The Last Time She Saw Him (14 page)

“Do you know the boy in the picture?” Navarro asks.

“No,” I answer and begin to stand up. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Navarro rests his hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me back down.

“Take your time. I need you to do this. And you know you need to do this, too.”

Polaroid number five. I softly run my fingers across the back of the instant-still image. I count to ten and turn the Polaroid over, and my breath leaves my body. Captured forever inside the tiny square, a boy and girl walk in the distance along a boardwalk. The two children stand at the entrance of a large building with a giant picture of a white-faced clown with a tiny hat sitting cockeyed on top of its bald head. The boy in the picture is tan and lean. He has jet-black hair and wears a bright red short-sleeved shirt. The boy is holding the hand of the younger girl, who is wearing a thin pink and white striped jumper.

“Who are these kids?” Navarro asks.

“God. It’s Ben and me. We were at Funland. I don’t have a picture of the two of us. My mom and dad either lost any old photos or threw everything away when they left,” I respond in a barely audible whisper.

Navarro realizes I am veering toward the razor-thin edge of a breakdown. He leans down behind me, and I can feel his face brush against the back of my neck.

“You can do this, Julia. I know you can.”

“Okay.”

“Where is Funland? Is that in Sparrow, where you grew up?”

“Yes. When we were kids, Ben and I thought Funland was the greatest place on earth. We never had any money growing up—Ben would pick up odd jobs over the summer. He was such a scrappy kid. He’d go door to door, asking if anyone needed any chores done. If he got any jobs, he’d take all the money he earned and treat me to a day at Funland. That day was the last time I went there.”

“How old are you in the photo?”

“Seven. Ben is nine. I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was Labor Day, 1977.”

“Are you sure? That was thirty years ago.”

“I know that as a fact. That was the day Ben went missing.”

“Good, Julia. Real good. Three more photos to go.”

“If there are any pictures of Ben naked like those other kids, tell me now. Don’t put me through that.”

“I’m not trying to do anything to you. Just look at the next picture. Please.”

Photo number six. I drag it across the table and turn it over and feel a rush of relief and a pang of bittersweet sentimentality. This Polaroid is a photo of Ben and me playing skee-ball at Funland. Ben has a determined look on his face, like he will be damned if he doesn’t get the ball to land in the mouth of the highest scoring hole. I stand at Ben’s side, staring at him with rapt admiration.

“That photo is from the same day?” Navarro asks.

I nod in silent affirmation.

Navarro pushes the last two photographs directly in front of me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

My right hand trembles slightly, and I flex my fingers over the seventh Polaroid until the shaking stops. I flip the picture over quickly and stare at an image of Ben and me standing in front of the library on Michigan Avenue. I shudder as I watch the worst day of my childhood unfold like stills of a movie through Parker’s eyes.

“That’s from the same day. We stopped in front of the library. We were running away from this bully who tried to pick a fight with Ben at Funland. If these came from Parker’s house, he was following us,” I realize.

“Excellent. Last picture.”

Polaroid number eight. I flip it over and immediately recognize Beach Boulevard. In the photo, our backs are to the camera as we walked along in the distance.

“My brother and I were walking home along Beach Boulevard that afternoon.”

“Do you remember anything unusual about that walk home? Did anyone approach you?”

“Yes. I was tired. A man in an old Cadillac pulled up next to us and asked if we needed a ride.”

“The man in the green Caddy,” Navarro repeats, remembering our conversation from this morning.

And then a thirty-year-old memory finally clicks in place.

“I know who A.J. Parker is. I need to watch the interview.”

* * *

Navarro leads a path to the other side of the interview room and leaves to retrieve Parker. I realize Parker hasn’t been formally charged yet, but I can’t muster an ounce of objectivity, especially after seeing the Polaroids of Ben and me and the other children whom he obviously abused. I stare through the two-way mirror at the interview room, and a shiver runs through me as a memory of my time on the other side of the glass comes through.

 

 

I resurface as Russell leads Parker into the interview room. I push the thirty-year-old memory out of my mind and focus on the suspect. Parker is a slouched ruin of a man and has the same thick sideburns I remember from thirty years ago. He slumps lazily in the interview chair with his legs sprawled out casually in front of him, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Parker’s clothes are filthy. His putty overalls are covered with brown stains, and clumps of fresh dirt cling to his work boots. Navarro’s partner, Russell, sits in the chair across from Parker and tries to stare him down. But Russell’s try at an intimidating gaze doesn’t seem to faze Parker in the least.

Navarro barges through the interview room door and places a can of soda in front of Parker, who quickly grabs it and slugs back its contents.

“Hey, go easy there. We’ve got plenty more in the vending machine,” Navarro says.

Parker takes the now-empty can and crushes it with one hand.

Navarro moves in closer to Parker and begins to bat his hand back and forth in front of his nose. “Phew. Catch a whiff of you, farm boy. What’s that, manure on your shirt? Don’t believe in showers or detergent, huh?”

Parker looks up at Navarro and reciprocates with a nasty sneer. “I was out working in the field when you guys showed up. I didn’t have time to get all pretty for you.”

“That’s a big farm you got up there in the country. Plenty of room to hide a kid,” Navarro accuses.

Parker’s legs retract from their previously sprawled position, and he snaps to attention until he sits ramrod straight in the metal chair.

“What do you mean by that?” Parker asks in a defensive tone.

“So, is it little boys or little girls you prefer these days? Or don’t you care?” Navarro continues. “Just as long as they’re young. You don’t have an age limit, right? It’s the hardcore ones who go after babies and toddlers though.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take any baby. And I don’t touch kids. I served my time. I was rehabilitated. I don’t do that stuff anymore.”

Parker digs at his greasy head nervously and then pushes up his shirtsleeve, exposing the money shot. It’s the Woodstock tattoo, the bright yellow ink now faded to a tired mustard hue on the wrinkled skin of Parker’s forearm. The tattoo is the same one I saw thirty years ago on the Cadillac driver’s arm.

“Where were you at ten p.m. last night?” Navarro asks.

“I was with my sponsor. I went to an AA meeting at the Church of the True Believers, and then we had a cup of coffee at the diner up the street. You can ask him. My alibi is solid.”

“Write down your sponsor’s name and address,” Navarro says, and pushes a pen and notepad across the table in Parker’s direction.

Parker stares at the paper for a long moment. He grabs the pen between his thick, awkward fingers, scribbles down the information, and hands it to Navarro.

“The Church of the True Believers? Isn’t that the former Reverend Casey Cahill’s church?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know who that is. It’s the closest meeting from my house is all,” Parker answers.

“Do you smoke?” Navarro asks and pulls out a hard pack of Marlboro Lights cigarettes, the same brand as the one found at my house last night. Navarro leaves the open pack on the table.

“I quit smoking a long time ago,” Parker answers.

“You like to hunt?” Navarro asks.

“Yeah, deer. I didn’t realize it was a crime.”

“Very funny. What nationality are you?”

“You ask a lot of stupid-ass questions. German.”

“Your skin is pretty dark for a German.”

“My grandfather was Indian. Native American. Not one of those foreigner types.”

“Nice mouth on you. So, what brought you to South Lakeport? Were you trying to escape from something you didn’t want the cops to find out about?”

“No, not even close,” Parker says, defiantly. “I told you. I served my time and was rehabilitated. I found God while I was in prison, and He changed my life.”

“You served time in Macomb, right? That’s where Casey Cahill is locked up.”

“I told you, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How’d you wind up in South Lakeport?”

“My uncle let me live on his farm after my aunt died. Must’ve been twenty years ago. He couldn’t stand living in the place without her. He wanted to make sure someone took care of the property, I guess.”