Jodi Compton - Sympathy Between Humans

“No,” I told Deputy Fredericks. “I was hoping it was the other way around. I hardly know anything.”

I hadn’t contacted Marlinchen Hennessy yet, deciding to get a little background information first, just to get my footing. Which was why I was squeezing this phone call in before my regular duties at work.

“Hennessy’s from your area,” Fredericks said. “That’s why you’re calling?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let me tell you about it.” I ran quickly through the scant information Marlinchen Hennessy shared with me, finishing by saying, “When I said I was going to have to talk to her father, she became distraught and left.”

“If she could have hung up on you, she probably would have,” Fredericks said, laughter in his voice. “That’s what she did to me.”

“There’s more to the story?” I said.

“Some,” he said. “I didn’t know the kid, Aidan, but I know the guy he was living with. Pete Benjamin. His family’s been here forever. I guess Aidan had been living with him for five years. Anyway, he’s obviously a runaway.”

“How do you figure that?” I asked him.

“His things were gone,” Fredericks said. “And he was a good-size boy, about six feet. Worked on the farm. I don’t think anyone would mark him as someone to mess with.”

“When did Benjamin report the kid missing?” I asked.

“He didn’t,” Fredericks said. “I didn’t find out about this until just recently, when Miss Hennessy called me. Nearly the first thing I asked Pete was why he hadn’t come to talk to someone about this. He said he’d called the father, Hugh, right away. Hugh Hennessy said that the kid would probably show up at home in Minneapolis, and Pete shouldn’t worry about it.”

“That’s pretty casual,” I remarked.

“Well, I guess the boy had done it before. Got a Greyhound all the way back to Minnesota, trying to go home.”

“Well, if Aidan got on a bus this time around, or even hitchhiked, he’d be here by now,” I said.

“Is that a joke?” Fredericks asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Aidan Hennessy ran away six months ago.”

“Six months ?” I echoed.

“I guess Miss Hennessy didn’t tell you that,” Fredericks said.

“You’re saying Hugh Hennessy never filed a report or called you guys?” I said, wanting to be sure about it.

“Yeah. Our first contact from the Hennessys came from the daughter, two weeks ago. And when I asked to talk with the father, I got the same song and dance that you did: he’s up north, he can’t be reached. I told Miss Hennessy to get on that, contacting him.

“Then, a few days later, I get another call from Miss Hennessy, wanting to know what progress has been made. I turn it around, ask her what progress has been made on getting her father to call me. She gets upset and hangs up on me.”

“And that’s everything, to date?” I asked.

“Well, I filed a report, and I sent his picture out, but I’ve heard nothing. I’ve got to tell you, for a teenage runaway, he’s keeping a real low profile. If he were arrested, even if he were using a false name, the fingerprint card would pretty much tell us it was him.”

“You have fingerprints on him?” I said, frowning. “Was he arrested down there?”

“Nothing like that. Miss Hennessy didn’t tell you about her brother’s hand?”

“No,” I said.

“Her brother is missing a finger on his left hand. The card would have only nine prints on it.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “But then, our conversation wasn’t exactly a long-ranging one.”

“She’s a funny one, isn’t she?” Fredericks said. “I guess she started looking for a detective up in the Cities to listen to her story, and you got elected. Did you explain to her about jurisdictional lines?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you know what’s interesting to me in all this?”

“The father?” Fredericks said.

“Yeah,” I said. “He knew his son was missing and told his friend he’d take care of it, but then he never did anything. And then the daughter, Marlinchen, is willing to nag us about finding her brother, but she won’t bother her old man up at his cabin. And when I pressed her about it, it upset her to the point that she walked out on me.”

“It is odd,” Fredericks said. “If you find out anything up there I should know about, give me a call.”

“I will,” I told him.

The deputy Ireached at a sheriff’s substation in Cook County, near Tait Lake, identified himself as Begans. He sounded quite young.

“So what can we help you with?” Begans asked.

“I’m trying to get in touch with a man who’s got a cabin up there,” I said. “I’m told there’s no phone, and he’s holed up writing a book.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Begans said. “What’s the name?”

“Hugh Hennessy,” I said. “I need to talk to him about a missing-persons case. Don’t scare him, just ask him to get in touch at his earliest convenience.”

“His… earliest… convenience,” Begans said slowly, obviously writing it down. “Okay, whereabouts is the cabin?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Well, that’s going to slow things down,” Begans said, sounding bemused.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of information.”

“You know, we’ve got a guy here who’s three weeks from retirement,” Begans said. “He knows everything about this area, after thirty-five years here. Let me ask him about Hennessy.”

“That’d be great,” I said.

After we’d signed off, I went into the kitchen to make tea. The cold symptoms were abating, just as Cisco had suggested they would. In another day, I thought, I’d probably feel good enough to crave coffee again. The prospect made me feel better.

I was leaning against the counter in the break room, waiting for the microwave to finishing nuking the water for my tea, when a quiet voice in my mind said, apropos of nothing, Isn’t it possible that you’re sending that nice kid Begans on a wild-goose chase for nothing? Isn’t there a big assumption here you haven’t checked yet?

What if Hugh Hennessy were in Minneapolis and simply refusing to become involved in his oldest son’s situation?

With the lemon tea steeping on my desk, I dug Marlinchen Hennessy’s phone number out of my desk and dialed it.

“Hello?” A boy’s voice, adolescent.

“Is Hugh Hennessy there?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry,” the boy said.

“Is he going to be in later tonight?”

“No, he’s out of town.” He did not offer to take a message. “This is Liam, can I help you with something?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I think I’d better call back later.”

The story that Hugh Hennessy was out of town was cohering. So far.

While I’d beenon the phone with Fredericks, or perhaps Begans, two young men were knocking over a liquor store in Eden Prairie. I caught the call and drove down there to talk to the clerk and the sole customer who’d witnessed the holdup. The details were sketchy: the two guys were probably white, wearing nylon stockings that flattened and obfuscated facial features. I took notes, left my card, and asked the witnesses to call me if they remembered anything else.

As I drove back to the city, the sun was playing hide-and-seek with us behind galleons of cloud, deep gray on the bottom, white at the edges. I was nearly at the parking ramp the detectives used, when a red light stopped me. Just then, two men emerged from the overhang of the Government Center. Normally, I would have ignored them: two men in suits, a common sight downtown. But one of them was familiar to me. At six-five, he stood out in a crowd, and his gait was distinct: long and confident strides, but not hurried ones, as if to say, I’m going to rule the world, but all in good time.