The Hidden Man

“That’s why they were so worried about the DNA test.”

Shauna made a face. “But there’s going to be a DNA test, anyway, right? I mean, that cop who investigated Audrey’s murder back then-what was his name?”

“Carruthers.”

“Carruthers is already doing a DNA test on those girls, isn’t he? If nothing else, to try to determine their identities?”

Right. Shauna was right. “Okay,” I said, playing along, feeling a bit of momentum. In my panicked, sleep- deprived state, had I missed something? “Then why was he so worried about the DNA test that I was going to ask for? A DNA test is a DNA test. Doesn’t matter that I’m the one requesting it. Sooner or later, there’s going to be one, period.”

Shauna stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Delay,” she said. “If that cop Carruthers does one, it doesn’t affect Sammy’s trial. It’s a different investigation. Right? But if you ask for one in the context of Sammy’s trial-”

“Then Sammy’s trial is delayed. That’s right. It comes back to delay. To timing.” I felt like a door had opened, but I still couldn’t see inside. “My assumption is, the longer I have this case, the more time I have to figure out who killed Audrey. So they want to rush me into the trial.”

“And they want you to win the trial,” she said.

I thought about that. “Yeah. They gave me Tommy Butcher. They gave me Kenny Sanders. They tried to scare off the eyewitness against Sammy.” I nodded. “Yeah, I think they want Sammy to beat the rap.”

Shauna shook her head. “Forget about what we think. Focus on what we know.”

I shook out the cobwebs. I should have come to Shauna earlier. She was right. I was motoring around on no sleep, a fuzzy, scattered brain, with no help from anyone.

“What we know,” I said, “is they want Sammy to win this case, and win it now.”

“Right.”

“We also know that Griffin Perlini didn’t kill Audrey,” I added. “He couldn’t have. Smith’s people are the killers, Shauna. I know it, sure as I’m sitting here.”

Shauna dropped her hands on her knees. “Then that’s how we find Pete. We find Audrey’s killer.”

I made a sound, a cross between a chuckle and a moan. “Yes, that small task. Solving a thirty-year-old case that the cops couldn’t solve when the scent was fresh.”

“Yeah, but we know something they didn’t,” Shauna offered. “We know Griffin Perlini didn’t kill Audrey.”

That was certainly a distinction. She was right-the police had jumped onto Griffin Perlini almost immediately and focused on him. He was a natural suspect, but it took their focus off any further investigation.

“But we don’t have anything to go on,” I said. “We don’t have any witnesses. Sammy was a kid, like me. Sammy’s mother died from kidney disease long ago. And Sammy’s father left the house just a couple of weeks after Audrey was taken.”

Shauna snapped to attention. “Say that last part again? About Sammy’s father leaving?”

“He left-I mean, I think Mrs. Cutler threw him out.”

“He left two weeks after?”

“You had to know the situation,” I said, defensively, though I didn’t know why I was being defensive. I’d always viewed this through the prism of a child’s eyes. Maybe it was time that I approached it through the clinical eyes of an adult, of a skeptical attorney.

“He-I mean, look, he was always kind of a shitty father. He gambled and drank a lot with his buddies. He wasn’t around much. He was out drinking the night Audrey was taken.”

Shauna made a face. “Oh, really.”

“Yeah, I mean-I think Mrs. Cutler had just had enough. She blamed him for not being there at a time when Audrey needed him. I mean, she didn’t blame him blame him. But I think it was just a microcosm of a bigger problem. She threw him out. I think-I think I saw him maybe a couple of times after that, but at some point he took off for good. When Sammy got sent to juvenile detention, when Sammy’s mother died-he wasn’t there for any of that. He was ancient history by then.”

Shauna gathered the food wrappers and my empty coffee cup and tossed them in the garbage. “Well, Counselor, I’d say we have someone we should talk to. Do you know where this guy is?”

I didn’t have the slightest idea. But I knew someone who might.

“I can’t get in to see Sammy until tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Then go home and get some sleep. You can’t function like this, Jason. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Tomorrow’s another finger off of Pete’s hand,” I said. “Or a toe or an ear or-or-”

“You can’t do this without sleep. Tell you what.” Shauna hit my shoulder. “I’ll go through these files and look for anything about Sammy’s dear old dad. Any interviews, vital statistics, anything. I’ll go through this whole thing tonight, and you get some sleep.”

I rubbed my face, feeling my eyes sink as my eyelids shut.

“We’ll touch base in the morning,” said Shauna.

I got off the couch and grabbed her arm. I wanted to thank her, but it felt like an insufficient way to express the old emotions that welled up at that moment. Then again, I needed help-I’d needed help for over three weeks-and Shauna was coming to my rescue. I told myself that was it, nothing more, as I loosened my hold on her forearm. For her part, Shauna, other than looking down at my hand, didn’t acknowledge anything, but even her stoicism suggested something. Neither of us spoke for a moment, and when I released her arm, I did so gently, my hand suspended as if it had committed a trespass.

“Go get some rest, Kolarich,” she said, the flip use of my last name concluding whatever may have just transpired. As usual, Shauna was making the right call. I was in no condition, mentally or circumstantially, to do anything but head home.

The depth of sleep deprivation was sudden and heavy. Maybe it was the power of suggestion. Maybe it was a release of tension, having let Shauna in on the secret, knowing that I finally had some help in all of this. Either way, the walk to the elevator, then across the street to my car, felt like the Bataan Death March, cast in shadow, my movements awkward and timid. I made it home at an hour that I would typically be eating dinner, just getting started on an evening of isolation, shitty paperback novels, and insipid television sitcoms. I hit the pillow thinking of Pete, how I’d failed him, how I was getting some shut-eye as he faced another day of torture. But the guilt, however powerful, was no match for my exhaustion. I was asleep in minutes, leaving me with my dreams, with an insecure, troubled sibling fighting various demons of the human and inhuman kind, a wife and child struggling for air underwater, a young next-door neighbor being swept out of her bed in the midst of sleep, wondering where the scary monster would take her.

57

I AWOKE WITH A START, to the vanishing sensation of being electrocuted, only to find my cell phone still in my hand from last night, now buzzing. I’d slept like a rock. I hadn’t moved all night. I was still in my clothes. The clock at my bedside read half past seven. I’d slept over ten straight hours.

“Today’s the day,” said Smith, when I answered the cell phone.

I was dazed, still coming out of a heavy fog.

“Today’s the day you make things right with DePrizio,” said Smith. “Or it’s not a finger. It’s an entire hand.”

I sat up in bed, shaking out the cobwebs. “Denny’s gonna rat you out,” I said.

“Something you don’t want,” he countered. “What do you think will happen to your brother then? You think we’ll let him live?”