Memory Man

The address they drove to turned out to be a small house on the edge of town. As they pulled up they could see lights on in the front windows. A porch ran along the front of the plank-sided house. Smoke curled upward from a chimneystack. The snow had started to fall once more.

The house was run-down. The lawn was lumpy, the trees and bushes diseased and mangled, and the single car in the driveway was an ancient Ford truck.

Lancaster muttered, “The town’s patriarch, huh? Must’ve fallen on hard times.”

“There might be a good reason for that,” said Decker.

At their knock the front door opened and an old man, bloated and bent, stood there. His white beard reached to his chest, and his frayed pants were held up by knotted rope suspenders.

Bogart identified himself, flashed his badge, and said they needed to speak to him about his son. Evers nodded dumbly and led the four of them into a tiny room where a fire crackled in a soot-smeared stone-faced fireplace.

The inside of the house was dark and smelled both of mildew and mothballs and of whatever meal the man had microwaved that night.

Decker’s gaze shot everywhere before coming to rest on the old man, who fell back into a recliner, his shoeless feet off the floor. He scratched his cheek and looked at each of them in turn before his gaze returned to Decker.

“You don’t look like FBI.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

“Uh-huh,” Evers said absently, as his gaze settled onto the fire. “So you’re here to find my boy?” he said to the flames. “Didn’t think they’d get the Federals involved. But so be it. All I got left is that boy. Not much, but that’s it.”

“You sacrificed a lot for him, didn’t you?” said Decker. He looked around again. “Pretty much everything, right?”

Evers shot him a glance before looking back at the fire. “What the hell do you know about anything?”

“So you don’t know where he is?” said Decker.

Evers turned a fierce gaze on him. “What are you saying? That I took my own damn son? Are you simple or what?”

“I’m saying that Belinda Wyatt took him. But you already knew that.”

For a moment Evers looked like he might collapse to the floor. But then he regained his composure and even flung his flabby hand out dismissively. “Belinda Wyatt! Ghosts-of-the-past bullshit. What’s she got to do with anything?”

Decker said, “She has to do with everything. She took Giles. And if we do find him, it’ll just be his body, there can be no doubt of that. Something you also know, Mr. Evers. Your son is dead.”

Bogart, Jamison, and Lancaster all stared in alarm at Decker because of this provocative statement. But Decker never took his gaze off Evers.

The old man’s lips trembled and his breathing accelerated. He reached to a side table, picked up a cigarette and lighter, and ignited his smoke. He put it to his lips and inhaled. The nicotine seemed to calm him.

“You got his damn body?” he asked, blowing smoke out his nostrils. “Is that why you’re really here?”

“I doubt we’ll find it. Unless she wants us to.”

Evers exploded, “Then why don’t you go arrest that queer-ass bitch!”

Decker said, “That’s why we’re here. To get your help so we can do that.”

Evers sat up straighter. “Why my help? I don’t know anything. It’s been over twenty years.”

Decker continued. “And we came to you because your son and the other police officers who raped and nearly beat her to death apparently aren’t around anymore. But you are.”

Evers sat up straighter. “Nothing was ever proved. Hell, no case was ever even brought. My boy, not a mark on him. God’s honest truth.”

“Because you paid off the Wyatts and worked with the police chief back then to cover up the whole thing, including not filing a police report. They left her for dead. But she didn’t die. She identified each one of them. Mercy may be extraordinarily misnamed, but it’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody else. She knew who her assailants were. You’re a prominent citizen here. She would have known your son. She would know he was with the police. But she was only sixteen. She would have believed that the police would protect her even from other cops. She was probably always told that if you have a problem or feel threatened in any way, go to the police.” He paused. “Because they’ll help you.” He paused again, keeping his gaze steady on the old man. “Well, they didn’t help her. They raped her, nearly killed her, and then covered it up.”

“No proof.”

Bogart said, “We’ll trace the money that was paid to the Wyatts by you, Mr. Evers.”

“And we talked to the Wyatts,” Decker added, drawing a quick glance from Bogart and Jamison. “They told us what you did. So you can stop with the denials. We’re on a tight time frame. I’m actually surprised you’re still alive. I would have thought they would have taken you at the same time they took your son.”

The matter-of-fact tone employed by Decker seemed to deflate all the remaining fight in the old man. He jerked forward in the recliner so his feet touched the floor.