The Bottle Ghosts (26 page)

When we finally reached the window, the woman behind it, without looking directly at us, handed Jonathan a booklet, a sheet of paper with sample questions, and another long sheet of paper printed on both sides, which he was told to fill out
completely
(her emphasis) and return when he came in to take the test.

*

On thinking it over on my way to work Wednesday morning, I thought I'd better check with Richman before approaching Marty Gresham, especially since what I had in mind would involve some minor expense in long distance phone calls, at least. And Richman had gone through Marty's supervisor to get Marty's time for the calls to the group's members. He'd probably have to do it again.

I was pretty sure I couldn't get the information on my own. I was also pretty sure a lawyer, especially one as powerful as Glen O'Banyon, might be able to get it, but I really didn't want to impose on him or get him involved. And since this whole case would eventually (please, God!) end up in the hands of the police, I thought it best to go through them even if it meant my making a nuisance of myself.

Like that would be a first!

At twenty after nine, I gave up trying to pretend I was relaxing, and dialed the City Annex, asking for Lieutenant Richman's extension.

“Lieutenant,” I said when I heard his voice. “It's Dick. I need your help.”

I explained what I needed: an official police request for everything the Freeport, Illinois police might have on a three-or-four-year-old investigation into the suicide of a man whose first name was Kent but whose last name I did not even know, but in which a Brian Oaks had been questioned. I hoped that in a relatively small town, Oaks' name, if not the incident itself, would ring some bells.

“You think Oaks might have been involved?”

“I honestly have no idea. From what I know, he wasn't charged with anything, but the fact that Kent was an alcoholic, that Oaks once put his alcoholic father in the hospital, and that he's running a counseling group for alcoholics, five of whose members have disappeared, tells me it might be worth looking into a little more closely.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, I suppose we can do that. I might ask to borrow Gresham again for a couple hours. Let me see what I can find out.”

“That'd be great. And again, thanks.”

*

I realized I'd not yet spoken individually to all the members of the group and that I really should, but decided to hold off a bit until I knew whether or not I should be zeroing in my questions more toward Brian Oaks.

That Jonathan had established something of a…what?…certainly not a relationship (I hoped!) with Nowell might forestall my talking with him for a while, anyway. Jonathan might be able to learn more than I could, since he and Nowell seem to have taken a liking to one another.

Har-des-ty…
my mind cautioned.
I realized that while I might be able to keep my green eyed monster in a cage, I couldn't keep him from rattling the bars.

I thought again about Oaks' offer to go to Thursday night's meeting. Nobody in the current group beside Oaks knew I was a P.I., or about the other disappearances. Maybe dropping a couple of bombshells into the crowd might produce some sort of reaction I could pick up on. And I thought Jonathan might like the opportunity to say goodbye to everyone.

*

We talked it over at dinner, and Jonathan thought it would be a good idea.

“Will Nowell be there?”

“You mean at the meeting itself?” Having Nowell in the same room with the others hadn't occurred to me, and despite the sound of bars rattling, I was glad Jonathan had mentioned it. “That might be a good idea. I'll see what Oaks thinks.”

I suddenly wondered, too, just how much Nowell knew what went on at the meetings. He was, after all, right in the next room and the door was sometimes not fully closed—and even if it were, it wouldn't take too much effort to eavesdrop if he wanted to. But since he'd never expressed much of an interest in anything or anyone…yes, yes, other than Jonathan…I couldn't picture him standing with his ear against the door.

I noticed a pensive look on Jonathan's face, and asked him about it.

“Nothing, really. I just feel a little guilty—when Nowell finds out what's going on, he might be mad at me.”

“Well, don't let that bother you. He hasn't exactly been totally open himself. Did you talk to him today?”

“No, I saw him for a second, but they're busy pouring sidewalks for that building next to where we have our meetings.”

We finished dinner and I cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink to wash while Jonathan was at his night class. Once again, I offered to take him to school as well as to pick him up, but he declined.

“Nah, I can take the bus, if you'll pick me up after.” He gave me a big grin. “And pretty soon we won't have to worry about it because I'll be able to drive myself!”

I was once again inwardly tickled by how truly excited he could get over simple things.

After Jonathan left for class, and partly as an excuse to put off actually doing the dishes, I called Brian Oaks' number and left a message on his machine asking him to call. I was pretty sure he never answered the phone directly.

Sure enough, about ten minutes later, as I was using a towel to mop up the water I'd sloshed all over the kitchen floor (household tip: do not remove a pan half full of water from the stove and turn it over before you're sure you're fairly close to the sink), Oaks returned my call. I told him I'd decided to take him up on his offer to come to the next group meeting, and suggested that Nowell also be there.

“I would prefer not. Nowell isn't technically a part of the group, and I don't think it a good idea to involve him at this point. He doesn't really know any of the members other than in his duties as clerk/receptionist, and it wouldn't be fair to the others to have to expose their problems to anyone not directly involved.”

“I understand.” While I could see his point, I strongly suspected that his apparent disinterest aside, Nowell knew one hell of a lot more about the members and their “problems” than Oaks apparently thought.

“We'll see you tomorrow, then.”

*

Jonathan seemed pleased to hear that we'd definitely be going back to the group one last time, and I had to admit myself that I'd certainly expanded my horizons on the subject of alcoholism and what it does to relationships. I couldn't imagine what it might be like were Jonathan still drinking; on the one hand I doubted we ever would have gotten together; on the other…well, love does some very strange things to people.

Jonathan wanted to drive home and since it was well beyond rush hour and the streets were pretty empty, I agreed.

“Would you be able to take me to the DMV Monday so I can take my tests?” He asked as we stopped at a traffic light. “If I pass, I can start driving myself to and from class and save you all sorts of time and I can save enough money on bus fares to buy gas.”

He looked at me with a hopeful expression.

“Sure.” I reached over to lay my hand on his leg, “if you think you'll be ready.”

“Oh, sure! I'll study all weekend, and I'll ask my boss if I can come in late on Monday, and…”

The light changed and I withdrew my hand from his leg so as not to distract him.

*

Thursday morning, just before noon, my office phone rang.

“Dick, hi. It's Marty.” He didn't have to tell me.

“Hello, Marty. What's up?”

“Lieutenant Richman asked me to call the Freeport police, like you wanted.”

“And…?”

“They're sending a copy of their complete file, but it won't be here for a couple of days. But I did find out a couple of things you might find interesting. How much did you already know about this case?”

I told him what I knew, from what Ben Oaks had told me, about the circumstances of the body and the gun being found some distance apart, and Ben's use of the word “apparently” when he talked about the fingerprints.

“Well, you're pretty sharp,” Gresham said. “Cheadle's…that's the name of the dead guy…fingerprints were on the gun, but so were Oaks'.”

Chapter 11

Gresham paused for effect, then continued.

“Oaks explained that the gun was his. He had a license for it, and that he didn't know it was missing until after Cheadle's body was found. While it's almost impossible to determine which prints were placed there first, Cheadle's prints were more pronounced: Oaks' were smudged.

“Anyway, the police knew all about Oaks and Cheadle long before Cheadle died: they'd responded to at least two domestic disturbance calls at their home. And we're talking Freeport, Illinois here: gays tend to keep a pretty low profile, especially professional types like Oaks. Cheadle's death sure didn't do much good for Oaks' practice.”

“Well, obviously the police didn't have any real evidence against him.”

“Well, maybe not. I haven't seen the report, yet, of course, but from what I gather, I think there were some strong doubts about Oaks' story. The fact of the body being separated from the gun, the fact that Cheadle was pretty scraped up when they found him, the fact that they couldn't even determine if Cheadle had pulled the trigger—there'd been a couple really heavy rainstorms since Cheadle disappeared, and any residue there may have been on Cheadle's hand had been washed off. Oh, and of course the fact that Oaks found Cheadle's body.”

!!!
I thought. “I thought some kids had found it.”

“You thought wrong. Oaks says he went to the property on a hunch, which proved to be right.”

One of my little mind-voices whispered something I passed on to Gresham.

“Marty, when you get the reports, would you check to see whether Cheadle's body was uphill or downhill from the gun? And see if there's anything about how steep the hill is where he was found.”

Of course I was pretty sure the local police would have taken into account the fact that Cheadle may have shot himself and rolled down the hill, which would account not only for the distance between the body and the weapon, but for the scrapes on the body. But I wanted to be certain.

“Will do.”

We hung up shortly thereafter and I sat at my desk more or less just staring off into space, trying to sort out the inconsistencies between what Gresham indicated was in the police report and what Ben Oaks had said. Where had Ben Oaks gotten his information? Well, most probably directly from his brother. But if so, why the story about the two kids having found the body? Maybe it was just too painful for Brian to say that he was the one to have found it. Or maybe he didn't want his brother to start wondering about the degree of his actual involvement. I still wasn't sure where Ben had come up with the “apparently” when talking about the fingerprints on the gun, but…

*

The day passed, and I called Jonathan to tell him I'd pick him up from work to give us a little more time for dinner. I'd spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out exactly how I was going to handle the meeting that night and exactly what I hoped to find out. As to that last part, the answer was “probably not very much.” But I wanted whoever was responsible to know I was on to him, for whatever good that might do. Again, I felt guilty for not having just dealt with this whole mess head-on from the start. Andy Phillips may not have…disappeared.

Damn it, Hardesty, why can't you bring yourself to say ‘died'?
my mind demanded, impatiently.

Because I need to know where the bodies are before I can be absolutely positive,
I thought
weakly in my own defense.

Oh, yeah. Like you're not absolutely positive now.

Which brought me back to a question I realized I'd somehow been managing to pretty well avoid all this time: exactly where in the hell
were
the bodies? It was pretty obvious they all must be in the same place—wherever that might be—or at least one of them would most likely have shown up by now. The landfill would be a natural place to look, but…or a lake or the river, but again at least one of them should have popped to the surface. Or a garden, maybe?

*

We arrived at the meeting ten minutes early, as usual. Jonathan brought along his driver's test booklet and tried unsuccessfully to read it in the car, so carried it in with him. Nowell was seated at his desk, typing something, using the two-fingered, hunt-and-peck method. He looked up when we came in, looked from Jonathan to me, and said a flat: “Hi.”

“Hi, Nowell,” Jonathan said brightly. “How's it going?”

“Ok.”

Period. He returned to his typing.

We moved into the meeting room to get some coffee. “What was that all about?” I asked Jonathan in a low voice as we approached the table.

Jonathan shrugged. “I don't know,” he said, casually. “Nothing, probably. He's just like that, I think.”

“Did you talk to him today?”

“Just for a minute. I told him I was taking my driver's test Monday. That was about it.”