David Rosenfelt: Dead Center

The reason is Laurie, which really pisses me off. There is no longer anything I should do, or not do, because of Laurie.

She is yesterday’s news.

• • • • •

I’VE DECIDED TO come to Wisconsin.”

“That’s wonderful,” Richard Davidson says when he hears this. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You need to understand that I’m not agreeing to take the case. I’m going to come up there, look into things, talk to your son, and then make up my mind.”

“I understand completely, and I respect whatever decision you make,” he lies. “When are you coming?”

“I should be there in a few days,” I say.

“Just let me know when your flight is. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“I’ll be driving. I’m bringing my dog, and I won’t put her in a crate under the plane.”

“Okay. Can I get you a hotel room? Or you’re certainly welcome to stay with us.”

I let him reserve me a hotel room in town, and then I ask him if his son has current representation. “Yes,” he says. “A local lawyer. Calvin Marshall.”

“Please tell Mr. Marshall about our conversations,” I say.

He promises to do so, and I end the call.

I spend the next twenty-four hours getting ready for the trip. This consists of packing and filling the car up with gas, and I put a similar amount of care into both. I pump as much gas in as the tank will hold, and I throw in as many clothes as my two suitcases will hold.

I call Edna and Kevin and tell them about my decision. Kevin mercifully agrees to handle Edna’s estate requirements, should further changes be necessary on the will. Edna seems fine with the fact that my not being around means there is absolutely no possibility she will have any work to do.

I meet Pete and Vince at Charlie’s and shock them with the news of my departure tomorrow morning.

“Wisconsin?” Pete asks. “You got any idea how cold that is? You ever see a Packers game?”

They both assume I’m chasing after Laurie, and even though I deny it, it may be the truth. This causes them to spend most of the night sneaking looks at each other, saddened at how pathetic it is that I can’t let her go. It’s not until the sixth or seventh beer that they can put it behind them and get back to watching sports and leering at female customers.

Tara and I are out of the house and in the car by nine o’clock, for what is supposed to be a sixteen-hour trip. I’ve decided to go at a leisurely pace and make it in two days, stopping at a Holiday Inn in Indiana that allows pets. I plan to spend the time in the car thinking about the Davidson case, and not thinking about how I will deal with being in the same town as Laurie.

Tara sits up in the front seat the entire time, head out the window, soaking up the wind and the local culture. One of the many great things about her is that she doesn’t seem to mind that I dominate the radio.

I listen to mostly sports talk radio along the way, and I soon discover that “Larry from Queens,” who always calls to complain about the Knicks and Rangers, has a counterpart in every other city. But I’m nothing if not an intellectual, so I listen to all of it.

I’m also a gourmet, so I take full advantage of the fact that every city along the way seems to have a Taco Bell. Even better, many of them are in combination with Pizza Hut, so I can get a grilled stuffed burrito while making sure Tara gets her beloved pizza crusts. America is a wonderful place.

About ten minutes before the Findlay exit on the highway is an exit for Center City. I know from the newspaper articles that this is where the two young murder victims were from, so I decide to get off and check out the town. I probably won’t learn anything, but it will delay my arrival in Findlay. I would stop off for a rectal exam if it would delay my arrival in Findlay.

Center City turns out to be a good fifteen minutes in from the highway, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farmland. There is a small airport set in the fields on the northeast side of town, which makes it about ten minutes from Lake Superior. The airport amounts to little more than a landing strip, a hangar, and a small shack. If there are planes there, I don’t see them, but there could be one or two in the hangar.

The town center is no more than two blocks long. Calling this a city is a total misnomer; “town” is a stretch. Outside this two-block center are small houses, mostly identical in size and style, that spread out for perhaps a mile, nudging up against the farmland. Just north of the town is a large factory that processes the dairy products of the local farmers. I would guess that Center City has a population of maybe five thousand, except for the fact that almost none of those people are visible.

Even in the center of town, where the stores are, the streets are eerily empty… almost Twilight Zone empty. It’s only six o’clock in the evening; could everybody be asleep?

Looming over the entire town is a building, perhaps seven stories high, with the designation “Town Hall” on the front. There is a large grassy area in front of it, and on that area is what looks to be a makeshift memorial to the murder victims. Townspeople have brought flowers and written notes in tribute to the deceased young women, and they have been arranged in a circular manner, almost as if they are spokes on a wheel.

I walk over with Tara to get a closer look. The fact that there are no people around is more than vaguely unsettling; something seems either wrong or unnatural. The notes, as I start to read them, are heartfelt and mostly religious in nature; the town is clearly mourning these two lives that were cut way too short.

“Have you got business here, sir?”

The sound of the voice is jolting and causes me to jump. I look over and see a man, no more than twenty-five years old, wearing a tan shirt and pants, which seems like a uniform. I have to look up to see his face; he’s probably six foot four, two hundred and thirty pounds. “Man, you scared me,” I say. “Where did you come from?”

“Have you got business here, sir?” he repeats, in exactly the same tone. He may be young, but he’s already developed into quite a conversationalist.

“No, just driving through.” I look around. “Where is everybody?”

“There is a town meeting,” he says, and at that very moment the doors to the town hall open, and the good citizens of Center City come flooding out en masse.

“I guess attendance is mandatory,” I say, but the officer doesn’t react.

Instead he says, “Where are you staying, sir?”

I don’t answer right away, since I’m somewhat distracted by the fact that most of the people leaving the town hall are staring at me as if I’m an alien. I also notice that everybody seems to be paired up and holding hands, including children no more than seven years old. I never had a sister, but I know for a fact I wouldn’t have held hands with the little brat.

“Sir, where are you staying?” he repeats.

“Not here. Why do you ask?”

“We just don’t get many strangers, so we like to keep track of them. We’re a friendly community.”

“Good, ’cause I’m a friendly guy,” I say, and Tara and I start to walk back to the car. I see a large group of people walking in the same direction and staring at me, so I wave.

“Hi,” I say, a big fake smile on my face. It does not attract a return “Hi” from any of them, nor does it stop them from staring. Maybe Wisconsin friendly communities are different from friendly communities back on earth.

We get back on the road and head to Findlay, stopping for dinner along the way. I’ve been to Findlay before; last year I checked out a lead on a case and the possible future home of Laurie at the same time. I’ve developed something of a jealous hatred for the place, since Laurie chose it over me, and I can sense that hatred returning as I get closer.