He looked at Cassidy, who nodded.
“The boy’s a cool one,” he went on, “like you. He wasn’t panicked. He reported it perfectly. But… I don’t know… it was in his voice. He just sounded like he was… like he was…
“Yes,” Cassidy said simply, but there was something different in the way he was looking at Greg now.
“I went right over. Frank had gone back down in that basement, to stay with those kids. Even after we got the detectives and a doctor there, those boys wouldn’t let any of the rest of us near them. They were terrified of everyone except Frank. They held on to him for dear life. Frank was down there with them until they could get the chains off them. Down there in that damned basement.
“He had tried to get the chains off with a bolt cutter, but that didn’t work. He told me later that he had only gone to his car once, just long enough to make the call, get the bolt cutter and a first-aid kit. Before he went to the car, he told the boys that he’d be right back, but they started crying. They hadn’t been crying before then. So after he got back, he told them he wouldn’t leave them again until their mothers came for them. And he didn’t. But Lord Almighty….”
“Their mothers? Did Frank know the dead men were their fathers?” I asked.
Greg shook his head. “Not right away. The bodies were cut up so bad, I don’t blame Frank for not seeing a resemblance between the boys and the fathers. And the boys didn’t speak — they would nod or point — that’s all. Frank asked them if they knew the men, they nodded yes — went on like that. So before too long, he realizes they’ve been in there with their own fathers’ bodies — blood everywhere — and I don’t know, I guess it just — it just hit him hard. It would have done the same to anybody.”
“I’m so glad Frank had you there to help him deal with it,” Bea said. “Brian felt so bad later.”
“Frank’s dad wasn’t around that day?” Cassidy asked.
“Not until later. I don’t even remember now where he was, but Greg and Cookie called here, trying to find him. When Brian realized what had happened, he was very upset that he hadn’t been there.”
“Probably better that he wasn’t, really,” Greg said.
“What do you mean?” Bea asked.
“Frank was on his own, and he did fine. In fact, he really proved himself that day. He moved up to detectives not long after that. For the first time, I think a lot of people saw him as somebody who was more than Brian Harriman’s son.”
Seeing Bea bristle, I said, “Frank is so proud of his dad, I don’t think he would have minded anyone thinking of him as Brian’s son.”
Bea looked at me gratefully. She stood up. “I’d better check on dinner. It’s nothing too fancy, Detective Cassidy.”
“Ma’am, my mouth has been watering since I walked in here this evening. Heaven can’t smell any better than whatever you’re cooking in there.”
“Just chicken,” she said.
“Don’t let her fool you with that ‘just chicken’ stuff,” Greg said. “Bea’s a fantastic cook.”
The momentary tension between them was gone. “I’ll help you,” I said to Bea, and followed her into the kitchen. Cassidy offered his help as well and was politely refused. He began talking to Greg about his years on the local force.
I was thinking ahead by then, about what I needed to do before that “one injection.” In order to help Frank escape, I might have to plan one of my own.
“Bea,” I asked after setting the table — the only interference she would brook — “mind if I use your phone?”
“No, go right ahead.”
I thumbed through the telephone book and found a listing for Regina Szal, speech therapist. I called and got voice mail. How appropriate, I thought.
The outgoing message presented several options, including “If you would like to mark this message for urgent delivery, please press the pound sign before you hang up.” I left my name and Bea’s number and added, “This is an emergency. Please call me as soon as possible.” I pressed the pound sign, got an automated, “Thank you,” and a click.
Figuring Bakersfield couldn’t be overrun with unrelated Szals, I called the other listing for that last name, a Bernard Szal. When a woman answered I asked for Regina.
“This is Regina,” she answered in a voice so sultry, I figured I’d pay a tidy sum if she could teach me to talk like that.
“My name is Irene Kelly. I need to talk to you about two of your former clients — Bret Neukirk and Samuel Ryan.”
I was expecting her to immediately respond with a speech about confidentiality. Instead she said, “Yes, I know. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. Bret and Samuel wrote to me a couple of weeks ago. They said you would have questions about them. They also said you would be in a hurry.”
“That hardly describes it. I need to see you as soon as possible.”
“Hmm. All right. When?”
“How late will you be up this evening?” I asked.
