Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,96

But you can do a little more of that praying if you want.”

“What should I pray for?”

Steve thought a moment. “That Eldon LaSalle and his band of merry men get ripped off the face of the earth.”

“Even Johnny?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Even Johnny.”

“I don’t know if this matters,” Bethany said. “But I don’t think Johnny wanted to have you . . . you know, taken care of.”

“Why would you say that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think he and his father were getting along. Just little things I saw, that’s all.”

“It’s too late to make any difference. Johnny made his choice a long time ago. Now he’s got to live with it. Or die with it.”

The clerk, a paralegal named Arty who looked like Adam Sandler, did as promised, and brought coffee and bottled water and a bag of Milano cookies. Bethany had never had a Milano she said and ate almost the whole bag.

It was good to watch her do that. Like she was a little girl again, before innocence was lost to Eldon LaSalle.

At 4:35 Meyer stuck his head through the conference room door. “You all set?” he asked.

“Set for what?” Steve said.

“He’s here. I’m bringing him in.”

Meyer closed the door. Five minutes later it opened again. Meyer walked in with Edward Hendrickson.

“What is this?” Hendrickson said, looking at Steve.

“You know Mr. Conroy?” Meyer asked.

The old, gentlemanly face reddened. “I do not feel I need to be here.”

“Please sit down, sir,” Meyer said. “Like I said, I would much rather talk informally here than get a subpoena. But that’s entirely up to you.”

“What is he here for? What am I supposed to have done?”

“I found Doc Phillips,” Steve said.

Hendrickson gasped as if he’d had a lung punctured. For a moment Steve thought it was a heart attack. Hendrickson put a hand to his chest and fell into the hard government chair that Meyer held for him.

“Can I get you some water?” Meyer asked.

Hendrickson shook his head, took a moment to steady his breathing. He kept his eyes on the table when he said, “Did Walker tell you anything?”

“He told me enough,” Steve said. “Your name came up.”

“What…did he say?”

“What about the autopsy in ’83?” Steve asked. “Why have you kept it secret for so long?”

“It was for old Mr. Bruck’s sake,” Hendrickson said. “He saved my life. I wanted to save his.”

Meyer pulled out a chair now and sat. He removed a handheld tape recorder from his inside jacket pocket. Steve thought it might be too early for that. Might scare Hendrickson off.

“I’d like to tape your statement,” Meyer said. “I’ll have it transcribed and you can correct anything you want and sign it later. Okay?”

Hendrickson hung on the question for a beat, like a man on a tightrope steadying himself. His eyes seemed to recede, drifting off to a distant memory.

Then he started to talk.

71

“I was an alcoholic when I came to Verner. Came back from Korea and settled in San Berdoo, wife and baby waiting for me. Drank myself into a divorce. Couldn’t hold a job. Bruck was my sergeant. We kept in touch, he told me to come up to see him.

“He dried me out. Got me back up on my feet again, made me feel like a man again. The doctor he paid to help dry me out was Walker Phillips. Bill Bruck gave me a job. It wasn’t at the mortuary—he was just starting that out. He also ran a hardware store. I worked there for about fifteen years, then went to the mortuary. About that same time two new people came to town. One was Eldon LaSalle. The other was Owen Mott.

“Mott came in from another county and was an appointed sheriff. I don’t know if it was a coincidence or if there was some money that changed hands. All I know is that Mott did not seem overly concerned with Eldon LaSalle. And LaSalle gave all the of appearance of being someone who wanted to do good in the community. He paid for the building of the Chamber of Commerce. That was in the early days of his citizenship.

“Then came the fire. It was the fire that killed a man named Clinton Cole and a little boy. Mott led the investigation and ruled that it was an accident. I don’t know why, but I never believed that. Maybe it was just the way Mott looked when he talked about it. The other man who had a strange look about it was Bill Bruck. I