Lost Boy Lost Girl

Let’s go on to something a great deal more important to me.

“Here I am, identified by you as the person some elderly female described to a police sketch artist after something silly brought him to her attention. She objected to a harmless chat I was having with a delightful young man in Sherman Park. I freely admit to being the man in the sketch, for I certainly am the man who was chatting with the boy. But I believe that is about as far as you can go, isn’t it?”

The room seemed to be a degree or two warmer and a bit darker and dimmer, as if the overhead lights were failing.

“Go with what?”

“The identification. A woman sees me in the park, a police artist draws up a sketch, you see a resemblance between me and the sketch . . .” He looked up at the mirror behind Tim’s head. “And what does that prove, Sergeant? Nothing at all. It certainly is not the basis for an arrest, is it, unless talking to people in the park has suddenly become a crime.”

“I suppose they must have more to go on.”

Lloyd-Jones regarded Tim as he would a charming though backward pupil. “Why in the world should you and Mr. Pasmore have been interested in that little house on Michigan Street?”

Tim took a photograph Philip had given him from his pocket and slid it across the table toward Lloyd-Jones, who raised his expressive eyebrows and gazed blandly down at it. “Nice-looking boy. Your son?”

“My nephew, Mark Underhill. Does he look familiar to you? Have you ever seen him before?”

“Let me see.” He drew the photograph toward him and bent over it. The thought that he might touch it made Tim feel ill.

Lloyd-Jones smiled at him and deliberately, using only the tips of his fingers, slid the photograph back across the table. “I don’t think he looks familiar, but it’s hard to be sure. Especially with an old photograph like that one.”

“Mark was fascinated with what you called that little house on Michigan Street. According to his best friend, he went so far as to break in and look around. He found all kinds of interesting things. It didn’t take him long to learn its history.”

“That’s really too bad. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Why is that, Mr. Lloyd-Jones?”

“Please—call me Ronnie. I insist.”

The thought of Franz Pohlhaus watching from the other side of the mirror made Tim acquiesce. “If you like.”

“Good. Of course, what I find regrettable is that your nephew trespassed on my property. And since you have told me that he did, I must tell you that although I could not recognize him from that picture, I did in fact notice a teenage boy lurking around that house from time to time.”

“How did you happen to notice him, Ronnie?”

“From inside, how else? Through the window. Now and again, I used the place as a getaway. I liked to go over there and collect my thoughts. It was extraordinarily peaceful. I’d just sit in the dark and, I suppose you could say, meditate. Your nephew’s persistent attentions were a terrible distraction. One night he and his friend went so far as to shine a light in the window. I was in there at the time, and I sort of showed myself. Scared the hell out of the little snoops.”

“Were there other times when you deliberately showed yourself to my nephew?”

A smile tucked the corners of Ronnie’s mouth. “Yes, a few. Once, I stood up the hill with my back turned to him. I did things like that a couple of times. I was hoping it might frighten him off, just a bit.”

“Did you ever go into his house? On the day of his mother’s funeral, did you let yourself into his kitchen?”

Ronnie looked shocked. “Please let me express my sympathy for the loss of your sister-in-law. But no, of course not. I’d never do a thing like that.”

“Why did you think standing with your back to him would be frightening?”

“Because of Joseph Kalendar, of course. Kalendar was in the habit of turning his back on photographers. He did it as often as possible. I assume that Kalendar was the reason for the boys’ fixation on my property.”

“You were interested in Kalendar yourself, weren’t you?”

“Most people in this city were interested in Joseph Kalendar, at one time.”

“In 1980, maybe. Not now.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Tim. Have people forgotten about Jack the Ripper? Men of colorful accomplishments tend to be remembered long after their deaths. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The walls seemed to have drawn in, the air become foul. The rage and depression streaming from smiling Ronnie Lloyd-Jones made Tim feel as though he were trapped in a cave with him. It was as if Ronnie were standing on his chest.

“Up to a point, I agree with you.”

“I am very, very happy to hear that, Tim. I have a proposition to make to you.”

Tim knew what the “proposition” was going to be, and the thought of it made him feel sick.

“Can I be frank, Tim? I’d like nothing better than to be frank with you.”

“Sure, you be Frank. I’ll be Dino.”

Tim was looking hard at a spot on the table between his spread-out hands. The muscles in his neck and upper arms had begun to ache. A long time ago, someone had used a pocketknife to scratch a slogan into the top of the table. THEEZ COPPS SUK.

“You’re a brilliant writer, Tim. You understand things. You’re insightful. And you’re a great storyteller.”

“Don’t do this,” Tim said.

“We could do an enormous amount of good for each other. I want it to be a partnership. The second I heard that you were the man who came to my door yesterday, I understood why you’d come. You’re the only person in the world who could do justice to my story.”

Before Tim had time to react, Ronnie Lloyd-Jones leaned across the table and forced him, as if by black art, to meet his eyes.

“Please understand me—I’m not confessing to anything. I say this to you personally and for the record. I am completely innocent of these Sherman Park murders, so of course I can’t confess to them. What I can do, however, and this might be helpful to everyone, is to describe a certain hypothetical situation. Shall we consider this hypothetical situation?”

“I don’t think I could stop you,” Tim said.

“I’m going to pretend that I am the Sherman Park Killer. If I were guilty of his crimes, I would be able to give you complete details of every murder, going back to before people knew there was a Sherman Park Killer. If I were guilty of those crimes, I would give you access to every aspect of my life. Still speaking hypothetically, I would tell you exactly where to find the bodies. All of them. I assure you, there would be a tidy little number.”

“Impossible,” Tim said.

“All I’d expect is an account that presented my hypothetical point of view. Fair-mindedness is what we’re looking for here. Joseph Kalendar would have to be a part of it. The spiritual rapport, the scale of his achievement. The scale of mine, plus a close look at the workings of my psyche.

“Let me make it easy for you, Tim. If you accept, I’ll guarantee you compensation in the amount of one million dollars. I’ll give you twice that if the book turns out as well as it should. This is irrespective of whatever advance you get from publishers. Your publishers are going to do cartwheels. Remember Mailer and The Executioner’s Song? I can do wonders for your career.”

“I can’t stand this horrible bullshit anymore,” Tim said, looking over his shoulder at the mirror behind him. “I’m getting out of here.”

Seconds later, Sergeant Pohlhaus strode into the room and said, “This conversation is now at an end.”

When Pohlhaus led Tim out of the interrogation room, Philip surged forward. “What’s wrong with you? He was going to tell you where he buried my son!”

“Mr. Underhill,” Pohlhaus said. The authority of his tone instantly silenced Philip. “It is extremely unlikely that