The Silent Hour

“Enough to know that’s a hell of a lot better than average.”

“Yes,” he said. “It absolutely is. So whatever they were doing, it seemed to work.”

“What were they doing, exactly?”

“At first, they were acting as, well, I guess you’d call it a sort of foster family. They kind of adopted these guys, stayed close to them, counseled them, things like that. By the end, after they bought that land in Hinckley, it changed. They would hire these guys to work for them, kept them on for six months to a year. They paid them well, but the catch was the guys also had to live there.”

“In the house?”

“Yes. Imagine that, welcoming convicted killers into your home. Also, while everything out there was modern enough—running water, electricity, all that—they insisted that all the work be done by hand, and without power tools.” He grinned at me. “Weird stuff, huh?”

At first I thought they were crazy for requiring that . . . Then I came to understand how important it was. How the sound of an engine would have destroyed what was there.

“Weird,” I agreed and finished my beer.

“Alexandra contended that a great contributing factor to recidivism was a loss of touch with the natural world,” Ken said. “That prolonged incarceration created this traumatic sense of isolation.”

“Okay.”

“I talked to a woman with the state parole office who worked with the Cantrells, and she said that Alexandra’s vision was for a new sort of prison, one that didn’t isolate the inmates from nature. As you can imagine, making that sort of change was going to be difficult. So she brought the same ideas over to the reentry side.”

“She wanted the parolees to, what, bond with nature?”

“Evidently. She had all these studies. One demonstrated that just a view of nature from a hospital window reduced reliance on pain medication; another showed inmates who participated in a gardening program had improved recidivism rates. Since she couldn’t get the support she wanted, she created the program of her desires on a very small scale.”

“How were the parolees chosen?” I asked.

“The Cantrells would review their files, their case histories, and then extend the offer. The offenders were under no obligation to accept, but they always did. The pay was good. The Cantrells had one stipulation: They’d only take violent offenders. Preferably murderers.”

“That’s different from the requirements I’ve had for roommates over the years.”

“Not a request you see in a lot of personal ads, either.”

“So how many of these guys did they actually have out there, working for them?”

“Four,” he said. “None of those have shown up back in prison—but one is dead.”

“How’d he go?”

“Mysterious death,” he said. “Not long after leaving the Cantrells’ care.”

It was quiet for a moment, and then I said, “Seems like it was a hit-or-miss program,” and Ken’s smile returned.

“Yes. Seems like it was. Apparently they were hoping to use the handful they’d worked with to get a larger program going. Those first four were test subjects, I guess.”

“Okay. So you’ve got twenty-eight violent criminals who worked closely with the couple, and you’ve got the daughter of a bloody mob legacy. Not hurting for suspects.”

“No.”

“So where did you get with it?”

He looked down at his glass. Empty again. We’d gone through a few of them by now. I’d lost track. Bourbon with a beer back can do that.

“Absolutely nowhere, Lincoln. I got nothing. I wanted to pursue it, but the parents didn’t have much money, and they couldn’t pay to keep me running back and forth from Pittsburgh. Originally they hired me because they wanted someone they could meet with face-to-face, someone local, but I blew through their budget and didn’t turn up a damn thing, and I couldn’t justify taking more of their money. They didn’t have much.”

“This was twelve years ago?”

“Eleven years ago, by the time they pulled the plug.”

“So what the hell are you doing up here now?”

His easygoing humor had faded, and he seemed uncomfortable. “You want another round?”

“I want you to answer the question.”

He was quiet.

“Who told you about me?” I said.

“That’s what you’re worried about? It was your buddy Sanabria.”

“He hired you?”

“Didn’t hire me. I’d crossed paths with him briefly when I got started on this years back, and apparently he hadn’t forgotten my name. Called me last week to ask if you were working with me or for Cantrell’s parents. I told him no way to the former and no idea to the latter. He seemed dissatisfied with that.”

“I’ve seen that reaction from him, yes.”

“So that was how I got your name, and I was curious, right, because this case hadn’t left my mind over the years, and it really came back to me when Joshua’s body was found. I did a little research on you, saw that you’ve done some major work—some serious, serious stuff—and I thought, what the hell, why not drive up there and make a pitch.”

“I don’t understand the pitch.”

“I want to work the case, man. With you, ideally. Without you, if you say no.”

“You’ve got no client, Ken. What’s the point?”

He braced both forearms on the table and leaned closer. “The point is I’ve been in this business for fourteen years and never investigated anything that mattered. You know what I’ve done, year in and year out? Insurance work and infidelity cases. That’s it.”

“That’s how you pay the bills. Isn’t that the goal?”

“No! Bullshit it’s the goal.” He slapped the table and leaned away again. “You’re doing this just to pay the bills? Really? That’s why you got into the business?”

“I got into the business because I got fired, Ken.”

“I know that. You got canned as a police detective, and you set up shop as a private detective. Why?”

“It’s all I was qualified for.”

He blew out a disgusted breath and looked away from me.

“I get your point,” I said. “This has more appeal than an insurance case. If there’s one type of detective I’ve never trusted, though, it’s a glory hound.”

“That’s not what I’m after, damn it. That’s not what I mean at all.” He sighed and ran both hands through his sandy hair. His face had taken on a flush, and his eyes were beginning to show the booze. “All I’m trying to say is, in fourteen years I’ve had just one case that really mattered, and I didn’t accomplish anything on it. Didn’t find their son. Now the son has been found, and he’s dead, and I’d like to be able to tell them why.”

I looked away from him, suddenly wishing I’d let him go for that next round.

“You’ve had cases like this,” he said, voice soft. “I’ve read about you, Lincoln, I already told you that. You’ve had cases that mattered. Had cases that . . . that people cared about. People other than you, people other than your clients.”

“Ken,” I began, but he was still talking.

“My daughter—she’s fourteen—she’s a fan of the police shows. You know, the TV bullshit, none of it’s close to reality, but she enjoys them. There are times . . . times when she asks me about my job, and I find myself . . . not lying maybe, but I’m spinning it, Lincoln. Trying to make it sound like more than it is. More than chasing cheating spouses and taking pictures of accident scenes.” He pushed his empty glass away and forced a laugh. “I’ve had one too many if I’m telling you this.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have kids,” he said.