Somewhere Over Lorain Road, page 7
“It probably was a sex maniac,” Don said. “I read about it online. Not all serial killers rape their victims. Sometimes, it’s the murder itself that provides the thrill.”
“Yeah, but even still…”
“Tim, did you ever hear Dad mention a man by the name of David Smith?”
“That’s a pretty common name. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Dad was high as a kite when he mentioned him. He said something like ‘me and David Smith.’ I have no idea what he was talking about.”
“Did you ask Mom?”
“Not yet. You know how Mom is. You have to be careful with the topic. She even has me take food over to old man Tedesco and Billy.”
“She’s had me do that a few times, too. I thought about taking a piss in those plastic containers. I’m pretty sure Randy did a few times.” He looked Don in the eyes. “How was it for you to see Billy again? I know you guys were tight Before.”
“It’s weird seeing him. He acts like he wants to be my friend again. I feel sorry for him, cooped up with that asshole all day long, but I can barely bring myself to look at him.”
“He was a major-league fuckup for a really long time,” Tim said, then went on about how the accident changed him and shouldn’t Don focus on the present and accept Billy as he exists. Don barely heard a word of it, remembering that night in the field behind the recreation center.
Don realized that Tim had stopped speaking and was waiting for a response.
“He attacked me,” Don said. “Remember that time when I was in high school and I said I fell down the basement stairs in that house they were building up the street? It was Billy. He called me a faggot and a queer the whole time. A bunch of his trashy, burnout friends were there, cheering him on. It happened behind the recreation center, and I had to walk home for something like what, three miles? I’d get so dizzy I had to sit down, and I’m pretty sure I passed out a few times.”
Tim put a hand on his shoulder. “Holy fuck. Why would he do that?”
“We played around a little when we were boys, kissing and things like that.”
“You mean Billy is gay?”
Don shook his head. “No. It was just playing around, like boys do. Billy must have remembered and decided beating me up was the only way to get rid of those memories.”
“Why didn’t you say anything at the time?”
“I thought everyone would know that I was gay if I said he attacked me for that. And don’t pretend a lot of people wouldn’t have thought he did the right thing back then.”
Tim opened his mouth, objection on his face, but stopped. “You’re right. We were all pretty ignorant. Including me.”
“Including you,” Don agreed, without accusation.
Tim smiled sadly. “What about you? Do you have a man in your life? What happened to that guy who sold that fancy jewelry?”
“Andrew was a cocaine addict. He was on a pretty serious downward spiral, and I didn’t feel like being there for the crash.”
“Oh, fuck no. No way. You did the only thing you could by getting out.”
Suddenly, Sally called out, “Don? I thought that was you!” She approached, smiling broadly, and they shared an affectionate hug. When she’d married Tim, she’d boasted long, lithe legs and a stunning head of raven locks. Her transformation was gradual, but relentless. Her face looked twice the size, and gray powdered her gorgeous hair. Her waist was well-rounded, and if she wore a babushka and a house frock while carrying a sack of groceries, she’d look every bit like one of the old grandmothers of Birdtown.
They’d always got along, and Tim never seemed to resent that his wife was nicer to Don than to him.
They chatted for a bit, settled on dinner tomorrow night with Randy at their parents’ house, and as Don left he heard Sally say, “Wow, you’re farther along on that bike than I thought you’d be.” Tim happily agreed. And so their lives flowed, “pussy wagon” now forgiven with a civil and sparse compliment. There are worse ways to live, he thought.
Hank Swoboda lived just a mile or so away.
The GPS led him to a fancy high-rise condo rising over the shoreline of Lake Erie, one of the better-known buildings in this part of town for many decades. Balconies with black iron railings curved along the upscale terra-cotta exterior. At the entrance, Don looked up Hank’s name on the electronic door pad and pressed the call button.
At the first ring, he broke into a sweat. On the third ring, a friendly man answered and when Don asked for Hank he said, “He’s not home right now. Who’s this?”
“My name is Don. I’m an old friend. I live in San Francisco.”
“Hank didn’t say he was expecting anyone.”
“I just happened to be in town.”
The man hesitated before saying, “Come on up. Twelfth floor.”
The interior looked fresh and modern, with crisp gray walls and carpeting. He found the unit and knocked.
A smiling older man opened the door, dressed in a buttoned-up polo shirt and tan slacks, his skin and hair paper-white. He held out his hand. “I’m Curtis. Hank’s husband of thirty-five years, although it’s only been legal for the past four.” He gave Don a warm, welcoming smile as he stepped inside.
“You say you’re from San Francisco? Did you meet Hank at the NASA conventions?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I didn’t even know he ever came to San Francisco.”
“Oh.” Curtis looked confused, but politely asked if he’d like some tea. Don declined.
Curtis led him to a tastefully decorated front room with a white baby grand piano, plush chairs, and finely crafted wooden tables. A massive bookcase filled a wall, and doors trimmed in mother-of-pearl covered the central television console. Expensive art hung on the walls and balanced on tables.
As they sat, Curtis asked, “If you didn’t meet in San Francisco, how do you know Hank?”
“From North Homestead.”
Curtis changed instantaneously. His friendliness melted away, replaced by uncertainty. “You’re from North Homestead?”
“I grew up there. I moved when I was eighteen.”
Curtis shifted and looked at his watch. “Hank should be home any minute, but I have to tell you he’s very bitter about what happened to him in North Homestead. He’s never been back. Never. He even refuses to drive through it, so if we have to go somewhere in that part of town, we take routes to avoid it completely.”
“I don’t blame him. Believe me, I understand more than you know.”
Curtis squinted. “Are you here about those boys?”
“Yes. I remember Hank from when he lived on Cook Road.”
Curtis sighed deeply and stood, shaking his head. “You need to leave. You seem like a nice man, but Hank has never gotten over what the police did to him back then. You’ll just upset him, and he has a heart condition as it is. I’m sorry to be rude, but I shouldn’t have let you inside.”
Don remained seated. “I know Hank is innocent. He was my friend. I’m gay, and he was the first grown man I had a crush on. I need him to know I’ve never forgotten him.”
“Oh, no!” Curtis cried. His face filled with disbelief and he raised his hands to his head. “You’re that boy? The boy who was helping him track sunspots?”
Don felt a long-forgotten thrill. Hank remembered him. Hank told his husband of thirty-five years about him. The handsome telescope man thought of him over the years.
Curtis gestured for him to get up. “You need to leave before he gets home. I’m serious, Don, this could kill him. Do you know that the police accused him of molesting you?”
“He never touched me! I never made any accusation like that!”
“Yes, I know, but they accused him all the same. You have no idea what trouble that caused for him. Years of it. You have to go.” Curtis became frantic, almost angry. “Now!”
The door opened. Curtis snapped up, his eyes filled with fear. “Stay here!” he whispered angrily and disappeared down the short hall to the entrance.
Don heard the men talking, with Curtis angrily explaining that he’d been sandbagged and was sorry for letting Don inside. Don couldn’t hear Hank’s replies beyond a low rumble, but Curtis asked, “Do you want to wait in the bedroom until he’s gone?”
For the first time, he clearly heard Hank’s response. “No.”
Don stood. Hank walked into the room.
Don would have recognized him anywhere. He had the same handsome features, though softened, and the same masculine cut of face and form. He even wore the same mustache, now solid gray. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt.
“I knew you’d grow up to be a handsome guy,” Hank said, with a trace of a smile. “With some kids you can just tell, even when they’re that young.”
“You knew I was gay, before even I was really aware of it.”
“I remember your name is Don, but I could never remember your last name.”
“Esker. Don Esker.”
Hank walked over slowly and shook Don’s hand.
“Sit down, Don,” he said. Curtis, who looked relieved at the calm, came up behind. “Tell me why you came.”
Don talked while Curtis served tea. “Believe me,” Don said, finishing his story, “After what my family went through, I appreciate the disruption to your life at being falsely accused. I understand it better than most.”
Hank nodded. “But your parents still live in North Homestead? They never considered moving?”
“No. My dad said nobody was going to drive him out of his home when he was innocent. Truth be told, I think my mom wouldn’t have minded leaving, and I know me and my brothers wanted desperately to leave, but my dad wouldn’t budge.”
“It was different for me. I had no roots there. I rented that house because it was close to the research center, and I’d only be living there for a year. The neighbors, they were so nosy. They were obviously suspicious of a thirty-year-old man with no female companions. Two times, a neighboring wife came over to make small talk, and when I looked away for a moment, they were stark naked.” He snorted out a laugh. “They were embarrassed and ashamed when I turned them down. I think they started the rumors about me, but they would have started anyway. And I’m certain one of them tipped off the police that they had a genuine faggot living on Cook Road. After the police brought me in for questioning, I moved out within a day. I paid movers to pack everything up. I never set foot in North Homestead again.”
“Did you know a man named David Smith?”
Hank looked bemused. “I’ve probably known several in my life.”
“But does that name mean anything to you in connection to the murders?”
Hank shook his head. “I wish I knew anything about those murders. They fucked with my head for a long time. But I’m sorry about what happened to your family, too.” His eyes filled with compassion and curiosity. “Explain to me again why they suspected your dad.”
“My dad made recorders for all the kids in the neighborhood. They were just these little balsa wood things. He made them by the thousands over the years. He’d give them to all the classes graduating into middle school. He made them for Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts and church groups. It was just a thing he did. A hobby. The police found one of his recorders by the body of that second boy, Danny Miller.” Don scoffed with derision. “They found him behind McDonald’s, with wrappers and other trash around. They could have just as easily accused anyone who worked or ate there. It would have made as much sense.”
“They accused someone else in the neighborhood, too, didn’t they?”
Don nodded. “After the third boy, Jeffrey Talent, was found, the police replayed the whole circus at a house across the street from us. The Hartners. They paraded Mr. Hartner out, made a big show of searching that old farmhouse. He was about as threatening as a starving kitten. They were born-again Christians, but that was before born-again Christians became so angry. He was a very sweet man, as I recall.”
“You can never tell about people. Ted Bundy volunteered as a suicide counselor and people say he actually saved some lives.”
“Yeah, I know, but Mr. Hartner didn’t kill those boys.”
Hank stood and walked to the bookcase where he retrieved a cardboard box. He set it on the table and removed stapled stacks of paper, notebooks, a set of jangly keys, and a plain, yellowing white envelope stuffed with what looked like old Polaroid instant photos.
“Here it is,” Hank said, leaning back with a spiral-bound report with a plastic cover. “About ten years ago, I decided to see if all of that talk about criminal profiling could help. I know a psychologist who’s done a lot of work with the forensic psychologists from the FBI out of Quantico, Virginia. They agreed to look at the case of those three boys. It was nothing official. I paid for it myself. This is the report they came up with. I mailed a copy to the North Homestead Police Department and, of course, never heard a word in reply.”
“What does it say?”
Hank shrugged. “A lot of it is common sense. They didn’t have access to the police report. It was a private investigation, so Chief Ladmore refused to open the files. They said the killer was someone from the general neighborhood, someone the boys knew. Those last two boys especially felt safe with whoever killed them, because everyone already knew a killer was at work. They recognized and trusted him, but kids trust anyone older than they are if they’re used to seeing them around. They narrowed it down to two profiles. The first was an adult, probably from school, since they all went to Hollyhock Elementary. The killings stopped when the man was arrested for something else, or he died. But they thought the second profile was more likely.”
“What was it?”
“A teenager. Someone those kids saw around the neighborhood. A car wasn’t necessary, because both kids could have been carried through the woods from their homes. They found the one kid behind McDonald’s and the other in the woods next to that miniature golf course, the Golden Tee, which was also a popular ice cream stand. A teenager would know both places pretty well. They think he moved away and started killing kids somewhere else. They don’t think he went to a university, so it’s also possible that he joined the military.”
Don felt a beat of surprise and fear.
Chapter Ten
1975
Three nights after the police stormed their house, the Eskers had just sat down to dinner when they heard a polite rap on the front door.
His brothers groaned, but Don thought the knock sounded cordial.
They stood and followed their father, who shouted, “Who is it?” The driveway was dark and empty.
“It’s Elmer Hartner, and I’m here with my wife, Evie, and our children. We’ve come to bring you a present.”
Dad opened the door. The parents smiled warmly, the three girls looked bored, and the wriggling, retarded Johnny, who was about four or five years old, thrashed in his mother’s arm delirious with joy. His head was huge, his body thin, and he had no coordination. His eyes fixed on Don, the youngest, and he grinned madly and moaned happily, flailing his arms. His mother responded to his movements with the ease of an expert, her free hand darting about, keeping him balanced.
Mr. Hartner held a pie, swirled blue and yellow. “This here is Evie’s famous blueberry custard pie. It won a second-place ribbon in the pie contest at the Ashtabula County fair three years running, and that’s a mighty big pie contest, let me tell you. At least two hundred entries.”
“Oh, Elmer,” Evie objected with bashful delight. “There’s no more than fifty entries and you know it.”
Don’s mother stuttered before getting out, “We were just sitting down to eat.”
Mr. Hartner stepped into the room and his family shuffled in behind. “Pay us no mind, then. You finish your meal, and we’ll sit here quietly. Our oldest daughter Agnes here has some stories to share with us from today’s Bible study. So after you’re finished with your meal, we can all have a little slice of blueberry custard heaven!”
“Oh, no,” Mom said. “I made a huge roast. There’s plenty for everyone. Come on in and join us. I absolutely insist.”
Everyone knew Mom made huge roasts for the leftovers, but nobody said anything. She rushed about, setting new places, and Don and his brothers retrieved chairs from around the house to squeeze in at the table. It was crowded, but there was just enough room, and in short order everything was ready. Don’s mother put the pie in a place of honor at the center of the table. His family picked up their knives and forks.
Mr. Hartner said, “We appreciate the hospitality and your delicious food, Mrs. Esker, but it’s our family custom to thank the Lord before we partake of his bounty.”
She blushed as they put down their utensils. “Of course. Go right ahead.”
The Hartners closed their eyes and raised their hands while Mr. Hartner poured out a torrent of gratitude to Jesus that struck Don as ridiculously overblown. He shared a look and a silent snicker with his normally restrained brother Rich that earned him a whap on the shoulder from his dad. Through it all, Johnny wriggled and moaned happily.
“And, Lord, we ask you to remember your children, the Esker family of North Homestead, Ohio, who have been cruelly subjected to slanders, and we ask that you send them your peace at this time of trial and tribulation. Help them to know your love and the love of those who reject such wicked falsehoods and evil suspicions.” The room went still. Mr. Hartner went on about fields of vindication and walking with the Lord, and ended with, “Amen.”
The Hartners shouted their amens. The Eskers muttered.
After all of that, dinner might have been awkward if not for Mr. Hartner’s relentlessly cheerful monologue on the glories of heaven and the peace of Christ. “I know you all are Catholic,” he said at one point, “but I don’t believe for one moment that the pope is a messenger of the devil, and the church the whore of Babylon. No, sirree. All the Catholics I’ve ever known have been good people, Godly people, kind to a fault and loyal Americans to boot. I don’t go in for all that incense myself, but it’s just another way of praising his holy name.”
