The Perfect Victim

A host of emotions scrolled across 'the woman's face. Surprise. Suspicion. Curiosity. "Damn shame about what happened to her," she said cautiously.

 

Caught up in the moment, Addison didn't seem to notice the barmaid's reaction. Randall watched the exchange, knowing that if Addison didn't slow down, she could very well spook Dixie and blow the opportunity.

 

"What was she like?" Addison asked.

 

"Well ..." Dixie's face pinched. "She was a damn good waitress. Hard worker. Fast, too. Kept up with the orders."

 

"What about personally?"

 

The waitress's eyes flicked from Addison to Randall and then back. "Darlin', she kept to herself mostly. Lived in that little trailer park at the edge of town."

 

"Did she ever mention ... family?"

 

"Can't say she did. Lived with a guy for a while. A trucker, I think. From what I understand, she never had any kids."

 

Randall didn't miss the hurt that flashed across Addison's face. Something inside him winced at her pain.

 

"You kin?" Dixie asked.

 

"We're friends of the family," he cut in. Reaching across the table, he took Addison's hand, not surprised when he found it cold.

 

He looked at Dixie. "Do you know where we might be able to find a fellow by the name of Al Stukins?"

 

The waitress wrinkled her nose and put the pencil eraser against her temple. "Stukins," she repeated slowly. "An old guy?"

 

"That's right."

 

"There used to be a Stukins lived down on County Line Road just past the railroad trestle. Raised Appaloosa horses until just a few years ago."

 

Randall leaned forward. "So he's still around?"

 

"Last I heard, his son moved him into the old folks home over on Route 40. Shitty thing to do, considering the old man didn't want to go. Billy Cruz was tellin' me he put up a hell of a fight, but he has that old person's disease, Al Heimer's. Poor old guy. Gettin' old's a bitch, ya know?"

 

Randall groaned inwardly when he realized she was referring to Alzheimer's disease. He couldn't think of a worse affliction for a person he was going to question about an incident that took place more than twenty-five years ago.

 

"Where's the old folks home?"

 

"The old schoolhouse. Small place. Red brick building half a mile west on Route 40. Can't miss it." She slid her rear from the table and poised her pencil on the pad. "Randy, what's it going to be? Cheeseburger, fries, and a double bourbon on the rocks?"

 

Pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, Randall pressed it into her palm. "We don't have time right now, Dixie. Thanks for the info."

 

Rising, he reached for Addison's hand. "Let's go. I think we just got our first break."

 

*

 

 

 

Parson’s Home for the Retired was a two-story red brick building set back from the highway and nestled among the winter skeletons of fifty-year-old maples and oaks. Outside the double front doors, a stately blue spruce blazed with a colorful array of Christmas lights.

 

"How can you call this a break?" Addison asked, annoyed that he'd interrupted before she'd gotten the chance to thoroughly question Dixie about Agnes Beckett. If she didn't know better, she might have thought he'd done it on purpose.

 

"Stukins might remember something," Randall said.

 

"He's got Alzheimer's, for chrissake."

 

He pulled into a parking space and stopped the car. "Don't get cynical on me now, Ace."

 

"Of course not. That's your job."

 

Ignoring her, he swung open the car door and stepped into the cold. "Hopefully, we can get in without any trouble."

 

Addison met him on the sidewalk, wondering how a man with Alzheimer's disease was going to remember something that happened twenty-five years ago. She hated it, but things were beginning to look hopeless again. .

 

"If anyone asks, you're his granddaughter," Randall said. "You're in for the holidays from Ohio State and you want to see dear old Grandpappy, Can you handle that?"

 

If she hadn't been so annoyed, she might have thought twice about what they were about to do. Admittedly, lying wasn't one of her strengths. But with so much at stake she felt she could pull it off. "I can handle it."

 

"Goddamn Alzheimer's," he hissed, practically dragging her down the sidewalk. "I just hope he's not in the advanced stages."

 

They ascended the steps and reached the double set of doors. Through the glass, Addison saw a small artificial Christmas tree blinking merrily. Randall opened the door. She walked in, feeling her palms dampen with anxiety.

 

The first thing she noticed was the distinctly unpleasant smell. It was the medicinal smell of a hospital tinged with the dust and lemon wax redolence of a church. It reached into her, the smell of the old, of the neglected, saddening and offending everything inside her that was human.

 

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