by Claire Booth
‘Yep. I think that one might happen tomorrow.’
‘I wonder if Emily will show,’ Dale said.
‘I’m wondering the same thing. You want to come with me, just in case she does come?’
‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘I guess that’s one suspect interrogation in exchange for a victim funeral. We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?’
THIRTY-SIX
Sam went over to Shadow Rock Park, just down Highway 160 from the office. And walked. Around and around, perimetering the whole grassy area so many times he lost count. Finally, he stopped and found a bench. It was a nice day, he supposed. A breeze was coming off Bull Shoals Lake and the trees were turning. So was he going to appreciate it, or was he going to keep wallowing in his misery? If he thought the Chief needed to forgive himself and move on, then Sheila was right and he did, too. It was so hard, though. He just kept hearing the shot and seeing Ted on the ground and …
He jumped to his feet and started walking again, trying to push the sounds of gunfire out of his head. It worked, a little. Maybe they’d keep fading, if he kept trying. He stopped and looked over toward the lake. He had to admit that he’d spent the last several months not trying. Because trying was hard.
But he’d done hard things before. Heck, he was getting good at them. He’d helped with the showboat homicide, and he’d sorted through all those missing kids to help figure out which one was the child skeleton they’d found in the backwoods right before the election. A dead kid – now that was hard.
He kicked at the dirt for a minute and then straightened his shoulders and started back to the office. He was almost across the parking lot when a day-care van pulled in and a half-dozen kids scrambled out and ran full tilt for the playground. See, life went on.
Sam attacked his paper-strewn conference room with more energy than he’d had in months. He straightened it and then rearranged it, hoping different stacks of things would lead to new inspiration. It didn’t work. He paced a little, checked in with the out-of-state agencies he still had outstanding requests with, and paced some more. Nothing. He thought back to the park, and the beautiful day, and the kids laughing as they played. He couldn’t get mad at the world again. He needed to start over.
He needed to go back to the beginning.
What did they know? Nothing about Johnny Gall. Patrick O’Connell was a little better. They did know for sure that four years ago, he’d approached Mr Gunner at a nightclub in Nashville. His go-cart copy ID listed his current age as twenty-one.
If that was true, he would’ve been a minor that night he met Mr Gunner in Nashville. A minor who didn’t have anybody who cared about him. Because if he had parents who gave a hoot, they would’ve reported him as a runaway, and he’d be in the FBI’s national database. Which he wasn’t.
And if he didn’t have parents, he’d be what – up for adoption or in foster care, right? He sat down and started pounding on a laptop. O’Connell might very well have been from someplace else, but Sam had to start somewhere. And the state of Tennessee, God bless ’em, had a searchable list – complete with photos – of children in need of adoption. It had a search parameter function, but he was curious, so he just started scrolling through. So many kids. Very, very few young ones. He guessed they went pretty fast. Lots of tweens, and lots of families. Three, four siblings. Wow. He couldn’t imagine who would adopt that many kids, some already in their teens. A saint, that’s who. And those kind of saints looked to be in short supply, considering how many sibling sets there were on the list. And the older the kids the more desperation there was in their eyes as they smiled for the camera.
He kept scrolling. He couldn’t help himself. It was like looking at the website for the pound. Only it wasn’t pets. It was kids. He felt sick. Children shouldn’t have to be put up on the web in the hope that somebody would think they were cute enough to take home.
Finally, he couldn’t take any more. He clicked off the page and entered gender and age search parameters for O’Connell. Nothing, which wasn’t too surprising. If he’d aged out, his photo wouldn’t still be up. He found the contact page and punched a number into his phone.
An hour later, he had a digital file with scores of old photos. Boys who’d been removed from the website because they’d either gotten adopted or aged out before they could be. He ignored the names and concentrated on the faces. Forty minutes in, a younger and very angry Patrick stared back at him from the computer. Sam reached out and touched the screen, not fully believing what he was seeing. He found him.
Eric Michael Ganton. Born nineteen years ago this coming December. Which would’ve made him fifteen when he met Mr Gunner. No wonder he had a fake ID.
Most of the other kids’ photos showed them smiling or posing. They were angling for a new family, after all. But not Eric Michael. He wasn’t even pretending. Sam had a feeling the kid had not found a forever home. But he needed to confirm that. He picked up the phone again.
This proved more difficult. He finally got the necessary paperwork sent over and Tennessee sent him back Ganton’s file. It made Sam want to cry.
The kid had entered foster care at age two and bounced around for years. When he was ten, it looked like a couple wanted to adopt him, but backed out after a trial period. He went back into foster care and didn’t stay one place very long until he was about fourteen. Then things seemed to settle down and he stayed with that foster family until he aged out almost two years ago.
Sam frowned. That wasn’t right. Either the records were wrong or Mr Gunner was lying about when he met the kid. Or … that foster family, which got money from the government every month to care for their charge, had never bothered to report that he’d run away.
He needed to see if Nashville PD would send someone to have a chat with these foster parents. And while that was in the works, he’d go ask Mr Gunner a few more questions.
Lauren hadn’t come. Sheila hadn’t figured she would, but she’d kept an eye out all the same. She’d also been afraid Hank would show up, despite their clearly establishing that he wouldn’t attend any of the funerals. She only permitted herself a sigh of relief when the service for Kayla Anderson actually started, because she was pretty sure that – even in his current screwed-up state – her boss wouldn’t disrupt things by walking in late.
This crowd seemed much more comfortable in a church than the one at Alex Danzig’s funeral. It was obvious the preacher had known Kayla for a good long time. She half listened to him as she scanned the audience. Kayla’s brothers were spit-polished and sitting in the front row, bookended by their parents. She saw several of the same high school students and many new ones.
This was the funeral crowd she was the most interested in – aside from Hailee’s, of course. Kayla was the Blenkinship girl’s best friend, and even though her death was almost certainly an accident, someone had unquestionably attacked Lauren. Sheila would bet money that most people here knew both girls equally well.
As payback for him eating into her overtime budget yesterday, Sheila had assigned Deputy Orvan the job of hunching down in a civilian car in the parking lot and surreptitiously taking photos of every attendee leaving the church. She planned to show them all to Mr and Mrs Anderson later. She knew from experience that they’d barely remember anything about the service, let alone be able to list everyone who was there. Orvan had better not blow it. She wanted Lauren to look at them, too, once she was up to it.
Those brothers were like little stair steps as they filed out after the final prayer. Sheila could barely look at them, especially the oldest. He looked like the only one of the three who really understood the true permanence of what had happened to their sister. The look on his face had Sheila fighting back tears.
Once the family was out of the church, Sheila turned back to the rest of the mourners and was surprised to see Lauren’s parents. They must have been on the other side of the Andersons – she hadn’t seen them. Doug Blenkinship caught her eye and clearly wanted to talk. She nodde
d and waited for the church to empty.
‘Have you figured anything out yet?’ he asked as they walked toward a line of shrubbery outside the meeting hall. ‘Who hurt Lauren?’
She told him that she didn’t know. She wanted the ground to swallow her up as his composure started to melt away.
‘But you have to figure this out,’ he said, a hitch in his voice. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘And that’s exactly the problem, sir,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. At all. And I know this is the most helpless feeling. But we’re working on it. Night and day. I promise you.’
He started to stiffen, becoming more like he was in the hospital room during Lauren’s interview.
‘Do you think she’s still in danger?’
That was a very good question that she didn’t have the answer to.
‘No, sir. Not at all.’
She’d talked to Maggie earlier, and the poor girl wouldn’t be leaving the hospital for weeks. She’d had Hank’s wife quietly put a ‘family only’ limitation on visitors. It wasn’t strictly necessary from a medical perspective, but better safe than sorry.
‘Do you think it was someone she knows?’
Or knew. Past tense.
‘We don’t know at this point. We’re looking into every possibility.’
That at least was true.
He stood there hesitantly, trying to think if he had anything else to ask her.
‘Was … was the attack on her connected to the car crash?’
What? No one, not even the newspaper, had asked that. She must not have been able to mask her surprise, because he immediately tried to explain that he was asking only because they happened the same night.
‘And it involved Kayla, and they’re inseparable. Were … inseparable. So I thought …’
Sheila had to squash this. Or she’d have a whole community of Hanks on her hands. She gently explained that it was a terrible coincidence and there was no indication that the crash was anything but an accident. It seemed to work – he nodded and trudged into the meeting hall. She didn’t follow. That much evasion had been exhausting. She was glad the conversation had taken place outside the church. Inside and she probably would’ve been struck by lightning or something.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sam pulled up in front of the massive house. It took Mr Gunner five minutes to answer the door. Sam politely followed him into the big living room. This time he got to sit on one of the nice leather couches. He hadn’t known furniture could be that comfortable. He might never leave.
Mr Gunner didn’t look quite as comfortable as he sank into the opposite sofa. His foot must be acting up. He settled himself, propping the cane next to him and adjusting his legs, then gestured for Sam to speak. Sam started to ask his first question but then stopped. The Chief would want to put the old man at his ease.
‘Does it bother you more when it’s about to rain?’ he asked, waving toward the gray sky visible through the wall of windows.
It did, Mr Gunner said. Could always tell when a storm was coming, ever since he broke it. They talked of that, and arthritis, and the wear and tear that constant touring caused to a body. And Sam could see the old man relax. Not much, but a little at least. So Sam switched gears and asked the first question off the list he’d carefully written out in the car.
‘Have you ever heard the name Eric Michael Ganton?’
Mr Gunner shook his head.
‘Y’all keep throwing names at me. I don’t know. I never heard that one before.’
‘You never heard anybody call Patrick by the name “Eric”?’
‘Nope. Wait. Are you telling me that’s his real name?’
Sam nodded.
‘Why’d he say his name was Patrick then?’
Sam didn’t answer. He’d get to that. Had Patrick ever talked about people named Cliff and Tina Strasburger? Another no. Sam tried not to sigh. What about being in foster care? Mr Gunner didn’t seem to understand that one.
‘He turned eighteen and his parents tossed him out,’ Mr Gunner said. ‘Happens all the time.’
Sam shook his head. Eric Michael had spent almost his entire life in the foster care system in Tennessee. When he was fifteen he ran away from the Strasburgers’ home.
‘And met you,’ Sam said.
Gunner’s mouth sagged open, and he got super pale. ‘He was only fifteen? Jesus God. I never would’ve let him come with me.’ He looked at Sam in fright. ‘I didn’t know. I swear.’
Sam was pretty sure he was telling the truth. Why would a country music star make trouble for himself by taking in a runaway? Sam asked him again about ever seeing the kid’s driver’s license or any other identification. He got the same answer. No. More questions didn’t turn up any additional information. Sam offered to see himself out, so the old man wouldn’t have to get up. Mr Gunner gratefully nodded. Sam said a mental goodbye to the sofa and rose to his feet.
Once he was out of Gunner’s line of sight, he slowed down. He just wanted to look at the amazing features of the house. He couldn’t get over the huge back wall of windows. And the molding alone probably cost more than his mom and dad’s whole place. The place was still neat, but was starting to show signs of clutter here and there. A sweatshirt draped over the stair banister, a pair of running shoes over by the back sliding glass door, several reusable grocery bags by the front door. He supposed it was because Patrick/Eric wasn’t around any more to straighten up.
He let himself out the enormous wood slab of a front door and was halfway across the extremely wide driveway when his phone buzzed with Sheila’s ringtone.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m just leaving Euford Gunner’s house.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. I had some questions for him about O’Connell. Ganton. The murder victim. That guy. Anyway, did you get my text about his real ID?’
‘I just did. I was in Gabriel Schattgen’s funeral,’ she said.
She sounded pissed. It couldn’t be because he’d figured out the ID. Should he not have interviewed Gunner?
‘I tried to call the Chief, too,’ Sam said. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to notify his superiors. ‘I couldn’t get a hold of him.’
‘I can’t either.’ Yep. She was pissed.
‘I do have some more info on Ganton,’ he said. ‘Do you want it now?’
‘No. What I want you to do is bring Gunner in.’
Now it was Sam’s jaw that fell open. ‘What? You mean arrest him?’
‘No. Just tell him we want to interview him down at Branson PD. Just a few more questions.’
‘I don’t think he’s going to be real thrilled with that.’
‘Yeah, well, we hadn’t figured that he’d already have been asked a bunch of questions,’ she said. ‘So you say whatever you need to say, but get him in here.’
She hung up. Sam kicked at the crushed gravel for a good few minutes before he was calm enough to go knock on the door. Again.
Sheila was halfway through explaining to Dale about Sammy’s unexpected interview of Gunner when she realized that she hadn’t complimented the kid for IDing the murder victim. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it, but it was brilliant detective work. Her supervisor work, not so much. She gave herself a mental shake. She had to pull herself together, because she was the only one left in the department with any damn sense. She wasn’t sure her earlier chat with Sam had made any impact on him, and no one could get a hold of Hank. And now, like a cherry on top of her crap sundae of a day, Dale was cranky. She knew her old friend was thinking that his haul-him-in-for-questioning plan with Gunner might be a total failure because who knew what Sammy had asked the guy, or what he might have given away about the investigation.
‘It’ll be fine. Sam won’t have ruined anything,’ she said. ‘We’ll let Gunner cool in an interview room for a bit while we get up to speed on what Sam asked him. It’s fine.’
Dale frowned. She thought. With the bullfrog mouth,
sometimes it was hard to tell. So she told him about the confirmed ID of his homicide victim. That went a long way toward restoring his good humor. When Sammy got there and explained how he’d tracked down O’Connell’s real name, Dale was so pleased he only gave a mild lecture about checking in with all investigating officers before interviewing a key witness-slash-suspect.
After Dale waddled off to double-check that the sound equipment was working in the interview room, Sheila turned to Sam.
‘That was brilliant. And I should’ve told you so over the phone. You might’ve broke the whole case open. I’m really impressed.’
Sam seemed to grow three inches. She smiled and, not wanting to ruin his investigatory high, explained that she needed him to watch the interview from outside the room – but only because this was technically Dale’s case and definitely Dale’s turf. It wasn’t because Sam wasn’t qualified to be in there. He nodded and left to go grab a Coke, with a bounce in his step that she hadn’t seen in a long time.
Dale returned, straightened his rumpled tie, and entered the interview room. Sheila followed and saw Gunner sitting there, shrunken and nervous. She closed the door firmly behind her.
Where was everybody? The halls were empty, and the coffee pot hadn’t even been used. It was just as well. Hank didn’t want to talk to anyone, anyway. He walked through Sheila’s office to get to his own and suddenly stopped. The Daily What’s-It lay on her desk. So she had been here this morning. He took a deep breath and picked it up.
Jadhur’s article was the lead story. It was brutal. He interviewed relatives of the dead teens and Hank knew the article talked about his traffic stop. What he didn’t know was who told Jadhur about it. The kid had to have a source somewhere. It could’ve been Jenkins. But the Highway Patrol usually kept a pretty tight lid on their people, and Jenkins, while an asshole, didn’t seem the type to violate procedure. The only medical emergency responder who knew was Larry Alcoate, and Hank doubted Larry would’ve sold him out. That left his own department. Of course.