by Josh Thomas
Jamie squealed. He took a plate from her, bit into white bread, mayonnaise, salted juicy redness; his mouth had an orgasm. “Fantastic. Thank you, ma’am, no bacon’s needed. Tomato sandwiches are my all-time favorite meal.”
Mrs. Walker cocked her head at him in mock accusation, “I knew I caught you looking at my ’maters.”
“Busted,” Kent laughed. “Tomato thief!”
Jamie wiped his mouth, shook hands again with his fraternity brother. “Thank you so much, Mr. Walker. It was great to meet you, and your information could be very important. Congratulations on such a fine family. Sgt. Kessler will be in touch.”
“Hope so. Anytime,” LeRoy replied with an eyebrow twitch. “Night, sergeant.” The young bank manager turned back toward the house, arm around his Mama.
“What a turnaround,” Kent said. “First he thinks we’re there to beat up his parents, and five minutes later you’re best friends?”
“Get in the car, Commander,” Jamie ordered, grinning. “They’re expecting us in Rensselaer.” Before they reached the highway, Jamie devoured his tomatoes and Kent obtained a registration on the license plate.
They discussed that soberly. Then Jamie silently lusted after Kent’s sandwich—never has a tomato been cruised harder—and after suitable suspense Kent finally shoved the plate over, accusing him of tomato larceny. Jamie gobbled up the evidence and went uncharged.
18
Jack
Kent dropped Jamie off at the sheriff ’s office in Rensselaer, then headed back to the state police post at I-65. Their contacts were still at work, staying over for them.
Jamie hadn’t been to Rensselaer since he was 13. He was born in the hospital there, his whole family was; Rensselaer was a city of 5000, so big it called its high school Rensselaer Central, as opposed to the suburbs.
He pushed his way inside the new jail, told a woman dispatcher hidden behind smoked, one-way safety glass who he was and what he wanted.
A buzz, then a door opened off the small lobby. Lt. Jack Snyder was a compact man, 5’9”, beginning to strain the seams of his brown uniform. His close-cropped hair had once been sandy; now it was going gray. His nose had been broken years ago and set by the town dentist. “Jamie Foster. We meet at last,” Snyder boomed.
“How’s business, lieutenant?” They shook hands.
“Drunks, drugs and domestics, we got ’em in 3-D.”
“Full house next door?”
“Double-celled by court order,” Snyder said proudly. “Our stars are a couple of Colombians from Miami Beach. Found them speeding on their way to Chicago. That wasn’t all they were doing.”
“How much did you pull in?”
“Estimated $175,000. Biggest bust in county history. Surrendered without a fight.”
“That’s great. Did you get the takedown?”
“McClatchey and me. What brings you up here?”
Jamie told him about Thelma, Kent, Mr. Ferguson and the Slough, as Snyder showed him to a desk and pointed him to a chair. The gray steel desk was piled high with file folders. A half-finished form ripened in an old Selectric. “I heard about that body at the Slough. They get an ID?”
Jamie described the victim. “We saw the crime scene, interviewed the naturalist and some neighbors.”
“Is Suzanne Myers still working the geese there?” Jamie said she was. “Nice woman. Wonder why she never got married. I go hunting at the Slough every fall and see her. I look forward to those trips—a chance to shoot something and watch it drop right then and there. Not like this job, where it takes a judge and jury six years to let your prey off the hook.” Snyder pictured his last kill. “Go out real early in the morning with my brothers-in-law. We have a hell of a time.” He eyed Jamie, who was probably not a member of the National Rifle Association. “Not too mature, is it? Grown men chasing after Bambi?”
“Hey, you’ve got to let off steam.”
“Hell. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to. Where’s Kessler now?”
“State police post. Talking to Johnson.”
Snyder nodded, noncommittal, reached for a Marlboro Light, lit it with a scratched-up Zippo. “Good luck.”
Jamie pulled out a cigarette too. He wondered how his mother was doing. After they were done he’d ask Kent to take him back to West Lafayette. But Snyder was telling him something. “What’s that mean?”
Snyder leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a minute. “Nothing. Forget it. Maybe it’s me.”
“Jack, this may be our first meeting, but we’ve worked together for three years. Don’t hold back on me now.”
“You’re right. I just think Johnson’s lazy, a con man. Spends his time looking for lady travelers he can help out, in exchange for certain favors. Or hanging out at the rest stops by Roselawn and Remington, looking for Gay guys he can haul in for giving blowjobs in the woods at 4 a.m. Says he’s protecting the decent people, but it’s really that he enjoys it.” Hell, I got a blowjob from a queer once, at a rest stop. He was damn good. Jack Snyder never disrespected a Gay man again.
“By the time he hauls them in the story’s not 4 a.m. in the woods, it’s sodomy with a 6-year-old, high noon at the courthouse square.”
“And he’s always playing the jealousy game, like the state police are God’s gift to Indiana. They get a new piece of equipment, he’ll be over here bragging about it. They get a decent bust, it’s all over the paper. Hell, we’ve got a better arrest record in this county than they do. If we get one, we won’t see Johnson for weeks. Then he comes in and wants to tell us how to run our department. Most of the officers at the post are good, solid, reliable guys—a couple of sharp gals, too—people you can turn to if you’re in trouble. Johnson? He makes trouble.”
“Kessler feels he has to schmooze him to cover his own backside, so he’s making a courtesy call.”
“Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am, hope he’s not wasting his time. Did you find anything today?”
Jamie told him about the Walker family. Snyder listened, made a few notes. “What was that plate number again?” Jamie read it back to him. “Forty-nine, huh? Did Kessler run a check? Who’s it registered to?”
A voice behind Jamie answered for him. “Thomas Alan Ford, male White, age 36, Indianapolis.” It was Kent.
That was a quick visit.
Snyder dropped his PaperMate, dropped his jaw, stared at Kent and then at Jamie, whistled long and low. “No shit.” His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Jamie said, “Jack, Kent needs to see your photos. Or better yet, get them copied. All the ones with Schmidgall, Crum, Ford and Lash.”
“Right.” Snyder stubbed out his cigarette. Hands on the edge of his desk, he shoved back his chair. But he didn’t stand up. Again he searched their faces. “Holy shit. You’ve got him at the scene of the crime.”
“Don’t tell your wife,” Jamie cautioned. “Don’t get her hopes up.”
“No. No, I don’t want that.” Snyder rose with purpose. “This way,” he called behind him, heading down the hall. In the dispatcher’s office he picked a ring of keys off a hook, told his fellow officer where he’d be. Jamie and Kent followed him to the evidence room.
Snyder entered his code on an electronic keypad. They heard a buzz and a click. Snyder opened the door, switched on overhead fluorescents. Rows of numbered wire baskets lined the wall, storing the personal effects of two Colombians and a couple dozen locals at the county jail. A large table made of two-by-fours and plywood stood chest-high in the center of the room. A goose-neck lamp of brown steel, circa 1930, was screwed onto one end of the plywood. On another wall, lateral file cabinets stood shoulder to shoulder like sentries. Snyder found the year he was looking for. A silver key unlocked the cabinet. He opened a drawer, riffled through folders, hauled one out. “This is it.” He led the way to the examination table. The file was labeled, block letters, “Doe 8/15/88 File #3, Photos.” And then in cursive, “The Red-Haired Boy.”
Jamie admired Jack Snyder.
Snyder lifted the manila. An 8 by 10 greeted them: redheaded, mostly nude, stabbed and rotting, dumped in a creek, his gut and chest gashed 24 times. Jamie swallowed hard. Snyder stared. “Fuck.” He turned away. “I can still smell that smell. You know?”
Kent nodded. “Nothing like it.”
More pictures, different angles; crime scene, vicinity, the farmer who discovered the body; the autopsy, the morgue, the pauper’s burial plot.
Jamie spoke. “Jack, if you’ve got time, I’d like to go to the cemetery. Or you can give us directions.”
“Really?”
“I brought something for him. Just plastic flowers and little flags to remember him.”
“Jamie, you’re a good man. By God, that one I’ll tell Marie.”
Kent whispered, “So that’s what’s in your bag,”
They found the photos they came for: Schmidgall being transported to enter his guilty plea in Kickapoo County; Dr. Crum outside the courtroom, on trial for murder; Schmidgall at a convenience store in Eastwood; Schmidgall in court at Crown Point and in jail fatigues in Lake County; Ford and Lash, in separate Indianapolis P.D. mug shots; Ford and Lash together outside the Indy Public Library; Ford dressed for his social work job; Schmidgall outside the Chez Nous bar; Lash and Ford coming out of the Six of One Tavern. Then older photos: Ford and Schmidgall with the veterinarian; Crum and Ford outside a fast-food joint; Ford and Lash at Crum’s farmhouse. If Crum and Ford were involved in criminal activity, they both had a friend in Lash, he wasn’t just Ford’s associate.
Each photo was meticulously identified on the back. Jamie said, “These are great, Jack.”
Snyder asked, “Can they help you, Kent?”
“Sure they can. Question is, how are we going to get them from here to there?”
Snyder lit another cigarette. Jamie said, “Jack, since Schmidgall’s confession, how much do you need to keep these shots? I know you can’t legally close the case without having questioned him yourself, but it’s also 99% likely that Schmidgall did it and this is as closed as it’s going to get. On his deathbed the man admitted it.”
Snyder exhaled smoke. “True. Unless he had help.”
“Can you let Kent borrow these for 24 hours, just long enough to get dupes made? If Schmidgall had helpers, Kent’s going after them.”
Snyder sighed, felt old all of a sudden. “Funny thing, you know? There’s regulations; don’t give them to you for even a minute. There’s common sense; of course lend them to you. But somehow it’s Marie I’m thinking about.” His eye found Jamie’s. “Marie and that boy.”
Jack and Marie Snyder had not only buried the victim, they’d been the only visitors to his grave, every Memorial Day, every Christmas, tidying things up every year for the last ten. “Shall we ride?” Jamie asked quietly.
Snyder found an evidence envelope, selected photos, shoved them inside and tied the envelope’s string. He jotted a note on an inventory sheet, put Doe’s File #3 back in the drawer, closed and locked it. They headed out, Snyder turning off the lights, keypadding the door. “Let’s go, men.” He handed the envelope to Kent, started to follow them out. Kent was so happy to get the pictures he instinctively slapped Jamie’s butt.
Jamie whirled around, eyes like saucers, “What the fuck was that for?”
Kent froze. “Um, good job?” He held the envelope up defensively. “My teammate done good?”
Jamie looked away, blinked a few times, “Oh.” He nodded up at him very slightly; turned and led them out, his boots chomping the tile and concrete floor.
Jack said, “Man, fags can be touchy. Him especially.”
“Tell me,” Kent muttered. “Don’t call him that, though. He’s a skilled investigator, he ain’t your epithet.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. It’s just a term guys use, I should never have said it.”
Kent was surprisingly emotional, the first time in his life he’d defended a homosexual. “I know, no problem. But stay professional, don’t ever call him that again.”
Jamie heard Jack call him a faggot; it hurt a little, it always did. He didn’t hear Kent’s rebuke. But that wasn’t the most important thing that happened. Neither were the photos.
Jamie’s ass burned.
19
Pinball
They were quiet on the drive back to West Lafayette.
Kent found the cemetery visit touching—not because he was moved to see John Doe’s little marker, but because the other guys were. Kent didn’t allow himself to feel much over dead people, or he’d lose his ability to find the criminals and put them behind bars. Yet there was Jack Snyder, a tough cop and a good one, a little loopy over The Red-Haired Boy, even tending his grave. And Jamie, who seemed to operate on nothing but emotion—he was excited over today’s progress, Kent could see it in his eyes.
But he heard the silence of Jamie’s brainpower.
Jamie played Snyder like a piccolo. He’d obviously planned the whole thing. What did he write in his note to Marie from the cemetery?
“You could take a lesson from this kid,” a voice told Kent. Where did that come from?
It was Rufus Snodgrass, his investigations professor, a retired Chicago homicide cop in the criminal justice program at Indiana University. Kent could hear his raspy voice: “Think on your feet, tune into people! Try listening for a change. You’re playing catchup, Kessler.
You’re down five runs in the bottom of the eighth. You gonna keep
swinging at the same old shit?”
Snodgrass challenged him. Kent liked and respected the old bastard.
As they crossed the Iroquois River on I-65, Jamie spoke. “What did you hear from Corporal Johnson?”
Kent eased past a tractor-trailer and into the high-speed lane. All around him, drivers going 80 suddenly found they wanted to drive 62 instead. “Nothing worth hearing.”
“Did he react that the car was registered to Ford?”
“He didn’t know who Ford was. As for Mr. Walker, and I apologize in advance, he’s just ‘some old nigger who’d say anything to get you out of there.’ How idiotic. The Walkers supplied us with the suspect’s license plate.”
“Just what we need, racist cops with guns.”
“It’s why I left. Man, that’s an Indiana state trooper. I was so ashamed.”
Softly Jamie said, “Always be proud of your badge, Commander. Someday you’ll be in a position to fire guys like that.”
“Honest, I don’t think it’s widespread. But this case makes me so much more aware. If they can’t take a difference in skin color or language, they sure as heck don’t like a different… sexual orientation.”
“I’m sorry you have to be exposed to the ugliness. You’re a kind, fair man. Other people are not.”
They passed the first sign for the Remington rest stop. “He wanted to know why I was letting a queer reporter in on this case. Sorry, those were his exact words.”
The sun was turning into a big red ball over Peoria. “And what did you say, Kent?”
“All I care about is solving the crime, and if that means having a Gay expert along, so be it. He looked at me with total pity. So as a sergeant, I gave him a verbal reprimand for using unprofessional language. Next time I’ll speak to his post commander.
“Jamie, in this business you learn real fast to get along with fellow officers, ’cause you may need them someday. Then I told him…” The rest stop whizzed by. “…That you were the best darn partner I’ve ever had.”
***
They didn’t speak again until they crossed into White County. Kent picked up his radio mic, called in for messages; nothing urgent. Jamie asked if the technology allowed him to check Thelma’s answering machine.
They heard touch tones, a phone ringing, Jamie’s pre-recorded voice, a beep. “Hello, this is Hoosier Hospital calling Jamie Foster. Would you give us a call at ICU, please? It’s about your mom.” An automatic voice said, “Five fourteen p.m.”
“Rats,” Jamie m
uttered.
“We can call from here,” Kent offered.
Another beep. “Hello? This is Terry at Hoosier Hospital ICU. Jamie, we really need to talk to you. Please call us as soon as you get this message.” She gave a number at 5:52 p.m.
“Forty minutes later. Two calls,” Jamie moaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have left. I need to call.” He dug in his bag for his cell phone.
Beep. A different nurse, probably Sandra the Mennonite, she didn’t say. “Mr. Foster? This is Hoosier Hospital. Concerning your mother. It’s urgent that you call us right away. Please call this number as soon as you get back.” That was at 6:10 p.m.
“Oh, man! What is going on? That’s three in one hour.”
Beep. “Jamie? We’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon,” Terry began. There was an edge to her voice, but she was under control; too much control at 6:51 p.m.
Kent flipped on his lights and siren, kicked the Crown Vic up past 90, scattering cars like pinballs.
Jamie stared, disbelieving, as they zipped past soybean fields. He pounded a knee. “Why did I have to come up here today? She told me to come, I swear she did. It’s going to rain tomorrow, so I should do it today. Oh, God, why did I come up here? All because of some goddamn murderer!”
20
Mom
She was alive when they got there, but she slipped in and out of consciousness. Once she said, “You’re back.”
Jamie kissed her forehead. “I’m back and I’m staying. You’re not alone, Mom, I’m here.”
She breathed slowly, a sickening sound Jamie had never heard before, of liquid, of mucus gurgling.
He called his brothers, had to leave messages. “Call me here at the hospital, it’s urgent. Don’t call the house, call my cell phone.”
A nurse came. “The doctor wants to talk to you.”
“I’m here.”
“He’d like to see you at the nurses’ station.”
“Ask him to come here. My mother’s a medical professional, I won’t have us hiding things from her. She’s a participant here. Ask the state trooper to come too. I’m not leaving this room.”