Ortiz quickly realized that John may be the leader of the group, but Scotty was a closer friend to Bugsy. “Please, call me Robert. I’m here on my own time.”
Scotty nodded. “Is Walter in trouble, Robert? Is he hurt?”
“I don’t know. We found his van parked up behind the State Hospital. It was empty, looked like he might have hiked down to the lake.”
Scotty slammed his mug on the table and all three men waited to hear what he had to say. “You didn’t find him, though, did you? He’s gone, isn’t he Robert?”
Ortiz nodded slowly. “It looked like he’d gone there at night. I found a flashlight down by the water.” Ortiz knew Crawford would pitch a fit if he found out what he said next. “Do any of you know if Walter owned a gun?” Ortiz, of course, knew it was Bugsy’s gun. That was easy enough to check out. It was his and he was licensed, no crime there.
The three men again exchanged glances. Charlie spoke for the first time. “What’s going on here, Offi… Robert?”
Ortiz slowly moved his gaze from one man to the next, landing finally on Scotty. “I also found his gun by the lake. It was empty, fired recently. Walter saw something that night and emptied his .38 into it, and now he’s gone. I’ll be damned if it didn’t look like he was dragged into the lake.”
“Good Lord…” Scotty put his face in his hands. Nobody spoke for a long moment until Scotty finally sat back with a desperate sigh. He looked at Charlie, then John, both giving a nod, urging him to spill it. “Walter’s been acting strange the past week or so. He said there is something going on in Haven, something that has nothing to do with Greymore. He’s been spending a lot of time driving around the streets by the lake at night.”
Ortiz grabbed an empty mug and poured himself a beer. It was grounds for suspension to be drinking in uniform, but it was the furthest thing from his mind. He took a long drink. “The roadkill.”
The three men stared at him, then nodded almost in comical unison. “You know about it?” Scotty asked.
“Only by putting the pieces together of what I found in his van. He might have made a good cop.” He looked around the table and saw sad realization in their eyes. Their friend was gone. “I need your help. Off the record. There’s too much focus on Greymore… something’s missing. Did he say anything else? Any theory he had about the roadkill or the lake? As crazy as it might sound, I need to hear it.”
John and Charlie were shaking their heads. “No, he just kept going on about how there were no kills to pick up near the lake this year.” Charlie frowned. “Wait! He also mentioned it had happened before. Back in 1961, same year as the other killings, Greymore again…”
Scotty cleared his throat, then took a long pull on his beer. “There’s more. After you guys left the other night, Walter and me stayed for a few more. He told me…” Scotty looked around, either afraid to break his friend’s trust or to repeat the bizarre theory. “He told me he thought Greymore was innocent. Now… and back then. Said he knew Greymore’s folks and they were good people. Said Greymore himself had him up to get his house ready. Said he’s good people, too. Swore on his wife’s memory there was no way Greymore did any of the killing.”
Ortiz waited. John and Charlie were shaking their heads slowly, maybe not wanting to believe their friend had been losing his mind right in front of their eyes. “Scotty, if he believed Greymore was innocent, did he have an idea of who was responsible?”
Scotty looked up with haunted eyes. “He thought there was something in the lake. Something that ate animals… and people. I just… I laughed at him.” He looked pleadingly at Ortiz. “He said he was going to prove it. He was… he was going to go looking for it. He was right, wasn’t he? And now it got him too…”
John and Charlie gaped at Scotty, then turned to Ortiz. “Robert, I think Scotty here is pretty upset. Surely, I mean, you’re a police officer. This kind of talk… it’s crazy. Isn’t it?” John clearly wanted to hear an answer that would fit in his world where everything was debits and credits. Something that made sense, that balanced out on the bottom line, that added up.
Ortiz finished his beer, unsure of what to say to these men. What he believed was that Bugsy’s theory was a lot closer to the truth than Crawford’s. But that kind of talk would have him out of a job in no time. On the other hand, to shoot down Bugsy and portray him as a drunk or half-crazy old man, that was just wrong. “I appreciate all of your honesty and cooperation tonight. As I said, I’m here on my own time, but if this conversation were to be repeated, it would still impact a police matter. My being here unofficially would only muddy the waters in Crawford’s eyes. Whatever is going on in Haven, I will get to the bottom of it, on my own if I have to. That I promise you.” He looked pointedly at John, then the others. “Can I count on your discretion until my investigation is complete? For Walter?”
All three men nodded and mumbled their agreement. Ortiz held Scotty’s gaze a moment longer, feeling a silent understanding pass between them. He nodded, threw a twenty on the table, and walked out.
(42)
The old man got off the bus at the same gas station where a few short weeks ago the inevitable series of events were set in motion when Greymore and McCarthy had innocently stopped for gas. He wandered over to the pumps, wiping perspiration from his brow. The man pumping gas wiped his own forehead with a dirty rag and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Hot enough for ya?” he asked amiably.
Immediately the old man placed the face and the rambling voice. He was the spitting image of an old friend, Matt McCauley. Matt was a writer for the Haven News and had been the person he had been supplying information when things had started to go bad. He had been afraid to look him up after the explosion. But Matt would be his own age now. It hit him then that he was a generation behind and this was probably Matt’s son. Most of the adults he met would likely be children of people he had known back then. The thought saddened him, the realization that he had missed seeing his friends marry and have children. Missed seeing those children grow up and have kids of their own. My God, I could be a grandfather. The thought was staggering and he blinked back the tears he felt, pretending to wipe sweat from his eyes. “Too hot, too early, I’m afraid. I’m looking to stay in town for a spell, any recommendations?”
The man finished pumping and made change for the driver, watching him pull away. “There’s the new Holiday Inn right up the road here, but I’d say your best bet would be to get a room at old Betty Chandler’s place. She’ll whip you up some of the finest home-cooked dinners, no extra charge, and you’ll still pay less than the Holiday Inn. Unless you’re looking for air conditioning and a pool, then of course Holiday Inn would be the way to go.”
His mind was working fast. He needed to find out a lot of information in a short time. Getting it from a local was the best way to do that. If he could hook up with Matt McCauley he could get everything he needed. He would have to reveal his identity to Matt but it would be worth it. Better than the endless hours at the local library. “Chandler’s sounds just fine, I’m sure this heat will pass soon enough. And the home-cooked meals I could definitely use,” he laughed. “You know, you remind me of a guy I used to know, last time I came through these parts.”
“You don’t say! Who might that be?”
“His name was Matt McCauley.” Mossy watched the man’s face open up. “I met him when I was stationed at the old base here in town, back in the early forties it must have been.”
The man stared off for a moment before offering his hand to Mossy, “I’m Chris McCauley. Matt’s son.”