“And his Indian get-up,” Barton said, nodding. “It’s just another story. And if you talk to him, he is not part of the local band. He is a descendent of what I like to call the movie Indians, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. And then there’s Al Capone.”
“Al Capone?”
“Yes. One of Dad’s stories is that he was the driver for Al Capone, and not only in Chicago, up here, too. I’ve checked, not that I ever believed it would’ve been possible. The dates didn’t match up. He wouldn’t have been old enough. He did grow up in Chicago, that’s his only connection. But he’s got this great story of how he worked for Capone. When big Al was under pressure from the Feds, my father helped him hide millions of dollars in northern Michigan. In fact, he wrote a book about it. He’s even sold a few copies.”
“Let me have this again,” said Ray. “Your father wrote a book about Al Capone stashing money in northern Michigan? When did he do this?”
“Just in the past few years. He said he wanted to write his memoir before he died. He took one of those life story classes at the library a few winters ago. My sister and I bought him a Mac. He loves that machine. He had no trouble learning how to use it. Occasionally he’d get in a bit of a mess, and we would sort it out for him.” Barton laughed, this time to herself.
“When I started to read the stuff he was producing, I was amazed. It wasn’t a real memoir. It was all about Al Capone. Of course, I confronted him, but he just laughed. He said the stuff he was writing was a lot more fun than what actually happened to him, growing up poor in Chicago. When he finished it, he found a woman who does this kind of thing, you know—helps people put together memoirs and family books. She formatted the book for him. Initially, he got 10 copies, print on demand. Dad buys a lot of stuff at that little bookstore in the village. He got the owner to take a copy or two on consignment. Turns out Dad has sold or given away a couple of dozen over the last six months. He’s been having so much fun with this. I hope people don’t start digging up the beaches….”
“Does he give locations? Are there maps?”
“No, nothing like that. But he hints at what the places look like. You know, sand and beaches, headlands, and islands.” She laughed. “Almost everything around here fits that description.”
Ray took another moment to make notes.
“Has your father ever gone missing before?” he asked.
“Never,” she responded emphatically.
“How’s your father doing cognitively?”
“What do you mean? Like is he getting senile? Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. “Other than his rather bizarre fantasy life, he’s pretty sharp.”
“Has he ever had a stroke, anything like that?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. But he’s close to 90.”
“How about his spirits? Depression?”
“No. He’s one of the happiest people I’ve ever met.”
Ray nodded. He could see it in the daughter as well. “There’s just one more thing. I need to clarify something, When you got to the house, was the door locked?”
“Yes, like I said. I used the keypad to get in.”
“Did you check other entryways, the doors and windows? Any evidence of forced entry?”
“Quite frankly, I didn’t look that closely. I think I was in panic mode by then. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Do you have a photo of your father?”
“Not with me, but I can get you one. I’ll put it in an e-mail as soon as I get home.” She stood up again, slowly this time. “What happens now?”
“We will alert our officers and other police agencies to be on the lookout for your father. We can request help from the media. We usually get the best response from local TV news.”
“I’ve seen those stories about some poor old soul who wanders away from a nursing home in their PJs. I don’t think my father falls into that category.”
“Something has obviously happened, Ms. Barton,” said Ray, standing up as well. “Your father’s unique style of dress will have put him on the radar of lots of people around here, even if they don’t know him. I think we should request help from the public. The media is always ready to cooperate.” Barton was silent for a few moments, staring at her hands, left over right on the conference table. She looked up at Ray. “Okay, let’s do it. What else?”
Ray glanced at his watch. “I’d like to go over to your father’s house, with your permission and in your company, to have a quick look around, and then make sure the place is secure.”
“Yes. Then what?”
“First thing tomorrow morning, Sue Lawrence, our detective who does crime scene investigations, will carefully check your father’s house and the surrounding grounds to see if there’s anything that might give us a clue to his disappearance. I’ll also organize a search of the immediate area, starting with a tracking dog, and then a search team. Give me about five minutes to write a press release. I’ll send it out immediately, and later I’ll add his photo to a revised release. If it starts running on the eleven o’clock news tonight, we’ll be getting calls and e-mails from the public in the morning. How about your father’s dog?”
“Big Al? I’ve got him in the car. He’s pretty frantic.”
“What type of dog is he?”
“He’s a papillon mix who thinks he’s a great Dane. He and Dad are so close, I can’t…” Her eyes suddenly overflowed with tears.
5
Starting her engine to get the heater going, Sue keyed 411 North Second Street, Sandville, into her GPS. When the map appeared on the screen, she pulled out onto the highway and headed south toward the sparsely part of the county. Simone, the Cairn terrier, roused herself from a fleece blanket and stood, her paws against the side window, peering out at the passing countryside.
Cedar County was divided into four sectors by the department. The northern part is a wooded and rolling landscape with miles of Lake Michigan shoreline and many beautiful inland lakes—some quite large, some little more than puddles. Away from the resort areas, cherry and apple orchards and vineyards cover the gently undulating hills and valleys. The southeastern part of the county has neither the topography nor the fertile farmland that enables the rest of the county to prosper. Land that was briefly farmed after the end of the lumber era had lain fallow for almost a century. Scrubby forests of oak, pine, cedar, and maple slowly reclaimed the territory. Once flourishing villages became nothing more than crossroads –– deserted cemeteries and a few dilapidated buildings of a long-departed population. Of the hundreds of square miles in the department’s jurisdiction, only two deputies—road patrol officers—were routinely assigned to the southern sector.
It took Sue less than twenty-five minutes to reach Sandville. She parked briefly on Main Street and looked around, comparing the data of the GPS with the current reality of the place. Her computer screen displayed a six-by-six grid of streets, the county line running down the center of six blocks of a paved two-lane road, also known as Main Street. From her parking spot, it appeared that the only houses remaining were in the most central area of the town. The largest structure was a vacant, two-story cinderblock building. Two display windows, one of which had duct tape running along the lines of a bad fracture, faced the deserted street. The window in the entrance was boarded over with a piece of plywood, the blackening top layers delaminating at the edges. Across the street was another cement building, low and square, its windows and doors also boarded over. A faded sign over the entrance read, “Groceries and Hardware.”