Time of Death. Alex Barclay
out in prisons, to jog inmates’ memories while they’re playing poker or blackjack or whatever. The hope is that they might have heard someone talk about having committed one of the crimes. Then they can call Crimestoppers with the tip. All kinds of crazy people call Crimestoppers. For all kinds of reasons. A lot of times, the cops just have to follow up as a formality—’
‘You weren’t here. You haven’t seen what they’ve done. They are convinced Beau was involved. It’s like tearing his room apart was a formality.’
‘God, Mom. Beau didn’t do anything. We all know that.’
‘But Beau is dead, Ren. He’s dead. And I’m afraid they’re going to blame this on him for closure—’
‘They cannot do that,’ said Ren. ‘They need proof. And they will never find proof. They cannot find something that does not exist.’
‘I’m sick, Ren. I am physically sick. People are walking by … standing across the street. And what about the Parrys? What are they going to think? After all this time? Your father, your brothers and I were out looking for Louis—’
‘Mom, calm down or you will have a heart attack. The Parrys are good people—’
‘The Parrys are desperate people. These cards – whatever they are – are their last hope. Maybe a part of them wants to give up. Wants to take whatever means they can sleep at night.’
‘The Parrys are good people,’ Ren said again. ‘They really are. They wouldn’t—’
Her mother dropped the phone. Ren could hear it bounce across the floor.
‘Mom? Are you OK?’
‘I’m sorry. My hands are shaking. I’m a wreck …’
‘Where is Dad?’
‘At the gym.’
Ren rolled her eyes. ‘Did you call him?’
‘I got voicemail.’
‘Call someone, Mom, and get them to come over.’
Her mother let out a breath. ‘Is there anything you can do?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ren. ‘You bet there is.’
Ren put the phone down. She could not move. She had reached a sub-setting of numb. For now, her mind was incapable of getting any further than Beau.
Ren breathed deeply until she was calm enough to speak.
‘Robbie, could you do me a favor, please?’ she said. ‘Would you mind asking Summit County to send over the files on that Gavino Val Pando bar raid?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
She Googled the number for the Catskill Police Department and punched it into her phone as she got up from her desk. The receptionist came on the line as Ren was shutting herself into the conference room.
‘My name is Ren Bryce. I’m with the FBI. Could I speak with the lieutenant please?’ Ren sat down in the far corner of the room.
‘Putting you through to Lieutenant Stroud …’
Whoa. ‘I’m sorry – which Stroud?’ said Ren.
‘That would be Lieutenant Daryl Stroud, ma’am.’
Ren hung up.
Daryl Stroud. This cannot be the person I have to deal with here. Daryl Stroud had witnessed Ren’s first full-blown manic meltdown. He was the low she rode out of Catskill on. Ren had been nineteen years old when she raised her hand to Daryl Stroud – her boyfriend of one year – to slap him across the face for a reason she could never recall. He would have taken the slap, but he grabbed her wrist when he saw that Ren had turned the stone in her ring into her palm to increase the impact. As she stormed off, she had turned to throw a can of beer at him. It landed at his feet, burst open and sprayed all over him. Ren had hitched her way home and as the hours passed and the alcohol started to drain from her system, she began calling Daryl’s house, weeping, ready to beg forgiveness. It was his mother who answered, so Ren had hung up. She then walked to his house and threw stones at his window. He wasn’t home. When he did show up an hour later, Ren roared at him that he had cheated on her, which he hadn’t, and told him he was an asshole. His parents came out and his dad took Ren on a wordless journey home. Daryl and Ren got back together the next day after tears and vows of eternal love. A month later, Ren had kissed his best friend, the biggest asshole in town … while Daryl Stroud remained the sweetest, most genuine, loyal and honest guy you could meet.
She picked up the phone and dialed again.
The receptionist had already given Ren’s name and patched her straight through.
‘Daryl, hi, it’s Ren Bryce again. I’m sorry we got disconnected.’
‘Hello, Ren. How are you doing?’
‘Shell-shocked. What’s going on, Daryl? You know Beau had nothing to do with this.’
Silence. ‘I’d love to agree with you,’ said Daryl.
‘But I’m at a loss as to how you don’t.’
‘Because of the tip-off,’ said Daryl. ‘Because of the fact that Beau knew and was trusted by Louis—’
‘OK, let’s scratch that last one for a start: the whole town knew Louis. And he was a trusting type of kid. Where did the tip come from? What was it exactly?’
‘Oh, come on, Ren. You’re an agent with the FBI. You wouldn’t tell a suspect’s family member what you got.’
‘That depends. If it were you, Daryl … Come on, this is nuts. Please take a look at this tip and the nature of it, where it came from and what its reliability is. Please, Daryl.’
Stroud’s tone changed. ‘That’s not just an FBI way of handling things, you know. Here in the sticks we think that might be a good idea too. That is, when we’re not sitting on our hoods, flirting with old ladies outside the diner.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by that,’ said Ren. ‘Here’s how it is – I’m not worried, because I know Beau is innocent. But I am desperately worried that it will be pinned on him anyway. It seems so sudden and random.’
‘I won’t treat this any differently than any other investigation.’
That is not reassuring. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to. Just please remember Beau and who he was.’
‘I really am so sorry for your loss.’
‘You know something?’ said Ren. ‘It’s been twenty-four years and those words are still welcome. They still help. So, thanks. But please, please do everything you can. Beau’s death was devastating enough. The pain is so … I …’
She stopped.
‘Ren? Are you still there? Ren?’ Daryl hesitated. ‘Please don’t cry.’
There was another pause before Ren answered. ‘Thank you. I gotta go.’
Sinking into the chair, she stared at the ceiling, holding her head back to keep the tears from falling. It was a few minutes before she was ready to dial Information for a number she knew she shouldn’t call, but would regret if she didn’t.
She felt sick as she listened to the pulsing dial tone.
‘Is this Ricky Parry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ricky, it’s Ren Bryce.
Silence. ‘Oh. Hi. I … should we be talking?’
‘I really think we should,’ said Ren. ‘What is going on, Ricky?’