The Perfect Victim

The unpleasant smell of neglect seemed to emanate from beneath the doors they passed. Only then did she realize Randall had been dead serious about calling the health department. Parson's Home for the Retired was as inhumane as Adrian was irritating, and Addison promised herself that when all of this was over if Randall didn't call them, she would.

 

They reached the end of the hall and Adrian bent to unlock a door painted an institutional blue. "We keep the rooms locked after dark," he said in a conspiratorial voice. "To keep the folks from wandering off." He swung open the door and turned to them with the uneasy smile of a realtor about to show a filthy house. "Albert! You have company!"

 

The single-room efficiency was small, cold, and poorly lit. Addison held her breath as the stench of dirty linens and bathroom mildew permeated her nostrils. A single, grimy window faced the street. The sight of Christmas lights beyond made her feel like she'd just stepped into a prison.

 

A gaunt man with a day's growth of white stubble sat on a rumpled bed staring at a small black-and-white television. He raised his head when they entered, acknowledged their presence with a glazed scowl, then turned his attention back to the rerun of M.A.S.H.

 

"He hasn't had his shower yet today," Adrian said, ducking into the bathroom to scoop up a pile of towels littering the floor. "We've been short-handed because of the holidays."

 

"I'll bet," Randall grumbled.

 

Saddened and disgusted, Addison could only stare at the old man sitting on the bed, .hoping this charade wouldn't harm him in any way.

 

Having collected the soiled towels, Adrian headed for the door. "Visiting hours are over at eight P.M.," he said over his shoulder. "But you can stay a few extra minutes if you like."

 

She forced a smile. "Thank you."

 

A few feet away, Randall took a chair and pulled it close to the bed. "Mr. Stukins?"

 

The old man raised his head and regarded Randall through cloudy blue eyes. "Are you the fella from the service station?"

 

"I'm Randall Talbot." He extended his hand. "I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

 

Stukins stared at him blankly before accepting the handshake. "Questions," he repeated and turned his attention back to the television. "I don't have time for questions."

 

Needing to move, to be involved, Addison stepped forward and switched off the TV. "Mr. Stukins, we need to ask you some questions about a story you wrote for the County Crier."

 

"I was a reporter for thirty-two years. Worked my way up from the printing press." For a moment, he looked lucid. ''The master cylinder went bad on my Chevy." He turned his gaze back to Randall. "Are you the fella from the gas station?"

 

Addison didn't miss the frustration on Randall's face, and she wondered if he had the patience for such a delicate interrogation.

 

"You were a reporter for the County Crier," he said.

 

The old man smiled, revealing a set of pearly white dentures. "Thirty-two years."

 

Addison slipped into the chair beside Randall. "You did a story back in 1974 about a young woman who was raped," he said.

 

"I bought my Chevy in '68," Stukins said argumentatively.

 

Randall leaned forward, caught the older man's gaze, and held it. "You wrote a story for the County Crier in November of 1974 about a young woman by the name of Agnes Beckett. Do you remember Agnes Beckett? Do you remember what happened to her?"

 

Stukins's eyes widened. His mouth quivered. "They killed my dog."

 

To anyone else the statement might have seemed like an Alzheimer patient's rantings. To Addison, the old man's words made terrible sense.

 

"Who killed your dog?" Randall prodded.

 

"They were going to kill my family."

 

"Because of the story?"

 

The old man began to shake. Alarm skittered through Addison when his eyes rolled back. For a moment, she thought he would faint. He looked frail. Unable to keep herself from it, she rose and put her hand gently on his shoulder. "You're doing fine, Mr. Stukins."

 

His eyes focused on her. "Yale ..." he mumbled.

 

"Yale?" Randall repeated.

 

"He graduated the same year he hurt that girl."

 

"Who hurt her? Who are you talking about?"

 

"They were going to kill my family." Stukins looked over his shoulder as if he were expecting someone to come through the door. For the first time, Addison saw fear in his eyes. "I did what they told me to do," he said, his gaunt hands waving in agitation.

 

Randall cast her an uneasy look, then focused on the old man. "Who threatened your family?"

 

"That son of a bitch was guilty as sin."

 

"Who?"

 

''Tate beat the hell out of that girl. Did terrible things to her. Put her in the hospital."

 

The words went through Addison like a knife. She shivered, knowing he was talking about her birth mother. A sixteen-year-old girl. Beaten and raped. The thought sickened her. Was it possible she'd been conceived through such a vile act? Had someone threatened Stukins to keep the crime from coming to light? Had the people of Siloam Springs swept the entire ordeal under the rug?

 

"Tate? Is that his last name?" Randall asked urgently.

 

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