The Truth of Yesterday

Josh Aterovis is the author of Bleeding Hearts (ISBN: 1930928688) and the upcoming Reap the Whirlwind (Coming in May of 2003), published by Renaissance Alliance Publishing Inc. (http://www.rapbooks.biz) The Truth of Yesterday is the fourth book in the Killian Kendall series.

Visit "Black Sheep Productions" for more information. Official Site of the Killian Kendall Mystery Series http://www.steliko.com/bleedinghearts

The Truth of Yesterday

Chapter 27

With everything that had happened, I ended up getting a grand total of two and a half hours of sleep before I woke up at 6 AM, wide awake and inexplicably alert. I tried to fall back asleep but my body wasn't having any of it. I finally gave up and climbed wearily out of bed. My mind may have been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but my body felt like dead weight. I took a shower in the hopes that it would revive me, but it failed miserably to achieve that goal. I dragged myself downstairs, ate a light breakfast, and then took a walk down by the creek in the brisk fall morning air. It was a morning designed to make you feel energized and alive, and yet, I still felt drained and weary.

Considering how I felt and how much sleep I'd had the night before-or didn't have, as the case may be-I thought about not attempting the drive to DC. Intellectually, I knew it wasn't the best idea, but I felt like I was so close I just couldn't sit at home and do nothing. I felt a pressing urgency that I couldn't ignore.

I forced myself to wait until nine, drank a soda high in caffeine, and set out on the road towards Washington DC. My car could just about drive there on autopilot at this point, which was a good thing the way I was feeling. I would be glad when this case was over so I didn't have to drive there so often.

I made good time and arrived at Chris' just before noon. She answered the door at my knock.

"Were you able to get me in to see the detective?" I asked before she even had time to say hello.

"It's nice to see you too," she said sarcastically, stepping aside to allow me in. A small black and white dog came barreling down the hallway and came skidding to a halt at my feet, looking up at me with enormous, expressive brown eyes. "Have you met Janie?" Chris asked.

"I don't believe so," I said, momentarily distracted.

"She's a Boston terrier," Chris said with all the pride of a dog owner, an amount usually reserved for parents of newborn children.

"She's beautiful," I said as I knelt down to rub her ears. Janie wriggled with pleasure. "Why'd you name her Janie?" I asked.

Chris blushed slightly. "It's short for Janeway," she said. "As in Captain Janeway."

"I didn't know you were a Trekkie."

"Sort of, I don't like the original series but I like the newer ones, especially Voyager. I had a huge crush on Captain Janeway."

I laughed and played with Janie for a few more seconds before returning back to business. "You never said if you were able to get me an appointment with the detective."

"Ye-e-e-s," she said, dragging the word out to impossible lengths.

I looked up at her suspiciously. "That doesn't sound good," I said warily.

"I managed to get you in; you're appointment is in a little over an hour. His name is Owen Evans."

"I sense a but coming..."

"Well, I may have had to stretch the facts a little to get you in, I mean, it is a Saturday."

"Stretch the facts how?"

"I...uh...I told him you knew who the murderer is and you had proof."

"You what?" I gasped.

"It was the only way I could get him to agree to meet you!"

"But Chris, I don't have any proof! I don't even know for sure that the guy I suspect did anything. What am I supposed to do when I get in there and he expects me to have solid proof? When he finds out I probably know less that he does, he'll be so pissed he won't help me at all."

"Then hold off on telling him that as long as possible."

"Oh great, then he'll lock me up for...for...something."

"For what?"

"Obstructing justice! I don't know. He'll make something up."

"Calm down. You're awful high-strung today."

I sighed. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Long night?"

"You could say that."

"Why don't you fill me in? You promised to tell me what was going on when you got here."

"Ok."

"Can we do it in the living room? I'm getting tired of standing here."

I made a face at her and she helped me up. Janie trotted along beside us as we went into the living room and sat down. I gave her the rundown on everything that had happened since we talked last, and what my suspicions were. She thought for a minute, and then nodded.

"That sounds reasonable," she said.

"Yes, but the problem is, in case you didn't notice, I don't have any proof. That was why I wanted to meet with the detective in the first place. What did you say his name is?"

"Owen Evans."

"What was he like?"

"He sounded busy mostly. The cops here in the city are overworked and underpaid. This isn't his only case, you know."

"I never said it was. It would be nice, however, if he didn't have to be bribed into working on this one."

"I didn't...well, ok, maybe I did. Look, it's just natural that I'm going to side with the cops on this, I mean, my dad is one; but that doesn't mean that I don't see your side of it too."

"I know; I'm just grouchy. You've been a huge help. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Sure you could have, I've just made it easier."

"What time do I have to go see Evans?"

She glanced at her watch. "You'd better leave now if you're taking the Metro."

"You're not coming?"

"No, I have to take Kevin to the orthodontist at two. Assuming he comes home from his friend's before then."

"Oh. Ok." I was disappointed and a little nervous at the prospect of meeting with Evans alone. "You'll at least give me directions, right?"

She laughed. "No, I thought I'd let you find it for yourself. By the way, you're not meeting him at the station. He said, and I quote, 'If I have to waste time talking to some amateur sleuth, he can talk while I'm eating lunch.'"

She gave me the directions to the restaurant where I was supposed to meet the detective and I headed off to meet my doom. I decided on the way that it would be in my best interest to tell him up front that I didn't have any proof to back my suspicions. It might just forestall any possible harm to my person.

The restaurant turned out to be a little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub. A neon sign in the window proudly proclaimed that they served-what else?-Killian's Irish Red. I pushed open the door and stepped into a dimly lit room. Round tables sat in the middle of the floor and old-fashioned red pleather-upholstered booths lined the walls. They were doing a brisk business; almost every table was full. It only took one look around to see that I was the youngest person there by at least a couple decades.

A waitress carrying an empty tray stopped near me. "Can I help ya, Sugar?" She asked.

"I'm here to meet with Owen Evans," I said.

She pointed out a man sitting alone in a corner booth at the far back of the restaurant. He was intent on his hamburger and wasn't even looking on our direction. I thanked her and started making my way in his direction. As I walked, I took in the detective. He was on the far side of middle-aged and had to be edging up near retirement, but he looked to be in pretty good physical shape. He was just starting to expand a little in the middle, and meals like that greasy looking burger and that mountain of fries weren't going to help any. He had salt and pepper hair that looked a little shaggy, as if he'd missed a haircut or two. His face was lined, but it didn't make him look old, just interesting. He was wearing a slightly rumpled suit with a fresh ketchup stain on the lapel.

"Detective Evans?" I asked when I reached his table.

He looked up at me with startlingly green eyes. "That's me. You Kendall?"

I nodded and he inclined his head towards the seat across from him. "Have a seat," he grunted.

I sat down and opened my mouth to tell him I didn't have proof of anything when he asked, "So you're a friend of Chrissie Silver, eh?"

"Chrissie..." I had to struggle not to laugh. I wondered how long it had been since he'd seen Chris. She definitely wasn't the Chrissie type. "Yes," I finally managed. "And she may have overstated my case when she talked to you."

He raised an eyebrow questioningly and took a bite of his hamburger.

"I don't really have any proof to back my suspicions; that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

He finished chewing, swallowed, and chased it down with a gulp of his soda. He eyed me for a moment and then said, "Then why are you still sitting there?"

"Why don't you just let me tell you what I've found out and then you can decide if there's anything to it or not. You're not losing anything; you have to finish eating anyway. If you get done and you still think I'm wasting your time, I'll pay for your lunch and leave you alone."

He took a huge bite of his burger, making half of what was left disappear in one gulp. "Deal," he said. Or at least that's what I think he said. His mouth was a little full at the time. He wasn't leaving me much time to talk, so I didn't waste any time jumping right in.

I outlined my investigation so far as succinctly as possible, leaving out such trivial details and breaking and entering and tampering with evidence. Even without those particulars, it added up nicely, or so I thought. What really mattered however was what the detective thought.

When I had finished my recital, he swallowed the last of his burger and signaled the waitress over. I held my breath as she approached. I was certain he was going to tell her to give me the check and walk out, leaving me with nothing more than I came with, but he surprised me by ordering a chocolate milkshake and a cup of regular coffee.

"You look like a chocolate kind of guy," he said after she'd left. I nodded my agreement, still too surprised to know what to say. "I have to give it to you," he said, "You've done a good job on this investigation. I suspect that you left out a few things, but that's neither here nor there. Unfortunately, you've also left out the most important part. You don't have any evidence. So you suspect this Fenton Black character? So what? What do you want me to do? I can't go after this guy just because you say so."

"I've seen copies of the letters that were in the safe," I told him. He raised an eyebrow but left it alone, much to my relief. "What if Paul was writing them to Black?"

"And what if he was writing them to the Pope? We need proof."

"I know I could get it if I just had more information."

"What kind of information?"

"Do you know who Paul was dating?"

"I didn't know he was dating anyone. Everyone we spoke to said he was single."

"You didn't speak to his clients."

"His clients? You make it sound like he was a dry-cleaner. He was an escort."

The waitress came to pour his coffee, and I waited until she left to continue. "I know what he was, and I really don't see how that makes any difference. Why does it matter what he did for a living? He was a nice guy, a good person. Everyone that knew him loved and respected him."

"Obviously, not everyone."

I was annoyed that I'd walked into that one. I'd made the same point several times myself. "The point is one of his clients told me that Paul was dating someone, but he didn't know who."

"Unfortunately, he didn't leave us an in-case-of-emergency-contact letter."

"What about the address book?"

"What about it?"

I hadn't known for sure that there even was an address book before just now, but Evans had just confirmed it for me. "Can I see it?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? What if it helped solve the case?"

"It could also help me lose my job. I can't just run around showing key evidence to everybody who asks."

"How is Paul's address book key evidence? Evidence of what?"

"It was taken from the murder scene, that makes it evidence in a homicide investigation."

"Have you at least contacted everyone in it?"

He gasped melodramatically. "Gee golly! You know what? We didn't even think of that! It's a good thing you came along to remind us how to do our job."

I gritted my teeth in frustration. I jumped as the waitress dropped a large glass of chocolate milkshake in front of me with a loud thunk. I hadn't even seen her coming that time.

"You don't have to get all snotty about it," I said when she'd gone. "I was just asking. It didn't lead anywhere?"

"Nobody knew nothin'."

"Can you at least tell me what was in it?"

He sighed. "You don't give up, do you kid?"

"Nope."

"What do you want to know?"

"Can you give me the phone number for Paul's family?"

"No way."

"Come on," I whined.

"We've already talked to them."

"You'd already talked to a lot of people I talked to and I found out much more than you did."

He didn't look too pleased at that reminder, but he couldn't argue with its validity.

"I won't tell them where I got the information from, I promise."

He pressed his lips together and silently whipped out a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket. The notebook was almost identical to the one I carried. I felt a little thrill to realize that a professional police detective used the same notebook I did, then I realized how childish it was to get excited by something like that. I pulled out my pad while he flipped through his pages. I wanted to be ready. I waited with pen poised over paper.

He rattled off a phone number and the notebook vanished back into his pocket. "Now we're done," he growled. He threw back the last of his coffee and signaled the waitress. "He's picking up the check," he told her. He stood up as I gaped at him.

"The deal was I would pick it up if you thought I didn't have anything to offer," I sputtered.

"And you didn't; just some speculation and allegations without anything to back them up. Thanks for lunch." He nodded at the waitress, who was busy keeping a professionally bland smile on her face, and walked out. As soon as he was gone, the waitress' smile fell.

"Don't let him get you, hon," she said softly. "He's a real hard ass. From what I heard, he's just mad because you've done a better job on this case than he has. For a guy who's been at this game for as long as he has, that's a real kick in the gut. The other guys on the force are always giving him a hard time about losing his edge."

"You know him?"

"I ought to, he's my ex."

"You were married?"

"Yep. It wasn't one of those messy divorces, you know? It's just hard being a cop's wife. I just wasn't cut out for it. We're still friends. That's why he eats here all the time."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'll take that check now."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Owen eats on the house. He was just giving you a hard time."

"Can I at least pay for the shake?"

"That one's on me. Think of it as an apology for the hard time he gave you."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"Any time, cutie." She moved off to check on her other customers. I finished my milkshake, left a couple dollars on the table, and slipped out before she noticed the money.

I took the Metro back to Chris', but she and Kevin weren't back yet. I sat on her doorstep until they got back. Kevin was looked cranky and Chris looked frazzled. I stood up and she caught sight of me.

"Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"

"Eh. Not too well. How's the orthodontist appointment go?"

Kevin glowered at me.

"Don't ask," Chris said. She unlocked the door and we all went inside, Kevin immediately disappearing to his room.

"He hates having his braces tightened," she explained. "And I hate being his mother."

"You could always move out," I suggested.

"Nah," she sighed. "Dad needs me. Maybe someday, when Kevin's a little older. So anyway, what happened with Detective Evans?"

"He wasn't very cooperative. I had to do some fast-talking just to get him to listen to me. Still, I did manage to get him to give me Paul's mother's phone number. Can I use your phone to call her?"

"Sure. Where does she live?"

"I'm not sure. Do you recognize the exchange?" I showed her the number.

"Yeah, I think that's Arlington, just outside DC. You can take the Metro there if she lives within walking distance."

"Let me call her first. She might not even agree to meet with me."

Chris showed me the phone and I dialed the number the detective had given me. It rang three times before someone picked up. The woman on the other end had a pleasant, sunny voice.

"Mrs. Flynn?" I asked.

"Yes. May I ask who is calling?"

"My name is Killian Kendall, Mrs. Flynn," I said. "I'd like to talk to you about your son Paul."

"Paul?" she asked, her voice suddenly lost its brightness. "Why do you want to talk to me about Paul? You do know he is dead, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's what I wanted to talk to you about actually. I'm investigating his death; I'm trying to find out who killed him."

There was no response. The silence stretched out to the point that I began to think she'd hung up on me. "Mrs. Flynn?"

"It's very hard to lose a child," she said at last.

"I can't even imagine your pain."

"I lost him twice. I got him back after the first time; nothing can bring him back now."

"You don't think his killer should be brought to justice?"

"Its not that...it's just...My older son, James, he doesn't like me to even talk about Paul. He wouldn't like it if he knew I was talking to you about him. We're a very religious family. My husband and James could never accept-they couldn't understand..."

"That Paul was gay?"

"You know?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"My husband is dead now, but James still won't even speak of Paul."

"Is James there now?"

"No, he's at work. He won't be home until after five."

"Could I come to your house and talk to you before that? He wouldn't have to know."

"I don't like to lie..."

"You wouldn't have to lie."

"I suppose, if it will help to catch Paul's killer, it would be ok."

"Can you give me your address?"

She gave me here street and house number, which I jotted down under her phone number in my notebook.

"I'll be there soon," I told her.

"About half an hour," Chris whispered into my ear. She'd been reading over my shoulder.

"In about half an hour," I amended.

"I'll be looking for you," Mrs. Flynn said.

I hung up and turned to Chris. "Should I drive or take the Metro?"

She pulled two maps out of a drawer, one of the Metro system and one of Arlington. She spent a minute comparing them. "I think you should drive, it's not very close to the Metro stop. Or actually, maybe I should drive. Do you want me to go? You look really tired."

When she that, I realized just how tired I was. I was running on adrenaline and when that ran out, I had a feeling I would drop. Still, that urgency I'd felt earlier was even more intense now. I had to keep going. "I am tired but I'm ok. Besides, what about Kevin? Can you leave him here alone?"

"He's old enough that he doesn't need a babysitter," she said, although she didn't sound too sure.

"I'll be fine. Mrs. Flynn might be uncomfortable if two of us showed up," I said. Chris showed me where Mrs. Flynn lived and how to find it on the map, and I set off to find my way through the confusing maze of DC streets, beltways, and highways.

Somehow, I managed to find Mrs. Flynn's home and it only took me an hour. She lived on an attractive, but crowded street with homes that looked like they'd been built during the post World War 2 boom in the Fifties. Large old tress lined the street and kept everything shaded. The lawns were immaculately groomed and the homes well cared for. I parked on the street in front of the address Mrs. Flynn had given me. Her home was a small cottage sized house, part brick and part white clapboard, with a chimney on each end. Enormous mums exploded with autumn color along the brick path that led to the door and against the foundation. Dark green ivy climbed its way up one chimney. It made an idyllic scene.

I walked up the path, breathing deeply the smell of fall, a pleasingly earthy scent. I knocked on the door and it was quickly answered by a small, plump woman wearing white cotton pants and a blowsy, emerald green top-Mrs. Flynn I presumed. I was surprised to see that she was older than I had expected. She had short curly brown hair, shot liberally with gray. Her round face was relatively smooth, but deep creases cut into the skin at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She looked like a woman who smiled often, but she wasn't smiling at the moment.

"Yes?" she asked cautiously, as if she suspected I was selling something.

"Mrs. Flynn? I'm Killian Kendall; we spoke on the phone?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh! I didn't expect..."

"Someone so young?" I smiled my most winning smile. "I get that a lot."

She smiled tentatively back at me and opened the screen door. "Please, come in," she said.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Flynn," I said as she led me into a comfortable living room, decorated with a comfortable mix of antiques and modern furniture. Knick-knacks covered every available surface, the evidence of a lifetime-photographs and souvenirs only family members knew the meaning behind. The pictures seemed to be of several different children. Over the fireplace, in a place of honor, was a huge portrait of Jesus. He wore a benign smile on his face but I had the creepiest feeling that his eyes were following me as I moved.

I sat down on an oversized arm chair positioned so that it was turned slightly away from the fireplace, that way I didn't have to look Jesus in the eye. Mrs. Flynn sat down on the sofa. I decided to start off with some easy questions to put her at ease.

"How many children do you have, Mrs. Flynn?"

"We had six, three boys and three girls. My husband and I were married for 40 years before he passed away."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

"We had a good life together. He's in a better place now."

I paused a moment at the nonchalance in her voice as she talked about the death of her husband. I couldn't imagine being that blasé about Micah dying and we hadn't been together anywhere near 40 years. "Where did Paul fit in?"

"He was the youngest. I always called him my surprise package. I was 40 when I found out I was expecting for the sixth time. My next youngest was almost 10 at the time. After five children, I knew what was happening as soon as the morning sickness started. I didn't even need to go to the doctor, but of course, I did. They assumed I'd want an abortion. It wasn't safe to have a baby at that age then, not like it is now. Women can have babies at almost any age now. Then, it was dangerous. I wouldn't even hear about an abortion, of course. It was never an option."

"One of your sons lives with you now?"

"Yes, James. He's the youngest one after Paul. He moved in after his father passed away."

"I understand that Paul was estranged from the family for a while, but that he reconciled with you after his father...passed away."

"Yes, when he told us that he was...well, you know, his father said we couldn't accept that. Unless he was willing to get help, we couldn't have anything to do with him. Oh, how it broke my heart, but there was nothing I could do. My husband was the man of the house, he was an elder of the church, it was what he felt was right."

"Did anyone from your family stay in touch with Paul?" I asked, horrified by the matter of fact way she spoke of the way they had turned their back on their own child.

"Not that I know of. As far as I know, my husband's funeral was the first time any of us had seen Paul in years."

"And after the funeral, he began to visit you?"

"Yes. Always while James was at work. It was wonderful to see him again. He'd grown into such a handsome young man." She cocked her head slightly to one side. "He looked a bit like you actually." She stood up, went to the mantle over the fireplace, and picked up a small, silver-framed photograph. She brought it over and handed it to me.

"That's Paul," she said.

It was funny to realize that this was the first time I had seen a photograph of him. I had been poking into his life and investigating his death for weeks now and never seen him. It had been taken years ago, the day of his high school graduation from the looks of it. He was wearing a blue robe and holding his mortarboard hat in his hands, posing in front of the ivy covered chimney. There was a certain surface resemblance between us. He was, as he'd been described, small and blonde. Beyond the superficial likeness, however, we really didn't look all that much alike. His face was shaped differently, his eyes smaller, his nose thinner and longer, and his ears larger. His hair was lighter than mine and straight. He wore glasses, while I wear contacts. He was cute in a quiet, unassuming way.

I handed the photo back to her and she replaced it on the mantle.

"Do you know who would have wanted to harm Paul?" I asked after she'd sat back down.

"No, I have no idea. I really didn't know much about his life. He never spoke much of personal things. I didn't even know what he did for a living until the newspaper articles came out with it. I don't know why they feel they have to smear that sort of thing all over the pages like a trashy novel."

I felt my hopes take a nosedive. "Then you wouldn't know if he was seeing someone romantically?" I asked without much optimism.

"Actually, he was. He brought him to meet me once, a few months ago." My heart sped up at her words. "I asked him if he had someone special in his life and he said yes. At first, it was enough to know that he was happy, but a mother wants to meet the person in their child's life, so I finally asked him to bring him on his next visit."

"Can you tell me about him?"

"He was a very nice young man. He was tall with dark hair. It was very obvious, even to me, that he cared very much about Paul. I've thought of him often since Paul was killed, but I didn't know how to get in touch with him."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Of course, his name is Tom, Tom Jackson."

It was all I could do not to crow in exaltation at those words. This could be the missing piece of the puzzle. I made my goodbyes to Mrs. Flynn, thanking her profusely for taking the time to speak to me. I made a beeline for my car when she let me out. I couldn't wait to call the detective.