“I told him it was silly,” says Brenda, “but he wouldn’t listen.” She laughs. “He never does.”
“I think getting things out in the open is always a good thing,” I say. “What is it that’s bothering you?”
“It’ll be five and a half years this November that we lost our Matt,” Calvin says, and for the first time I notice that some of the pictures on the wall are of a strapping young man. A few of them are in football uniform.
Now that the conversation has turned to their son, their movements are as if choreographed. Calvin moves his chair closer to me, and Brenda brings out a photo album to show Adam. Clearly, they think I’m the guy to talk to about this matter, and in this case they’re right.
I can hear Brenda start to identify the pictures that Adam is looking at; as if she has to entertain him while Calvin is telling me his story. They start in kindergarten and peewee football, so apparently, it’s going to take Calvin a while.
“He was a great kid… a great kid,” says Calvin. “Not a week goes by we don’t look at those pictures.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, trying to move this along, but feeling a little bad about doing so. Talking about their boy is clearly one of their favorite pastimes.
Calvin goes on to tell me the story of a fateful November weekend, just after Matt’s freshman season as a University of Wisconsin football player had come to an end. Matt had a fine year; he was a top player his entire young life, and the coach at Wisconsin was predicting huge things for him.
A bunch of guys whom Matt knew, mostly football players, had come up to do some camping. They weren’t all from Wisconsin-some were from big cities-but Matt was going to educate them in the ways of the wild. They’d do some camping, fishing, maybe a little hunting, and in the process drink far more than their share of beer.
It was a trip from which Matt never returned. He took a few of the guys hunting and was the victim of what was ruled a tragic accident. The police version is that a hunter must have shot at motion in the woods, thinking it was a deer when in fact it was Matt. This despite the fact that the hunter apparently fled and was never identified, and the additional fact that Matt was wearing the bright orange jacket designed to prevent just such accidents.
Kenny Schilling was there that day, having previously established a friendship with Matt through football. The police questioned each of the young men thoroughly, and Calvin did as well, trying to understand why this young life had been snuffed out.
Calvin says that Kenny had aroused his suspicions at the time, but Brenda’s slight accompanying groan indicates that she doesn’t share that feeling. Kenny had been tentative in describing his whereabouts and had not returned to the camp after the shooting until well after the others.
“And I heard him arguing with Matt about an hour before they left,” Calvin says.
This time Brenda’s groan from across the room is louder. “They were probably arguing about football,” she says. “They always argued about football. Big deal.”
Calvin gives me a slight smile and wink, in the process telling me that I should discount everything Brenda is saying. But I actually think she’s probably right, as the police did as well. According to Calvin, the police did not appear suspicious of any of the group, and the case never went anywhere.
I’m greatly relieved to hear what Calvin has to say; it’s not nearly the blockbuster that Vince led me to believe. When this breaks, if it does at all, my assessment is that it will be a twenty-four-hour story, ultimately going nowhere and doing no damage.
My plan had been to visit with the local police in the morning and get whatever information I could from them. That no longer seems necessary and in fact could be counterproductive, calling more attention to a story that in no way incriminates Kenny. I’ll ask Pete Stanton to call them, cop-to-cop, and find out what he can.
Now of course we have more time on our hands before our return flight tomorrow evening. I can’t go fishing because I didn’t bring any bait. I can’t go hunting because I left my twelve-gauge at home. I can’t farm the land because I don’t own any land and I never applied for a plow license.
I guess I’ll just have to go to Findlay and check out Sandy Walsh.
* * * * *
WE FIND A HOTEL just outside of Findlay, no expensive minibar or robes in the bathroom, but clean sheets and a television that gets forty-eight channels, including both ESPN and ESPN2.
Adam and I are tired, but we go out to grab a quick bite to eat. I’m forced to grudgingly admit that Laurie’s hometown is not totally without culture when we find a Taco Bell that’s open late. When Adam tells me he can charge it back to the studio, I order an extra grilled stuffed burrito to take back to the hotel.
When I’m traveling, I usually call Laurie before I go to sleep, but I avoid the temptation this time. I don’t want to lie to her about where I am, and I certainly don’t want to tell the truth, so conversation at this point could be a little difficult.
In the morning we have the buffet breakfast in the hotel. I try the fruit, which appears to have ripened about midway through the first term of the Clinton administration. The biscuits are the consistency of something Mario Lemieux would shoot from just inside the red line. But the coffee is good, and I’m able to use the time to tell Adam where we’re going.
It’s the “why” I’m not quite so forthcoming about. I tell him I want to surreptitiously check out this guy Sandy Walsh, but I imply that it has to do with a case. Adam can hang out in town while I do it, and he’s not to say anything to anyone about it when we get back. I think he knows I’m full of shit, but he’s nice enough to just shrug and go along.
Findlay is a small town but considerably bigger than I expected and much nicer than Hemmings. It has a four-block shopping area of treelined streets, where cars park headfirst at an angle. All in all, a nice town… a nice place to have grown up… I’m afraid a nice place to go back to.
I was hoping for a lot worse. I was hoping there would be a sign when we pulled in saying “Welcome to Findlay, Pedophilia Capital of the World.” Or “Welcome to Findlay, World’s Leading Fungus Producer.”
I’m feeling uncomfortable with this whole thing. Laurie’s actions remind me of The Wizard of Oz, like she’s going to click her heels and say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” Which is bullshit, or Dorothy wouldn’t have run away from the dump in the first place.
I ask Adam, “If Dorothy ran away from home because the dog catcher was going to ice Toto, how come she clicks her heels and goes back? And what happens to Toto when she gets there? Can we assume he gets a needle in the arm?”
He has no idea what brought this on, but it’s about movies, so he’s into it. “You know something, you’re probably right. They should do a sequel, The Wizard of Oz 2: Toto’s Revenge.”
“You should write it.”
“Maybe I will,” he says, but I can’t tell if he’s serious.
Once I leave Adam in the shopping area, I call one of the rental car offices that Sam told me Walsh owned. The office I reach is the one about five miles out of town. They tell me that Walsh is not there, but at the office in the center of Findlay. It turns out to be a few stores down from where I left Adam. I don’t even have to get back in the car; I just walk down the street and go in.
My plan is to ask for him and then hit him with a diversion I’ve created about my company and its need to rent a large amount of cars in a small time frame. By presenting such a lucrative opportunity, I figure I can engage him in conversation, then see where it goes from there.