“If, on the other hand, formal charges are brought,” Avery continued, “my admission of Joey’s involvement and the offer of compensation will vanish. The Champlins will resist any attempt to incarcerate the boy, and they have formidable resources. We’re dealing with a tragedy, not a crime.”
“That’s for the courts to decide,” I said.
“You can pursue legal action, of course,” Avery nodded. “But what can you win? Joey will most likely be remanded to counseling and the Novak family will get nothing. Are you willing to risk that, Todd?”
“As a friend of the family, I can’t be a party to this,” Todd said. “It’s your call, Harvey.”
“I... sympathize with the Novak family, of course,” Bemis said, reading Todd’s eyes as he spoke. “But there’s not much point in convicting a mentally handicapped minor of a charge he’ll barely comprehend. And a court fight could be disastrous for the college.”
Bemis paused, waiting for his boss to comment. Todd didn’t.
“Let’s make it two hundred thousand,” Avery said. “That’s my final offer and it expires in sixty seconds.”
Bemis glanced at Todd, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
“All right,” Bemis nodded. “We can live with that.”
I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but he didn’t speak for me.
“Slow down,” I said. “Before we agree to a settlement, shouldn’t we consult the Novak family?”
“Sorry, but that’s out. They can’t know about Joey,” Avery said. “And an offer of compensation could be interpreted as an admission of guilt. Any approach must be made unofficially, without revealing any part of this discussion. Mr. Novak works as a logger. He might be more receptive if the offer came from one of his own.” He glanced pointedly at me.
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You want me to sell this to Novak? Without telling him anything?”
“He’s free to decline, of course,” Avery said. Taking a checkbook out of his vest pocket, he jotted in a few figures, then slid the check to me.
“This is drawn on my personal account, detective. Two hundred thousand dollars. When Mr. Novak cashes it, he’ll be given a release to sign, acknowledging it as a final settlement.”
“This is a mistake,” I said. “At least let me tell Novak the truth about what happened.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not an option,” Avery said. “It would violate privilege and open the Champlin family to litigation. I can’t allow it.”
“Novak could be facing felony charges for assaulting the Patel boy,” Harvey Bemis added. “Remind him of that, Dylan. Given a choice between a paycheck and jail time, he’ll do the right thing.”
“Right for who?” I asked. “Novak’s a wood-smoke stud. He’s used to getting up off the deck to come back at you. He won’t take this.”
But I was wrong.
By the time I got back to Hauser Justice Center, Carl Novak had been cooling off in an interview room for over an hour.
Locked up alone in a ten-by-ten concrete box, he had time to absorb the death of his daughter. And to consider a future that could include months, even years, locked in rooms like this one.
He was seated at a small steel table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. I took the chair facing him. It was just us. Off the record. No one observing from the other side of the two-way mirror, no recorders, no video cams.
Novak was dressed for work, in a faded flannel shirt, bib overalls, and cork-soled boots. His shoulder-length shaggy hair was shot with gray, his face seamed and weathered by the wind. His knuckles were oversized, scarred from rough labor.
Red-eyed, coldly furious, he listened with folded arms as I offered my sympathies on the death of his daughter, then outlined Avery’s offer of compensation. His eyes widened at the figure. Cocking his head, he eyed me curiously.
“Two hundred grand?” he echoed. “For real? Jesus. Do you know how many cords I’d have to drop to make that much?”
I nodded. “My dad was a logger.”
“I know. I worked with your old man years ago, on Moose’s crew, cuttin’ pulpwood in the Comstock. He’s dead now, right? Car crash?”
“Killed by a drunk driver,” I said.
“Tough break. Anybody offer you two hundred thousand for him?”
I didn’t answer.
“Nah, of course not,” he said. “I liked Dolph, he was steady, a good worker. But your old man wasn’t worth no two hundred grand, dead or alive. But that’s what them people figure my Julie’s worth, eh?”
“Mr. Novak—”
“Save it, LaCrosse,” he said, waving me off. “This ain’t on you, I know that. And it sure ain’t on Julie. It’s on me, and I ain’t even got enough put aside to bury her decent. Been working two jobs just to keep her in school, and I got three more kids to think of. I—” He looked away, swallowing hard. “I’ll take the money. Got no choice.”
“You realize if you do, it’s over. You can’t sue later.”
“Never figured to. But off the record? Just two wood-smoke boys sittin’ in a room? Who done this, Dylan? Who killed my girl?”
“It’s an open case, Mr. Novak. I truly can’t comment. But I can tell you this much. Nobody meant Julie harm. It was an accident, or close to it. Hard as it might be, it’s best to accept that, and move on.”
“Is that what you’d do?”
“I don’t know what I’d do, Mr. Novak.”
“My Uncle Matt was killed in Vietnam,” he said absently. “My ma’s only brother. Know what his wife got? Ten thousand. And a flag to lay on his coffin. Ten grand for his life. I’m getting a lot more for Julie. Maybe I should be grateful.”
He waited for a comment. I didn’t have one.
“Hell, maybe you’re right,” he sighed. “There’s no help for a thing like this. No way to set it right. Tell your people I’ll take the deal.”
“They aren’t my people,” I said.
He met my eyes dead-on. Cold as the big lakes in January.
“Sure they are,” he said.
I didn’t attend the snow angel’s funeral. I wasn’t sure how the Novaks would react and I didn’t want to intrude.
A week passed, and then another. Christmas was in the air, and as an early present, Vale Junior College won state approval to become a fully accredited, four-year institution.
Good for us.
I began to think Jason Avery had been right. We’d salvaged a positive outcome from a god-awful situation. Won the greatest good for the greatest number.
I thought that right up until the night Derek Patel disappeared.
Ten days after Julie Novak’s funeral, Derek Patel vanished from the campus of Vale Junior College. His folks weren’t overly concerned when he didn’t show for dinner; the boy often stayed after class on lab nights. But when he wasn’t home at ten, his mother called the school.
A security guard answered. The school was locked down, but Derek’s VW Bug was still parked in the lot. The guard found it unlocked, with the driver’s door slightly ajar. Odd, but not necessarily ominous.
Until he noticed Derek’s keys in the snow beside the car.
And the bloodstains on the headrest.
The crime occurred on school grounds so jurisdiction initially fell to the state police. But when my chief informed their post commander the missing kid was part of an open case, they kicked it to us.
Not that it made any difference.
We had nothing. CODIS, the combined DNA index system run by U.S. and Canadian crime labs, identified the blood spattered in the car as belonging to Derek Patel. Violence had obviously been done, but in the swirling snow and the bustle of the busy parking lot, nobody had noticed anything out of the ordinary.
A few students mentioned a rust-bucket white pickup truck parked near Derek’s V-dub around the time he vanished, but nobody got a good look at the driver, caught a plate, or could even swear to the make of the truck.