Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,65
gray sky over the desert was rippling like an ocean of sludge. Probably a storm coming.
No answer so he knocked again. Waited again.
He put his ear to the door and listened. Didn’t hear anything. He looked back at the main house and saw the T-shirt guy watching him from a back window.
Figuring he’d paid for the privilege, Steve tried the door.
It opened.
Dark inside, and stale. But there was enough light that Steve could make out a couple of items. Like the chair in the middle of the room with a body in it. And a TV in the corner that was on some NASCAR race, but with the sound off.
“Dr. Phillips?” Steve couldn’t clearly see the man’s face or eyes. The odor of open liquor hit his nose. “Dr. Phillips?”
A grunt, and the head rolled along the back of the chair. Steve’s eyes were adjusting and could make out a gaunt man. A gone man.
Steve looked around and found a lamp, turned it on. The interior was late-American mess: Empty glasses in various places, including the floor. A pair of scuffed black shoes by the door. The curtains on the windows had orange boats and green palm trees on them, as if to try to fool the occupant into a sense of tropical well-being. A stack of National Geographic leaned precariously against a half-empty bookcase under one of the windows.
The man in the chair snorted. He was wearing wrinkled khaki pants, brown socks, and a light-yellow short-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone. A tuft of pathetic white hair coiled from his chest. On the coffee table in front of him was a nearly empty bottle of Ancient Age.
“Who is it?” the man said, lifting his head finally and looking at Steve. The man blinked his rheumy eyes a few times.
“You’re Dr. Phillips?”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who needs to talk to you.”
“Who let you in here?”
“The door was open.”
Phillips rubbed his eyes with his hands, then looked for the bottle, as if to reassure himself it was still there.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Steve asked.
“What are you doing in here?”
“If you’ll let me explain—”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” He waved a bony arm. He tried to sit up and, tiring of the effort, slumped back in his chair.
“I have to talk to you, sir, I’m sorry. I won’t be long. Just give me a minute and tell me what you can and I’ll leave.”
A wisp of suspicion blew across his face. “Who are you? Who told you where to find me?”
“My name’s Conroy. I have to ask you something about an autopsy you performed.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“This was back in ’83. It was a boy who died in a fire. He would have been eight years old. His name was Robert Conroy. At least, that’s what it said on the report. I have to know what—”
“My God.”
“—you remember about that case. I’m sure it sticks out in your mind. That’s not something that happens every day.”
The eyes widened a little, the red in them the color of fresh blood. “Who are you? I demand you tell me.”
“Robert Conroy was my brother. According to the autopsy report, which bears your signature, you made an identification by dental records. Do you recall that?”
He said nothing.
“Does the name Larry Oderkirk mean anything to you?” Steve said.
He seemed to be drifting away.
“How about Owen Mott? Or Eldon LaSalle?” Steve said.
“Oh dear God.”
“So you do know.”
“Give me a drink. I need a drink.” He found the strength to sit up. He reached out for the bottle of whiskey. Steve snatched it away.
“You don’t need any more of this,” Steve said.
“Give that to me.”
“After you talk. Then you can get as drunk as you want.”
“How dare you! Give me that bottle.”
“Talk.”
When Phillips saw Steve wasn’t going to give him the liquor, he seemed to shrink. He buried his head in his hands, and his shoulders started to shake. Like the quake of the ground before oil gushes, Steve thought. He was hoping the doctor would gush the story he had obviously tried to hide for years.
“All right, all right,” Steve said. He left the man to cry a little, went into the bathroom, and looked for some tissue. Finding nothing but an old towel, he opted for a wad of toilet paper instead. The bathroom was not the cleanest he’d ever seen. The smell almost made him gag. He poured the rest of the whiskey down the drain and left