I got a peculiar feeling immediately when the Black Mountain officer who had collected us at the airport let us off in the restaurant parking lot and silently drove away. Marino's state-of-the-art Chevrolet was near the door, and he was inside alone at a corner table, facing the cash register, as everyone tries to do if he's ever been touched by the law. He did not get up when we walked in, but watched us dispassionately as he stirred a tall glass of iced tea. I had the uncanny sensation that he, the Marino I had worked with for years, the well-meaning, street-smart hater of potentates and protocol, was granting us an audience. Wesley's cool caution told me that he knew something was very off center, too. For one thing, Marino had on a dark suit that clearly was new.
"Pete," Wesley said, taking a chair.
"Hello," I said, taking another chair.
"They got really good chicken fried steak here," Marino said, not looking at either of us.
"They got chef salads, if you don't want nothing that heavy," he added, apparently for my benefit. The waitress was pouring water, handing out menus, and rattling off specials before anyone had a chance to say another word. By the time she went on her way with our apathetic orders, the tension at our table was almost unbearable.
"We have quite a lot of forensic information that I think you'll find interesting," Wesley began.
"But first, why don't you fill us in?" Marino, who looked the unhappiest I'd ever seen him, reached for his iced tea and then set it back down without taking a sip. He patted his pocket for his cigarettes before picking them up from the table. He did not talk until he was smoking, and it frightened me that he would not give us his eyes. He was so distant it was as if we had never known him, and whenever I had seen this in the past with someone I had worked with, I knew what it meant. Marino was in trouble. He had slammed shut the windows leading into his soul because he did not want us to see what was there.
"The big thing going down right now," Marino began as he exhaled smoke and nervously tapped an ash, "is the janitor at Emily Steiner's school. Uh, the subject's name is Creed Lindsey, white male, thirty-four, works as a janitor at the elementary school, has for the past two years.
"Prior to that he was a janitor at the Black Mountain public library, and before that did the same damn thing for an elementary school in Weaverville. And I might add that at the school in Weaverville during the time the subject was there, they had a hit-and-run of a ten-year-old boy. There was suspicion that Lindsey was involved…"
"Hold on," Wesley said.
"A hit-and-run?" I asked.
"What do you mean he was involved?"
"Wait," Wesley said.
"Wait, wait, wait. Have you talked to Creed Lindsey?" He looked at Marino, who met his gaze but fleetingly.
"That's what I'm leading to. The drone's disappeared. The minute he got the word we wanted to talk to him-and I'll be damned if I know who opened his fat mouth, but someone did-he split. He ain't showed up at work and he ain't been back to his crib." He lit another cigarette. When the waitress was suddenly at his elbow with more tea, he nodded her way as if he'd been here many times before and always tipped well.
"Tell me about the hit-and-run," I said.
"Four years ago this November, a ten-year-old kid's riding his bike and gets slammed by some asshole who's over the center line coming around a curve. The kid's DOA, and all the cops ever get is there's a white pickup truck driving at a high rate of speed in the area around the time the accident occurred. And they get white paint off the kid's jeans.
"Meanwhile, Creed Lindsey's got an old white pickup, a Ford. He's known to drive the same road where the accident occurred, and he's known to hit the package store on payday, which coincidentally was exactly when the kid got hit." Marino's eyes never stopped moving as he talked on and on. Wesley and I were getting increasingly restless.
"So when the cops want to question him, boom, he's gone," Marino continued.
"Don't come back to the area for five damn weeks-says he was visiting a sick relative or some bullshit like that. By then, the friggin' truck's as blue as a robin's egg. Everybody knows the son of a bitch did it, but they got no proof."
"Okay." Wesley's voice commanded that Marino stop.
"That's very interesting, and maybe this janitor was involved in the hit-and-run. But where are you going with this? "
"Seems like that ought to be pretty obvious."
"Well, it's not, Pete. Help me out here."
"Lindsey likes kids, plain and simple. He takes jobs that put him in contact with kids."
"It sounds to me like he takes the jobs he has because he's unskilled at anything but sweeping floors."
"Shit. He could do that at the grocery store, the old folks' home, or something. Every place he's worked is full of kids."
"Okay. Let's just go with that. So he sweeps floors in places where children are. Then what?" Wesley studied Marino, who clearly had a theory he was not to be dissuaded from.
"Then he kills his first kid four years ago, and I'm sure as hell not saying he meant to do it. But he does, and he lies, and he's guilty as hell and gets totally screwed up because of this terrible secret he carries. That's how other things get started in people."
"Other things?" Wesley asked very smoothly.
"What other things, Pete?"
"He's feeling guilty about kids. He's looking at'em every goddam day and wanting to reach out, be forgiven, get close, undo it, shit. I don't know.
"But next thing his emotions get carried away and now he's watching this little girl. He gets sweet on her, wants to reach out. Maybe he spots her the night she's walking home from the church. Maybe he even talks to her. But hell, ain't no problem to figure out where she lives. It's a friggin' small town. He's into it now." He took a swallow of tea and lit another cigarette as he talked on.
"He snatches her because if he can keep her with him for a while, he can make her understand that he never meant to hurt no one, that he's good. He wants her to be his friend. He wants to be loved because if she'll love him, she'll undo the terrible thing he did back then. But it don't go down like that. See, she's not cooperating. She's terrified. And bottom line is when what goes down don't fit the fantasy, he freaks and kills her. And now, goddam it, he's done it again. Two kids killed." Wesley started to speak, but our food was arriving on a big brown tray. The waitress, an older woman with thick, tired legs, was slow serving us. She wanted everything to please the important man from out of town who was wearing a new navy blue suit.
The waitress said many yes sirs and seemed very pleased when I thanked her for my salad, which I did not plan to eat. I had lost any appetite I might have had before we arrived at the Coach House, which was famous for something, I felt quite sure. But I could not look at julienne strips of ham, turkey, and cheddar cheese, and especially not sliced boiled eggs. In fact, I felt sick.
"Would there be anything else?"
"No, thank you."
"This looks real good. Dot. You mind bringing a little more butter?"
"Yes, sir, it will be coming right up. And what about you, ma'am? Can I get you some more dressing maybe?"
"Oh, no, thank you. This is perfect the way it is."
"Why, thank you. You folks are mighty nice, and we sure appreciate your visiting. You know, we have a buffet every Sunday after church."
"We'll remember that." Wesley smiled at her.
I knew I was going to leave her at least five dollars, if only she would forgive me for not touching my food. Wesley was trying to think what to say to Marino, and I had never before been witness to anything between them quite like this.
"I guess I'm wondering if you've completely abandoned your original theory," Wesley said.