David Bell - The Hiding Place

“You sure?”

“My uncle rides Harleys. He’s talked about it.”

“Harleys,” Stynes said. “So it has a pretty rough crowd?”

“I would think so. Mostly the shot-and-a-beer types.”

“Would you expect to see an effeminate social worker hanging out there?”

“Not if he valued his life.”

“Is it the kind of place you just stumble across, or do you have to know it’s there?”

“You’d have to know it’s there. I don’t think they’ve invested in a very big sign.”

“Thanks, Covington.”

Stynes returned to his desk and called Helton’s number. He didn’t answer, so Stynes left a message asking Helton to call him back. If he’d worked a late shift the previous night, then he probably wouldn’t be in early the next day. And even if Stynes had the guy’s cell number, he wouldn’t use it. Let the young guy sleep in. But just a few minutes passed before Covington came back and informed Stynes that a detective from Columbus was on the phone.

“Detective Helton?” Stynes said into the phone.

“No, this is Detective Bowling. Helton gave me your number.”

“Oh.”

“Helton isn’t in until noon, but he and I talked last night, and I have some more information for you about the Manning case. Do you have a minute?”

“Of course.”

“Like I said, I talked to Helton last night in passing, and he told me you were dealing with some stuff from that Manning case. Were you on the case originally?”

“I was.”

“Damn. And here it is still coming back up for you. Anyway, I don’t know if what I have to tell you is a big deal or not, but about six months ago a guy came into the station and asked to talk to a detective. He said he had information about a murder case. I was next up, so he ended up sitting at my desk and told me that he knew something about the Justin Manning murder that happened twenty-five years ago in Darke County.”

Stynes’s blood grew a little colder. He swallowed and said, “What did he say?”

“That’s just it-he didn’t have much to say. He said the crime didn’t happen the way everyone thinks it happened, that an innocent man went to prison for it. This guy said his father was involved somehow, and he wanted to know what could be done about it.”

“Who was this guy?” Stynes asked.

“Well, that’s just it. He wouldn’t give me his name. He said he understood that he was making a pretty big accusation of murder, and he didn’t know if he was really ready to step forward. He wanted to talk to a detective first and see what his options were.”

“He didn’t give his name?”

“He wouldn’t. I told him I needed a name if the conversation was going to go any further, so he said to call him Mr. Jones.”

“Original. What did this guy look like?”

“Good-looking guy, early to mid-thirties. Seemed educated. And he sounded like he was from the Midwest.”

“That’s all he said then.”

“I asked him what kind of evidence he had to back up his claim. I told him that he couldn’t just suspect something and expect a twenty-five-year-old case to be reopened. He said it wasn’t just a suspicion. He said he had memories, memories that had been lost to him but had come back over the years through therapy. He said he knew now that he had seen his dad in the vicinity of the crime scene when the murder happened.”

“And that’s all he had?”

“That’s it. Memories.”

“Was the guy a nut?” Stynes asked.

“You know, we have some cases based on that over here,” Bowling said. “Apparently the current scientific evidence sees real merit in recovered memories. We have shrinks testify about it, and it’s helped us win some cases.”

“No shit.”

“Sure. But since this guy didn’t want to give his name or anything, it kind of makes me doubt his story.”

“Sounds more like he doesn’t like or trust his old man,” Stynes said.

“Exactly what I thought.”

“Why didn’t you call me back then?”

“Like I said, since the guy wasn’t giving his name and seemed a little flaked out, I decided it wasn’t worth bothering anybody with it. What could have been done if I had called you?”

Stynes knew he was right. And the news only added to the puzzle. Who would make such a claim in Columbus? Steven Kollman?

“Thanks for calling,” Stynes said.

“Helton tells me things are getting weird over there,” Bowling said. “You’ve got a guy pretending to be the dead kid?”

“Looks that way.”

“The fun never ends, does it?”

“Hey, while I’ve got you on the line, what do you know about a dive bar called Hathaway’s? Ever hear of it?”

“Sure,” Bowling said. “A few years back we had to clean some drug activity out of there. It’s that kind of place. Bikers and biker chicks. Why do you ask?”

“Our Justin Manning was arrested for assault there,” Stynes said.

“Most assaults there usually end with a knife or a gun.”

“Lovely place?”

Bowling laughed. “Detective, as I’m sure you know, it’s a lovely, lovely world.”

Reynolds didn’t answer his phone, so at lunchtime Stynes drove to his former partner’s house, hoping to catch him there or, short of that, leave a note saying they needed to talk. When Stynes arrived at the house, he saw Reynolds in the front yard surrounded by three grandkids tossing a ball back and forth, trying very hard to keep it out of Reynolds’s reach. And he was doing his best to pretend like he couldn’t intercept their throws.

Stynes stepped out of the car, pushed the door shut, and said, “Careful, kids, you’ll give your granddad a heart attack.”

The kids paused for only a moment to look at the man by the curb before returning to their game. Reynolds told them to go into the backyard with Grandma, and then came over to the street by Stynes.

“I left you a message this morning,” Stynes said.

Reynolds jerked his thumb toward the house. “I was busy, as you can see. Being retired means I don’t have to answer the phone if I don’t want to.”

“I see that.” Stynes leaned back against the car. “You got a minute?”

“A minute. It’s almost lunchtime for the kids.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to go out and grab something to eat.”

“I can’t. What’s up?”

The day was hot, the sun high above in a cloudless sky. Stynes felt the heat against his scalp.

“You know all those loose ends with the Manning case?” Stynes said.

“Loose ends for you, you mean.”

“We had two pretty big loose ends. The stories told by the kids, and the questions about the whereabouts of Bill Manning on the morning of the murder. Not to mention the questions about Scott Ludwig.”

Reynolds looked at his watch. “You better hurry up and get to it.”

“I know those loose ends don’t really mean anything to you. Maybe it’s because you’re retired. I don’t know. I hope when I hang it up I’ll be able to walk away and turn the switch off as well as you have.”

“You won’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re different than me, Stynes. When my head hits the pillow late at night, I go right to sleep. I don’t give a shit that Dante Rogers says he’s innocent or that those kids told one story at the park and another later on. But not you. No, you’ve got to make sure everything is right with the world. I bet you’ve been sleeping like crap, haven’t you?”

Stynes didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Reynolds had pegged him.

Reynolds said, “I bet you stared at your bedroom ceiling so long you started to see cracks in the plaster you didn’t know were there, right? Well, you can do that with any case. Stare long enough until you see all the imperfections. It doesn’t change the facts, though.” Reynolds looked like he wanted to say more, but he swallowed the additional words, whatever they were going to be. “Do me a favor? Don’t come back here anymore. Don’t drag your bullshit onto my lawn.”