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.

13.

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.”

I take a deep breath as I try to unscramble my thoughts. There is no strategic or commonsense reason for Swanger to tell the police that I know where the body is buried. Period! And the fact that he was so eager to tell me, and then blab it to the cops, makes me doubt him even more. He’s a con, perhaps a serial killer, a psychopath who enjoys playing games and revels in the lying. But whatever he is, and whatever his motives, he has thrown me off a cliff and I’m free-falling.

The door suddenly opens and in walks Roy Kemp, assistant chief of police and father of the missing girl. He closes the door behind him and takes a step toward me. He’s a tough guy, an ex-Marine with a square jaw and a grayish crew cut. His eyes are weary and red, evidence of the toll the last year has taken. His eyes also convey a hatred that makes my skin crawl. My collar is instantly wet.

Reardon gets to his feet, cracks his knuckles as if he’s about to use his fists, and gives me a look that could kill, and probably will.

It’s fatal to show weakness to a cop, or a prosecutor or judge, even a jury, but right now it is impossible to conjure up the slightest trace of confidence, let alone my usual cockiness.

Kemp gets right to the point with “Where is she, Rudd?”

I slowly get to my feet, raise both hands, and say, “I gotta think about this, okay? I’m caught off guard here. You guys had time to plan this ambush. Give me some time, okay?”

Kemp says, “I don’t give a damn about your confidentiality and ethics and all that crap, Rudd. You have no idea what we’re going through. It’s been eleven months and eighteen days of sheer hell. My wife can’t get out of bed. My whole family is falling apart. We’re desperate, Rudd.”

For all of his fearsomeness, Roy Kemp is a man in grievous pain, a father who’s sleepwalking through his worst nightmare. He needs a body, a funeral, a permanent grave where he and his wife can kneel on the grass and properly mourn. The horror and uncertainty must be overwhelming.

He’s blocking my narrow path to the door, and I’m wondering if he’ll actually get physical.

I say, “Look, Chief, you’re assuming that everything Arch Swanger says is the truth, and that could be a bad assumption.”

“Do you know where my daughter is?”

“I know what Arch Swanger said, but I do not know if he’s telling the truth. Frankly, I doubt it.”

“Then tell us anyway. We’ll go look.”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t repeat what he said to me in confidence, you know that.”

Kemp closes his eyes. I glance down and notice both his fists are clenched. Slowly, he relaxes them. I look at Reardon, who’s glaring at me. I look back at Kemp, whose red eyes are open slightly. He’s nodding, as if he’s saying, “Okay, Rudd, we’ll play it your way. But we’ll get you.”

Frankly, I’m on their side. I would love to spill my guts, help get the girl properly laid to rest, help track down Swanger, and watch with satisfaction as a jury nails him for murder. Sadly, though, that is not an option. I take a small step toward the door and say, “I’d like to leave now.”

Kemp doesn’t move, and somehow I manage to brush by him without provoking a fight. As I grab the doorknob I can almost feel a knife in my back, but I survive and make it to the hallway. I’ve never left Central in a bigger hurry.

14.

It’s the third Friday of the month, time to see Judith for our mandatory two-drink meeting. Neither of us wants it, but neither is willing to surrender and quit. To do so would be to confess a weakness, something we both simply cannot do, not to each other anyway. We tell ourselves that we need to keep the lines of communication open because we share a son. That poor child.

This is our first drink since she dragged me into court in her futile effort to terminate all visitation rights. So, with that little brawl still hanging in the air, there will be an even thicker layer of tension. Frankly, I was hoping she would cancel. I could easily be provoked into a tongue-lashing.