“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 information about the flight plans coming out of Center City Airport.”
“I do,” she says. “There are no such plans.”
I’m taken aback by this news, but less than fully confident that Ms. Girardi has taken the time to check through all the records. “How were you able to find this out so fast?” I ask.
“Because there is no such airport.”
“It’s not really an airport… it’s more of an airfield,” I say. “There’s just a runway, a small hangar, and one other building. I think they just use it for their personal planes… it’s not like United Airlines is flying in and out of there.”
“Every facility that’s used for takeoffs and landings, no matter how small, is required to be registered with our agency. Not to do so is a federal crime.”
“It would be really great if you didn’t investigate this particular federal crime for a while.” One thing I don’t need right now is the FAA entering the picture and tipping off the Centurions that something is going on.
“Chief Collins mentioned something about that as well. Let’s just say that a landing strip in Wisconsin is not a particularly high priority for our investigators. Especially in December.”
“When might it become a priority?” I ask.
“Without some incident requiring our attention, I would say you’re looking at July,” she says.
I look outside at the frozen tundra that is Wisconsin and the snow that is starting to fall.
“Ms. Girardi, right now there is nothing I would like better than to look at July.”
I thank her and end the call. The fact that the FAA has no record of the Center City airstrip could be crucially important. It could indicate that something illegal is happening there, and it could be the information that led to the death of Liz and Sheryl, and later Calvin and Eddie.