disappointment, the atmosphere of Polk's office was all wrong, and it hardly seemed like a temporary accommodation for the visiting CBI agent. Cheery potted plants abounded in this sunlit room. The photographs of relatives were not discreetly placed on the desk. Oh, no. Her devotion to family was advertised on every wall. He had envisioned this meeting with a savvy, hardened detective, a man who would hang on every word of Ferris's theory. Reality was a dumpy hausfrau in a flowered sack that passed for a dress, a woman with a limited attention span, so easily distracted by any small plant that needed watering.
He raised his voice. 'Why was Oren running that crime scene when he was always the prime suspect-the
The woman clearly did not care. Her back was turned to him as she stood before the window with a view of the parking lot. 'So that's the famous yellow Rolls-Royce. Was it really owned by Al Capone?'
It was all too apparent that he would have to lead this fool woman by the hand. 'Oren was the last one to see Joshua alive. I know that for a fact. I've interviewed a lot of people in Coventry. Of course that was twenty years ago.'
'When you were writing a book? Isn't that what you said?' She left the window to stand by his chair. 'A book about murder in a small town, I suppose.' Not waiting for a response, she pressed on. 'Well, how prescient. Until recently, Joshua Hobbs was only a missing person. But all those years ago, you decided that he'd been murdered.' She placed one soft hand on his shoulder. 'That's odd. I mean the boy might just as well have died in a fall out in the woods.'
'I never said my book was about murder. I said it was about a tragedy in a small town. The effect it had on the-'
'But that's not your style, is it, dear? You write the gossip behind the headline news, and I think you're damned good at it. I make a point of reading your column. Call me a fan.'
'Thank you, but I wasn't always a gossip columnist. I began my writing career as a serious novelist. Now here's another point to consider. Oren's father was an active judge in those days. And he came from an old California family-lots of money. He could've used his influence to get Oren out of town and beyond the reach of the sheriff.'
This information about Henry Hobbs seemed to make no impression on her. She gave him a kindly smile as she sat down behind her desk. 'A novelist? You don't say. Well, I thought all your books were nonfiction- true crime. What sort of novels did you write? Murder mysteries?'
'I only published one novel,' he said, teeth on edge.
Sally Polk pushed the plate of cookies across the desk. 'Joshua Hobbs was only fifteen years old.' Her eyes gleamed with genuine interest. 'Were there lots of young boys in that old novel of yours?'
Apparently, the sheriff had called ahead to warn his people off. No one took notice of Oren when he entered the private office alone and locked the door behind him. He pulled Cable Babitt's keys from his pocket and opened the credenza to plunder the man's files.
The pile of old case folders made less than an hour's read-a waste of time, mostly rumor and hearsay. William Swahn had done a more thorough job of interviewing the people of Coventry. Oren had already formed an opinion of the sheriff's incompetence, but there must be more evidence than this. Turning back to the credenza, he opened the lower drawer to thumb through unrelated files, looking for something out of place, and he found an unmarked red folder.
The sheriff had lied to him about never committing the old alibi statements to paper.
There had been no formal interview with young Isabelle Winston, perhaps because Cable Babitt was, at core, a kind man. The teenager had submitted her four-page story in longhand, a schoolgirl script of curlicues and rampant sex in the deep woods with Oren Hobbs. Its content was the stuff of romance novels and bad movies. The wording described nothing more than a young girl's lack of experience, and it inadvertently exposed her as a virgin. Twenty years ago, the sheriff had probably slipped this statement into a drawer and smiled as he let her go unpunished for lying.
Oren moved on to alibi number two, a more official document. Evelyn Straub's statement had been transcribed from a taped interview, only one page of words neatly typed. He recognized her signature below the final line.
EVELYN STRAUB: Usually, I screwed the boy at the hotel. There's always an empty room to use. There was only one time at the cabin. I never took anyone there for sex. It was special. But that day, I made an exception.
SHERIFF BABITT: Why? I need something I can believe in, Evelyn.
EVELYN STRAUB: Too many birthdays, Cable. I'd just broken every mirror in that cabin. And then I looked through a back window and saw Oren out there on the trail. I needed him. I just needed him.
SHERIFF BABITT: And what about Josh?
EVELYN STRAUB: He went on ahead. He took that old hiking trail that runs past the cabin.
SHERIFF BABITT: So Josh goes up the trail by himself-believing God knows what-and Oren was fine with that?
EVELYN STRAUB: I think Oren stayed with me that day because I was crying. And my feet were bleeding.
She went on to describe the details of her crime: the carnal knowledge of a boy.
To make her lie more credible, Evelyn had told the truth. Except for the mention of Josh, she had perfectly described a memorable day. He recalled those broken mirrors-her fear-the bloody cost of vanity. He had carried her up the stairs to the bedroom so that the broken shards could not cut her soles anymore. After laying her down on the bed, he had washed her bleeding feet and bound the wounds with strips of old sheets. At the end of a day in that bed, their names were still Hey Boy and Mrs. Straub. They had seen the moon sail past the bedroom window, and the light of the sun had awakened them in the morning. But he had been sixteen years old on that day, not seventeen. And she had described their first time together-not the last.
A full year would pass before Josh was lost and Oren was banished. On long nights in far-off New Mexico, he had sometimes lain awake and wondered if the mirrors had gone after her again and left her bleeding.
The next page was another interview. Though the sheriff had led him to believe otherwise, apparently William Swahn-another man without an alibi-had made a formal statement.
All of the previous coroners had been funeral directors. Dr. Martingale, DDS, was the first dentist ever elected to that county office. At the burial site in the woods, the new coroner posed for a photo opportunity with the press, and he smiled broadly, knowing that fame was only as far away as the dinner hour and the evening news.
The sheriff's evidence officer had no need of a dentist's skills in the excavation of bones, but the reporters had used Dr. Martingale as a human shield when they broke through the line of yellow crime-scene tape.
And now, at the request of a cameraman, the coroner obligingly jumped into the grave. 'More bones,' he said, holding one high for the camera.
An angry deputy yelled, 'Get the fuck out of there!'
The press corps salivated. Though the obscenity would be bleeped for the television audience, four-letter words were the finest kind. Cameras whirred and still photographs were snapped as the humiliated Dr. Martingale climbed out of the hole.
State troopers arrived en masse to herd reporters back behind the enemy line of the fallen crime-scene tape. The next people to cross the line carried screens and trowels, soft brushes and other tools for unearthing the dead. Reporters identified them as university students and their archaeology professor. The group's official escort was a gray-haired middle-aged woman in a shapeless flowered dress. 'Call me Sally,' said the agent from the California Bureau of Investigation.
A reporter yelled, 'I thought this case belonged to the County Sheriff 's Office! Is this a turf war?'
'Oh my, no,' said Special Agent Polk in a folksy tone of
The county sheriff was not available for comment. According to his deputies, he had left the scene on a matter of urgent business elsewhere.
Cable Babitt was hard at work in his own backyard. He squatted before the open door of his toolshed, swinging a hammer and bringing it down on the edge of his shovel-
When he was done with this chore, he entered the shed and unlocked a tin cabinet. He stood there for a while, eyes adjusting to the poor light, and then he opened the small metal door to expose a most precious object. It had been protected by dusty plastic and darkness these past twenty years. He unwrapped the knapsack. Marred by only a few spots of old dried blood, it was still as green and bright as the day Josh Hobbs had dropped it in the woods.
Where would he hide it now?
15
This time, there was no need to knock. The door was opened before Oren reached the top step of the portico. And now the two men stood face-to-face.
'Good afternoon,' said William Swahn, a day late in remembering his manners.
In lieu of a greeting, Oren handed him a twenty-year-old statement made to the sheriff. 'I don't want to hear any crap about being railroaded by cops, okay? Your interview was typed from a recording.' He held up a dusty cassette from that era.
The householder sat down on the marble steps and leaned his cane against a pillar. He held up the sheet of yellowed paper and read the lines:
William Swahn: I can't prove I was home alone that day, can I? I can only tell you that I never had any interaction with Josh.
Sheriff Babitt: There's three photographs of you hanging in the Coventry Post Office. The boy took those pictures a year ago.
William Swahn: They're candid shots. I didn't pose for them. I wasn't even aware of those pictures until the postmaster hung them up in the lobby.
Sheriff Babitt: Then maybe you met Josh at one of Sarah Winston's birthday balls. I know you attended all of them.
William Swahn: And I usually left early.
Sheriff Babitt: Josh went to all of them, too. Sarah made him her official ball photographer when he was just ten years old. That kid made a nice piece of change selling pictures to the guests. If you bought one of his prints, I'm sure you'd remember a good-looking kid like that.
William Swahn: You mean pedophile candy, don't you? At least a hundred children show up at the lodge every year. As far as I know, Josh never took a picture of me at any of the balls.
Sheriff Babitt: And that's odd, isn't it? I searched the boy's darkroom. I looked at five years of photographs, all the ones he took at the Winston lodge. There's not one single picture of you at the ball- everyone else in town-but not you. Now I call that strange. You'd think he would've caught you in one of those group shots just by accident. So, naturally, I assumed that you bought those pictures
