“Have you blamed them for what happened? That Tommy was taken into state custody, and during that time sustained injuries? Have you been angry with them?”
Dodd looked at his father again, who seemed lost in the pleasure of his cigarette. He’d removed the oxygen from his nose, the hose draped around his neck like a noose. When Dodd didn’t answer, Mike said, “You also had two CPS reports prior to your drug arrest. I’ve seen them.”
“Okay. So?”
“Under ‘alleged suspicions of abuse or maltreatment’ of your children, child alcohol use is cited, emotional neglect, inadequate food, parental drug and alcohol misuse, excessive corporal punishment, bruises… and then there was the call that you left your other son, Brandon, alone in a car on a hot day.”
Bill started coughing. When he couldn’t seem to stop, he said, “Doddie, gimme somethin’—”
“Shut up.”
“Gimme somethin’ to drink.”
Dodd stalked off into the kitchen, making Mike nervous. His hand drifted around to the small of his back, where he carried his pistol. He glanced at Lena, saw the concern reflected in her eyes, but gave her a nod – it’s okay. There was the snap of a can opening and Dodd strode back – those steel-toed boots thundering – and handed his father the beer. Bill took it, slurped it down, stifled a cough, had some more.
At this point the old dog got to its feet – Mike didn’t know if it was the scent of the beer, the testosterone in the air, or what – and lumbered over to the easy chair. Dodd stood there watching his father drink, then lowered into a squat when the dog bumped against his leg.
“Easy girl. Hey. Hey, it’s alright.” Dodd rubbed and petted the dog; he sunk his oil-stained fingers into her thick yellowish hair. Mike relaxed a little, dropping his hand to his side.
“I don’t blame anyone for Tommy,” Dodd said. “Those were hard times. I got laid off – if anyone is to blame, it’s the US Government. Not taking care of my dad – who’s a vet, by the way – and the jobs have been disappearing up here.” He reached to pet the dog’s hindquarters, stretching his T-shirt. The short sleeve revealed more of a tattoo.
Mike gave Lena a quick look to see if she saw it too.
“And Tommy’s mother wasn’t in any great shape. We had some parties back then, okay, you know, just trying to unwind, and the kids got a hold of the liquor, so…”
“Tommy was five,” Mike said. Couldn’t help it. The stuff he’d seen on little Tommy had turned his stomach.
Dodd let go of the dog, rose to his feet, looking incensed again. “That woman, you said her name was Fogarty? I had nothing to do with that. I was at the bowling alley, then I was here at my house.”
Mike looked back, saw the fire in Dodd’s eyes, and said, “Thank you for your time, Dodd.” He nodded to the old man. “Mr. Caruthers, take care.” He moved toward the door, brushing up against Lena, getting her going in the same direction.
“My house,” said the old man.
“What?” Dodd snapped.
“You said this was your house.”
“Drink your beer.”
“See?” Bill called out as Mike was pulling open the screen door. “No respect. It’s a shit world for an old man.”
* * *
“That was interesting,” Lena said. She was drawn up against the door of the car, looking out the window as Mike drove along.
“You saw that tattoo?”
“Yeah. Was it what I…”
“Yeah. The outer symbol replicates a swastika with Egyptian overtones, or something. I bet if we’d looked under his shirt, he’d have a big, fat heart with knives through it. Aryan Brotherhood.”
Overton was silent.
“Could be from his time inside,” Mike said.
“Yeah but there was other stuff, too,” Lena said. “Did you see the…? Who was that in the picture? Framed, sitting a few inches away from the crucifix on the wall. I think it might have been Nathan Bedford Forrest.”
“They should fire their decorator,” Mike joked. “Probably white robes, hoods, maybe a pulpit in the garage…”
“Yeah… maybe.”
The scene had made a real impact on her and he quit the foolish humor. “Hey – you okay?”
“This shit just… you know?” She rubbed her temple with a finger.
“We need to check his story.”
“Silver Lanes isn’t open for another four hours,” Lena said. “But I know the guy who runs the local league – Philly Pete Randolf.”
Mike cut her a look, couldn’t resist. “You’re a bowler, huh? I guess I could picture that.”
She finally cracked a smile. “Pete’s a local guy; everybody knows him.”
* * *
Pete confirmed Dodd’s attendance at the previous week’s league night.
“All night?” Mike asked. “Could he have disappeared at some point?”
“Maybe; not that I noticed.” They stood in Pete’s living room, him in a Hugh Hefner-style robe. “Can I get you guys something? Drink? Bite to eat?”
Mike didn’t feel like sticking around. Everybody seemed to have a damn alibi – Pritchard, Dodd Caruthers, even Jessica Rankin had turned over her phone records, showing a landline call to her sister in Missouri during the commission of the crime. Not that she’d been high on their list.
He moved off down the walkway toward the parked Impala, leaving Lena to reminisce with Pete and get a list of the rest of the league members. For a guy who owned and operated a rundown bowling alley, Pete lived in one heck of a neighborhood. Some of the best homes in Lake Haven shouldered together, pretty elms lining the street, backyards overlooking the town below.
The street made a sharp curve, and through the spaces between houses, Mike could see downtown. The trees obscured a view of the bowling lanes from here, but they were close. He wondered if Dodd could’ve spent the first part of the evening in the home on River Street, watching as the DSS employees left for the day, leaving just a few cars in the lot, then popped over to Silver Lanes, signed in, bowled a few frames, then left again. Maybe he would have told his buddies his father needed him. Maybe they were drinking, no one really paid much attention.
Then he drives to DSS, Mike thought, either goes back to his nest in the house on River Street or maybe just hangs out in the woods, watches until Harriet’s Kia Sportage is the last car in the lot, slips into the back seat, kills her when she sits down.
Couple of things, though: League bowlers probably took their Thursday nights very seriously. They’d make a fuss about someone taking off in the middle of a game, regardless of his excuse or their drinking. If it happened that way, one of them might say something to Mike, like Pete. On the other hand, if they distrusted cops, they might circle the wagons and protect Dodd. They needed to track down the other league guys and see.
And Dodd would need some prior knowledge that Harriet was going to be there. Maybe he knew Gavin Fuller? Talked to him about how CPS was taking Gavin’s son, Grayson, and putting him in foster care that night?
It wasn’t a perfect theory, but it had legs. Especially if Dodd was a racist – that would really lend to his traveling all the way to Watertown last year, after he’d gotten out of Cold Brook. Corina Lavoie would have known him, recognized him, too. Maybe he kills her as part of a broader campaign of violence – murdering caseworkers who interfered with his family – but maybe it’s her race that catalyzes the whole thing.
In all, there were some notes there that were starting to play a tune.
He heard the door clap shut behind him, turned, and saw Lena walking away from Pete’s house toward the Impala, thumbing her phone. She looked up the street and saw him.
“Nice neighborhood up here,” he said, walking back.
She pointed down the street. “My friend Maggie lived right over there. Her parents still do; her dad was a pediatrician, mother just retired from the APA…”
When her gaze wandered back he felt that tightness in his chest, a jump in his heart. The way her brow creased when she was thinking, the sound of her voice. They’d grown up in the same small town but years apart, so had never really known each other. And now here they were.
“What’s on your mind, Investigator Nelson?”