Somewhere Over Lorain Road, page 6
“No. But why are you bringing it up? Do you know something?”
“No.” He didn’t want to repeat his father’s words, so he lied. “David Smith lived down the street, and I always wondered about him. He seemed sort of strange.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. When I started out, it was all about the oddballs, the eccentrics. You know what I learned over the years? It’s the people you least suspect. The ones who nobody would ever dream would commit a crime. Now, that would describe your old man, if I remember correctly. Solid citizen, not a blemish to his name. But nobody thought he did it.”
“Then why did you storm our house like the Gestapo? I know it wasn’t your fault. You were only a rookie. But the way the police department handled it haunted my family for years.”
“No, it wasn’t my fault, but that was a deliberate strategy to let the community know we were working hard on the case. Your dad would understand if you explained that to him. Plus, we found one of those little flute things your dad made for the local kids at one of the crime scenes.”
“They were recorders. My dad made those for most of the kids in the neighborhood.”
“It was still evidence. Your dad would understand.”
“I doubt it. My family lost most of our friends. People stopped talking to us. We had to sit in the back pew at church so we didn’t have to watch people get up and leave us sitting by ourselves. I guess if you’d caught the guy, it would have been okay, but you never did. It haunts my dad to this day, on his deathbed.”
Ladmore looked sympathetic. “Look, I understand it must have been hard on him and your family. If it makes your dad feel better, tell him I don’t think Tedesco really thought he was guilty either, but we had to do something. Everyone was breathing down our necks. The mayor, the city council, the sheriff’s department.”
“The county sheriff? I thought they can’t get involved unless local police want their help.”
“They can’t. But the sheriff was concerned about a child killer on the loose and put a lot of pressure on the safety director. They wanted to take over after the first one, Eddie Tedesco.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Hoo boy, that was about as popular with the officers as a rectal exam. They backed Tedesco one hundred percent when he said he didn’t want a bunch of downtown cops around.”
“Why not just accept the help? You obviously needed it.”
“It never works that way. They say they want to help, and before you know it, you’re filling out a form to take a shit. They just get in the way. Nobody wanted them around. Tedesco was just doing what all the cops wanted.”
“And then you never caught the killer.”
Ladmore threw up his hand. “Well, yeah, but nobody could have caught him. It’s not that he was a master criminal or anything. He just got lucky. We had to follow every lead because there was so little evidence. That’s why that flute thing took us to your home, to your dad. We did that to several other guys, too.”
“I remember. Two of them in our neighborhood. One nearly across the street from us, a family by the name of Hartner. The father must have weighed all of ninety pounds. He was so thin, he’d fly away in a stiff breeze. He obviously wasn’t guilty, but the family moved all the same. The other one was a guy named Hank. He lived on Cook Road and he was an astronomer. He had to move, too. Do you remember him?”
“Yeah, I remember the astronomer. I remember him well because I thought he was our best suspect. I followed him for years. He’s still alive. In Lakewood.” He blew out a breath of disgust at mentioning the city with Cleveland’s most concentrated population of gay men. “Hank Swoboda was his name. Never could nail him, but that guy was as queer as a three-dollar bill.”
Hank Swoboda, Lakewood. Finally, something useful.
Ladmore went on. “I remember when we brought him in, some little boy came to the door looking for him. Don’t tell me that’s not suspicious.”
“Holy shit,” Don said. “That was me!”
Ladmore’s mouth dropped. “That was you?” When Don nodded, he asked, “What the hell were you doing there?”
“I had a great big crush on him. He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. I didn’t know anything about sex or being gay. He never touched me or anything, and he even told me I had to leave him alone because he could get in trouble just for being around me. I didn’t understand at the time. All I knew was that I was in love, and I’ve never forgotten him. One of the nicest and most honorable men I’ve ever known. Thanks for your time, Chief.”
Don elicited as much shock as he’d hoped.
Chapter Eight
1975
Just days after the teenagers found Danny Miller’s body, fists pounded the Eskers’ front door as they sat down to dinner. Everyone jumped.
Dad leaped to his feet and headed to living room. Everyone hurried behind. Don flushed with fear when he turned the corner and saw a blazing river of flashing red, white, and blue lights in the driveway.
“Whoa!” Tim and Rich said in unison, stretching the word.
The door rattled and shook again just as Dad reached it. He cast a worried look at the driveway. “Hang on,” he called, sliding aside the bolt and unlocking the knob.
Chief Tedesco, surrounded by stern officers, held his cap crisply under his arm and said, “Robert Esker.”
Coming from a neighbor, the formal use of his full name startled the whole family.
“Yes, Chief, of course it’s me.”
“Come with us down to the station. We have some questions for you.”
The chief pivoted and walked off, and his shadow passed in front of the surreal backdrop of emergency lights.
Dad froze until one of the officers held out his hand. “Come with us, sir.”
“Let me get my wallet and keys,” he said in a papery voice.
“No need for that, sir. Let’s go.”
Mom stepped forward. “Rob?”
He looked back, his face blank. “It’s all right. Finish your dinner. Whatever it is, it won’t take long.”
He stepped out and cops escorted him across the porch. Just as they passed, a line of officers approached and entered the house. The lead cop handed Mom a sheet of paper.
“This is a search warrant. It gives us permission to search this residence for certain items.”
Rattled, Mom scanned it, but couldn’t focus on the words. “What are you looking for?”
“It’s all spelled out there, ma’am.” He called over his shoulder, “Officers, you have your orders.”
As cops broke off in every direction, Mom said, “But just tell me what you’re looking for and I can tell you right where it is.”
“Is there any dirty laundry around?”
“No. Today was laundry day. The only soiled clothes in this house are the ones we’re wearing.”
“Then it’s best that you and your children stay out of the way.”
More officers poured inside, going about their work with grim determination. Don and his family stood rooted to their spots, mouths agape. Soon, loud hammering came from the basement, and they looked down.
Mom put a hand to her mouth. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she said, as if expecting one of her sons to explain. As more officers came inside, she pleaded, “Won’t someone tell me what’s going on?” The cops ignored her.
Tim took her elbow and guided her to the sofa. Soon, Rich, Randy, and Don took seats too, watching this amazing, unbelievable spectacle in silence.
From around the house, things clinked, furniture scraped, drawers and doors opened and closed. Bumps, screeches, scratching, and hollow sounds echoing in the walls and floors filled the house.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Mom said.
Don understood. Or at least he understood enough to know this was related to Eddie Tedesco’s disappearance and the other boys’ murder. It had to be. But how?
From the basement came a tremendous screeching and tearing noise so shocking they looked down with astonishment.
“Dad’s sanding table,” Rich said and the rest nodded mutely. From the sound of it, the police had ripped the table from its bolts instead of screwing it free. Again, Mom put a hand to her mouth.
Don closed his eyes, and the flashing lights from the driveway etched patterns in his eyelids. Red, white, and blue. The colors of Old Glory, of patriotism, washed across his field of vision, shot through with pencil-sketch patterns that vanished and reassembled as he moved his eyeballs.
Panic suddenly gripped Don. He thought of the stories he wrote and stashed in his private drawer of the desk he shared with Randy. He never showed them to anyone, certain they were stupid and worthy of mockery. Would the cops find them?
At remembering another secret, Don shot a look at Tim, who kept a stash of Playboy magazines hidden somewhere in his room. Don had never seen them, but Randy had, and he would describe the pictures with awed reverence. Randy said their parents would go apeshit if they ever found out about the dirty magazines, so he warned Don to keep his mouth shut.
Down the hall, a group of cops burst into laughter. Tim looked terrified, but Don worried that the cops just read the first lines of The Real Secret of Saturn.
Mom rose and headed for the hallway.
“Mom,” Tim said, worried.
“This is my house,” she said with terrified bravado.
Tim jumped up and followed, and in the living room they listened to the conversation down the hallway.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to return to the living room. You too, son.”
“This is my house,” she repeated. “I need to get something from my own purse in my own bedroom.”
“Ma’am, I don’t want to have to warn you again.”
Mom didn’t respond, but the man raised his voice. “Ma’am.” Don pictured her brushing past.
After a beat, in a voice quavering with righteousness, Mom said, “There. I got it. Are you going to arrest me now?”
“Please wait in the living room.”
She returned with a red face, Tim scuttling behind. She sat, holding a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. She extracted a cigarette and lighted it. The flame danced in her shaking hand.
Seeing their mother smoke shocked them almost as much as the police storming through the door. The faint wisps of cigarette smoke lingering in and around the house when Don returned from school made sense now.
She blew out a gray funnel and without looking at any of them said, “Your father and I agreed to never smoke when you boys are around. We didn’t want you getting any ideas from us that it was okay, because it’s not. So let’s just pretend it isn’t happening.” She flicked the cigarette on the rim of an ashtray that she always kept clean, except if smoking guests visited.
Don and his brothers shared stunned looks.
The cops ransacked the house for another thirty minutes or so, ignoring their questions. Shouted instructions and grunts came from the basement stairs past the kitchen. By the sound of it, they were maneuvering the sanding table up the stairs. Dad used it to saw, shape, and glue balsa wood recorders for every kid who wanted one.
A cop emerged from the hallway carrying a bulging bag and left through the front door. The others followed, empty-handed.
The lead cop brought up the rear and approached Mom, who stubbed out her latest cigarette and stood to face him. Don and his brothers rose too.
“Well, ma’am, looks like we’re done here. Sorry for the disturbance.”
“What was in that bag?”
“Nothing outside of the warrant.” He gestured to the table where she’d placed the paper, next to the ashtray now filled with cigarette butts.
He left and his mother gave the door a shove, just enough for it to slam, immensely displeased but not rude. She pushed the deadbolt into place and twisted the lock, putting her hands flat against the wood, her face down. She shook.
The police cruisers, their lights still blazing, backed down the driveway and drove off. A large unmarked van brought up the rear.
The emergency lights faded to faint pulses that dissolved into the hazy wash of streetlights, revealing a ghostly army of shadowy heads and shoulders. They faced the Esker house, broke apart slowly, and moved off. Don’s brothers ran from room to room, exploding with outrage at the mess, but Don watched until the last of the shadows left. It seemed to take hours.
Chapter Nine
Don recalled a story about a man in the old Soviet Union who went to a Russian airport to pick up his daughter for a visit. The plane never arrived and nobody would talk to him. Her faraway phone rang and rang, unanswered. He returned to the airport and grew increasingly frantic and asked anyone with a uniform where his daughter was. After several days, someone pulled him aside and angrily whispered, “Comrade, the plane crashed!”
The story haunted Don, but not because of the father chewed to pieces by the supercilious Soviet refusal to admit that the country wasn’t perfect after all, a worker’s paradise where planes never went down. No, Don always wondered about the other families, the people who waited patiently at the airport before shuffling home silently, accepting the absence of a husband, wife or child, their fear eclipsing their loss. In such dank silences, paranoia grows like mold.
Don knew those silences. His family knew them. Maybe, he thought, it’s time to act like that father and be a nuisance until you get an answer.
Despite a looming deadline for a marketing memo due on Monday morning, Don felt an overwhelming need to visit telescope man, Hank Swoboda, and he left late Saturday morning for the drive across town. It filled him with conflicting emotions that mixed like volatile chemicals, setting off bursts of excitement and fear. Since he could only find Hank’s address but no phone number, he would have to arrive unannounced.
Hank lived close to Don’s oldest brother, Tim, and his wife, Sally, and Don decided to drop in for a quick visit.
Don pulled into the short driveway of Tim’s house. The abundance of trees hosting feathery flocks gave this area the nickname Birdtown. In high school, Don remembered kids using the name derisively, crinkling their noses at images of doddering grandparents living in two-story houses with chunky porches in small yards. Detached garages sat alongside, with hinged, padlocked doors that sagged to the center. The grandparents had died off, and new generations moved in, painting the houses in tasteful color palettes and sprucing up the yards.
He’d called ahead. Tim was working in the garage, assembling a hot pink girl’s bicycle, both doors ajar in welcome. Wrench in hand, he smiled as Don approached.
“Hey,” they grunted, and gave each other a brother’s handshake, clasping hands and leaning in for a hug and a few pats on the back, wrench and all.
“You look good,” Tim said. His hair dragged across his scalp like metallic wire. He looked bloated, as if inflated a bit too much by the bicycle pump on the floor. “You’re still going to the gym?”
“Yeah. Where’s Sally?”
“Inside. You should go in and say hi before you leave.”
It was an odd thing to say. “We should all hang out for a few minutes.”
Tim shook his head. “She’s pissed off at me. We’ve been babysitting Jeanette and some of her little friends for the last few Friday nights, and I thought they’d enjoy watching Grease.”
“What was the problem with Grease?”
“The girls made up dances for all the songs, and they put on a show for us last night.” He blew out a defeated breath. “Did you know that Greased Lightning was a ‘pussy wagon’ that would make the chicks cream and the boys were gonna get a lot of tit? I didn’t remember any of those lyrics. Jeannette’s friend sang the pussy line while pretending to pet a cat. After they were done, Sally pulled me into the kitchen and sliced my nuts off.”
Don snickered. His brother gave a tight smile in response, and they soon dissolved into the scarlet-faced, huffing, snot-snorting of overwhelming but contained laughter.
Don knew they weren’t an unhappy couple, but they weren’t happy either.
Red-hot passion sometimes leads to the deep, affectionate bonds of their parents, or it burns itself into the white-hot rage of Randy and Renee. For Tim and Sally, an unexpected pregnancy when they were both young Marines made for a perfectly amicable marriage in the beginning. It evolved to a truce monitored with precision and vigilance. As long as they both understood they didn’t have to approve of each other just because they were married, and that hatred was acceptable now and then, dishes remained unbroken and cutting words unsaid. Don thought it was a sensible way to handle their situation.
“So how’s the old man?”
“He’s out of it. That fentanyl knocks him on his ass, and he’s still just on the lowest dose. I don’t know what he’s going to be like when we have to go to a stronger patch.”
“He’s not in pain?”
“He’s not in this dimension of existence.”
“Well, good. He deserves to get high. He barely even drank when most men in his situation would have blotted out the world in booze.”
Don wanted to raise the topic with Tim, and this seemed like as good an opening as any.
“I’m looking into it, Tim. The murders. I’ve already discovered some things we never knew.”
Tim shifted, gesturing with the wrench. “Jesus, Donnie, just let it be. What good will it do to open up that can of worms?”
“Dad wants his name cleared before he dies. It’ll be like fentanyl on steroids if I can do it.”
“You can’t. It was too long ago. Whoever did it is probably dead.”
“A guilty man in a grave is still guilty.”
Tim looked down. “What did you find out?”
“The two boys they found? They weren’t raped.”
Tim gave him an uncomprehending look. Don knew all the hurled, shouted, and whispered accusations about their father’s sexual perversions were echoing in his memory. The injustice tipped the scales of unfairness to a cosmic degree.
“Fucking shit,” Tim whispered in disbelief. “All this time we thought it was some sex maniac.”
