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Mud Castles
by
Karen Sideris
His last recollection was the rusted Caprice, the driver's side door black and the rest of it maroon, the back right window blown out, glass glittering on the pavement like the sand in Cody's sandbox, his sandbox truck in the back seat, covered with Herb Fry's brains. Had this scum, the man that he defended, taken Cody? He saw the body; part of a head, an open skull, brains, all of them splatter. Then he saw the toy water truck, thrown asunder in the back seat, a piece of brain on the tank. A hot wave rushed him before he hit the ground. It was his fault. His, John Frazier's.
He punched the buttons, ruby cufflinks glistening in the twilight, and flipped to six o'clock news while he drove to his Scottsdale, AZ home. The red Phoenix sun was starting to set behind him as he cranked the volume louder, celebrating his success. "Prosecutors today brought out physical evidence against Herbert Fry in the Jason Simmons murder trial. Blood matching that of Jason Simmons was found on a London Fog jacket belonging to Mr. Fry. Defense attorney, John Frazier, established that there was no link between the crime and the jacket, as police had failed to photograph this important evidence at the time of the investigation. Frazier believes he has established reasonable doubt, the defense hinging on the fact that Jason Simmons had been known to play at the now crime scene on a regular basis.
Prior to today's rebuttal, the defense has based its case on scientific evidence, primarily stage of decomposition and the type of insect life found on the corpse, proving that the body would have been dumped no earlier than August 12. Herbert Fry has been in custody since August 5."
All publicity is good. John turned the radio down, pulling up to his gate and entering a code. German sedans decorated granite driveways. Mothers and fathers in matching Ralph Lauren watch as children ride motorized scooters through the cul-de-sac streets. John parked the beamer in his four-car garage. "Daddy's home," he said, as he wiped his Florsheim shoes on the mat in the laundry room.
"We're in here," Stacy, his wife of eleven years, said. John followed her temperate voice to the great room. He was greeted with a chaste cheek kiss from Stacy, and a hug around the waist from Cody.
"Daddy! Daddy, Mommy said that I should ask you if we can go see the trucks!"
"I don't know. When is dinner ready?"
"Not for another forty five minutes or so," Stacy said.
"Then I guess it's OK," John replied, hoisting Cody into the air. "Whoa! You're getting kind of big for your old Dad here." He lowered Cody to the floor and messed up his straight red hair. Soon father and son rode their bicycles toward the construction site for custom homes.
"You know to stay on the sidewalk across the street whenever you ride this way by yourself," he warned his son.
"How come we don't have a house up here?" Cody said.
"We're going to build one after this case
is over."
"Oh."
Dusk provided welcome relief from the Sonoran sun. John and Cody peddled up the hill, Cody with all his might, John slow and deliberate. They stopped on the sidewalk. "Look Daddy, the water truck is squirting him. The dump truck is like mine." Cody pointed to a white tanker spewing water on a Tonka-like dump truck that was pouring dirt into a sifting screen. A thick cloud of dirt rose with each dump, the water truck squelching its rise, creating a deep pool of mud in the drainage ditch below. The construction site was a big and little boys dream; with heavy moving equipment building large piles of dirt, bulldozing, removing boulders, plowing streets, and hauling rocks. They supervised until the sun neared its fall and construction was done for the day.
"Can I get a water truck for my sandbox?" Cody begged.
"We'll see," John said, and watched his young son as they headed home. "Wash your hands before dinner," he instructed Cody as they put away their bikes. He thumbed through the day's mail while Stacy put finishing touches on their dinner of salmon, salad and potato.
"I hope Cody eats this fish without fussing," she said.
"He will. He wants a new truck for his sandbox."
The shrill ring of the telephone disrupted domestic bliss. John checked Caller ID. "Unavailable," it said.
"Probably a damned telemarketer. I'd better get it though, you never know." John picked up the receiver. "Hello," he said, "Yes, I'll accept the charges." His eyes became tight slits and his lips narrowed as he listened to the caller at the other end of the line. "Yes, we did have a good day today Herb, but there are no guarantees just yet. We'll give it our best in closing arguments tomorrow and then see what the jury has to say. I think we had them all along with the bug thing. The jacket blood was their best shot back, but we got them there too. Try and get some rest. Don't call me any more tonight, there's nothing that I can do for you." John hung up the phone.
"That wasn't Herb Fry again was it?" Stacy said.
"The one and only. He's getting nervous. I
think we've got them though. Did
you see Channel Five?"
"Yes, you were all over their newscast." Stacy goosed his butt. "Dinner's ready, Cody! Come down here," she said.
Cody scrambled to get in his chair. He sat a yellow Tonka on the table. "Daddy says we can get a water truck to go with this one. I can make castles out of mud."
"That's nice dear," Stacy said. "Don't put your dirty toys on the dinner table." She took the muddy dump truck to the back yard.
John turned on the TV with the remote control. "Hey, look, there's your old man on network news," he said to Cody.
"Cool!" Cody ran to the big screen and touched it with his second grade fingers.
"Don't touch that. Come back here and finish your dinner," Stacy said.
"Now that is publicity. I couldn't buy election ads like the face time I'm getting these days. Have you seen today's paper?" John said.
"Of course dear. Front-page photograph. Not bad for an ASU grad."
"Hey, watch it. When I'm district attorney next year, you'll be proud of me."
"That reminds me. Bob Diamante called about
your campaign. He has some good ideas for fundraisers that he wants to talk
over."
"I'll call him tomorrow. I want to brush up my closing arguments." They finished
the evening meal. John went to polish his speech. Stacy put Cody to bed, and
then tucked herself in with a magazine. She was asleep when John came upstairs.
"I am the master," he said, and kissed her on the mouth.
"Master," she said, drunk with slumber.
John stared at the ceiling. Next year at this time he'd be district attorney. He pondered his acceptance speech, and whether or not he should use negative messages in his campaign. He visualized himself in the red leather desk chair by the mahogany bookshelves that ran from ceiling to floor in the DA's spacious office. He could taste his new title and the perks that came with it.
It was 6:35 a.m. and eighty-two degrees
when John arrived at the office. Pam, his administrative assistant, graced the
lobby, a vision in blue at a mahogany workstation. "Morning John," she said.
"Herb Fry left a voice mail message last night. He sounds like a basket case, to
say the least. Can you meet with him before the trial gets started today?
"That guy is such a pain in the ass. If it weren't for the publicity, I'd never
have taken this case. You know as well as I do that I may not ever see a dime
from this guy."
"We'll hope for the best. Bob Diamante called too. He said that he left a message at your house. He's got a strategic plan for the campaign drafted out. Sounds interesting."
"I'll try and catch him on my cell while I'm en route to the courthouse. Say, would you mind seeing if you can find one of those toy water trucks for Cody's sandbox? He brought it up again last night."
"No problem. I was going to do some shopping at lunchtime. Do you mind if I take an extra hour?"
John winced; an extended lunch hour for Pam was not what he had in mind. He had crossed the line with personal errands lately though, so he softened. "Alright, but not more than an hour. I may need you this afternoon if we wrap things up like I think we will."
"Great!" she said, and left the room with sudden energy in her steps.
John pushed the speed-dial for Bob Diamante
as he drove toward the courthouse. He flung the phone into the seat next to him
when he got his voicemail. There was no time for telephone tag. Briefcase in
hand, he walked into the courthouse. Herb Fry waited on a bench, handcuffed,
accompanied by his guard.
"I thought you'd never get here," he said.
"Look Herb, we're in good shape. We've still got the bug defense; they haven't been able to refute it. Their best evidence was the blood, and the cops screwed that one up. You'd better not have anything new to tell me. We are giving final arguments today."
"No, there's nothing new. I'm facing the
death penalty though. I don't want to die."
"I know that. And I don't want you to die. The death penalty is why I became a
defense attorney you know."
"I thought it was your BMW and your nice big house on Desert Mountain."
"Not quite. I don't remember telling you about Desert Mountain."
"You didn't. I just knew."
Herb's depth of knowledge unsettled John. "Let's go in to this conference room," he said. Herb and the guard followed John into a glassed in room, with a long table and chairs. John pulled the blinds for privacy. "How did you know about Desert Mountain?"
"I don't remember," Herb replied.
"Let's go over my argument," John said, and read from his notes.
There was a knock on the door. John looked up to find Pam. "Excuse me," he said to Herb.
He motioned Pam inside. "What are you doing here?" he said.
"You forgot these," she said, and handed him some papers.
"Thank you, you're a lifesaver." John reviewed the typed pages that she had handed him.
"I tried to call you on your cell, but there was no answer. I got worried."
"I must have left it in the car. You did the right thing bringing these. Say, while you're here, can you go get me some coffee and a doughnut?"
"Downstairs?"
"Sure," John said, and pulled out his wallet. "Get yourself something too." His wallet lay open on the table, picture of Stacy and Cody in matching blue sweaters staring up at him.
"I'll be back in a few," Pam said and went on her food run.
"Is that your family?" Herb said.
"Yes," John replied, and hurriedly put the wallet away.
"How old is your son?" Herb fidgeted in his chair.
"We don't need to talk about him. Let's get
back to this argument." John resumed reading from his notes. Pam knocked on the
glass again. She carried in a cardboard tray with brown paper coffee cups and a
small bakery bag perched atop it.
"Here you go," she said, removing her coffee and bagel. "Glazed, not powdered,
so you don't get it on you."
"Thanks," John said.
"I'm going to go get Cody his truck now. They have them at Target."
"Thanks," John said. Pam left a second time.
"Cody, is that your son's name?" Herb said.
"Let's stick to business here," John said. He didn't want to discuss personal matters with his weirdo client. They reviewed the draft of the closing argument one final time.
Closing arguments were always an adrenalin rush. John loved the spotlight, the focus that was always on him; the demands that he made of the jurors. He could play them like harps. In evangelist style he told them of poor Herb's innocence, and their endless guilt if they were to lock him away. Herb couldn't be their victim. There were the bugs, nature's little timekeepers, making it impossible for Herb Fry to have committed this horrid crime. He was the master. Tears had formed on Tuesday in a single juror's eye, a young woman, possibly a mother. He made eye contact with her and refused to break his stare as the jury box emptied. He only needed one.
He stopped at Tom's Tavern on the way home, seeking kudos from colleagues, dirty looks from lawmen. "The first round is on me," he said, and loosened his tie before taking a stool at the bar. Short skirts giggled and stared at him with longing. "The jury is deliberating," he bragged, "but it shouldn't be long."
Dinner was lukewarm on the table by the time he arrived. Stacy and Cody were nearly finished, an unused place setting ready by his chair. "Good day in court?" Stacy asked.
"You know it," John said and kissed her on the cheek.
"Jim Beam?" she said.
"Jack," he answered.
Stacy shook her head. "I wish you wouldn't
drive like that. What's in the sack?"
"Cody's water truck."
"You might not want to give it to him when you hear where he went this afternoon. Ask your son what he did today." John glared at Cody, an exaggerated look of parental disapproval. Cody squirmed.
"We'll talk about this when I come back downstairs." John went upstairs and changed. He came back downstairs and filled his plate with the cooling spaghetti.
"OK Cody, time to confess. Tell your old man what you did today."
"Mom, do I have to?"
"Yes, if you ever hope to see your water
truck."
"I went to the construction site with Jake and Tyler. You weren't here and Mom
didn't want to go."
"You know that we don't want you there unsupervised," John said.
"Well, you said if I stayed on the other side of the street then it was OK, so that's what I meant to do. Jake and Tyler crossed the street, and I wanted to get up close and see what the bulldozers did too. They were making fun of me. Nothing happened, honest."
"I about had a heart attack when I found him over there. They were playing by the ditch," Stacy said.
"Son, we've talked about this before. You know you're not to go over there without me."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"I'm putting you on official time out
tonight, no TV."
"Not time out. Can I still have my water truck?"
"We'll see, but only if you mind your mother." Cody's behavior was John's own just dessert. He reflected on his childhood, remembering the numerous times he had ignored his parent's warnings, placing himself in harm's way. He prayed that Cody shared the same guardian angel that had protected him the day he explored the abandoned mine with Sammy Hill.
He recalled the rattling boards, rotten and decayed, and the distant rumbling, just as if it happened yesterday. Sammy had tripped on the way out, and he had carried his friend, potato-sack style, all the way down the mountain. Mrs. Hill never bought their story that her son's sprain happened in a football game. John had certainly come a long way since then, his Globe, Arizona childhood, a copper miner's son; the peeled white Victorian cottage that they called home. Cody was raised a fortunate child, and John would see that his son had everything that he had done without.
John sat at his cherry lawyer-desk and scripted victory remarks to the press, waiting for deliberations to end. Once mind and mouth had sufficient preparation John called Bob Diamante to discuss his campaign. "Bob, my man, how goes the war this morning?"
"Hey John. I'm surprised to hear from you this early."
"Well, we're waiting for the jury, shouldn't be too long. I didn't want to get into any other cases just yet. When do you want to get together on the campaign?"
"How about tomorrow?"
"That should be good, how about early, meet at the club for some racquet ball when they open, five-ish, and then do breakfast."
"Nah, too early. We've got the fundraiser for Judge Rothstein tonight. Have you forgotten?"
"Damn," John said. "I sure did and Stacy didn't remind me. Hold on a second." He cupped the receiver. "Pam, get a hold of Stacy and make sure I have a clean tux for tonight. She'll need to bring it down here. Make sure she remembers Rothstein's fundraiser. She didn't say anything about it this morning."
"OK boss," his secretary replied. "Are you
sure you don't want me to drive to
your house to get it?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." John marveled at Pam's delight in leaving the office.
"I'm back. Hey, I've got to run. How about tomorrow afternoon, my office, unless of course we get a verdict."
"That'll work. See you tonight. Be sharp, the press will be everywhere. We need to seize this opportunity."
"No problem. With this case wrapping up, you know they'll be all over me. Rothstein won't get a word in edgewise." They mocked the laughs of madmen before hanging up. John booted his computer and then saw the light flash on line two.
"John, the courthouse for you, the verdict is in."
John picked up the intercom. "Thanks Pam."
He straightened his tie and slung his suit coat over his forearm, checking his reflection in the window as he left for court. "See you this afternoon," he said to his secretary. His stride was urgent as he headed to the courthouse. He wished that it wasn't so hot on court days; there was nothing like flat hair for the camera. The press waited on the stairs leading up to the glass-front building like coyotes in search of their prey.
"I'm optimistic," John said, "but I'll answer all of your questions after the verdict comes in." He flashed his whitened teeth at the reporters, even though they reminded him of flies that he wanted to swat. They swarmed behind him to the courtroom.
He waited for Herb in the secure room where the bailiff brought the inmates in, tapping his Mont Blanc pen on the wooden table.
Herb was led into the room by the grumpy bailiff, who unlocked his handcuffs and left through the side door without as much as a good morning to John. Herb was sweating, and had a rhythmic twitch in his left eye. "Calm down," John said. "Even though the jury is in, you still don't want to look guilty."
"I can't help it. I can't help it. I've been sick all night," Herb replied.
"It'll be fine."
"Did you see my wife out there?"
"No." John hadn't seen the mousy bible thumper that Herb called home. The way that she always fingered the tarnished cross around her scrawny neck made her look guilty too. John hoped that they hadn't reached her.
The bailiff opened the door to the courtroom from the outside. "The judge is coming," he said.
"Ready?" John asked Herb.
"I guess so." Herb had sweat through the front of his shirt, leaving dark wet patches in contrast to the light blue color. John had told him to wear white, with long sleeves, but Herb had disregarded his instructions. The nervous defendant tripped on a chair as he followed John out of the room.
"All rise," the bailiff said. "Court is now in session, the Honorable Jeannine Barrett presiding.
John was glad that the liberal judge had been assigned this case. In the slim chance that there was a guilty verdict, she'd come to his political rescue with a lighter sentence.
"Has the jury come to a decision?" she asked the foreman.
The nervous foreman, dressed in a short-sleeved plaid shirt and tan pants, frayed, but appropriately business casual, stood. "Your Honor, we have," he said.
"On the count of breaking and entering, what did you find?"
"We find the defendant not guilty." Observer's gasped. Jason Simmons' father seated in the front row let out a squeak, like that of a smashed animal, taking its last breaths as it lay dying on the hot pavement. He grabbed the hand of his wife, who was still silent, but with mascara running past her chin.
"On the count of kidnapping, what did you find?"
"We find the defendant not guilty." Jason's father and stepmother were both sobbing now, visibly upset. John heard flashbulbs pop behind him.
"On the count of sexual misconduct with a minor, what did you find?"
"We find the defendant not guilty." The mourning father made a honking sound, reminding John of the javelina that he had heard in the night, the death hunt sound of a starved predator.
He had sympathy for the man; after all, he was a father himself, the man's sobs wearing down John's legal demeanor. He said a quick prayer, and restored the appearance of outward calm.
"On the count of murder in the first degree, how did you find?"
"We find the defendant not guilty." The stepmother screamed, then fainted, crashing into her husband's faltered arms.
"You bastards, how in God's name? Tell me how?"
Judge Bennett raised her gavel. "Order." She said, and hammered the metal plate on her bench. The father flopped backwards, his body white and doughboy pasty. John turned away, the grieving parents ruining the spoils of victory that were rushing through his veins like racecars in a grand prix. Couldn't they for one moment imagine that the real killer was someone other than his pathetic client? He shook Herb's hand and watched while his plain wife embraced him, his children, with home haircuts and bucked-teeth sans braces standing by. He caught a glimpse of Jason's parents, his father's lost stare, and his stepmother's cavernous eye sockets. John turned away.
A click and flash of light restored his senses. He applied his power face and turned to the eager reporters, positioning himself strategically in front of Channel Five.
"It was a heinous case, and I have complete sympathy for dear little Jason Simmons' family, in particular his parent's, here in the courtroom today. My heart goes out to them for their loss."
"You've been accused of assassinating their character. Any comment?" a reporter said. John saw only his tobacco stained teeth.
"I have a job to do. If my client is not guilty, then someone else is. I have to raise all possibilities as to establish reasonable doubt and keep the investigation open. We can not have child murderers walking our streets." John took a breath, and nodded at the blonde reporter from News Channel Five. Those radio guys were more trouble than they were worth. He entertained the journalist's questions, and then returned to his office, excited at the prospect of extra time that day.
"Tux lined up?" he asked Pam as he rushed past her desk.
"I take it you won?" she asked.
"Of course," he said. "Had you any doubts?"
She chuckled, "No. Stacy will pick you up
at six, and she'll bring you your tux. She didn't forget. She said that she
should be on time, unless Cassie or Kathy the babysitter was late."
"Cassie."
"Yeah, that was it." John did a victory jig as he went into his office. He cracked the blinds to let in afternoon light. He pushed speed-dial on his speakerphone. "Yo, Mr. D. Got the verdict, the good guys won again. Why don't you come over now? I'll have Pam get us some sandwiches." Bob Diamante agreed to the change of plan. Their strategy session was only the warm up for the big evening ahead. John was a man on the move, and he was moving light speed ahead.
He remembered why he married Stacy when she walked into his office. Her blue silk dress, the pearls, the shine in her dark hair, the way she smelled of Ivory soap. "Your tux sir," she said, and handed him the newly dry-cleaned garment, still in its cellophane bag.
"Thank you, my lady," he said, returning her dramatic gesture. "I take it that Cassie was on time. Was Cody OK with us leaving? I hope he behaves for her."
"He'll be fine. I gave him his water-truck. Told him that we'd take it back if I got a bad report."
"Good idea." John adjusted his tie. "Help me with this," he said. Stacy went to him, tending to the details as only she could.
When they arrived at the convention center all cameras were upon them. Flashbulbs, reporters, the same ones from earlier that day, danced around him. John took a few questions and then led Stacy inside. It was vital that they maximized their valuable mingle time. The right hands needed shaking; correct backs needed patting. Stacy worked the crowd like a pro, the perfect wife for a district attorney. John reflected on his many blessings, the perquisites of being himself. Stacy spotted the honorable judge Jeannine Barrett. John straightened his tie as they approached the magistrate.
"Evening judge," he said. "That was quite a day we had today, wasn't it."
The judge peered at him over her glasses. "Even I couldn't believe that you pulled that one off. I hope you sleep well tonight Mr. Frazier. I won't."
Auditorium lights flickered, and the party chairman took the podium. "We're going to serve dinner now, so take your seats. We'll be listening to the Central High String Quartet throughout dinner and during dessert, so please turn off any cell phones and pagers. I appreciate your cooperation with this."
"Almost forgot," John said to Stacy. "Did you bring yours?"
"No, cocktail bag," she said, and patted a miniature handbag that perfectly matched her dress. The waiters brought their salads. The evening wore on, a long smudge of handshakes, 'atta boys, hugs and even a few dry kisses; the first of many nights on the mashed potato circuit, his community face time that would last until the election had gone past. Five hundred dollars a plate for dry roast chicken and instant potatoes, canned green beans and dinner rolls, soft, white, preserved.
They both kicked their shoes off in the car before driving home, a luxurious reward after the convention center floor. "Cody should be in bed by the time we get home," Stacy said, touching his thigh.
"Do I need to drive Cassie home?"
"Yes, but I'll be waiting up for you." John reveled in the accomplishments now behind him, the day a success on all counts. Every light was on at their house, both inside and out. A white Crown Victoria blocked his spot in the garage. Neighbors stood in circles pointing at the Beamer as the Frazier's approached.
"There's a police cruiser across the
street," Stacy said. "What is going on?"
They slammed their doors and raced into the house. They found Cassie, face
swollen and wet with tears, sobbing to a detective. A uniformed officer ran up
to them, blocking their path.
"Mr. and Mrs. Frazier?" the policeman said.
"Yes," John replied, his blood pressure making him dizzy. Stacy was ghost white,
hands in tremors.
"Your son Cody is missing."
Stacy collapsed. The police officer caught her mid fall and carried her limp body to the sofa. John felt a burn near his heart. He went deaf. The detective approached him. "I'm Detective Patterson. I'm sorry Mr. Frazier. We have a search underway, both ground and air. Please tell us, where are places that Cody might go on his own, friend's houses, playgrounds, favorite hiding places." Patterson wore a blue sports coat with brown shoes. His shirt was light yellow, its thin pocket revealing a pack of Marlboro Red.
John lowered his head and said a silent prayer. "Yesterday we caught him up at the construction site, the custom homes that are going up off of Mountain Ridge near the golf course entrance." His just desserts were now unjust. God was punishing him now. He prayed for forgiveness, forgiveness for his life, from the time he blamed his brother for a milk spill, the times he smoked pot during college, the women that he had slept with and dumped, his entire career. He hadn't ever meant harm. He just wanted. Wanting, that was the problem.
"We have officers searching the area. I understand from your babysitter that Cody was playing with two boys in the front yard when she went inside to answer the phone. When she came back they were all gone, bicycles and all."
A quivering Cassie spoke. "It was Jake and Tyler, the Bradley boys. They knew I would just be a minute, they said they would watch Cody."
"Are they missing too?" John said.
"Jake is missing. Tyler is at his house. He claims that Jake and Cody rode off on their bicycles. He didn't want to go with them, so he went home. He didn't know where they were off to, he said the Circle K. He thought they wanted Popsicles, but he also said the construction site. We checked the Circle K, no one has seen them."
"The site, it's a lot of ground. I need to go over there."
"We have a search underway. Please, anything you can think of that would help us."
"I'm sorry Mr. Frazier. Really, um, I never would have gone inside, I'm sorry, it's all my fault," Cassie stammered.
"I know you are."
The doorbell rang. John started to answer it, but the detective stepped in front of him. Two uniformed police officers let themselves in, one holding a blue bicycle with a twisted front tire frame. A third officer carrying a red bicycle accessorized with a wire basket followed up the walkway. "We found these at the construction site," the first policeman said."
"That's Cody's, the red one," John said.
"We're searching the area as you know. There are a lot of places that boys might hide, and it's hard to find them in the dark. We've got helicopters overhead, and we've set up some lights, but it's just hard to see right now, and frankly it is dangerous."
"I need to go over there," John said.
Stacy joined them at the door, still pale, crying, incoherent. "Let me call her mother," John said. "I'll go when she gets here, if you haven't found him by then, God help us." He led Stacy back to the sofa and sat with his arm around her.
"Can I call my Mom?" Cassie said.
"After he has made his call," said the officer.
"I tried to call you Mr. Frazier, both of you, but your cell phones said you were off or out of the area, I really did. You didn't leave a number like you usually do, I really tried."
"I'm sorry," Stacy started, and then began sobbing again. Her breathing became erratic. The detective gave her a paper bag and she blew into it, in between sobs. He radioed for medical assistance. John pulled his cell phone from his clip. It rang as soon as he turned it back on.
"John Frazier," he said in a low quiet tone. "Yes, um he's dead? Are you sure of this? You're sending someone over? Thank you." He pushed the end button. "Herb Fry was found shot to death. Suicide. Some park on the west side."
"You got him off today," Detective Patterson commented. "I'm going to make a call." The detective went into John's den and closed the door. John had started to follow him, but Patterson shut the door in his face, motioning him away. The detective came out a few moments later. "We've sent some search crews to the park. Hopefully this is just a coincidence."
John slumped in defeat, praying to his maker for forgiveness for every tarnished chapter of his life, those he knew about and those he might not. He offered himself in trade for Cody, and vowed a life that would rival any of the saints, Jesus himself, Buddha, Mohammed, Gandhi, the disciples, all of the Hindu gods and anyone else that he could think of. His life meant nothing without Cody. He noticed a red stain on the blue bicycle with the twisted tire. He prayed even more, clenching his hands until they were red and starting to swell.
Stacy's mother came to the door. She let herself in, first hugging John, and then running to aid her daughter. She needed help herself. This was John's cue to leave. "Take me to the park," he said.
"Are you sure Mr. Frazier? What about the construction site?"
"The park, I have to go to the park."
Another Crown Victoria pulled up in front. Patterson went outside to debrief with him and then went back to get John. "Officer Detrick will take you to the park now. There's no sign of the boys yet." John glanced at Stacy, still sitting on the couch with her mother.
"Go," she muttered, "Just go."
John lagged behind Officer Detrick, holding a private conversation with his maker in his mind. He was silent as they drove, lights flashing, to the park. Lights flashed as they drove toward the police barrier. He saw the News Channel Five truck tower posed before it, ready and waiting like a turkey vulture. Yes, he had been the one to say that no publicity was bad, but at this moment he wanted to be invisible. He stared ahead with determination, making the most of tunnel vision. Camera's flashed in his window as they passed through the barrier.
Then he saw the rusted Caprice, the driver's side door black and the rest of it maroon, dotted with bondo. The back right window was blown out, with glass glittering on the pavement like the sand in Cody's sandbox, over by the basketball court. The splatter was all else he could see. The splatter. He ran to the car. Had this bastard taken Cody? He saw the body; part of a head, an open skull, brains, all of them splatter. His chicken and mashed potato dinner rose in his throat, pouring out of his mouth and onto his clothes. He tried to step away. Then he saw the toy water truck, thrown asunder in the back seat, a piece of brain on the tank. A hot wave rushed him before he hit the ground. He woke up in the ambulance. He lay there on a stretcher.
"I have to call my wife." John reached for his cell phone. Stacy. Maybe she had news. Maybe they had found him. He tried to sit up.
"Whoa, don't try that just yet." A paramedic blocked his rise.
"I'm fine, really." The ambulance pulled into the hospital, and he was wheeled inside. He saw the News Channel Five truck tower near the door. Cameras flashed as he went inside. He closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious. Don't they ever go home?
He was wheeled into a curtained off section in the emergency room, finally able to call Stacy. The line was busy, even with call waiting. A male nurse stuck a thermometer under his tongue and tightened a blood pressure cuff on his left arm. "You'll have plenty of time for that phone later," he said. "I'm Bob, your nurse."
"But Cody, my son is . .." John's sentence is interrupted by the thermometer; thrust further into the base of his tongue. John was certain that Nurse Bob had jabbed a hole in it.
The ER Doc examined him quickly, thermometer still impaling him. "We'll give you a sedative," the doctor said, removing the thermometer.
"Just let me out of here," John said. "I have to find my son. The police brought me to the park, where they were searching."
"Hmm. I don't think there's anyone here now. The nurse will be in with your medication soon."
"I don't want any damned medication. I want to find my son." John sat up straight and dialed his cell phone once more. 'Low Batt' flashed on the screen. The phone rang, once, twice, dead. "Where is a payphone?" he asked. He hopped off the gurney and headed out into the emergency room. Lightheadedness took over and he swerved from side to side. Bob the nurse found him and dragged him back to his curtained cubbyhole.
"Bob, you've got to help me here. Call the police. I've got to talk to them."
"If you promise to take your meds without a fight I'll let you make a call at the nurses' station. But let me wheel you over there. No more escapes."
"Fine.' Bob pulled a wheel chair into the suffocating compartment and helped John into it. He rolled him over to a telephone. "Dial 9 first," he said and walked away. The phone rang, once, twice. "Frazier Residence," an unknown male said.
"This is John Frazier. I'm calling about my son. Is my wife there? Who is this?"
"Detective Moran. One moment please." John prayed for Cody's safe return.
His mother-in-law answered the phone. "Hello," she said.
"Mom, this is John. I'm in the hospital, but I'm OK. Any word yet? Where is Stacy?"
"You were on the news. We're getting all kinds of calls, I had to make sure it was really you. Stacy is right here. When are you coming home?"
"As soon as they let me out of here." John noted that Bob the nurse was nowhere in sight. "I'm leaving now," he said to his mother in law." He dropped the phone and escaped like Spiderman out the side door. He went to the side of the hospital and hailed a cab.
Sixty-four dollars and a century later he found himself on his own doorstep. The last cruiser was pulling away. Stacy let him in. "They've done all they can," she said.
They both cried as they stood in the doorway, holding one another, praying for miracles. John offered himself in exchange one more time. Arm in arm they went inside and clustered on the sofa with Stacy's mother. They had other chairs available in the room, but took solace in togetherness. The sky grew lighter, but it didn't matter, because life as they knew it could be over. Cody was gone.
The doorbell rang. Bob Diamante waited in racquetball clothes. John stumbled to the door. "No, not today. Cody is missing. Haven't you heard?"
"No," he said, "I'm sorry." He turned and walked away. The phone rang. It was Detective Detrick.
"John, we've scoured the park, no sign of your boy. No sign at the construction site. We've expanded our search. If you or your wife can think of any place he might have gone voluntarily."
"The water truck. His truck was in Fry's car."
"We're well aware of that."
"I'll wait for your call." John hung up the phone. "I'm going over to the construction site," he said to Stacy.
"I'm going with you. Mom, can you wait here? Call me on my cell if anything happens." They trudged up the hill, heads empty, chests heavy. The line of white cruisers loomed ahead where pick up trucks usually parked.
"I can't believe they're actually working,"
John said. They crossed the street. A man wearing a hard-hat and large biceps
stopped them. "I'm sorry Mr. Frazier, this is a hard hat area. If you wait over
there I'll see if I can find you both one."
"Thanks." John was surprised that the man knew his name. He glanced at Stacy.
She looked hot, flushed. The dust seemed to be bothering her cried out eyes, the
red lines growing bolder against the tired whites. John began to second-guess
their trip to the site. It was useless. He had to tell Stacy about the water
truck in Herb Fry's car, the discarded toy that was splattered with suicide.
There was no good way to tell her, to break her young maternal heart, but the
swift blow of a police discovery would be worse. His knowledge made him feel
inextricably alone.
Then he heard shouting. It was excitement, triumphant cries followed by juvenile shrieks of joy and discovery. He saw Cody and Jake lifted high on the shoulders of a construction worker, up on the balcony of a new custom home. "Over here, over here," a deep voice yelled.
John was paralyzed. Even though he could see, he was afraid of his hope. Stacy grabbed his arm and made him run. They ran through the dirt and climbed the hill; taking one step forward and then sliding back a half in the dust. "They're fine, they're here," the construction worker-hero said.
"Oh my God," Stacy said, hugging her wayward son and his friend. "Where have you boys been?"
"Upstairs," Cody said. "We knocked over the
scaffold and couldn't get back
down."
"Yeah, we slept on the balcony," Jake said.
"Oh my God. You boys are never to come over here again. Do you hear me? We need to get you home, get you some food, some water, a bath."
"We had water in my truck," Cody said, and held up a dirty Tonka.
John embraced his wife, his child and his child's playmate. Together they shared a long family hug; opening arms only long enough to let Jake's family in. John mentally planned a week's vacation to Disneyland.
But work had piled up in his in-boxes; snail mail, e-mail and voice-mail boxes, all of them full. John sorted through the rubbish, putting things in piles, first to-do, next to put off, then to throw away. He wore a golf shirt and jeans; after all, it was Saturday. He pulled out a folder. Roberto Habib struck again, now they were calling him a serial rapist. His victims were young, innocent girls like the ones that lived at Desert Mountain. It was all over the papers. All publicity was good.
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