by Bell, David
“Oh, come on, Dante. I’m not an idiot. I know what you did in prison all those years. You didn’t sit around working through your problems and developing coping mechanisms, did you? You sat around fantasizing about getting out again and getting to where you’d see more little kids. You built up twenty-two years of frustration in there, and now you need to let it out.”
“No, sir. I became a Christian in there. I studied the Bible. I learned to deal with my problems.”
“You admit you have a problem?”
“Had, sir,” Dante said. “Had.”
For the first time, Stynes saw some life flash in Dante’s eyes, a hint that more brewed beneath the surface than was immediately apparent. His answer possessed a sharpness that his other speech lacked.
“You don’t want to relive the past?” Stynes asked.
“No, sir.”
“You talked to that reporter. Katie What’s-Her-Face.”
“My PO wanted me to do that,” Dante said. “And I thought I could give my testimony in there. Did you read it? I testified. I spoke about how God has helped me.”
“You said you’re innocent.”
“We’re all guilty of something. Only God can judge.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Dante,” Stynes said. “You said in that story you didn’t kill Justin Manning. Is that part of your testimony? Not taking responsibility for what you’ve done?”
A long pause. Dante considered Stynes from behind the sad eyes. He still held an envelope in his right hand. “I didn’t kill that boy,” he finally said. “But I’ve done other wicked things. My interview in the paper was about that.”
“You mean the little kid you diddled before you killed Justin Manning?”
Dante held the envelope in the air between them. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to get back to work.”
“Do you really know why I’m here? Do you know what prompted this visit? Some biddy from this church came to me and complained about you. She said she didn’t like the idea of a kid killer and a pervert working in a church. Now what do you think about that?”
“Like I said, only God can sit in judgment.”
“Don’t you just want to admit it now?” Stynes asked. “They can’t do anything else to you. You’ve already done your time. But don’t you want to give that family some peace? The Mannings? I saw them just yesterday, and they still wonder about what really happened in that park. They have questions. Wouldn’t God want you to just step to the plate and come clean? Wouldn’t he want you to say, ‘Yeah, I did it, and I’m sorry.’ Couldn’t that be part of your testimony?”
Dante put the envelope down. He used his hands—the fingers long and thin—to straighten some of the stacks before him. He didn’t look at Stynes.
“I’m sorry for that boy’s family,” he said. “I really am. I pray for them and for that boy.”
“Justin Manning. He has a name.”
“I can’t admit to something I didn’t do.”
“Why don’t you sue us then? You were wrongly convicted. Take us to the cleaners. Get a bunch of money and move to the Bahamas.”
“I don’t need earthly treasure,” Dante said. “And besides, I did commit wickedness and needed to be punished for it. Like Christ on the cross, I accepted my punishment.”
“Oh, Jesus, Dante,” Stynes said. “You’re really shoveling it.” Stynes shook his head. The man still didn’t meet his eye, and Stynes figured he had pushed about as hard as he could push against someone so obtuse, such a true believer. “I’m going to have to notify your PO that you’re getting too close to little kids,” Stynes said.
“He knows I work here.”
“I’ll do it just to be a dick. The PO will probably call you in for a piss test. They like doing that to ex-cons, even ones who don’t do drugs. He’ll probably even search your room. You better hope you stashed the porn in a good hiding spot.”
“I’d like to get back to work now, sir.”
Stynes went to the door. He looked back one more time.
“Think about doing that, Dante,” he said. “Think about stepping up and giving that family some peace.”
Dante resumed stuffing envelopes. He didn’t even look up.
Stynes stopped by Reverend Arling’s office on the way out. The reverend had his head bent over the computer screen, the glasses again perched on the end of his nose. He looked up when Stynes knocked on the doorjamb.
“Ah,” the reverend said. “Done hassling the brother, are we?”
“His PO might come by and follow up.”
“There’s nothing to find.”
“I have a feeling that if you keep Dante around, there will just be more of these visits.”
“Jesus ate with the lepers and the tax collectors,” the reverend said. “I can handle one wayward brother in my church. But you know what is interesting, Detective? You come here to hassle Dante, but does anyone hassle you about what ran in that newspaper story?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Dante has done his time, paid his debt, but still you come around. Meanwhile, no one questions that all-white jury, that circumstantial evidence at the trial. Why isn’t Dante afforded the same consideration as a white police detective?”
Stynes had a lot of things he could have said, most of them not appropriate for the confines of a church. He chose to walk away. “Save it for the pulpit, Reverend.”
“That’s right,” Arling said. “Walk away. You won’t even address the crime being committed against me. This hardworking church’s dollars being siphoned away.”
But Stynes was through the side door and on his way to the car. The heat pressed against his scalp and the back of his neck. He opened the car door, slipped off his jacket, and tossed it onto the backseat.
Three hundred dollars? Was it worth it to go back for three hundred dollars?
“Shit.”
Stynes reached into the backseat and grabbed his pen and pad. He walked back to the church, the sweat popping out on his skin.
He couldn’t wait for the day he could just walk away and stay away.
Chapter Thirteen
Janet spent her morning at work and the day before that not thinking about Michael. She attended a campus-wide meeting of office managers. She met with her boss, Dean Higgins, briefly about writing ad copy in order to hire two new work-study students for the fall semester. She answered the usual never-ending stream of e-mail.
And in spare moments—a short bathroom break, a quick visit to the break room for a cup of yogurt—she pushed Michael out of her mind, reminding herself always that she was no longer sixteen and no longer looking to date the coolest guy in school. Sure, Michael still looked good despite the signs of aging and, sure, she still turned flutter-hearted just being in his presence. But Janet knew who she was—a working single mother with a larger mission in life, one that didn’t involve men. She needed to worry about raising her daughter, excelling at her work. Moving forward.
And while she—mostly—managed not to think about any romantic possibilities with Michael, she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told her and she’d told him:
Michael thought he saw his father, Ray Bower, in the woods the day Justin died.
In and of itself, Janet wouldn’t have thought much of the revelation. The Bowers lived close to the park, so maybe Ray was there. Or Michael could have been mistaken, conflating some other memory from his childhood with the day Justin died.
But Janet had told Michael about the man from the porch, and if there was someone else—even this man from the porch—who claimed that the events of that day didn’t happen the way everyone thought, then maybe there was something to it, something to be explored more fully.
And Janet hadn’t even spent much time factoring in the questions asked by the newspaper reporter—
“There you are.”
Janet looked up from her desk. Her mind was drifting too far, letting thoughts that didn’t belong at work grab too strong
a hold in her brain.
Madeline stood before her, and as strange as it seemed, Janet wanted to thank her for the diversion, for getting her mind away from problems she couldn’t solve.
“Here I am,” Janet said.
“You seem distracted,” Madeline said. “Ready for lunch?”
“Lunch?” Janet looked at her desk calendar. Lunch with Madeline. Once a week the two of them walked to the student center together and either grazed the salad bar—if they were being good—or joined the students in eating the hamburger and fries special if they felt indulgent. Janet suspected today would be a hamburger and fries day.
She needed it. Hell, she even thought she deserved it.
“Let me grab my purse,” Janet said.
They walked across the mostly quiet midsummer campus. Scattered students went by, those taking summer classes, and occasionally they passed a faculty member in their warm-weather wardrobes—shorts and Birkenstocks, pale legs flashing in the sun like the bellies of beached fish. When she felt she had the time, Janet took classes. She had completed half the hours required for a bachelor’s degree in history and needed to get back to it. Ashleigh would be gone in a few years, off to college herself, and Janet considered her next, longer-term life project. Finish the bachelor’s and then what? Try for a master’s? Why not?
“I can’t stop thinking about that article.” Madeline held her hand over her heart, like she was about to pledge allegiance. “Heartbreaking,” she said. “Just heartbreaking. I had no idea your mother and brother weren’t buried next to each other.” Madeline acted as though she should have been consulted about it because she—and she alone—could have prevented it in the first place. “What are we going to do about this?”
“We?” Janet asked.
“Yes. Have you looked into moving one of them?”
“Justin would have to be moved. The plots on either side of him are taken.”
“Okay. And there’s an empty spot next to your mom?”
“Yes, but it’s not that easy. You need to pay for the reburial. You have to buy a new casket.”
“We do have wet weather here. That can cause damage.”
“Believe me, I’ve looked into it, and we can’t afford it right now. It’s just—it’s a dream, that’s all.”
They ate their burgers at a small table out of the way. The food tasted better than it had any right to. Janet knew she was feeding her emotions, but she didn’t care. Like she said to herself, she deserved the little indulgence. Janet ate quickly, not saying much, which she knew would activate Madeline’s radar.
It did—in the form of a motherly hand on Janet’s arm.
“Honey,” Madeline said, “I saw who was in that parking lot the day before yesterday. I know who you were talking to. Is he back in town for good?” Madeline asked.
“I don’t even think he knows the answer to that question.”
“He was always a good-looking one.” Madeline sighed as though Michael were the great lost love of her life. “I know you always had a thing for him.”
“Every girl in the school did.”
“So.” Madeline grinned like a naughty child. She scooted forward in her seat. “You can tell me. Did you and he ever—you know? When you were young?”
Janet smiled. Despite Madeline’s busybody tendencies, Janet liked having a friendship with an older woman. She liked to imagine that her relationship with her own mom would have developed this way as they both grew older—shared confidences, passed on wisdom. Would she have that with Ashleigh someday? Janet wondered. She knew mother-daughter relationships changed with time and the easing of adolescent tensions, but it was hard to picture herself engaging in girl talk with Ashleigh. Did Ashleigh engage in girl talk with anyone?
“No,” Janet said. “Never. I wanted to. As long as I knew him, ever since we were little, I wanted to be his girlfriend. But I always just followed in his wake, I guess. It would have been awkward, I suppose, with our families knowing each other so well.”
“But not impossible.”
“Not for me,” Janet said. “But he had plenty of girls to choose from. I settled for”—she paused, trying to think of a number that summed things up—“fiftieth best, maybe?”
“Let’s not even talk about Tony. Please? I mean, he gave you a beautiful daughter and all, but that’s just called being a sperm donor.”
“It was a little more fun than that, as I recall,” Janet said, causing them both to laugh.
When they collected themselves, Madeline pressed on. “So what is Michael doing back in town then? He’s barely shown his face around here over the years, and all of a sudden he’s back.”
“He lost his job,” Janet said.
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
“And he’s worried about his mom. I guess her health isn’t great.”
“Rose Bower,” Madeline said. “A very sweet lady.”
“I think he’s also thinking about the twenty-fifth anniversary as well,” Janet said. “Maybe he just wants to be someplace familiar for a change, around people he knows.”
“Maybe,” Madeline said. “But if he’s looking for a port in the storm, be careful.”
Janet rolled her eyes. “How about one night’s shelter?”
“I told you, I’d introduce you to my nephew in Dayton. He’s recently divorced and looking to date again.”
“You never give up, do you?”
Madeline finished her fries. “No. And you shouldn’t either.”
But Janet didn’t hear Madeline’s last comment.
She saw a movement across the room. A man in a blue shirt. She didn’t know why this person caught her eye among all the others. But he did. Janet got a quick glance, a brief look before he slipped back into the crowd and out of the cafeteria. The man looked back once before he left. He looked right at Janet.
She recognized him. The short blond hair, the thin frame.
She blinked her eyes but knew the truth: it was him—the man from the porch.
Chapter Fourteen
Stynes saw Reynolds in a corner booth of Judy’s Grill, a Dove Point diner and local landmark. For close to seventy years, city council members and county commissioners gathered in the booths, making deals and pulling strings over eggs and coffee. Stynes and Reynolds used to eat there at least once a week. They liked the food and the cheap prices. And they liked to make fun of the self-important politicians.
Reynolds drank from a tall glass of soda as Stynes approached. Stynes noticed that his former partner’s hair looked thinner, the skin of his scalp touched with pink from time in the garden. Reynolds chewed on an ice cube as Stynes sat down. He wore a few days’ worth of gray stubble.
“Nice to see you, handsome,” Reynolds said.
“Some of us still have to work,” Stynes said.
“I waited to order. You know I’m diabetic now. I have to eat regularly to keep my blood sugar right.”
“Is that why you’re drinking a Coke? Your blood sugar?”
“Fuck me,” Reynolds said. “It’s Diet Coke.”
Stynes ordered a patty melt, fries, and regular Coke. Reynolds winced as he listened to the order, then asked for a turkey club and a salad.
When the waitress was gone, Reynolds said, “How was Reverend Fred?”
“Full of God’s love. He has his dress over his head about an error his bookkeeper made.”
“Guy has a bookkeeper?” Reynolds asked. “Isn’t that place worth about fifty cents? It’s in East for Christ’s sake.”
“He’s trying to properly render unto Caesar, I guess.”
“He’s given sanctuary to more mutts,” Reynolds said. “Every guy we’ve ever arrested over in East has passed through Reverend Fred’s church at one time or another. Somebody ought to bring him in.”
“For what? Having a messiah complex?”
Reynolds rubbed his hand over his stubble. “And now he has Rogers there. Jesus.”
“I saw him.”
�
��Rogers?”
“In the flesh.”
“What the fuck kind of work is he doing?”
“He’s the right reverend’s administrative assistant and Bible study partner apparently. He was stuffing envelopes when I saw him. Looks like he’s aged forty years since he went away. I mean, the guy really looks like shit. He must have had hell’s own time inside.”
“Good. I hope someone tore him a new rectum.”
The waitress brought the food. Stynes salted his fries. He was blessed with good genes. No blood pressure or cholesterol problems. He’d never smoked. Reynolds had gone through hell quitting cigarettes fifteen years earlier, and he was still kicking at sixty-eight.
“Look at this shit,” Reynolds said, nodding toward his plate. “I might as well be a vegetarian.” He took an unenthusiastic bite of his salad. “What did Dante have to say for himself?”
“Not much. Says he’s a born-againer, found Jesus on the inside and did time for his wicked, wicked ways.”
“He confessed?”
“Not to the Manning murder,” Stynes said. “I think he’s just admitting he’s a perv, you know?”
“That’s headline news.” Reynolds grabbed the salt and sprinkled a liberal amount on his salad and sandwich. “Speaking of which, what gives with that article? This little bitch trying to stir the pot or what?”
“She’s trying to make her bones.”
“I bet the Reverend Fred ate it up with a knife and fork.”
“He did manage to bring it up,” Stynes said. “Acted like we’d railroaded Dante.”
“Pissant.”
They chewed their food in silence for a while. Silverware clinked against dishes, and a low murmur of lunchtime conversation filled the air. A busboy went by with a huge tub of dishes. Stynes watched him go through the swinging doors into the kitchen, then spoke up.
“You know,” he said, “do you ever think about that case? The Manning case?”
“From time to time,” Reynolds said. “I’ve got grandkids that age. If one of them disappeared that way—Jesus. I don’t know how the Mannings function day to day. I’d be ready to tear the world down.”