Sudden Death Part 9

Kevin leaves, and I say to Laurie, "Making any progress on your decision?" I say it nervously because I'm nervous about hearing the answer.

She shakes her head. "Not really. I'm trying not to obsess about it. I just think, when I know, I'll know." That's pretty tough to argue with, so I don't.

On the way out I walk by Sam Willis's office, and he yells out for me to stop in. He tells me that he's been checking into Sandy Walsh, and I instinctively look up to make sure that Laurie hasn't come in and overheard this. It's another sign that I'm aware that what I'm doing is nothing to be proud of.

"He's got real money," says Sam. "Not as much as you, but loaded."

"From where?"

"Hard to tell. Maybe investments, maybe family money... but it's not from his business."

"What is his business?" I ask.

"Rental car agency. One location in town, one just outside of town. Solid, but not big enough to be responsible for his wealth."

"Thanks, Sam," I say, and prepare to leave.

He stops me. "Andy, there's one other thing."

"What's that?"

"The guy's married."

"Laurie said he wasn't," I say.

He shrugs. "Maybe that's what he told her. Got married three years ago February. Wife's name is Susan."

I nod and leave, considering what this news means. It's a mixed bag. On the one hand, it could result in some pain for Laurie, but on the other hand, it could be used by me to get her to stay.

I wish all my bags were this mixed.

THE TEMPERATURE in Milwaukee when we land is eighty-seven, not quite what I picture when I think of this town. It's in stark conflict with my mental image of Vince Lombardi prowling the sidelines, smoke coming from his mouth into the frigid air as the Packers march across the frozen tundra in nearby Green Bay. in Milwaukee when we land is eighty-seven, not quite what I picture when I think of this town. It's in stark conflict with my mental image of Vince Lombardi prowling the sidelines, smoke coming from his mouth into the frigid air as the Packers march across the frozen tundra in nearby Green Bay.

The airport is modern and efficiently run, and within a very few minutes we're in a rental car driving the two hours to Hemmings. I drive and Adam takes out his notepad, no doubt making sure he can keep track of how many rest stops we pa.s.s.

An hour from Hemmings we pa.s.s a sign telling us that we are three miles from the exit for Findlay. I haven't yet decided whether to check out Laurie's hometown, but the highway G.o.d is obviously throwing it in my face. Am I man enough to resist temptation? I never have been before, so I doubt it.

"Isn't that where Laurie is from?" Adam asks.

"She told you that?" is my quick response.

Adam reacts to my reaction. "Sure. I didn't know it was a secret."

This is the last thing I want to talk about, so I switch the conversation toward Adam's life. "You like LA?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I love it, but just for now. It's especially great with my lifestyle; being a writer absolutely beats working. But if I hit it big, I'm out of there."

"Why?"

"Because when they need you, and you don't need them, you can work from anywhere. You hardly ever have to go to meetings and schmooze; all you have to do is write."

"So where would you live?"

He points at the green fields we are pa.s.sing. "Near my parents in Kansas. I want to have enough money to buy a house for them and one for me. After all these years they deserve a nice house."

"You wouldn't miss a big city?" I ask.

"Maybe a little, but I could always go there on vacations. I want to be somewhere I can raise a big family and not have to worry about drive-by shootings."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" I ask.

"No," he says, then laughs. "Why, do I need one of them first?"

We drive on for a while longer, at which point Adam apparently decides it's my turn. "Are you and Laurie engaged or anything?"

"No," I say. "I'm a swinging single."

He laughs. "Yeah, right."

The terrain gets more and more desolate as we reach Hemmings, which can't really be called a small town, or a town at all. It's really just three or four streets of houses in various states of disrepair, surrounding a cardboard box factory.

The houses have deteriorated over the years, yet most have well-kept small lawns and gardens separating them from the street. It is as if the residents do not have the bucks necessary to renovate their homes, but their gardens make the statement that they would if they could.

One of the better-kept homes belongs to Brenda and Calvin Lane, and they are standing on the porch waiting for us as we arrive. I had spoken to Calvin yesterday, alerting him to our coming to see them, and confirming that they would talk to us. He appeared anxious to do so, and their waiting for us on the porch would seem to confirm that.

Within two minutes we are inside on the couch, being barraged by homemade breads, jams, and pastries. Brenda could make a fortune running a bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but my hunch is that doing so is not on her radar screen.

Calvin thanks us profusely for coming, as if it had been his idea and we were doing them a favor. "When I saw what happened on television, I knew I had to talk to somebody about it." He seems unconcerned when I tell him I'm representing Kenny; he just wants to tell his story to anyone who will listen.

"I told him it was silly," says Brenda, "but he wouldn't listen." She laughs. "He never does."

"I think getting things out in the open is always a good thing," I say. "What is it that's bothering you?"

"It'll be five and a half years this November that we lost our Matt," Calvin says, and for the first time I notice that some of the pictures on the wall are of a strapping young man. A few of them are in football uniform.

Now that the conversation has turned to their son, their movements are as if ch.o.r.eographed. Calvin moves his chair closer to me, and Brenda brings out a photo alb.u.m to show Adam. Clearly, they think I'm the guy to talk to about this matter, and in this case they're right.

I can hear Brenda start to identify the pictures that Adam is looking at; as if she has to entertain him while Calvin is telling me his story. They start in kindergarten and peewee football, so apparently, it's going to take Calvin a while.

"He was a great kid... a great kid," says Calvin. "Not a week goes by we don't look at those pictures."

"What happened to him?" I ask, trying to move this along, but feeling a little bad about doing so. Talking about their boy is clearly one of their favorite pastimes.

Calvin goes on to tell me the story of a fateful November weekend, just after Matt's freshman season as a University of Wisconsin football player had come to an end. Matt had a fine year; he was a top player his entire young life, and the coach at Wisconsin was predicting huge things for him.

A bunch of guys whom Matt knew, mostly football players, had come up to do some camping. They weren't all from Wisconsin-some were from big cities-but Matt was going to educate them in the ways of the wild. They'd do some camping, fis.h.i.+ng, maybe a little hunting, and in the process drink far more than their share of beer.

It was a trip from which Matt never returned. He took a few of the guys hunting and was the victim of what was ruled a tragic accident. The police version is that a hunter must have shot at motion in the woods, thinking it was a deer when in fact it was Matt. This despite the fact that the hunter apparently fled and was never identified, and the additional fact that Matt was wearing the bright orange jacket designed to prevent just such accidents.

Kenny Schilling was there that day, having previously established a friends.h.i.+p with Matt through football. The police questioned each of the young men thoroughly, and Calvin did as well, trying to understand why this young life had been snuffed out.

Calvin says that Kenny had aroused his suspicions at the time, but Brenda's slight accompanying groan indicates that she doesn't share that feeling. Kenny had been tentative in describing his whereabouts and had not returned to the camp after the shooting until well after the others.

"And I heard him arguing with Matt about an hour before they left," Calvin says.

This time Brenda's groan from across the room is louder. "They were probably arguing about football," she says. "They always argued about football. Big deal."

Calvin gives me a slight smile and wink, in the process telling me that I should discount everything Brenda is saying. But I actually think she's probably right, as the police did as well. According to Calvin, the police did not appear suspicious of any of the group, and the case never went anywhere.

I'm greatly relieved to hear what Calvin has to say; it's not nearly the blockbuster that Vince led me to believe. When this breaks, if it does at all, my a.s.sessment is that it will be a twenty-four-hour story, ultimately going nowhere and doing no damage.

My plan had been to visit with the local police in the morning and get whatever information I could from them. That no longer seems necessary and in fact could be counterproductive, calling more attention to a story that in no way incriminates Kenny. I'll ask Pete Stanton to call them, cop-to-cop, and find out what he can.

Now of course we have more time on our hands before our return flight tomorrow evening. I can't go fis.h.i.+ng because I didn't bring any bait. I can't go hunting because I left my twelve-gauge at home. I can't farm the land because I don't own any land and I never applied for a plow license.

I guess I'll just have to go to Findlay and check out Sandy Walsh.

WE FIND A HOTEL just outside of Findlay, no expensive minibar or robes in the bathroom, but clean sheets and a television that gets forty-eight channels, including both ESPN and ESPN2. just outside of Findlay, no expensive minibar or robes in the bathroom, but clean sheets and a television that gets forty-eight channels, including both ESPN and ESPN2.

Adam and I are tired, but we go out to grab a quick bite to eat. I'm forced to grudgingly admit that Laurie's hometown is not totally without culture when we find a Taco Bell that's open late. When Adam tells me he can charge it back to the studio, I order an extra grilled stuffed burrito to take back to the hotel.

When I'm traveling, I usually call Laurie before I go to sleep, but I avoid the temptation this time. I don't want to lie to her about where I am, and I certainly don't want to tell the truth, so conversation at this point could be a little difficult.

In the morning we have the buffet breakfast in the hotel. I try the fruit, which appears to have ripened about midway through the first term of the Clinton administration. The biscuits are the consistency of something Mario Lemieux would shoot from just inside the red line. But the coffee is good, and I'm able to use the time to tell Adam where we're going.

It's the "why" I'm not quite so forthcoming about. I tell him I want to surrept.i.tiously check out this guy Sandy Walsh, but I imply that it has to do with a case. Adam can hang out in town while I do it, and he's not to say anything to anyone about it when we get back. I think he knows I'm full of s.h.i.+t, but he's nice enough to just shrug and go along.

Findlay is a small town but considerably bigger than I expected and much nicer than Hemmings. It has a four-block shopping area of treelined streets, where cars park headfirst at an angle. All in all, a nice town... a nice place to have grown up... I'm afraid a nice place to go back to.

I was hoping for a lot worse. I was hoping there would be a sign when we pulled in saying "Welcome to Findlay, Pedophilia Capital of the World." Or "Welcome to Findlay, World's Leading Fungus Producer."

I'm feeling uncomfortable with this whole thing. Laurie's actions remind me of The Wizard of Oz, The Wizard of Oz, like she's going to click her heels and say, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home." Which is bulls.h.i.+t, or Dorothy wouldn't have run away from the dump in the first place. like she's going to click her heels and say, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home." Which is bulls.h.i.+t, or Dorothy wouldn't have run away from the dump in the first place.

I ask Adam, "If Dorothy ran away from home because the dog catcher was going to ice Toto, how come she clicks her heels and goes back? And what happens to Toto when she gets there? Can we a.s.sume he gets a needle in the arm?"

He has no idea what brought this on, but it's about movies, so he's into it. "You know something, you're probably right. They should do a sequel, The Wizard of Oz 2: Toto's Revenge. The Wizard of Oz 2: Toto's Revenge."

"You should write it."

"Maybe I will," he says, but I can't tell if he's serious.

Once I leave Adam in the shopping area, I call one of the rental car offices that Sam told me Walsh owned. The office I reach is the one about five miles out of town. They tell me that Walsh is not there, but at the office in the center of Findlay. It turns out to be a few stores down from where I left Adam. I don't even have to get back in the car; I just walk down the street and go in.

My plan is to ask for him and then hit him with a diversion I've created about my company and its need to rent a large amount of cars in a small time frame. By presenting such a lucrative opportunity, I figure I can engage him in conversation, then see where it goes from there.

I enter the small office and approach the counter, an ingratiating smile on my face. "Hi," I say to the young woman, "I'm looking for a Sandy Walsh."

As I am saying this, I can see into the office behind her, where a man is sitting at a desk. He gets up and walks toward me, a little better-looking and in better shape than I would prefer. I was hoping for someone a little more on the grotesque side, with some open, oozing sores on his face.

"Who shall I say is here?" the clerk asks.

I'm about to tell her a made-up name when the man from the office approaches, extends his hand, and says, "Andy Carpenter?"

This is baffling. How could he know who I am? Unless it's from all those stupid legal cable shows I do. "Have we met?" I ask.

He smiles. "No. Laurie told me you'd be dropping by."

So I've gone through this whole clandestine operation when Laurie knew all along that I'd go snooping around Findlay. Laurie is smarter than I am; the counter I'm leaning on is smarter than I am. "Well," I say, trying not to appear pathetic, "I was staying in town, and I figured any old friend of Laurie's is a friend of mine."

"Let's go get a cup of coffee," he says, and we go off to do just that.

Within fifteen minutes of our sitting at a table in the local diner, probably twenty people come over and say h.e.l.lo to Sandy. He has a pleasant word and a smile for each of them; it's apparent that this is a nice guy. It's going to be hard to reconcile that with the fact that I hate him, but I think I can pull it off. Besides, I still have an ace up my sleeve, the knowledge from Sam that Sandy is married, though Laurie thinks he isn't.

We're chitchatting away about a variety of subjects when I smoothly bring up the subject. "Are you married?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Not anymore. My wife pa.s.sed away about two years ago. We were only married a year."

"I'm sorry," I say, but I should add, "that I'm such an idiot." Sam obviously saw a computer record of the marriage but never thought to check for a death certificate.

He nods. "Thanks. It happened all of a sudden... brain aneurysm. Makes you think, doesn't it?"

"Sure does."

Just when I'm positive I couldn't feel stupider, a woman comes over and gives Sandy a kiss on the cheek. "You must be Laurie's friend Andy," she says, holding out her hand. "She told us all about you when she was here."

Sandy introduces the woman as Jenny, his fiancee. I smile through the pain; I can almost hear Laurie laughing at me from back in Paterson. It flashes through my mind that maybe I shouldn't go back home at all, that maybe I can avoid humiliation by living the rest of my life in Europe or Asia or Pluto.

But for now I just say my goodbyes, pick up Adam, and head for Milwaukee. I can decide where I'm going when I get to the airport.

I opt for going home, and on the plane I have some time to reflect on what I've seen in Findlay. I'm sure it has its warts and problems like any other town, but it seems to be a nice place to live, in the cla.s.sic "Americana" sense. I understand how Laurie must feel about it and how it must have felt to be ripped away from it.

If those feelings are anything like mine for Paterson, I'm going to be sleeping alone pretty soon. Paterson is a part of me and always will be. I even like its idiosyncrasies, such as the fact that all its famous citizens are number two in what they did. Louis Sabin, a Paterson scientist, invented the oral polio vaccine. It would have been a bigger deal had not Jonas Salk come first. Larry Doby of Paterson was the second black baseball player, three months after Jackie Robinson. Even Lou Costello, perhaps the most famous person from Paterson, drew second billing behind Bud Abbott.

Laurie is at the airport to pick me up when our plane lands. My big-picture plan is to apologize and ask her forgiveness for my surrept.i.tious meddling; it's the nuances of the apology plan that I haven't figured out yet. For instance, I haven't decided whether to include pleading, moaning, whimpering, sniveling, and drooling in the process. I'll have to see how things go and take it from there, but I'm certainly not planning to let things like dignity and self-respect get in the way.

Adam says his goodbyes, and Laurie and I go to her car. Much to my surprise, she starts to bring me up-to-date on the investigation.

"We've got good news and bad news," she says. "Which would you like first?"

"The bad news."

"I found a witness who heard Kenny and Preston arguing the night of the murder," she says.

"Has Dylan gotten to him yet?"