Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

“How certain are you?”

  “Not certain enough to make anything official, but certain enough to take this drive in the hopes that they can help further connect some dots.”

  “From what I’m told, that was a dark time,” Sheriff Brody said, snatching his cigarette from the ashtray and taking a drag. “I was a boy back when it happened, but I lived west of here in Avella, over on the other side of the state. Got to Hawley about ten years ago. Anyway, the story goes, the entire town shut down. Neighbors were looking at neighbors with suspicion. No one trusted anyone else. Marcus was black, so a lot of folks thought race had something to do with it. No one likes talking about that time. Luckily, most of the kids who grew up back then have moved away, and the old-timers know enough not to speak of it. I’m worried about you coming in here and dredging up old wounds.”

  “I understand your concern,” Susan replied. “And I promise to be tactful. No one other than you and the Ruleys even needs to know we’re here. In and out. Gone by lunch.”

  The sheriff took another drag of his cigarette and snuffed it out. “Gone by lunch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t make them remember too much, and don’t lead them on. They’re old, and I don’t want to give them any false hope. In and out.”

  “You can join us if you’d like.”

  “Yes,” the sheriff replied. “I think I will.”

  They shook on their new pact, and Brody called Chip Ruley to explain that they would be stopping by with a few questions. Chip agreed to see them, and after one last cigarette, they were off.

  51

  The drive to the Ruley house couldn’t have been more than three miles from Main Avenue. Susan followed the sheriff, turning down two streets and briefly paralleling the Lackawaxen River. They ended up on a small dead-end road that was built up against acres of untamed woods.

  The house was a two-story bungalow, green with white trim, the structure itself dying a slow death. The porch was decaying, the wood pillars splintering and coming apart with the help of the carpenter ants that had been feeding on them for decades. The floor sagged when they walked on it, and the screen door was missing its screen. Brody stepped back and allowed Susan to knock. The doorbell didn’t work. They waited, Susan’s shield hanging around her neck.

  “I’m going to need you to wait out here,” Susan said, looking at Liam. “You’re technically on leave and out of your jurisdiction. If something comes of this, you being present could put a wrench in the report and open the door to a future defense case.”

  Liam nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry you had to come all the way here just to wait outside. I should’ve told you yesterday on the phone, but it didn’t occur to me until just now.”

  “It’s no problem. This is your case, not mine. I’m just an ambassador. Here when you need me.”

  Chip and Marie Ruley answered the door together. Chip was bald but for a sliver of thin white hair. He wore glasses that magnified his eyes and hearing aids in both ears. His skinny frame was covered with an oversized wool sweater and corduroy pants. Marie’s eyes were dark and vacant. She, too, wore a large sweater that hung to her knees. Her hair was white and cut short. Even in their seventies they shouldn’t have looked that old, but the loss of their son had aged them.

  “Investigator Adler,” Chip murmured as he opened the front door. “Please, come in.”

  Susan stepped inside and shook their hands while Liam sat down on the porch steps.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Hey, Chip. Thanks for seeing us.”

  “Come into the living room,” Marie said. “I made tea.”

  Susan and Brody followed the couple into the living room. Everything inside the house was old, but not as dilapidated as the outside was. The interior was clean, dusted, things put in their places. The beige-and-maroon-checkered wallpaper was a bit dated, as was the overstuffed recliner and the denim couch, but it could’ve been worse.

  A huge family picture hung over their brass-and-brick fireplace. Both parents, young and full of success and possibility, were standing behind a preteen Marcus, who was seated in front of them. Everyone was smiling.

  “We took that for Christmas in ’83,” Marie said. “It was supposed to be the start of a family tradition for each Christmas thereafter, but we got too busy the next year, and just a month after the holidays, Marcus disappeared. We left that one up so I could see my whole family every day and remember the good times we had. I won’t take another family photo like that without my son in it. I just won’t.”

  “I understand,” Susan replied, sitting on the couch. Brody stood off by the doorway to the kitchen. “I think I’d have a hard time doing that too.”

  “Are you a mother?”

  “Twins.”

  “Then you know.” Marie smiled, but her eyes were full of sadness. “You know.”

  There was a brief moment of silence before Chip took the teacups and passed them around. He poured each of them a cup from a white porcelain pot and sat back in his recliner, legs crossed, staring at the strangers in his house.

  “So,” he began. “I understand we need to answer some questions and cooperate. I certainly intend to do that, but may I ask you what this is about, specifically?”

  “To be honest,” Susan replied, pulling out her notepad, “I’m not entirely sure. We’re investigating a homicide and the disappearance of a man in New York, and we may have stumbled onto something that links to his past in Pennsylvania. It’s too early to tell what we have, so I was thinking we could discuss what happened with your son and go from there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me about that day. The day Marcus disappeared.”

  Chip stared out into space, swallowing once as the images came back to him. He took a sip of his tea and cleared his throat. “I’m sure you know what we told the police at the time. Can’t add much to it, I’m afraid. Marcus had basketball practice that afternoon, and sometime between walking from the gym and coming through the side door like he did every day, he disappeared. Never came home.”

  “Where was the rest of your family that day?”

  “Marie was home. I was at work at the local bank on Main. Used to be called American Federal Savings. It’s a Chase now. Anyway, I didn’t get home until around five, and Marcus usually came home about an hour after me, and we’d all eat together. He just never came home. Ever.”

  Susan looked at Marie. “And you were at the house the entire time?”

  “Yes. Earlier that morning I ran a few errands in town, but I was home by eleven that morning and never left again.”

  “Did Marcus call the house or leave any kind of message with you?”

  “No,” Marie replied. “Last time I talked to him was when he was leaving for school that morning.”

  “Did he mention any new friends or coaches or strangers that he was talking to? Anyone new in his life?”

  Both Chip and Marie shook their heads.

  “Do you know if there were new teachers on staff that year?”

  “The state police looked into that at the time,” Chip replied. “Other than my boy disappearing, it was a normal day in Hawley. Nothing, and I mean nothing, was abnormal, as far as I remember. He just vanished.”

  Susan reached into her purse and came away with three pictures of James Darville she’d found online. Two were old yearbook photos from Forest Hills Middle School in 1988 and 1989. It was the closest she could find to the year Marcus disappeared. The third was a candid shot of James marching in a town parade in West Finley in 1981.

  “This is the man we’re looking for. He’s much older now, but this is what he looked like in the eighties. Does he look familiar to you?”

  Chip took the photographs and studied them, his gaze intense, focused. After a few minutes he shook his head and handed them to his wife. It didn’t take Marie quite as long to hand them back.

  “No,” she said softly. “Never seen him before.”

&
nbsp; “Who is he?” Chip asked. “Is he the guy you think took Marcus?”

  “His name is James Darville,” Susan said. “Does that name ring a bell? He was an English teacher at Forest Hills Middle School outside of Beaverdale.”

  “Beaverdale isn’t anywhere near here.”

  “I know. Just adding context in case it jogged a memory.”

  It didn’t.

  “He’s elderly and under the care of a nurse back in New York,” Susan continued. “Both he and the nurse disappeared from his home almost a week ago. Like I said, he was a teacher in Beaverdale. West Finley too. It looks like he traveled through the state a lot. We thought there could be a connection.”

  Chip leaned up in his seat and rested his tea on his skinny thighs. “But what did you find that brought you here, specifically, to our house, talking about our son?”

  “I can’t tell you that right now. I’m sorry. I know you want to know, and as soon as I can disclose that, I will. I just needed to know if Mr. Darville looked familiar to you. That’s all I can offer at this point in the investigation.”

  Chip pointed to the pictures in Susan’s hand. “If this man knows where my boy is, find him. I realize Marcus is probably dead. We both do. But I’d like to give my boy a proper burial before someone has to put me in the ground. That’s all I ask. Find this man and find my son.”

  “Chip, I don’t want you worrying about a single thing,” Sheriff Brody said, stepping closer. “If there’s anything new to find out about what happened to your boy, you can count on me getting that information over to you. That, I can promise.”

  Susan stood up from the couch. “We’ll do our best to find out how Marcus plays a role in all of this, Mr. Ruley. As soon as I know something concrete, you’re my first call.”

  52

  James opened his eyes and immediately smelled urine. He tried to move, but his lower back was stiff and screamed in agony when he rocked to one side. He’d pissed himself. The smell was pungent, and his legs were wet and cold. He pulled the covers back and could see the puddle that had formed on the sheet and most likely seeped into the mattress. What a mess.

  “You know the bedpan’s right next to you,” a voice said from the bottom of the stairs. “All you had to do was grab it and slide it under you.”

  James craned his neck and watched as the man approached.

  “I know where the bedpan is.”

  The man made his way over to his bedside. “Do you? Maybe this is your way of getting back at us for neglecting you. Could that be it?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t do this to myself just to get back at you.”

  “It’s okay if you did. I mean, I’d get it. I’d probably do the same thing.” He bent closer. “We’re not taking very good care of you.”

  “I’m looked after fine.”

  “Yeah? When was the last time anyone fed you?”

  As soon as the man finished his sentence, James could feel his stomach growl, and he suddenly realized he was hungry. Starving, in fact.

  “You haven’t eaten in a long time.”

  The man yanked him up and quickly took off his shirt. He spun James to the edge of the mattress and worked his pants off over his leg braces and did the same with his underwear.

  James was suddenly naked and shivering. “I’m cold,” he said. “My legs and feet are freezing.”

  The man threw an old wool blanket over his shoulders and helped him into his wheelchair, then stripped the bed and tossed the sheets and blankets into a pile at the foot of the stairs.

  “Can I have something to eat?”

  “We need to get you cleaned up first. I’ll roll you to the shower and help you wash. Then we’ll have some lunch.”

  “Lunch? What about breakfast? What time is it? What day is it?”

  “Does any of that really matter? If I told you it was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday, what difference would that make? There’s no clock down here, and you can’t see out those windows. There’s no calendar. Why should you care if it’s morning or night or if you’re eating breakfast or lunch or dinner?”

  “I do care.”

  “Why? Those are simple questions that have no relevance to your day-to-day life. You need to start asking better questions. Deeper ones. You need to think about your situation and start figuring out what’s really going on here. You remember what I told you about the names of those children? You need to remember them.”

  James looked at him, his mind blank.

  “Do you remember what I wrote on that piece of paper?”

  Again, nothing.

  The man leaned in and lowered his voice. “These people are here to hurt you. Cindy is here to hurt you. They’re not taking care of you. You can’t trust them.”

  “Why do they want to hurt me?”

  “Because of what happened with Sonia and the others. But I’m going to help you. You don’t deserve this.”

  James knew the name Sonia should mean something, but he couldn’t quite grasp the connection. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Who’s Sonia?”

  “Do you remember making the tapes?”

  “The tapes?”

  “About what happened with Noreen and Sonia and the rest of the kids?”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  “Forget it.” The man walked behind James and pushed him toward the bathroom. “There’s no use talking about it now. We don’t have time. But you need to start asking better questions. That was my point.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Ones that matter to you surviving this.” He stopped pushing when they arrived at the bathroom. “Do you remember Cindy telling you that you were paralyzed, and that’s why you couldn’t walk and you had these braces on your legs?”

  James nodded. “Yes. I do remember that. A car accident.”

  “Do you remember any piece of that accident? Anything at all?”

  He tried to recall something about what happened, but there was nothing. “No. Just that I was in an accident. I’m paralyzed from the waist down.”

  The man stepped into the shower and started the water, then took the wool blanket from him and rolled him inside the bathroom.

  “You just told me before that your legs were freezing. Do you remember that?”

  “Of course. They still are. The urine dried on my legs and is chilling my skin. I’m naked and wet, for god’s sake.”

  “So, here’s the kind of questions you should be asking: If you’re paralyzed from the waist down, how can you know your legs are freezing? How can you feel the cold or the wetness or anything?”

  James looked at the man, processing what he’d just said. “I guess sometimes you can be paralyzed and still feel things,” he said.

  “You’re right,” the man replied. “Sometimes the nerves aren’t totally cut off, and a person can still feel some sensation, but it’s usually dulled.” The man bent down and slapped him hard on the knee. “Did that hurt?”

  “Yes!”

  “Did it feel like your nerves were dulled?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the question you need to ask?”

  James paused. “If I’m paralyzed, how is it possible that I felt pain so acutely just then?”

  The man smiled. “Acutely. I like that teacher vocabulary you have there. Very good.”

  Before James could say anything further, the man rolled him into the shower and washed him in silence.

  53

  They ate lunch in the car while Liam drove and Susan called ahead to Shintown, making arrangements with the desk sergeant on duty, who, in turn, contacted both the chief and the mayor to let them know they were getting a visit from an investigator from the New York State Police. Unlike Sheriff Brody, the chief didn’t feel the need to escort them to the Bernsteins’ house. He and the mayor were accommodating, but there was definitely a sense of trepidation. No one liked reliving nightmares.

  Shintown was, by far, the smallest town she’d ever been
to. There was hardly a main street or center plaza. Instead, she saw a tiny cluster of mom-and-pop shops for about a block and a half before the downtown area gave way to a single neighborhood that spread out for about six blocks in each direction. The houses were small, old. This had been a blue-collar, nose-to-the-grindstone neighborhood once and was now a relic of a time when people could earn a decent living working in rural parts of the state without the need to be married to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh to make ends meet. Now the town was a museum of how things used to be. The folks still living in those parts would undoubtedly die there. That’s just the way it was.

  The Bernstein house was a single-level ranch with dirty white asbestos siding and an asphalt roof that was covered in moss and stained with soot from the chimney. There was no porch or walkway other than a dirt path with some gravel laid down for drainage. The snow that had already fallen had been shoveled to the side to allow access to the front door. Rob Bernstein was waiting in the doorway, hands on his hips, watching Susan climb out of the car while Liam stayed put. He looked younger than Chip Ruley, and he had a belly three times the size. A thick gray beard covered his face but couldn’t hide the anguish in his eyes. He was still hurting after thirty years. It was as plain as the scar atop his bald head.

  Rob nodded his hellos and waved her inside. Susan followed him into the house. Elizabeth Bernstein was sitting in a worn-out green wingback chair that had faded from the sun. She had on sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt. No makeup. Her stringy silver hair was tied in a single ponytail. She smiled when she saw Susan but said nothing.

  Susan stopped when she reached the center of the living room. They hadn’t offered her a seat, so she remained standing. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’m Investigator Adler from the New York State Police.”

  Rob plopped down in the wingback opposite his wife. “You have news about Bonnie?” he asked immediately, not bothering to introduce his wife.

  “Not really,” Susan replied. She sat on a yellow-and-brown couch after Rob finally motioned for her to do so. “We’re investigating a man who went missing back in New York. James Darville?”