I was so focused on finding Eddie, Liz’s boyfriend, that I spent almost no time thinking about Sheryl, and whether she might have had one as well. Yet Catherine Gerard told me that boys and girls are matched up at six years old. There’s no reason to think Sheryl would have been an exception.
“What about him?” I asked. “Was it something he did? Something he said?” I’m probing for information that she unfortunately does not seem to have.
“I just don’t know… I’m sorry,” she says, getting upset at her inability to give me what I want. “They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Do you know her boyfriend’s name?” I ask.
She nods. “Alan.”
“Do you know his last name?”
She nods again. “Drummond.”
Alan Drummond.
Son of Stephen.
When Eddie told me he was afraid that Drummond was coming for him, he wasn’t talking about the father; he was talking about the son.
“Is it possible that Eddie was afraid of Alan?” I ask.
She says it simply, almost matter-of-factly, but it sends a chill through me. “Everybody’s afraid of Alan.”
I continue to question Madeline, but she has little else to offer in the way of information. Finally, she tells me that she should be going so she can get back before her mother returns home.
“If you’re worried, afraid for your safety, I can get you taken into protective custody. That way no one can get near you.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone we talked, are you?” she asks.
“Only Laurie Collins. She’s the chief of police in Findlay, and she won’t repeat it. I trust her with my life.”
Madeline thinks for a moment, perhaps cognizant that it’s not my life we’re trusting Laurie with… it’s her own. Finally, she says, “Okay. How can I reach you if I hear anything important?”
“I don’t want you to. I’ll take it from here.”
“But I want to help if I can,” she says. This seventeen-year-old girl is easily the bravest person in this room.
I write my phone number out for her. “Call me any time of the day or night. But not from your house; call from a pay phone.”
“I will,” she says.
She leaves to make the drive back to Center City, and I head back to Findlay. I’m not anywhere near knowing the “why” behind the murder of three young people, but I may have just learned the “who.”
• • • • •
WE WOULDN’T have anything on Al Capone if he lived in Center City.” This is Laurie’s way of telling me that my request to check if Alan Drummond has a criminal record is not going to be productive. I’m sure she’s right; they are not about to share any details about their citizens with the outside world, and especially not negative ones. And most especially not negative ones about the son of Stephen Drummond.
We’re sitting on the couch drinking wine, and Laurie is gently and absentmindedly rubbing my thigh as we talk. If she continues doing that, I’m going to forget what the hell we’re talking about.
So I’ve got to focus. “That’s a shame, because Madeline said that everyone was afraid of him,” I say. “He must have done some bad things; you don’t generate that kind of fear by not cleaning your plate at lunch.”
“Have you ever seen him?” she asks.
I nod. “Twice. Big, powerful kid. He was wearing one of those servants of the Keeper uniforms and driving Wallace around.”
“So whatever he’s up to, there’s a good chance Wallace and his father are behind it.”
“Probably, but not definitely,” I say. “You know, until now I’ve been thinking that this was all about the religion, about keeping everything secret. I figured these kids were going to run away, and the town leaders decided they couldn’t have that happening. But this is something else… something bigger.”
“Why do you say that?” she asks.
“Well, first of all, Henry Gerard already told the secrets, and nobody cared, remember? Why would anybody listen to these kids, when he wrote articles about it in the damn newspaper and nothing happened? But Madeline said the three kids knew something, probably about Alan Drummond, and it scared them so much they were leaving their town and their families.”
“They had nobody to turn to,” she says. “Alan’s father is the number two guy in town, and his regular passenger is number one.”
Something pops into my head. “Hey, I remember something else. The kid’s a pilot; I saw a picture of the family in his father’s office. They were standing in front of a plane, and Stephen told me that his son was the pilot in the family.”
“So maybe he does more than drive Wallace around in a car,” she says. “The question then is, where would Wallace be flying to?”
I shrug. “Maybe the wheel sends him on trips. Probably to conventions with other wackos.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find out.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“If they’re flying around, they’ve got to declare flight plans with the FAA. I should be able to get the records.”
“It’s worth a shot. When can you do it?”
“Well,” she says, “I can spend a few hours on the phone now trying to find someone who can help, or we can go to bed now and I can make one phone call in the morning.”
I think about this for a moment. “In which scenario are you likely to be naked faster?”
“The ‘bed now, call in the morning’ one.”
“Then that’s the one we go with.”
It turns out to be a great choice, but like all good things, it comes to an end when the alarm goes off at six A.M. Laurie is showered, dressed, and out of the house in forty-five minutes, leaving me and Tara to reflect on just what the hell we think we’re doing here.
I’m pleased with the progress I’ve made so far, and certainly not regretting deciding to stay, but I am feeling somewhat out of my element. I’m an attorney, not a detective, and I’m finding that this new role requires a different mind-set and strategic outlook.
Generally on a case I view events and information through the prism of the legal system in general and its likely effect on a jury in particular. Even though a trial is often referred to as a search for the truth, that’s not my job. My job is to convince a jury to accept my truth, which is that my client is not guilty of the crime for which he or she is charged.
This detective stuff comes with a different mandate. I’ve got to find the real truth, actually extract it from people who don’t want to give it up. By definition those people are dangerous, and by definition I am not. I have a natural inclination to avoid danger, an inclination often referred to as cowardice, which leaves me with a dilemma. It’s hard to avoid danger when the truth is hiding behind it and I’m after the truth.
I’m finding that another difference between lawyering and detecting is the gaps between events. When I’m on a case, I can fill those gaps with preparation for trial. In my detecting mode, I often find that I’m sitting and waiting for something to happen, like right now, when I’m waiting for Laurie to find out information regarding the flight plans in and out of the tiny Center City Airport.
It’s almost four in the afternoon when Laurie calls me. “You got a pen?” she asks.
“I’m a lawyer… what do you think?”
“Take down this number,” she says, and then reads me a phone number with a 202 area code, which I recognize as Washington, D.C. “It’s the FAA. We got really lucky: Sandy Walsh has a cousin whose wife works there. Ask for Donna Girardi.”
“Didn’t you find out the information?” I ask.
“I did, but I want you to hear it from her directly. And you might have some additional questions.”
We hang up and I dial the number. Within moments I’m talking to Donna Girardi. “Chief Collins said you had
