CEDAR CREEK, MICHIGAN
Chapter 22
LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS

“I’m completely exhausted, worn out, all in, beat, bushed, flat-out, ball-busted, and don’t-call-me-in-the-morning tired,” Hank muttered.

He threw one booted foot onto his desk, leaving a trail of dirt across his pile of unfinished paperwork. Then, he leaned back into his old desk chair and counted the ceiling tiles.

“I’m just tired of thinking. What I really need is a week in Las Vegas.”

Hallie brushed the debris off his desk onto the floor using Hank’s red bandana.

“I think you are quite insane,” she said softly and slowly so her point would sink in. “Your office is a disaster, and your work ethic leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Hey, it’s my disaster in progress, and that’s my lucky scarf,” he grumbled, and snatched the oily rag. “Sorry. Blanche made that for me.”

“And it’s lovely,” she soothed. “Did you ever consider washing it?”

“I was wearing it when I dug up that little girl,” Hank growled. “I haven’t been home yet. Besides, I’m considering it a lucky scarf—it will help me find the bastard who did this.”

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

“Sure, she’s about six years old,” he replied. “Sarah Underhill’s her name.”

“No, Blanche, silly.”

“No,” he replied wearily. “I don’t.”

“It’s none of my business, of course, but your grief is something you need to work through. There’s no detour. You need to drive right through the construction zone.”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business,” he looked up. “But you keep poking around. You’re really starting to get on my last nerve. Not to change the subject, but I have something I want you to do.”

“Go on,” she said, wondering how she’d break through the Great Wall of China surrounding his heart.

“You’re going to tell those news hounds that the police are searching for anyone who saw anything at all last Wednesday. I don’t care if it’s as minor as a highway litter bug or if a newspaper is missing from someone’s front porch. I want to hear about it. Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

“Sure, darling. And if you call me ‘sweetie’ one more time, I’ll report that you’ve been abducted by male chauvinist aliens from Uranus.”

“Male chauvinists are an endangered species,” Hank replied, and he grinned so endearingly she almost considered forgiving him. “You can bet your-anus on it.”

“Somebody talking about my anatomy in here?” Barney poked his head in the door. “The whole station’s watching the show you two are putting on.”

“Have a seat, boss,” Hank said as he rummaged through his desk.

“Don’t let him feed you a line of bull, kid. He calls everyone sweetie. But we all know Esther VanderLaan has his heart.”

“There are some benefits to having no teeth,” Hank sniped.

“Stow it, Bradford. I left Fly with Steve,” Barney said. “Now we just have to figure out what the imbecile knows.”

“Ply him with cheese curls. Or don’t you want to share?” Hank said.

“Shit,” Barney replied. “Ah, I don’t need them—they just give me gas.”

“Everything makes you produce gas.”

“Stay on topic. How can we question someone with Fly’s mental limitations?”

“What about a storyboard?” Hallie suggested. “You could include pictures of the little girl, other people, objects, and so on.”

“My God, you’re brilliant,” Barney exclaimed in awe.

“You could show him pictures of Bite’Ems, women’s underwear, and porno trash. That’s about the extent of Fly’s world.” Hank took a deep drag on his cigarette.

“I think you underestimate Fly,” Hallie mused. “He might be a savant.” She opened the window and waved a manila folder at the smoke.

“A what?” Barney looked up as she had captured his attention.

Hallie said, “A savant is a mentally challenged person who exhibits genius in some areas like music, math, or some such talent.”

“Like Rain Man?” Barney asked. “I’ve never seen any signs of that in Fly. He’s just a goofball with an IQ of 40 who likes a nice pair of lace panties he stole from the five and dime. But does that add up to kidnapping a kid? I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re showing your age, Barney. Dime stores closed a long time ago. Emily Underhill is on her way to identify the remains at St. Cecelia’s,” Hank said. “It’s a formality. Steve got a look at some pictures Underhill had in his wallet. It’s Sarah Underhill, for sure. Remember, Hallie, you can’t reveal that yet. It might derail the investigation.”

“I know. I’ll keep my yap shut,” Hallie promised. “But you need to be careful of underhanded reporters. There’s a lot of pressure to break the story first. And if it bleeds, it leads.”

Out in the lobby, Sheila turned off the intercom from monitor mode. She blew a pink bubble, snapped her gum back into her mouth, and dialed her boyfriend’s cell phone.

“Guess what, honey,” she whispered. “They think the retarded guy did it — they have some proof or something. They found dirty magazines, I think, at the scene. His name is Claypoole Carrington, but they call him Fly. And that dead kid’s name is Sarah Underhill.”

Unaware of the traitorous dispatcher, Hank and Barney planned out their next move in Hank’s office.

“Steve believes Underhill is the person who requires the most scrutiny. I agree, but Mike O’Bryan is still involved. Mrs. VanderLaan isn’t an ideal witness, but I think her report was trustworthy,” Barney said.

“O’Bryan was driving home from the bar and lost control,” Hank speculated. “He struck the kid and tried to hide the body.”

“Esther saw him by the cemetery, which doesn’t make sense. The body had no trauma. He’d have to be an idiot to hide a body on his own land. It’s possible Fly’s the killer,” Barney admitted. “All those magazines tend to turn a man’s mind into mashed potatoes. The effect might be even worse for someone whose brains are already scrambled.”

“Fly’s a red herring—he’s harmless. O’Bryan’s involved in something shady, and I’ve seen a few cars by the cemetery at odd hours. That’s a whole different matter. On the other hand, Underhill smells like a pile of underpants in a prostitute’s hamper.”

“You’re disgusting,” Hallie snapped.

“Tell me a little more about this whore’s hamper.” Barney leaned forward in his chair. “Are you using that three-strike formula you cooked up?”

“Damned straight. It never fails. Strike one: He’s not from around here. We don’t know his background. Strike two: Steve says he’s as slick as a buttered eel when it comes to knowing his rights. He knows the system. Strike three: He’s too damned quiet. He seems to fly under the radar.”

“Everybody knows O’Bryan’s a clown when he’s drunk,” Barney agreed. “Underhill’s not hanging around at Charlie’s, rubbing elbows with the guys. He’s Mr. X—an unknown quantity.”

“The bad ones always are,” Hallie added.

“So, what do you think, Ms. Ruben?” Barney reached into Hank’s coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. It was his first in twenty years. “With your many hours of criminal experience.”

“I believe Underhill is probably the bad guy. I’d have a long talk with Emily Underhill. If she’s an abused wife, there’s a good chance that little Sarah was molested. The two things often go together. Learned that in psych 101.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Barney frowned. “How does that relate to our investigation?” Because Hallie couldn’t know about Gene Walker’s findings, nobody had told her.

“She can tell you what makes Underhill tick. Find out what sets his temper off. Get a sense of his vulnerabilities, then conduct another interrogation and hit him where it hurts.”

“Good point. Especially regarding the molestation issue.” Hank turned to Barney. “Think about it, Barn. It fits with our information from the autopsy. Remember what Doc Walker said about the vaginal tissue?”

“I didn’t want that to be public, Hank.”

“Hallie isn’t going to spill it.” Hank glanced at her. She was writing her notes. “Are you?”

“Of course not, stupid. I’m a mother first, and a reporter second. Besides, a promise is a promise.”

“So, we’ll have Steve talk with Emily Underhill. She’s more likely to spill her guts if she’s sitting with a handsome young cop instead of one of us older guys.”

“Speak for yourself,” Barney snapped.

“Let’s get moving. For all we know, this guy could be a serial predator. Hank shuffled through his notes, mixing index cards with notebook pages, trying to organize a timeline. I need help.”

“Give me those,” Hallie said, snatching the papers. “Men!”

“I want some grub first.” Hank pulled some crumpled bills from his Out-Box. “You want to go over to the diner?”

“Thanks, but Lola’s cooking tonight. Roast beef.”

“I was talking to Hallie.” Hank turned to her. “What do you say?”

“Sure, I’d love to.” She was surprised. “But I’d better call home first.” She reached into her purse for her phone, not looking forward to hearing the health update from her mother.

Hank turned on the portable TV. Just after a deodorant commercial, Lance Strong showed up on the screen.

Breaking news from an anonymous source within the Cedar Creek Police Department: a local man has been arrested for the murder of six-year-old Sarah Underhill earlier this afternoon. She has been positively identified as the Jane Doe found yesterday on a farm in Washtenaw County, according to our unnamed source.

“We haven’t even left the room!” Hank hurried into the reception area.

The office was empty except for Steve, Sheila, and Fly Carrington. Steve was completely absorbed in a game of checkers with the man who has a mental challenge.

“Sheila, get back to Barney’s office pronto.” He marched ahead, and she followed, snapping her gum.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Have you been spilling your guts?” Barney shouted and wheezed at the same time.

“No,” she said, and popped a big pink bubble that Hallie suddenly longed to smash on her face.

“You told somebody something,” Hank said, with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Talk to me. Did you divulge police business?”

“You can’t fire me,” Sheila said, picking at her nail polish and rolling her eyes. “It’s discrimination or something like that.”

“So, if I check the machine we use to record all phone calls to and from the station, I won’t find anything to implicate you?”

“I only called my boyfriend,” Sheila whined. “He’s a cameraman at WCRP.” She started crying, making an annoying sound.

“You can make the rest of your calls from the unemployment line. You are FIRED!” Barney erupted. “GET OUT OF MY SIGHT.”

“I’m calling my lawyer!” Sheila’s tears immediately dried up.

“Go right ahead,” Barney shouted. “No lawyer in his right mind would touch you with a pole. You signed a confidentiality agreement.”

“Well, nobody told me what that word meant,” she complained. “So, it doesn’t count.”

“Looks like you got a job, sweetie,” Hank said to Hallie as he patted her on the shoulder. “Pay’s bad, but you work with great people.”

“This isn’t funny!” Barney yelled at them. “Who’s going to tell Reverend Carrington? He’ll be calling any minute to damn us all to Hell.”

“Maybe we can take advantage of this leak. Flush Underhill out, so to speak,” Hank said. “With Fly in the hot seat, I can sneak up on our perverted little friend.”

He stubbed his cigarette out on the desktop, and the varnish sizzled as it melted into another scar.

Chief Deters hurried to the lobby, catching a last glimpse of Sheila lugging a cardboard box into her car.

“Don’t worry, Chief,” Steve reassured the old man. “She only took a few bottles of nail polish and a stack of romance novels.”

“Thanks, kid,” Barney said. “I’d love to strangle that dumb bitch. That was a mistake, hiring a bubble-blowing blonde. And, I might add, a bombastic broad-assed bimbo.”

Fly looked up from his checkers game. He’d crowned all his pieces with Steve’s loose checkers.

“Hi, Fly!” he stammered.

Hallie stayed in Hank’s office, watching housewives leave Dell’s Shop-N-Save with full carts. Hank went back to join her.

“Were you serious? About the job offer, I mean?” she asked.

“Serious as a heart attack, doll-face,” he said, and seeing her grimace, he regretted the last part.

“I’ve been frustrated with my career. What am I saying? I’ve never really had a career, just a job.”

“Well, this feels more like family, I suppose. We work hard sometimes and tease each other regularly. We only have basic medical coverage—the village has a tight budget. But when Blanche died, the city covered the entire cost of her funeral and even gave us a double lot at Sacred Heart Cemetery, to boot.”

“You want to talk about Blanche now?” She was puzzled.

“I’ll tell you about her over dinner,” Hank said, but he wondered if he would. The silence in their conversation told him she was having second, third, and fourth thoughts. For some reason, that bothered him.

Hank watched the light flicker across her face. Her hair flowed in waves as she moved away from the window like a gazelle. In reality, her hair was unruly, and she tripped over a bump in the rug between the window and the door.

“Call me Grace,” she said, feeling pretty awkward.

“Okay, Grace, let’s head to dinner.”

Hank took her arm and led her past Barney, who was still fuming. Fly was adding a third layer of checkers on his kings, and Steve was answering four ringing phone lines as best as he could.

Barney watched the two as they strolled down Main Street. A restless calm settled over him. This was going better than he had hoped. He should have felt as joyful as he could, but there was a subtle tension in Cedar Creek. Barney Deters knew the town’s vibe, and it was off, like an old man with a weak heartbeat.

I can’t shake the feeling that disaster is just around the next corner, and that the plot is so complex an old flatfoot like me will never figure it out. Hank, you’d better be on your toes because I’m a short timer. Like a hound on a fox, whatever’s coming down the pike is headed straight for yours truly.

An ominous deep purple sky settled over Cedar Creek, hanging like a bunch of grapes and blocking the warmth of the afternoon sun.

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