At Eileen McCann’s request, the Boise Police interviewed a number of people who had attended the party in Caldwell, and eventually traced three who had known Dale Watson. One of them had since moved out of the area, but she was able to contact the other two by phone.
The first, Kathy Lawson, twenty-two, sounded like a female equivalent of Dale himself, a rootless migrant moving from state to state according to whim or weather. She was from South Dakota originally, but had moved around quite a lot since then, and had a record of convictions for drug possession. Despite this, she was perfectly prepared to talk to Detective McCann all day-or even longer, Eileen suspected, given half a chance.
“Dale was like a nice guy, you know? Someone you could trust? Like I know he kinda had a thing for me, but he never hit on me or anything. You get guys hitting on you the whole time, but Dale was different. He was like gentle. I mean you could talk to him. He was real intelligent too, read books and everything. But like he never came on like heavy. It was like he was really interested in you, what you were thinking, your personality.
“That thing that happened, with the truck? It just… I don’t know what to tell you. It was like it destroyed him. I was there that night, and we kinda had a little thing going for a while there. He like started to come on to me, you know, and then this other guy, a real asshole name of Arnold, he came over and got me to dance and Dale kinda drifted away. He wasn’t like real flexible, you know?
“It’s like with the accident. I mean it wasn’t his fault, the other guy was going too fast and just lost control. And the girl who died wasn’t even a friend. It was just some mall rat who offered him a ride home, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t like it was someone he really knew and cared about. But he took it really hard. I went to see him in the hospital, they thought he had maybe a cracked rib or something? And he was going on about how it was all like just a total chance, what happened. And I thought, right, so what’s your problem? But Dale, well, you know he had a kinda strict religious upbringing, that Bible Belt stuff, and I guess that makes it tougher to go with the flow. Like if you grow up thinking there’s like a reason for everything, and then something like that happens, and there’s no reason …
“Last I heard of, he was talking about moving to Seattle. He said he wanted to go all the way to the edge and then fall off. That’s what he told me, or it might have been someone else he said that to. I was kind of out of circulation just then, with this … Well, I won’t bore you with the details. A medical thing. And when I felt like seeing people again, Dale wasn’t around anymore. It’s too bad. If the kid had been his, I would’ve maybe thought about having it. I kinda wish I’d told him that. Maybe it would have like made him feel better, you know?”
The other witness, Eugene Vandestraat, twenty-eight, worked as a bouncer at a club described by police as “frequented mainly by younger individuals.” Eileen McCann asked him if he’d ever had any professional encounters with Dale Watson.
“You mean like trouble? Hell, no. Dale … Listen, I called him the Philosopher. That was something I got called at school, on account of I was so dumb. Some jerk in the honors program started it off and the thing stuck. But Dale, well, he wasn’t no philosopher, I guess, but he was a guy who lived in his mind, you know? Like you’d look at him, and you could almost hear his brain working, kinda like a dishwasher.
“Dale never gave anyone any trouble, far as I know. Just the opposite. You were in trouble, he’d come and fix it. Not the way I would, but there’s kinds of trouble you can’t just walk in and say ‘OK folks, you’re outta here,’ right? Like I recall one time there was this guy, his woman’d left him, he was a big drunk, we all kinda felt she’d done the right thing there, but he just couldn’t take it. Used to come in and sink a few, next thing you know he’d be going up to the other tables, people he’d never even met before, and telling them how this bitch’d dumped him after all he’d done for her.
“What you going to do? You can’t throw the guy out, he ain’t getting violent or abusive, plus he’s one of our best customers. But folks didn’t want to know. Maybe they had problems too. They’d gone out to forget that shit, and here was Clark-that was his name-wouldn’t shut up about it. But Dale, Dale was a genius. He went over to the guy and sat down at his table, said ‘Tell me about it.’ Clark didn’t know what the fuck to do. He’d made a career outta breaking people’s balls about his problems and here was some guy asking him to talk about it.
“So anyway he starts into the whole story, same as usual. After a minute or two Dale looks at him-I heard all about this from a guy at the next table-Dale looks at him and says, ‘You supporting this woman?’ Clark kinda frowns, what the hell’s this? ‘Hell, no,’ he says, ‘we weren’t even married.’ ‘Yes, you are,’ says Dale, real quick. ‘You’re carrying her around on your shoulders like a monkey.’ And you know? After that, we didn’t hear one goddamn word from Clark about it ever again.”
Vandestraat hadn’t seen Dale Watson after the accident on the highway, but he said he’d been talking about going home. “Said he was tired of drifting around from place to place, wanted somewhere to lay down his head.”
Eileen McCann reviewed the progress she had made with mixed feelings. On the one hand, the breakthrough she had initially hoped for had not happened. She had learned nothing which would enable her to close the file on the Evanston killings. On the other hand, she now had a clear image of who Dale Watson had been, a small-town “philosopher” who had never had a chance to test his ideas against a coherent system of thought. He probably wouldn’t have got very far if he had, but at least some formal education might have helped him deal better with the demons that menaced him, with his sense of being different from everyone and everything around him, and his need to grapple firsthand with the big questions which his parents had conveniently packed up and shelved away in a box marked Religion.
Those demons had always been there, she guessed, nagging away at his peace of mind, continually pushing him to “move on.” When the truck had smashed through the traffic barrier and killed Starr Costello, they had emerged in force, precipitating the crisis which he had managed to stave off for so long. As soon as he got out of the hospital, he had no doubt headed out to the coast, as Kathy Lawson had said, all the way to the edge of the continent, hoping to “fall off.”
She contacted the Seattle Police, but they had no record of a Dale Watson. But somewhere out there, Eileen McCann was sure, he had crossed paths with Willard Sumner’s stolen revolver. After that, the other idea in Dale’s shocked, guilt-ridden mind had taken over, the one he had mentioned to Eugene Vandestraat about going home. “He was tired of drifting around from place to place, wanted somewhere to lay down his head.”
But where was home? Not Decatur, where parents and relatives and friends who had never understood the way he saw things, even in the good times, would expect explanations and a “normal,” easygoing, brain-dead mentality which Dale knew he couldn’t fake any more. No, he would go to Chicago, where he had first tasted the joys of independence, a city he knew and where he no doubt still had friends (but who were they, and why hadn’t they come forward when he died?).