Hollow Road

by H. P. Bayne

  “I’m not so sure we should just give up on the Porter angle yet,” Dez said. “The same way years made you a better investigator, it could have made Porter a better liar. Don’t forget his record. People with a run of property offences generally aren’t known for their honesty.”

  “Fair enough, but it’s a far cry from property crime to violence. Sure, he’s been picked up on some assaults, but they’re old.”

  “So is Nora and Ben’s disappearance. Could be he did something and regretted it. Lots of killers do, especially when you’re talking domestics. If so, it’s less likely he’d have put himself in a position like that again. He is single, after all. No way a woman’s set foot in that house anytime within the past decade, by the looks of it.”

  Dez cast Lachlan a side-eye, spotted the man bobbing his head in thought. “Fair point, Braddock. Fair point. I’m not sold on Porter being our man, but it’s probably a little soon to toss him out of the running completely.”

  Dez was watching the road but could hear the smile in Lachlan’s voice when he next spoke. “It might be the concussion talking, but you’ve got a decent head on your shoulders.”

  “I’m my father’s son.”

  “Not quite yet, you’re not,” Lachlan said. “But keep plugging away, and you’ll get there.”

  19

  Lachlan insisted on heading to his storage container, not a quick trip from the King’s Mill neighbourhood.

  Dez’s apartment was on the way, and they made a stop to pick up Sully. Dez had been to the storage container more than once. If Lachlan wanted to dig through files for additional information about either the Nora Silversmith file or the one involving Lonnie Debenham, three sets of eyes were better than two.

  Sully was quiet, which was nothing new for him. But there was something in the quality of his silence that made Dez question it.

  Now wasn’t the time, though. Lachlan had his bloodhound hat on, and he’d be impossible to deal with until he’d sorted through these mysteries.

  The private investigator had his own way of organizing, and it had never made any sense to Dez. He and Sully, on their own, would have spent an hour or more hunting for the right files. Lachlan had them inside of two minutes.

  “I’ll never understand how you sort this stuff,” Dez said.

  “And you never will. I purposefully keep it ambiguous. Anyone breaks in here wanting for something, they’ll need more time than they’ve got just to try to find it. It makes sense to me. That’s what counts.”

  “You know I’m working with you now, right? You could let me in on some stuff.”

  “One day, Braddock. One day.”

  Lachlan plopped into the armchair he’d hauled in here, leaving Dez and Sully settling for a spot on the area rug. Even in a storage container, Lachlan insisted on a measure of elegance.

  He’d located both missing person files—the one involving Nora and Ben and the other on Lonnie Debenham. Taking the first for himself, he handed off the Debenham file to the brothers.

  “Do the police know you took copies of all this stuff?” Dez asked.

  “Some of it, I’d imagine. As for the other—as you put it—‘stuff,’ what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  Dez shrugged.

  Sully was already pouring over a stack of written statements, and Dez happily settled on a smaller and less mind-melting pile of photographs. They were in a manila envelope, and Dez dumped them out over the rug, ignoring the sigh from Lachlan he inadvertently provoked.

  He fingered through them, photos of Lonnie with various people in his life. There were several formal family photos as well as more candid pictures of him with his parents or his wife and kids. A wedding photo revealed Carlene to be a knockout. She was still attractive, but back then, she’d been movie-star gorgeous with a body most men would kill to get with. At first blush, the idea of Lonnie cheating on someone like her was laughable, though it was possible her personality left something to be desired. She was certainly flirtatious; Dez had had proof of that. But he hadn’t been left with the impression she was particularly difficult or stuck-up.

  Then again, she’d wanted something from them, and might have been on her best behaviour. It was possible the Carlene Lonnie knew was another person altogether.

  It was also possible Lonnie was the world’s biggest chump if he had, in fact, cheated on her.

  Dez looked at a few more pictures of the Debenhams before moving on to a variety showing Lonnie with his work colleagues and friends.

  “These weren’t all with the police file, were they?” Dez asked. “They only ever ask for one or maybe a few decent pictures for missing persons files.”

  “Like I said, I did some digging back then, in my spare time. Asked for a range of photos, mainly to be able to visually identify the people in Lonnie’s life. His wife and parents made the reprints for me.”

  Dez nodded and went back to his task. He picked out Eleanor Kirkpatrick from a staff picture, clearly taken during a Christmas party or some other sort of formal occasion. Lonnie appeared every bit the upscale businessman in a sharply cut suit, while Eleanor managed to appear frumpy—even by nineteen eighties standards. In the middle stood a couple who Dez figured had to be Thomas and Rose Debenham, the king and queen surrounded by their court.

  Next were a range of photographs of Lonnie with his friends—attractive society girls, playboy-type guys and one or two less-favoured types who were probably just happy to be included. Lonnie was frequently at the centre, buddies’ arms dangling over his shoulders, women hanging on his arms. He was a man of privilege and popularity, a man with a lot to lose. And, judging by the beaming grin he wore, a set of perfect, white teeth on display, he was a happy man too.

  Then again, Dez had been to more than one suicide call in his policing career. At times, it didn’t come as a tremendous surprise to those who knew the person. But often, he’d been faced with shocked relatives who described a person they’d known to be bubbly, outgoing and happy. Smiles and laughter could hide a great many things, and a deep darkness could dwell just below a sunshine-lit surface.

  Dez was flipping through the photos when he got a shock of his own.

  The picture seemed a little older than the others, judging by the shaggier hair and more casual dress Lonnie wore. Dez recognized one of the buildings from the university’s Bowl, acting as backdrop to a photo of a group of buddies lounging on the lawn.

  A large man stood at Lonnie’s right shoulder, at least a full head taller, his arm pulling a laughing Lonnie into a playful headlock.

  Dez would know that face anywhere. He’d wanted to bury a fist in it countless times over the past two years.

  “Hey, Sull.”

  “Hmm?”

  Dez didn’t say it out loud, just passed the photo to his brother. Watched as Sully lost a shade of colour.

  “How the hell…. I didn’t even know Hackman went to university.”

  “Me neither. Seems more like a big, dumb oaf to me.”

  “He’s an oaf, but he’s not that dumb,” Sully said.

  Lachlan’s voice drifted over from the chair. “Larson Hackman? The orderly from Lockwood?”

  “Yeah,” Dez said. “He’s in this photo with Lonnie. Looks like they were buddies, at least back in university.”

  “Hmm,” Lachlan said, sounding more noncommittal than interested. “Are there other photos of the two of them together?”

  “I’m not through all of them, but I haven’t seen any so far. Nothing post-uni, anyway.”

  Sully had reached over, was now rifling through the photos on the carpet. His fingers plucked one out a moment later, holding it up for Dez’s inspection. This one wasn’t of a group. It showed just two people, Lonnie and Hackman, cans of beer in hand and drunken grins on reddened faces. They appeared to be at a festival, likely the multi-band rock show that came to town each summer, judging by the crowd. Again, they were standing, arms hanging around each other—a couple of good buddies out for a good
time. A third photo, located by Sully while Dez was taking in the previous one, was of Lonnie and Hackman, this time with a couple of other friends. More beer, this time while sitting around a poker table. The four young men were hamming it up for the camera, Lonnie and Hackman leaning toward each other to adopt the now-familiar arms-around-each-other pose.

  “They seem like they must have been good friends,” Sully said. “You’re sure you didn’t see Hackman in the later ones?”

  “If he’d been there, believe me, I would have noticed. I spent a couple of years meditating on his face and all the ways I could rearrange it.”

  Sully chuckled. “I’ll take that as a real no. So why wouldn’t he be there? It looks like they used to hang out back then, so why stop?”

  “I’m thinking it’s possible they just went in two different directions after university. Happens all the time, doesn’t it? Lonnie’s path took him into the business world, and Hackman’s landed him at Lockwood.”

  “Okay, but I don’t think Hackman came from wealthy stock,” Sully said. “At least he didn’t give off that air. He seemed more like, as you put it, an oaf. So the two of them were already from different places, even in university. They aren’t the sort of people you’d expect to see hanging out. Lonnie was fraternity material. Hackman couldn’t have successfully rushed a fraternity if his life depended on it.”

  Again, Lachlan’s voice cut into their conversation. “You two are missing one real possibility. Maybe Lonnie and Hackman never did stop spending time together.”

  “Hackman isn’t in any other photos.”

  “Those are only the ones I was given. There are others in existence. Could be Hackman’s in some of those. Or it might be he’s in none of them. Doesn’t make any real difference. Just because photos weren’t taken doesn’t mean something didn’t happen, does it? Bear in mind your point about two separate lives. As the son of a rich and well-respected businessman, Lonnie was a member of society’s elite; Hackman, if you’re correct in your read, is and was not. Even if the two of them were the best of friends, it isn’t likely Lonnie would have brought Hackman into his world. An ‘oaf’ would stick out like a sore thumb around people of the Debenhams’ ilk. Lonnie was a star on the rise, and Hackman would have pulled him down.”

  “So it’s possible they were hanging around each other, just not in public view,” Dez said.

  “Or at least, not the public Lonnie really cared about impressing. Regardless, don’t get too hung up on Hackman. Just because he was a sod to your brother doesn’t make him guilty of anything nefarious concerning his friend.”

  “I hadn’t been thinking that, but now that you suggest it—”

  “Braddock. I mean it. The worst mistake you can make as an investigator is to start injecting your personal baggage into a case. If you can’t handle it, you need to take a step back.”

  A fuming response was at the tip of Dez’s tongue when Sully cut in with a far more tactful observation.

  “It doesn’t have to mean Hackman was responsible for Lonnie’s disappearance. But I think it might mean something. Hackman’s son was led to that crevice, and the ghost we now know is Nora led me there when I went into the woods trying to help him. If Lonnie was the victim of the same ghost, there’s a connection we need to check into.”

  “You might be reaching a little, but fair enough.” Lachlan turned to Dez. “What’s the best route to talking to Hackman? We obviously can’t have Sullivan anywhere near him.”

  The answer was obvious to Dez, but it wasn’t one he was happy to provide. “He thinks I saved his son’s life. I have a feeling he’ll talk to me.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Sully asked. “You won’t go off on him, I mean?”

  “Hey,” Dez said. “In what world is going off on an asshole like Hackman not a good idea?”

  Hackman proved an easy find, his address and phone number popping up in a 411 web search. It was now past five, the time most people would be heading home for the day.

  Hackman was another story. Dez had spent plenty of time at Lockwood, enough to know the orderly worked a lot of late afternoon and evening shifts—all the better to help with Dr. Roman Gerhardt’s sick experiments on psychic patients.

  A call to Hackman’s home number led to the expected ring-through and a terse recording asking callers to leave a message. Dez hung up without doing so.

  “I think that means he’s at Lockwood.”

  “So go see him there,” Lachlan said.

  “I’m not supposed to be on the grounds.”

  “Is the psycho doctor around the place much after hours?”

  “Not unless he’s got one of his off-the-clock psychic ‘treatments’ lined up,” Dez said. “I saw him leave most days after five, once visiting hours were done for the day and they booted everyone out. No doubt he came back later.”

  “I’m assuming these ‘treatments’ would have been done late at night,” Lachlan said. “If he was up to anything creepy, no chance he’d do it while potential witnesses—staff or patients—are hanging around. That should give you a few hours to get over to Lockwood, talk to Hackman, and get out again without Gerhardt seeing.”

  “The doors will be locked. Can’t I wait and go talk to him at his place in the morning?”

  “You’re just delaying the inevitable. What, are you afraid of him or something?”

  “More afraid of what I might do to him. I’d rather walk out of a meeting with him the way I walked in, and not in a set of handcuffs.”

  “I’ll second that,” Sully said. “But do you really think you’ll be in a better state to deal with him tomorrow? I hate to say it, but Lockwood might be a better place to talk to him. It’s public at least. Meeting him at his home, with no one else around, could end with things being said. You know how easily a verbal confrontation can turn physical.”

  Dez sighed. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “I could go,” Lachlan said. “But as you noted, he credits you with saving his son. He’ll be more likely to talk to you than to me. As you describe the situation, he’s got secrets to hide. The last thing he’ll want is some private investigator snooping around. His guard will go up, and it’ll be pulling teeth to get him to tell me what he had for breakfast. I could get the answers from him, but it would take time and maneuvering. You could do it much more quickly and efficiently. I’m all about quick and efficient whenever possible.”

  Dez nodded, eyes drifting to the floor. A hand landed on his shoulder, giving it a gentle pat, and he turned to meet his brother’s eye.

  “You’ll be fine,” Sully said. “You’re stronger than you think.”

  Dez met Sully’s smile with a weaker version. “I hope you’re right. But in case you’re not, you’d better call Eva to be ready with some bail money.”

  20

  The doors were indeed locked. But it was less than an hour past close, and there were always a few stragglers who left work a little late.

  Like police officers, orderlies were required to fill out incident reports, and rarely was there time in a shift to complete the paperwork. That meant overtime, and Dez caught one of those staffers as he left.

  The young man—likely a new hire as Dez didn’t recognize him—tried to push past him on the steps. “Visiting hours are over.”

  “I know, but I’m not here for a patient. I need to see Larson Hackman. Is he here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Can you tell him Dez Braddock needs to talk to him. He knows me.”

  That was a fact. Hackman knew him too well. Sure, Dez had helped locate Emory, but he wasn’t convinced one good deed would overshadow a past full of secrets and pain. Dez knew things about Hackman. Horrible things. Not just about Sully, but about Sully’s mother.

  If Sully ever found out the full truth, he’d be the one over here looking to rearrange Hackman’s face.

  The young employee studied him, and Dez plastered on a grin. Just some dude here to chat with his buddy. No big d
eal.

  He knew he’d passed the smell test when he got a muttered “Wait here,” before the young man key-carded his way back inside.

  Not two minutes passed before the staffer returned. He was far more relaxed, actually offering Dez a small smile as he passed. “He’s on his way. Will just be a few minutes while he finishes helping with pre-dinner meds.”

  Dez nodded and watched the young man as he headed for the parking lot and an old beater of a car parked there. Dez wondered how much other staff members knew or at least suspected about what went on here in the dead of night. Lockwood had a decent reputation as an institution, had become the kind of place people paid to come to for a mental health break or for help with aging parents with dementia or Alzheimer’s. In Dez’s experience, many of the staff members seemed like decent people who cared for their patients or, at the very least, their jobs. They treated patients and visitors well.

  People like Gerhardt and Hackman were another sort altogether. They put on a face for the world to conceal an evil inside. Gerhardt was the perfect doctor to most patients, caring and helpful. But to others—to those with gifts like Sully’s—he was the devil incarnate. And Hackman was the demon sitting on his left shoulder.

  There couldn’t have been a worse time for Hackman to emerge.

  Dez battled back hate as he stared at the man, trying to force from his mind thoughts of his little brother strapped, screaming, helpless and alone, to a treatment bed while Hackman watched with a grin. He could see the head orderly’s mouth moving, could hear words being spoken, but he wasn’t listening, focused as he was on keeping his balled-up hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and retraining his thoughts on his real purpose for this visit.

  Lonnie Debenham. Think Lonnie Debenham. Kimotan Rapids University. Nora Silversmith. Emory Davis.

  At last, Hackman’s question, being asked a second time, filtered through the rage. “What can I do for you?”

  Dez could think of a few things, none of them consisting of a good end for Hackman. He settled on an answer Lachlan would approve of. “Your name came up in an old missing person’s file, and I wanted to ask you some questions about it. Lonnie Debenham.”