I listen to mostly sports talk radio along the way, and I soon discover that “Larry from Queens,” who always calls to complain about the Knicks and Rangers, has a counterpart in every other city. But I’m nothing if not an intellectual, so I listen to all of it.
I’m also a gourmet, so I take full advantage of the fact that every city along the way seems to have a Taco Bell. Even better, many of them are in combination with Pizza Hut, so I can get a grilled stuffed burrito while making sure Tara gets her beloved pizza crusts. America is a wonderful place.
About ten minutes before the Findlay exit on the highway is an exit for Center City. I know from the newspaper articles that this is where the two young murder victims were from, so I decide to get off and check out the town. I probably won’t learn anything, but it will delay my arrival in Findlay. I would stop off for a rectal exam if it would delay my arrival in Findlay.
Center City turns out to be a good fifteen minutes in from the highway, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farmland. There is a small airport set in the fields on the northeast side of town, which makes it about ten minutes from Lake Superior. The airport amounts to little more than a landing strip, a hangar, and a small shack. If there are planes there, I don’t see them, but there could be one or two in the hangar.
The town center is no more than two blocks long. Calling this a city is a total misnomer; “town” is a stretch. Outside this two-block center are small houses, mostly identical in size and style, that spread out for perhaps a mile, nudging up against the farmland. Just north of the town is a large factory that processes the dairy products of the local farmers. I would guess that Center City has a population of maybe five thousand, except for the fact that almost none of those people are visible.
Even in the center of town, where the stores are, the streets are eerily empty… almost
Looming over the entire town is a building, perhaps seven stories high, with the designation “Town Hall” on the front. There is a large grassy area in front of it, and on that area is what looks to be a makeshift memorial to the murder victims. Townspeople have brought flowers and written notes in tribute to the deceased young women, and they have been arranged in a circular manner, almost as if they are spokes on a wheel.
I walk over with Tara to get a closer look. The fact that there are no people around is more than vaguely unsettling; something seems either wrong or unnatural. The notes, as I start to read them, are heartfelt and mostly religious in nature; the town is clearly mourning these two lives that were cut way too short.
“Have you got business here, sir?”
The sound of the voice is jolting and causes me to jump. I look over and see a man, no more than twenty-five years old, wearing a tan shirt and pants, which seems like a uniform. I have to look up to see his face; he’s probably six foot four, two hundred and thirty pounds. “Man, you scared me,” I say. “Where did you come from?”
“Have you got business here, sir?” he repeats, in exactly the same tone. He may be young, but he’s already developed into quite a conversationalist.
“No, just driving through.” I look around. “Where is everybody?”
“There is a town meeting,” he says, and at that very moment the doors to the town hall open, and the good citizens of Center City come flooding out en masse.
“I guess attendance is mandatory,” I say, but the officer doesn’t react.
Instead he says, “Where are you staying, sir?”
I don’t answer right away, since I’m somewhat distracted by the fact that most of the people leaving the town hall are staring at me as if I’m an alien. I also notice that everybody seems to be paired up and holding hands, including children no more than seven years old. I never had a sister, but I know for a fact I wouldn’t have held hands with the little brat.
“Sir, where are you staying?” he repeats.
“Not here. Why do you ask?”
“We just don’t get many strangers, so we like to keep track of them. We’re a friendly community.”
“Good, ’cause I’m a friendly guy,” I say, and Tara and I start to walk back to the car. I see a large group of people walking in the same direction and staring at me, so I wave.
“Hi,” I say, a big fake smile on my face. It does not attract a return “Hi” from any of them, nor does it stop them from staring. Maybe Wisconsin friendly communities are different from friendly communities back on earth.
We get back on the road and head to Findlay, stopping for dinner along the way. I’ve been to Findlay before; last year I checked out a lead on a case and the possible future home of Laurie at the same time. I’ve developed something of a jealous hatred for the place, since Laurie chose it over me, and I can sense that hatred returning as I get closer.
Coming here is feeling like a major mistake.
Fortunately, I come in under cover of darkness, since it’s almost nine o’clock when we finally arrive. Findlay is a conventional small town, larger than Center City, with about an eight-square-block town center. The largest building is the Hotel Winters, a stately, six-floor establishment that Richard Davidson mentioned was a prewar building. Based on the look of it, I think he was talking about the Revolutionary War. Tara and I enter, secure in the knowledge that we’re not going to find a casino adjacent to the lobby.
In fact, we also don’t find many people in the lobby, just a bellman and two guests sitting on high-backed chairs, reading. The front desk is unmanned, and I’m reduced to ringing the small bell on the desk repeatedly to attract attention. Finally, a sleepy man of about seventy comes out from the office, trying to comprehend through the grogginess that there is actually someone up at this hour. Worse yet, that person is seeking his attention.
Fortunately, Davidson has made the reservation and has me in what the clerk describes as the presidential suite on the top floor. My sense is that it isn’t often occupied, and perhaps has been empty since President Jefferson himself used it.
I have my key in my hand when the clerk finally realizes that Tara is standing next to me.
“We don’t usually allow dogs in here,” he says.
I nod and hand him the key. “That’s fine. Why don’t you just direct me to a hotel that does?”
He hesitates but doesn’t take the key, not wanting to blow the suite sale. “I suppose it will be all right.”
“We’ll let Tara be the judge of that,” I say, and we head upstairs to sample the accommodations.
The room is the kind you’d expect if you drove up to a New England bed-and-breakfast and planned to spend the next day antique shopping. The only problem with that is that it’s on a high floor, and if I were going to spend an entire day antique shopping, I’d be looking to jump out the window.
Everything is so old that the lobby seems modern by comparison. There’s a canopy bed with a mattress so soft that it’s going to take a crane to get me up in the morning. The bathroom fixtures, when initially manufactured, must have ushered in the era of indoor plumbing, and it was probably fifty years after that before someone figured out that the hot and cold water can come out of the same sink faucet.
A note has been left in the room by Davidson, informing me that he has set up a meeting at nine tomorrow morning with Calvin Marshall, Jeremy’s current lawyer. Davidson will be there as well, but he will understand if I don’t want him to sit in.
I’m too exhausted right now to know what I want. I give Tara a biscuit and start to climb into bed. I briefly debate whether I should bring a cell phone with me, since there’s a possibility I’ll sink so far into the mattress that I’ll have to call 911 to get out.
“Tara,” I say, “why the hell did we decide to come here?”
Tara’s look tells me in no uncertain terms that she did not participate in this particular decision, but she’s too diplomatic to come right out and say it.
I wake up at seven after a fairly decent sleep, and start to get dressed to take Tara out for a quick walk before showering. While getting dressed, I attempt to turn on the
No television! It’s possible I’m in still another
On the way out with Tara, I stop at the front desk and report that someone has stolen the television from my room. “Oh, no, sir,” he says, “not all of the rooms have televisions. Some of our guests prefer it that way.”
“What planet are those guests from?”
“Sir?” he asks.
