(88)
Chris McCauley glanced at the clock for the millionth time. Not a single minute had ticked by since the last time he looked. After visiting Mossy he’d worked a half day at the station. After the usual morning rush, the place was dead so he closed up early. He’d gone home and cleaned up, then tried to take a nap but sleep would not come to his overactive mind. He’d taken a ride to the lake but couldn’t make himself even get out of the car. Something in there had scared his brother so profoundly that he’d taken his own life to avoid seeing it again. He’d paced around his small house mindlessly. There was no way he would make it until six o’clock at this rate. He’d decided to walk over to the Witch’s Hat. It was Jake’s favorite place, it seemed right to be there. Now, still nursing his first beer and glancing obsessively at the clock, he began to feel a sense of calmness. Maybe his brother’s spirit was here.
He turned from the bar to take in the place his brother had spent so much time in. It wasn’t much, but maybe for Jake it eased his tortured memories. A few years later Chris would be watching Cheers, a Boston-based sitcom about the regulars in a bar and would think of Jake with tears in his eyes when the patrons cheerfully yelled “Norm!” when one of the characters walked in. Now, he saw a lonely bunch of people searching for something in the bottom of a glass and he only felt sadness.
His mind turned to the task that lay ahead. It was all so improbable, a man-made monster that lived in the lake of their small town. It was the plot to so many bad horror movies, yet Chris believed it. He had to, the alternative was madness, mass-hysteria and he could not think in those terms. He noticed a small group of older men at a table looking at him, and he raised his glass before turning back to the bar and looking at the clock again. He drained his beer, dropped a five on the bar, and headed out. He would walk back home, get his car, and pick up Mossy early. The wait was over, it was time to act.
(89)
Ortiz pulled into the parking lot and walked briskly into the station. It was still empty with no signs of anyone being there since he’d disabled the radio. He began looking through the filing cabinets for the old case reports and was shocked to find them gone. Had Crawford snapped and destroyed them in case there was something that hinted at Greymore’s innocence? He shook his head, immediately knowing the files were all in the Chief’s office where Crawford had been obsessing over them since Greymore’s release. He hurried to the office and found the door locked. He knew he didn’t have a lot of time. Either the Chief himself or one of the other officers would be back to the station soon. Without a second thought he stepped back and kicked the door just below the knob. He was mildly surprised when the cracking sound he heard was the door jamb and not his foot, and the door swung open. He grabbed the files from Crawford’s desk, fully aware of the consequences. He was risking everything he had worked his entire life for.
Robert Ortiz had known at a young age the difference between right and wrong and the deep valley of gray between. He was left alone on the streets of Miami at the age of 15 to fend for himself when his parents were killed in a drive-by shooting. It could have been gang-related or it could have been a random act of violence common to the poverty-stricken neighborhoods of big cities. Whatever the case the result was the same: Ortiz had no parents and no place to call home. The easy route for him would have been the gangs, dealing drugs, small-time robberies, and eventual jail time. But his parents had taught him well. He managed to finish high school while living on the streets and picking up odd jobs wherever possible. His senior essay about the homeless subculture in Miami won him a scholarship to Boston University. With no car and no money, he hitched from Florida to Massachusetts following graduation. He had survived the thieves and perverts that travel the interstates and fulfilled his parents’ dreams by finishing college with a degree in criminal justice. The police academy was the next logical step. He had always thought everything he had, everything he had been through, was represented by the badge and gun he carried and the uniform he wore.
As all of these thoughts filled his mind, he picked up one of the folders and quickly scanned the notes for the location of the disappearance. Then the next and the next. It was too clear, too obvious. All of the disappearances or the last-seen-locations of the victims were in the direct vicinity of the lake. Not Greymore’s house, but the lake itself. There was no way Crawford could have missed this. He unbuckled his Sam Browne belt and laid it on Crawford’s desk. He did the same with his badge. They didn’t represent him, they didn’t symbolize his life. If they did then it would have to be true for Crawford too. And he was not like Crawford at all. Crawford had wanted to make a collar and make a name, Ortiz wanted justice. Without a look back he headed out of the police station, maybe for the last time.
(90)
Ortiz stepped into the dimly lit bar and quickly assessed the situation. The place was more than half-filled early on a Saturday afternoon. The Haven Day event was in full swing over at the fairgrounds. The carnival always ended on Haven Day, celebrating the town’s founding. Various events took place, including the strong man competition that Teddy Stavros always won, and ending with a fireworks show. That meant he was looking at a room full of what he considered “professional drinkers.” Those with nothing to go home to, or something at home they were trying to avoid. He knew from experience it would be a tough crowd, one that kept to itself. He slowly made his way to the bar, feeling the suspicious eyes follow him.
He had been driving slowly through town thinking about what Joe Cummings had said. Alone in his own vehicle, no gun or badge, doubt had crept into his mind. Had he just thrown everything he worked for since he was fifteen down the sewer? His cop’s instinct, alive and well with or without a gun and badge, screamed “NO!” Ortiz began applying logic to the situation, rearranging the data over and over in his mind, knowing he would hit the right combination eventually and a pattern would show itself.
He didn’t know the whereabouts of Greymore. Ditto on Father McCarthy. Bugsy was probably dead. Crawford was unapproachable. He needed a link, something connecting these people to each other or the lake. He replayed the conversation with Joe Cummings in his head and there he found the next step he was looking for: the Witch’s Hat. From what Joe said, his assault was premeditated and probably involved someone at the bar to turn off the lights in the parking lot when Joe left. Now, here he was.
The bartender stared him down with a look somewhere between wariness and contempt. These guys had an instinct too; they knew a cop when they saw one. “Can I help you, Officer?” The words were clipped, not your friendly, neighborhood bartender type.
Ortiz smiled knowingly; this wasn’t going to be easy. “Just a beer, and a few answers.” He pulled out his wallet and laid two twenties on the bar, never taking his eyes from the bartender’s. The burly man raised his eyebrows, then turned to pour the beer. He placed the glass on the bar in front of Ortiz, the cash still lying there. His eyes swept the bar. Ortiz did the same. Most of the regulars had gone back to their own conversations, apparently satisfied by the beer that this was not cop business.