slightest role of having forgotten something, he turns to go in the direction he had been going in before running into Duncan. He doesn’t wish to return in the direction of his car. Why don’t they catch him? he thinks. How can he just walk here like this?

He leaves the overcast air in a moment and turns into the library. Passing through its initial smell of overshoes, he discovers as if for the first time—beyond the long circulation counter—its dryness.

Warm air and carpets. Peace and quiet. No cars or loud voices. No cruelty here. Why had he never seen that this was life, too? Why had he been so lonely so much, looked so much to others with whom to spend time? Could he stay here forever? he wonders. Would they let him live here, in this building with floors the size of parking lots filled with books?

Might he trade his life in this way, as payment?

M
ATT IS SITTING AT THE END OF A WOODEN BENCH IN THE
locker room. He is waiting for the rush of boys to change into gym clothes and disappear into the gym—which they are doing, quickly, in the midst of a near-constant slam-slamming of locker doors. Matt likes the feeling of being here—it’s more like being home than home all at once—but he has no feeling to put on shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers and run around in the gym. He doesn’t
have
to be here anyway, he thinks, so it doesn’t matter if he misses gym. Or anything else. For an instant, however, he thinks of his mother at home alone, and his eyes close on him. It’s all so weird, he thinks.

He looked to see Vanessa earlier, coming into the building, and he looked for her after his first class, and missed her both times. He doesn’t even know yet if she’s in school today. And he can’t go look for her now, even if he does know her room, because of the rule against anyone being in the hallway during classes without a pass. She is what fills his mind, though, he thinks. Eric is there, too, sort of, but not like he was earlier, and his mother comes up in flashes. Vanessa has a grip on him. She seems never to be far away.

He could just take advantage, he thinks. Given the situation, who would hassle him? No, he tells himself, it wouldn’t be right. The thought of taking advantage of things makes him feel cheap.

Still, a few minutes later, when he has walked throughout the empty locker room and has wondered again if what is
happening is happening to him, he finds himself in an empty hallway, walking along. He isn’t sure what he is doing, knows only that he is tending in the direction of Vanessa’s classroom.

He catches her eye, but it takes several long minutes. Looking through the glass half of the door on an extreme angle, she finally—in a movement of her head—sees him. She shakes her head once, as if seeing double. She smiles faintly, and looks back down. God, she is actually beautiful, he thinks. A real person sitting in there. He guesses he loves her, as it occurs to him that he’d do anything to be with her.

When she looks his way again, however, there is something like a warning on her face as if to send him a message of another kind. He feels something of a fool and feels cheap again, but he doesn’t know how to get out of it either, and so he stands there, nearly against the wall, watching her, waiting for her to look up again.

She doesn’t.

It’s the racial thing, he thinks. She feels funny letting it show in public that they know each other.

He does leave for a minute or two. Walking to one of the recessed drinking fountains, he leans down for a mouthful of lukewarm water. And he hears one of the hallway clocks click and looks to see its hand jump. Nothing makes sense, he thinks. Lost in space. That’s how he feels.