Favorite Sons (22 page)

“Did you tell her that Vukovich spent thirty years in prison after pleading guilty to sexually assaulting a retarded boy about the same age as her son?”

“Jumpin' Mother of Christ,” Adameyer moaned. “He killed the kid.”

No he didn't, I thought.

“The chief's early assessment of Mrs. Gentry was not off target,” Davidson said. “She's . . . ” his voice trailed off.

“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer?” I asked.

Davidson nodded. “That would be a kind way of phrasing it. I would also say she's a bit delusional.”

“She's a fuckin' loon,” Adameyer said.

“Where's the boy?” I asked.

“Foster care. We removed him from the house; children services has temporary custody.”

“Did they do a swab at the hospital?”

“Yeah. We sent it to Columbus to the state crime lab. They found what they believe are trace amounts of blood that don't match the boy's. They also found another matter that may or may not be semen.”

“Not much to go on.”

“No. They're sending the samples to an FBI lab in Virginia. Supposedly, they have a process that enables them to separate mixed fluids and analyze them to a greater degree. They said they've had good luck with this process in the past. We'll see.”

“Is the boy able to testify?”

Davidson closed the manila folder. “No. He's not verbal and has only very basic communication skills, much like an infant, cries and grunts. He also has some physical challenges—cerebral palsy, I believe—and spends most of his days in bed or a wheelchair.”

“Did you talk to Vukovich?”

“Not much. He wouldn't talk other than to deny any involvement and say he was insulted at my accusations. Then he told me to call his lawyer.”

“Is he working anywhere?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“How's he living? Where's he getting his money?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. He's living in a house out in the Thimble Lakes area.” He looked down at the report. “Twelve eighty-eight Little Thimble Lake Drive.”

I removed a leather-bound pad from my jacket pocket and scribbled down the address. I stood to shake Davidson's hand. “I appreciate your time,” I said.

“What do you think?”

“Based on what you've told me so far, it's not looking very good. There's no physical evidence, the victim can't testify, and the mother won't testify. You know he did it and I know he did it, but that doesn't mean we're going to get a jury to convict.”

Davidson frowned, creating neatly spaced ridges between his brows and hairline. “So, you know this guy, huh?”

“I'm familiar with him, yes.”

“How's someone like this get back out on the street?” I had no answer. “Keep me posted on any progress in your investigation.”

After Officer Davidson had disappeared through the glassed lobby, I said, “Good officer.”

“Damned good,” Adameyer said. His left eye squeezed shut, a sharpshooter honing in on his target, and he slowly tapped the eraser of a pencil on the conference table. After a moment's silence, he asked, “What's going on here, sport?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, don't blow smoke up my ass. You didn't drive all the way down here just because you were curious. You've got a reason. I've worked with you enough to know this is ordinarily the kind of case you'd be jumping all over. Hell, you're running for state attorney general. This would be great publicity. Something's eating at you about this, something personal, I bet.”

Jerry Adameyer was a good cop, a good observer. He had watched me during the interview and I wondered what my demeanor had revealed. I shook my head, but again felt the burn creeping up my neck. “No, I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Uh-huh. I don't think I'm buying that one, sport.” He stared at me for a moment. “I'll figure it out.”

I shook my head. “No, you won't.”

*    *    *

When rubber was king of Akron, the Thimble Lakes were the playground for wealthy executives. Situated in the southeastern corner of Summit County, the lakes were actually flooded rock quarries formerly owned by the Portage Sand & Gravel Works. When the quarries were mined out in 1952, a developer bought the property—fifty-two acres—for three thousand dollars. He planted pine trees around the perimeter of the grounds, renamed it Thimble Lakes, and began selling what he generously advertised as “exclusive lakefront property.”The wealthy began building weekend homes on Thimble Lakes and until the decline of Akron's rubber industry in the early seventies it was considered a sign of considerable prestige to have “a place at Thimble Lakes.” Most of the homes were now occupied year-round and it had recently enjoyed a revitalization as people bought up two or three adjoining lots, tore down the existing houses, and built larger, modern homes. This created an awkward lakefront array of mammoth, glass-encased homes next to modest cabins. Although Thimble Lakes was no longer considered one of Akron's most elite addresses, it was still a very nice area.

Little Thimble Lake Drive was a two-mile asphalt road that snaked between the old quarries. I drove slowly along until I found the numbers 1288 on a mailbox next to a gravel driveway that
disappeared into a grove of pine and ash trees. Through the stand of tree trunks I could see a light burning on the screened-in front porch of a cedar-sided ranch home. Beyond the house a wooden dock extended into Little Thimble Lake. I drove down the road, turned the car around in a cul-de-sac, and crept back along the blacktop, searching for a better vantage point to view the house. On my third pass I spotted a home under construction on a bluff above Vukovich's place. It seemed the ideal spot as it was nearly hidden by a thicket of pines and there was no sign of construction workers or the owner. I pulled into the empty garage, then backed out and pointed the Pacifica toward the driveway, giving me a clear view of the ranch house.

The shades were drawn, but I could detect a faint light burning in a back room. I don't know what I hoped to accomplish by watching the house, but I felt compelled to see where Jack Vukovich was living. The visit created more questions than answers. Did he own the house? I made a mental note to check property records at the county auditor's office in the morning. Where would Jack Vukovich get that kind of money? Even if it wasn't his, where was he getting the money for rent? A three-bedroom ranch in Thimble Lakes was not cheap. He had to be paying at least twelve hundred a month in rent. Parked in a carport was a gleaming, late-model black Saab. More questions.

In the moments just after dusk when darkness began to envelop the Thimble Lakes and the house behind me cast a dark shadow across my windshield, the dome light on the Pacifica flickered with the metallic click of the passenger door handle. I about pissed myself. “Well, good evening, Mr. Van Buren,” said Jack Vukovich, opening the door and sliding uninvited into the passenger seat. “What a nice surprise. What brings you to the Thimble Lakes? Did you come to pay me a visit, or are you just doing a little spying?” He let the question hang for a moment while he surveyed the inside of the SUV, massaging the dashboard and whistling. “Nice ride, Mr. Prosecutor. Did the taxpayers buy this for you?” He played with the electric window, rolling it up and down several times.

While he played with the window and the automatic door locks, I took a few deep breaths and tried to slow my racing heart. “You've
managed to achieve a new low, Mr. Vukovich—sexually assaulting a mentally retarded and developmentally disabled boy who can't talk or fight off your attacks.”

He rolled his good eye toward me, but kept facing forward. “It would seem to me, Mr. Van Buren, that you are in no position to be talking to me about new lows, considering your continued silence for the entire duration of my incarceration.”

“I would argue that you spent thirty years in prison for the crime you
did
commit. Now, get out of my car.”

He made no move to leave. “Did you know that the house I'm renting used to be owned by a member of the Firestone family? It has cherry floors and an oversized fireplace made of limestone that was quarried right here in the Thimble Lakes. Don't you find that fascinating?”

“Get out of my car, Jack.”

When he turned toward me the corners of his lips turned down, the tension in his face puckering the skin around his nose. “So, what did that spook tell you?”

“Officer Davidson told me nothing that I didn't already know— that you're a sick animal who preys on the defenseless.”

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bulging between his shirt collar as he struggled to control his anger. “I do believe I am losing my patience with you, Mr. Van Buren, so it might be best if I bid you adieu.” He got out of the car, slammed the door, and leaned down into the open window. “You have a good day, Mr. Prosecutor. And don't forget, you've got one week.”

A
s a young boy, I surrounded myself with the comfort of the familiar. My bedroom was a refuge where I kept my prized possessions close to me—my record albums, trophies, school awards, arrowheads, favorite books, Civil War figurines. Sitting at a diagonal in the corner of my room was an old oak desk that my mother had scavenged from the trash heap at the post office. It was a beast and had taken three of her male co-workers and me to maneuver it up the stairs and into my bedroom. It was scuffed with age and had a leprous coating of yellowed shellac, chipped and thinned by years of neglect. From my desk, I could look out one bedroom window to the northwest and see the water tower and the ridge of the hills that rimmed Crystalton. The window to the east revealed the train tracks as they turned toward the Redhead Oil Company, the Ohio River, and the banks of the West Virginia shore where the cobblestone wharf and old ferry landing in Wellsburg materialized from the brown water and climbed up to Eighth Street. From the comfort of my room, behind the fortress of a desk, I surrounded myself with my favorite possessions and created views that were familiar and home.

Subsequently, I spent most of my time at home in my room. On several occasions my mother asked, “Why are you always up in your room living like a hermit?” I wasn't a hermit, but I liked having a place where I could retreat and be alone with my thoughts. This extended into my adult life.

Shortly after I was elected Summit County prosecutor I purchased a Queen Anne-style home in the Fairlawn Heights section of Akron. A young couple had bought the home in disrepair with the romanticized notion of rehabilitating it while they lived there. About the time they ran out of money for the project, they apparently ran out of patience for each other. She filed for divorce and left with everything that wasn't nailed down. When I went to look at the house, the ex-husband was months behind on the mortgage and living there with his clothes, a television, a blow-up mattress, and a three-legged cocker spaniel. I offered what he owed the bank and he snatched it up, glad to be out from under the mortgage and the bad memories.

Before I moved in I hired a contractor to finish the renovation, which included converting the third-floor attic space into my den. The showpiece of the room was the old post office desk, which I had painstakingly stripped and restored. The room occupied the entire top floor and my home office occupied one end of the room. A ceiling fan with three fluted lights hung in the middle of the room, directly over a pool table. An oxblood leather couch and two overstuffed chairs surrounded a wood coffee table with blue and white sodalite inlays in a living area just beyond the top of the stairs. When home, this is where I spent most of my waking hours.

The walls were adorned with black-and-white family photographs, plaques and photographs from my high school and college days, and framed prints of Forbes Field, the long-ago demolished home of the Pittsburgh Pirates. In the corner of my office was a trophy case and an old steamer trunk that I had rescued from the basement of my mom's house. Inside the trunk was a lifetime of memories from my youth, including my Civil War figurines, my college varsity jacket, scrapbooks, and a half-dozen cigar boxes of arrowheads, which I continued to vow that I was going to organize someday. While I spent virtually no time going through old scrapbooks and reminiscing, I still found comfort in surrounding myself with the familiar.

I once dated a psychologist who said my “man cave,” as she called it, was my subconscious compensating for a missing facet in
my life. She speculated that I was seeking security for the lack of a father figure. “Don't be alarmed,” she said (I wasn't). “This is a very common malady in men who feel compelled to spend exorbitant amounts of money on fancy garages with sports cars or convert basements into shrines to particular sports teams. Yours is simply a shrine to yourself.”

I told her she was full of shit and never saw her again. I'm not saying there wasn't some degree of truth in what she said, but I didn't want to hear it.

At ten fifteen that night I was slouched in one of the overstuffed chairs on the third floor, the floor lamp behind me casting a pale light over my shoulder, sipping from a tall glass of Jack Daniel's, pondering Jack Vukovich and my next move. The whiskey had been in a kitchen cabinet for four years, a Christmas gift from one of my assistant prosecutors. I rarely drank hard liquor, and I had been tempted to regift the bottle a couple of times, but this particular evening called for something a little stronger than merlot. I was acclimating well to the kick. The liquid burned all the way down, leaving my eyes moist and a tingling numbness in my lips.

Spread on the coffee table was the investigative report Officer Davidson had given me. There was little in the report that he hadn't told me. The background from the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections and the Ohio Parole Authority, however, brought me up to date on Jack Vukovich.