David Ellis - The Hidden Man

I left him, straining against his restraints, unsure of whether I was bluffing or telling the truth.

I drove away from Reynard Penitentiary with electricity flowing through my limbs. I told myself to focus on solving the problem but couldn’t stifle unimaginable images, courtesy of Arrelius Jackson. As a prosecutor, you hear that prison rape happens but not as often as they say. Still, a scrawny, good-looking white boy like Pete? He wouldn’t stand a chance.

Solve the problem.

Smith’s people had connections, all right. He’d managed to frame Pete and to get an inmate to threaten Pete’s well-being inside. He was flexing his muscle for me, and it was working.

“McHenry Stern on South Walter,” I said to the automated voice. I was driving back to my office, calling information on my cell phone. “Connect me,” I answered when the robot asked me my preference. I was all for technological advancement, but Christ, can’t I get a human being on the phone once in a while?

A woman answered the phone and spoke so quickly, I wasn’t even sure I had the right number. “I’m looking for John Dixon,” I said. “He works in the mail room.”

“Please hold for the mail room.”

Apparently the mail room was in another country, because it took a painfully long period of time to connect me, to the point that I was about to hang up, call information again, and start over with the speed-talking receptionist, when a gruff male voice answered. “Yeah.”

“Looking for John Dixon,” I said.

“He’s-hang on.” The man moved the phone from his mouth and called out behind him, but I had no trouble hearing him. “J.D.’s off this week, right?”

“-be off for a while-”

“-visit his family or something-”

“He’s not here,” the man said, returning to me. That was a bit more succinct than the dialogue I’d just overheard.

“Do you know when you expect him back?”

“No.”

“Will he call in for messages?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I leave a message with you?”

“Um-we don’t really do that.”

“You’ve been a tremendous help.” I closed the cell phone.

So J.D. had taken a powder from work for the time being. Maybe this had been some time off he’d been planning, but I’m not a big believer in coincidences.

The Buick came back into my focus, several car lengths behind me. I drove to my parking garage, across the street from my office building, where I have a monthly pass. I approached the entry gate, which popped up when its sensor clicked with the module attached to my dashboard, and found a place to park on the fourth floor. I took the elevator down and slowly walked across the street to my building-slow enough for anyone watching to see me. I didn’t actually see the Buick or its occupant and didn’t want to be obvious in looking. I had to assume that they didn’t know I was on to them.

The building has a north and south exit. I figured they had someone on each side, should I choose to move on foot, with the Buick positioned to be near the parking garage if I were to travel by car.

In my building, I took an elevator, but it was an elevator down. Shauna, who had rented space in this building for a few years now, had become eligible for in-building parking, meaning she got to park her car underground. I found her fancy foreign car where she’d described it to me and used the spare key she’d lent me. From my briefcase, I removed a baseball cap and windbreaker. I replaced my suit coat with the jacket and threw on the cap. None of Smith’s people would be looking for a two-door Lexus, but the light cover gear would help in the event they happened to glance at the car, anyway.

It seemed like I made it out of the building, up the ramp, and toward the highway without incident. I had to be prepared for the possibility that Smith’s people were following me now. In the end, while I preferred to conduct my investigation without his knowledge, I was going to do it either way. I agreed with Joel Lightner-I couldn’t assume that Smith wanted Sammy to win his case. I had to make it happen on my own.

Griffin Perlini had been convicted of molesting two girls in the summer of 1988, crimes which had landed him in the penitentiary until 2005. The girls had enrolled in a summer program run by the city’s park district. The two families were from a south-side neighborhood. According to my files, one of the families still lived in the same house and the other had moved to a nearby suburb.

I started with the people who hadn’t moved. Robert and Sarah Drury lived in a modest home in the middle of a very clean, well-kept, middle-class neighborhood. It was dusk by the time I reached the house, and the temperatures had fallen sharply with a promise of snow. The cold and early darkness of winter lent an appropriate cast to this visit. I was going to talk to these people about the man who molested their daughter some twenty years ago.

Robert answered the door in a sweater vest, khakis, and loafers. My gut told me this late-fifties guy was more likely to host a bingo game at a church fund-raiser than kill a pedophile. Then again, I’d prosecuted harmless-looking people who raped and murdered.

He showed me in and I met his wife, who was possibly a tad younger than him, somewhat overweight and graying. They didn’t know why I was here. I’d only told them I was an attorney.

I trust my gut, my first impression, and what I’d hoped to do with these people was inform them of Griffin Perlini’s death and monitor the reaction. But the news accounts of the bodies found behind Hardigan Elementary had stolen my best line. They obviously would have heard the news.

“I’m representing Sammy Cutler,” I said.

It only took a beat before Robert’s genial expression hardened. He lifted his chin slowly. “Yes, all right.”

Sarah looked at her husband, then at me. “How is he?”

“As good as someone can be, staring at life in prison.” I looked at each of them, alternatively. “You know Sammy?”

“We talked once,” Robert said. “Before the trial started.” He meant Perlini’s trial, for molesting his daughter. “We knew about his sister, and-I guess I can’t say why-we wanted to meet him.”

That wasn’t uncommon. Victims of a common perpetrator often form bonds.

“You want us to testify?” asked Sarah.

That wasn’t why I was here. I was auditioning them for the part of Griffin Perlini’s killers, someone to show the jury. So far, the only audition for which they could compete would be as the parents in a 1950s sitcom. I began to hear the musical theme to Leave It to Beaver .

“I’m trying to get some background,” I explained. “I’m painting a picture here.”

The husband’s eyes narrowed. “Char was five when it happened,” he said. “She was scared and confused while it was happening. She thought she was doing something wrong. Later, after we discovered what had happened and that man was arrested, Char seemed moody, prone to anger. But she developed into a very ambitious and successful student and woman. Is she still scarred by what happened? Probably. But she’s moved on. She’s getting a master’s at Oregon State.”

“Great.”

“ We’ve moved on,” said Robert. “And we’d prefer to keep it that way. But if we have to testify to help Sammy Cutler, then we’ll do it.”

“Did you ever have contact with Perlini after his conviction?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did you testify at Perlini’s parole hearing in 2005?” I asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “I mentioned it to Char, but she was in Oregon, and she didn’t want to come back. And I wrote a letter but never sent it.” He looked at his wife. “I think Archie might have testified.”