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“Mr. Buckner. I need a statement,” Rudd says with her hands on her hips and an impatient look on her face. Scolding mother look.
“What?” I say.
“I’ll need a statement about your interaction with Mr. Boothe. A written statement. And I’ll need it now.”
She hands me an official Saint Ansgar PD Witness Statement form. I write, “Sexual predator did the right thing,” fold it in half and put it under her windshield wiper.
I leave. Confirming his alibi with the supposed rape victim can wait now.
58
Drop off Jeremiah’s car.
Then: a bar. Tie one on out of frustration. Maybe start a fight. Then: home. Then: sleep it off. The next day: Rail to Three Mile High. Cab to a rental car place. Straight to James Dobbin’s residence. I park, take a photo of Delilah and walk up and down the street.
The entire neighborhood is bitterly cold and drained of color. Dirty snow and shades of pale gray dominate the street. The cold grips at my ankles where my pant cuffs are wet. It sneaks fingers down my collar.
First two houses, no answer. Next seven, answer the door but not the questions. I lose count after that.
Never seen her.
Didn’t know the guy to begin with.
Can’t help you.
Can’t help you but I’ll keep an eye out.
Never seen nobody.
That guy over there is dead. Shot in his own house. Could have been me.
He’s dead now?
I thought he was gay. Always has dudes over. Hmmm...the universe is a strange place.
It goes on and on. I pass Dobbin’s house on both sides and head to my car. Hour and a half. Canvassing goes like that; either people answer the door at every house with something to say or the neighborhood locks down like an airport when somebody whispers bomb.
Beside my car I trod up into the lawn. I light a smoke and just stare at the home, vacant now. Not a FOR RENT sign posted in front of it. The police tape has been taken down. Now, just...a ghost haven.
A neighbor pulls in to the next house north. The first house I knocked on with no answer. Looks more respectable than who I would think should reside in this place. I go over.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Middle-aged, glasses, bald down to his temples, average trench coat, briefcase, designer knock-off dress shoes, suit that cost him a few hundred, placid face.
“Yes?” He sounds stiff. Like he’s readying himself for me to punch him. What the hell kind of neighborhood is this?
“I am looking for a missing young woman. Her boyfriend used to live next door. I was wondering if I could show you her picture? Maybe ask you about them?”
He eyeballs me just enough. A tell: he distrusts any kind of law enforcement look. He doesn’t answer.
“She dated the man next door,” I say. “Her mom wants to speak with her. Like I said, she’s gone missing.”
“Oh,” he says. “Oh...” Eases up just a notch. He looks at the picture as it’s in my hand. I offer it and he takes it gently.
Studies.
“She drives a red, four-door—”
