I weave through a run-down part of town, circling back here and there, with one eye on the mirror. I eventually find a bypass that takes me to the interstate, and when I’m sure there’s no one following me, I head south. Fifty-two miles from the city limits, I pass Dr. Woo’s sign on the other side of the road. As Swanger said, it’s a large billboard at the edge of a cornfield. Next to the words “Vasectomy Reversals” is the large goofy face of Dr. Woo as he looks down upon the northbound traffic. I turn around at the next exit, drive four miles back to the sign, and park near it. Traffic roars by, the drafts from the big trucks almost lifting my little Subaru. Next to the shoulder there is a ditch covered with weeds and clogged with litter, and beyond the ditch there is a chain-link fence choked with vines. Beyond the fence is a gravel frontage road that borders the cornfield. The farmer who owns the place has carved out a narrow rectangle to lease to the sign company, and in the center of it there are four large metal poles that anchor the billboard. Around them are weeds, more litter, a few stray stalks of corn. Above them, Dr. Woo grins at the traffic as he hawks his skills.
He’s the last guy I would trust with my testicles.
Though I have no experience, I suppose one could use darkness as cover, ease along the frontage road, dig a nice grave, drag a body over to it, refill the hole, scatter dirt and litter around, and cover it all up. Let a few months go by as the seasons change and the dirt settles.
And why would you pick a spot so close to an interstate highway with twenty thousand cars a day? I have no idea, but I remind myself that I’m trying to understand the mind of a very sick person. Hiding in the open works all the time, I guess. And I’m sure that at 3:00 a.m. this place is fairly deserted.
I stare at the weeds under the sign and think about the Kemp family. And I curse the day I met Arch Swanger.
Two days later, I’m waiting in a hallway in the Old Courthouse when I get a text from Detective Reardon. He says we need to talk, and soon. It’s urgent. An hour later, Partner drops me off at Central and I hustle back to Reardon’s cramped and suffocating office. No hellos, no handshake, no greeting of any kind, but then I don’t expect any.
He grunts, “You got a minute?”
“I’m here,” I say.
“Have a seat.” There is only one place to sit—a leather bench covered with dust and files. I look at it and say, “That’s okay. I’ll just stand.”
“Whatever. Do you know where Swanger is?”
“No, I have no idea. Thought you guys were bird-dogging him.”
“We were, but he got away. No sign for over a week, nothing. Vanished.” He falls into his wooden swivel chair and eventually gets both feet onto his desk. “Are you still his lawyer?”
“No. When he hired me he paid with a rubber check. Our contract is void.”
A smirk, a fake smile. “Well, he thinks otherwise. This came in just after midnight, right here on my office phone.” He reaches over and hits two buttons on his vintage answering machine. After the beep, Arch’s voice begins: “This message is for Detective Landy Reardon. This is Arch Swanger calling. I’m on the road and I’m not coming back. You guys have hounded me for months and I’m tired of it. My poor mother is out of her mind because of your constant surveillance and abusive tactics. Please leave her alone. She’s completely innocent and so am I. You know damned well I didn’t kill that girl, had nothing to do with it. I’d like to explain this to someone who’s willing to listen, but if I come back you’ll just bust my ass and throw me in jail. I got some good information, Reardon, and I’d like to talk to someone. I know where she is right now. How about that?”
There is a long pause. I look at Reardon and he says, “Hang on.”
Arch coughs a couple of times, and when he resumes his voice is shaky, as though he’s getting emotional: “Only three people know where she’s buried, Reardon. Only three. Me, the guy who killed her, and my lawyer, Sebastian Rudd. I told Rudd because as a lawyer he can’t tell anyone. Isn’t that screwed up, Reardon? Why should a lawyer be able to keep such deadly secrets? I like Rudd, don’t get me wrong. Hell, I hired him. And if by some lucky break you’re able to find me, then I’ll bring in Rudd to walk me.” Another pause, then, “Gotta go, Reardon. Later.”
I step over to the leather bench and sit on some files. Reardon turns off the answering machine and leans forward on his elbows. “It came in from a prepaid cell phone and we couldn’t track it. We have no idea where he is.”
