Danny would try to coax the information out of her, but he knew she would not reveal anything until it would do some good. If it never materialized, she’d never play the card. To Danny, that was just fine. He didn’t want to know if it would hurt the investigation. A crafty lawyer can use anything known to get his client off, but even the craftiest of lawyers can’t use what does not exist.
Danny knew he could try to “pull rank” on her but that wasn’t his style, not with Lisa anyway. Lisa was a friend first so that’s how he would treat her. He’d subtly strong-arm her, sure. Gentle persuasion, but no pressure. Things were making sense to Danny, but there were still a couple of puzzle pieces that needed to be fit into place. Danny had his suspect. He had his guts and he had his connection. Now he just needed the smoking gun. That ace in the hole, he believed, Lisa might be holding.
The interview with Scott Bryan had provided little in the way of evidence. Scott stuck to his story about the night at Rock Springs and, it appeared, he might actually believe it to be true. Danny’s cop instincts were keen and nothing about the kid’s answers gave Danny the impression he was lying. Maybe, Danny thought, it was because he was such a good liar. Still, if that were the case, he’d probably be good enough to fool a jury. Juries don’t have cop instincts. All they have is outward impression and a gaunt handicapped boy, swelling with tears and swearing his innocence before God and Man is a very convincing argument to the untrained mind. Few, if any, would be trained in the art of deception detection. As to his father’s death, the note they’d found gave Scott a very convenient alibi. One that could not be corroborated by anyone at Gilmer Passive Exercises. It was just about a half hour drive from Scott Bryan’s house to Gilmer Passive Exercises. Counting the time most people tended to take to complete an exercise routine, that left a window of a couple hours for which Scott could not account. Danny had pressed him for about ten minutes on that fact alone, before Scott’s mother had put an end to the interviewing process when Scott broke into bitter fits of teary-eyed teenage rage. Without enough tangible evidence, Danny couldn’t hold him. Frustrated, he’d watched the main suspect roll right out the door. He wasn’t sure, but Danny thought he’d seen a slight smirk on Scott Bryan’s face
* * *
Scott should have been in school. He knew that. But he wasn’t up to going after being ripped apart by that stupid cop. If his mother found out, he’d surely be in for it, but what his mother didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. He’d had enough of cops in the last few weeks. More than once, he’d wished they’d just leave him alone so that he could grieve the loss of his cousin, his friends and, now, his father. Why were they so interested in him? Why had everyone suddenly become so concerned with his whereabouts? At least, he thought to himself, he wasn’t out smoking pot or doing something stupid. He just needed to blow off steam and relax a little. Gilmer Passive Exercises had been somewhat of a home away from home for him in the past year. His sanctuary. His safe house. The one place in the world he felt like he belonged, even though most of the people here were old enough to be his grandparents. He belonged because he was an outsider. As odd as that sounded, it made sense to him. Paula Mason had become somewhat of a second Mom to him in the past months. He’d even taken to calling her “Mom two” or “Mom squared” from time to time. She was by and large the reason Scott belonged there. He belonged not because of who he was or what he could do for the other clients Paula Mason’s small facility served. Quite simply, he belonged because everybody who walked, rolled or hobbled through the door belonged. Everyone had his or her identity. Everyone had his or her own special quirk. Take Mrs. Rose for example: Rose Bettingfield, but everyone called her Mrs. Rose. She was an elderly woman, curly gray hair – not white, gray – and thick coke bottle glasses. She was tall, not overly thin, but definitely not fat. The machines were her relaxation time. If she was ever on a machine without some romance novel, it was because she’d simply forgotten it at home. Her quirk was novels. Not just any novels, but the trashy romance novels – the kind you wouldn’t think an elderly woman from the heart of the Bible Belt would be caught dead reading. It defined her.
Bernice Arrington was a slightly pudgy woman about sixty-two or so. Her hair was short, ivory and very curly. She had a nasally voice, accented by a sweet southern accent that made Scott crave a big, wooden porch, a glass of fresh Lemonade and a warm summer breeze. Her quirk was stories. She always had a story to tell. Some were old stories, taken from an apparently adventurous childhood. Still others were recent tales, such as the birth of her latest grandchild or the fact that her brother was hospitalized with colon cancer. No matter whether happy or sad, Mrs. Bernice always had a story.
Merle and Wanda Parker were a lovingly fussy old couple in their seventies whose mutual nit-picking seemed only to endear them to everyone in the room, if not each other. Merle might be on one machine while Wanda was on the other side of the room, but the nit picking didn’t stop. It was all in fun and most everyone knew it. Mrs. Judy – Scott didn’t know her last name – had two quirks. The first was making things. She was a doer. She was a craftswoman. She canned pickles, peaches, jellies and preserves of various flavors. She knitted, sewed, and crocheted. Mrs. Judy made doilies, afghans, and patchwork quilts – an art she’d learned from her grandmother and mother. She made prom dresses, homecoming corsages, and had recently taken a class on cake decorating. Without a doubt, Mrs. Judy was a handy woman to have around. Her second quirk fit right in with her first. She sold anything and everything her hands could make. What she didn’t sell, she entered into any and every category available during Gilmer’s annual Yamboree festival, each October.
Old Lady Sweeney was a bit of an eyesore to most, but she was one of the group to everyone at Gilmer Passive Exercises. Standing 5’2, she weighed maybe 110 lbs, if you counted all the dirt that clung to her body. She stunk of some sort of muscle cream, body odor and cigarettes. Some of her teeth were missing, but most were just sitting idly by, rotting, waiting for their chance to join their friends in the tooth fairy’s collection plate. Her hair was matted, gray and greasy. It wasn’t uncommon for Paula to spray the machines with disinfectant once Old Lady Sweeney made her departure. It wasn’t out of disrespect to Mrs. Sweeney. Why, if anyone had ever mentioned it to her, Paula Mason would have probably died of embarrassment. But she had a business to run and sanitary conditions were a part of the exercise experience. Even touching a supposedly clean machine after someone with a cold was risky. Touch the same knob as a person who just sneezed in their hands and you’re next in line for a visit from the Germ Fairy. Old Lady Sweeney was a sweet old gal, but no one loved her enough to risk certain illness.
Occasionally, a new person walked in. When that happened, Scott always felt like he was in an Internet chat room. This “newbie” had to earn his stripes. Much like a freshman in high school had to take his lumps, the newbie to the exercise place had to be initiated. That was how Scott felt. Most everybody else seemed to simply welcome new arrivals, incorporating them into the group as if they’d been there all their lives. Scott resisted his teenage desire to indoctrinate the new arrivals as to the rules of hierarchy to which only he was privy. Today, it was the Spanish dude and his wife. Scott thought the guy’s name was Alex, but he wasn’t sure. As usual, he was trying to ignore anyone he didn’t know. Truthfully, he was trying to ignore everyone. Just clear his mind and, maybe, do a little secret grieving. He was quiet by nature, so it wasn’t difficult for him to sink into the background and go through his entire exercise routine virtually unnoticed. And, should he ever feel the need to socialize, he was free to do so, and felt pretty comfortable around most of Gilmer Passive Exercises’ clientele.
He had to admit the Spanish guy’s wife was gorgeous. She couldn’t have been thirty years old, Scott thought. Brown hair, short but not cut like some eight-year-old boy’s hair. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes long enough to see what color they were, but he thought maybe brown or hazel. He would have been too shy to
look on a normal day. Today was about as far from a normal day as it got, so it should have come as no surprise that he was far shyer, more reserved than usual.
A couple of times people asked him if he was okay, if anything was wrong, but he always said no. He just needed an hour or so to relax. Yes, he told Paula Mason, he should have been in school, whispering, so as not to concern any of his pseudo-grandparents She wouldn’t tell his mother. Of that much he was certain. Lying back on the machine he called the “Rocket ship,” Scott struggled to get his feet into the small stirrups. The plastic leg braces kept his ankles locked into position, so the workout he achieved was somewhat different than most, but he felt the benefit nonetheless. He’d only recently been able to go the full eight minutes without his hips bothering him too much. This machine would work his legs, rotating them in small circles, knees bent of course, while he lay comfortably on his back – eyes closed – pretending he was being launched into space on the next Lunar Excursion.
Inside him, something prickled.
It was like a hunger pang only more intense. Distracted, Scott fought to keep hold of his teenage fantasy. He might never make it into space for real, but he could sure pretend for the next eight minutes.
* * *
“Lieutenant, I think you should see this.” Chuck Gaines’ voice penetrated Danny’s mental litany with the force of a speeding train barreling through a hastily built brick barrier. Though most people found his southern drawl soothing – some even said “charming” – Danny found it annoying. This wasn’t 1863 and Danny wasn’t leading a Confederate charge against just any old “Damn Yankee” but that was the feeling he got every time Chuck Gaines opened his mouth.
It was worse when he was flustered, like now. But even on a good day, Danny wasn’t one to engage Chuck Gaines in too many heart to heart talks.
Laying a stack of papers in front of Danny, Chuck Gaines pointed to two lines in particular. “This is the cell phone record for Scott Bryan that you asked me to get. Lookie here what I found.”
Reading the phone records, nothing immediately jumped out at Danny. Impatient, he barked “Just tell me what I’m looking at, Chuck. I’m busy here and I’m not getting any younger.”
Chuck Gaines let loose with a Santa-esque belly laugh and continued, “None of us are I suppose, so here goes. See this here number? And the one right below it?”
“Yes,” Danny was hoping wherever this was going, he’d get there faster.
“Name David Collins mean anything to you?” Danny’s eyes grew fierce, animalistic. Chuck Gaines had just done the impossible. Connected a dot unrelated to Scott Bryan.
Eureka.
Danny didn’t know whether to kiss him or kick him. A connection, no doubt. But one that provided more questions than answers. An implication of murder, one with no fingerprints, no physical evidence and only a phone call to the dearly departed.
“Two numbers?” Danny asked.
“First one’s his public line. Was listed in the phone book. But according to the staff, he was in the habit of taking it off the hook when he went to bed at night. This here other line was private. Unlisted. Only two employees could even verify this number. Business line, they said. Not public and not listed. You can’t even get it on the Internet. I looked. Phone Company confirmed an incoming call from Scott Bryan’s cell phone to each line at or about the time of Mr. Collins’ death. The first one lasted just a few seconds. The second, several minutes. And he used a code that blocks caller ID capability. Collins would have seen it as anonymous. Bit late at night to be chatting it up with strangers wouldn’t you say?”
“What’d he do? Phone it in?” Danny thought out loud.
“He phoned something in. Maybe a warning? I dunno. Maybe he was calling to—”
“Shut up, Chuck! Quickly! Do not finish that thought.” Danny knew where he was going and the mere suggestion that Scott Bryan’s intentions were without malice would give any third year law student all the ammo he needed to give a jury reasonable doubt as to Scott’s guilt. Sighing, Danny continued, “Look, Scott Bryan, a kid, called this grown man – a stranger as far as we know – why? Find out if there’s a connection. It’s too unlikely that this was a random phone prank. This kid knew who he was calling. Recheck Dave Collins’ financial records for any suspicious withdrawals. Was he being blackmailed? Did he volunteer at Scott’s school? Did he have business dealings with Scott’s father? Was he a distant relative of some obscure aunt we know nothing about? Look into the Bryan’s finances too. All of them. Find me a link, Chuck. Meanwhile, get Judge Sorrells on the phone. I’m going to arrest Scott Bryan.”
“What charge?” Chuck asked.
“Murder, multiple counts. Three friends, his father and David Collins. I’m bringing him back in for questioning, but I want to be ready when he cracks. And he will crack on one of them. Heck, I wonder if this little fart’s guilty of his neighbor’s death too.”
Chuck Gaines stood in complete, confused silence.
“Now would be good, Chuck.” As Chuck walked away – no longer smiling – a new sense of urgency overtook Danny. “Scared to death, huh? Okay, Lisa girl. Time to fess up.”
* * *
“What do you mean he’s not in school today? School’s in session isn’t it? Where is he then?” Danny was instantly angry and the secretary at Scott Bryan’s high school was being less than helpful.
“Sir, we’re not allowed to give out information about our students, but what I can tell you is that Scott Bryan is not presently on campus.”
“Are you in the business of losing students?” he asked, “Look, Lady. I’m a police officer. You need to find Scott Bryan right now and tell him to get in touch with Lt. Danny Peterson. He has my card but just in case, take down my number, all right, sweetheart? And be advised, I’ll be sending a patrol car to the school to pick him up, just in case you manage to find the child you seem to have misplaced.”
“Sir, I—”
“Look, I’m sending a patrol car. And somebody’s coming back to the station for questioning. Either Scott Bryan comes back or you can come explain to my captain how you’ve managed to misplace a potential suspect.”
He hung up the phone and dialed Lisa’s cell phone. He knew she was busy with Alex and that she’d be in when she could, but he needed to get her up to speed. Maybe, if nothing else, she could answer at least some of the questions Danny had for her.
* * *
Alyson hadn’t heard much out of Christina in a while so she decided it was best to check on her. Quietly opening the bedroom door, Alyson found Christina sitting Indian style playing with her stuffed animals, her back turned to the door, blissfully unaware she was being observed. Mr. Elephant seemed to be having quite the important conversation with his friend, Polly. Polly was a rag doll with long yellow yarn for hair and sewn on facial features. She wasn’t one of Christina’s favorite toys necessarily, but she was about the same size as the stuffed elephant so, Alyson guessed, maybe that was the logic of Christina’s play. Alyson had dyed her hair the day before. Lisa had been quite shocked by her jet-black locks, cropped to shoulder length, perfectly straightened. Christina almost hadn’t recognized her. Almost immediately after dying it, Alyson had questioned her decision, but it was too late for questions. She’d let it grow out, she knew. Like everything else, from stuffing her bra to that whole lesbian thing, it was an experiment that didn’t work out well. One of these days, she thought to herself, she’d stop experimenting just to tick her father off.
“Aly, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” Christina said, her back still turned to Alyson. How had she known? Alyson thought she’d been far too quiet for the distracted child to have noticed her. Clearing her throat, Alyson asked,
“Whatcha want to eat, Puddin’ Pop?” She always called Christina “Puddin’ Pop”. And, as usual, Christina giggled.
“I think I want pizza.”
“I think your mom would have a cow if you ate pizza for the third time this week, my dear. Ho
w ‘bout some chicken nuggets?”
“How ‘bout some pizza?” Christina argued, playfully. Her grin was innocent, and Alyson knew she wasn’t being defiant, just mischievous. She was never disrespectful. Like her, Christina had been brought up to respect authority. Unlike her, Christina had been afforded enough rope with which to hang herself and had done a great job of avoiding any real threats of being hanged.
“How ‘bout bread and water and some moldy cheese?”
“Yeah!” she said, giggling
“Extra mold as usual?” Alyson asked, chuckling.
“Super extra mold!” Christina chirped. “Hold the cheese please, just mold!”
“Okay, so that’s moldy mold, hold the mold with a side of moldy bread and muddy water.”
“And mud pie for dessert?” Christina asked, her eyes fluttering as if she was about to burst forth with fake tears any second.
“Who could resist that face?”
“Mommy can,” Christina said, half pouting.
“Oh, I doubt that, Puddin’ Pop,” Alyson picked up Christina and walked toward the kitchen. Christina’s tiny arms squeezed Alyson’s neck tightly. “I doubt anyone could resist this sweet thing.”
“I love you, Aly.”
“Well I love you too, kiddo.” She felt an honest tear swelling, but she fought it back. The honesty of this sweet child never ceased to amaze Alyson. “Whatcha wanna do after you eat?”
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