In the Drink (16 page)

Once this process was done he said, “The prisoner has asked his lawyer to sit in on your meeting. The lawyer's name is Philip Longhorn and he's already in the room. If you follow Karl here, he'll take you there.”

With that, the second guard stood, exited the enclosure, and came toward us, stopping on the other side of the gate in the barred wall. Dinkle pressed a button and the gate slid open. We followed Karl, who, according to his badge had the last name Houston, down a short hallway, hearing the echo of the barred gate we'd just come through bang closed behind us. It was a scary, creepy sound that made me feel a little claustrophobic. At the end of the hallway we stopped in front of a large metal door that Karl had to unlock. There was a window in the upper third of the door, but it was mesh-filled and triggered the same odd chemical smell the glass in the enclosure had. We all stepped through into yet another hallway, this one much bigger. Along the sides of this hallway were four more windowed doors—two on each side. We waited while Karl relocked the door we had just come through before following him to the last door on the left, which was located near a fifth door at the end of the hallway. The fifth door was windowed also, and beyond it I could see a long open space bordered by prison cells on both sides.

Karl unlocked and opened the door to the room we were entering. “Longhorn is inside,” he said in a bored, monotonic voice. “We weren't expecting three of you so someone will have to stand. Once you are in the room, the prisoner will be brought in. This door will be locked behind you but if you need anything, I'll be standing out here. Just knock on the door.”

I couldn't help but notice how the guards depersonalized the men by referring to them as prisoners rather than using their names. On the one hand it bothered me, but then I rationalized the behavior when I remembered that some of the men in here had done some horrible, heinous things, and as such, they probably seemed less than human to those who had to deal with them day after day.

“We'll be fine,” Tyrese said. He opened the door and we all paraded into the room.

It was a bare-walled, windowless, cinder block structure with a scarred wooden table at the center. There were two chairs on the side closest to us and one on the far side. The door behind us closed with a loud
thunk
and I heard the scrape of the lock being reengaged. I suppressed a shiver and grimaced as I tasted something like dirty potato peels, though I wasn't sure which sound had triggered it, the
thunk
or the scrape of the lock.

Philip Longhorn sat with his back to us but he glanced at us as we approached the table. He appeared surprisingly young; he barely looked old enough to drink. He eyed us with suspicion as Mal pulled out the one remaining chair on the closest side of the table and indicated for me to take it. I did so and smiled at Longhorn, who didn't smile back. Tyrese made the introductions and Longhorn returned the favor by muttering his name. He had an air of disdain about him that gave me the feeling he thought we should simply know who he was, or that he didn't care if we knew.

“May I ask why you want to speak to my client?” he asked Tyrese.

“We're looking into a cold case from twelve years ago, two young girls who were murdered.”

“Ah, the Gruber-Hermann case?”

Tyrese nodded.

“The cops tried to pin that crime on my client back when it happened, but it was dropped due to a lack of evidence. Do you have something new to offer?”

“No,” Tyrese said. “We're interested in talking to all of the parties who were, or might have been involved back then. Just recovering old ground to see if anything new turns up.”

Longhorn narrowed his eyes at Tyrese for a few seconds, then glanced at Mal, and finally settled his gaze on me. “Are all of you cops?”

I answered after deciding to stick with the story we'd been using all along. “No, we're research assistants. We're working with a friend who's a writer, and he's interested in doing a true crime book about the case.”

Longhorn arched his brows at this and opened his mouth to say something else. Before he could, we heard noise from the door on the far wall.

We all turned to watch as Lonnie Carlisle was brought into the room.

He was balding and bent over as he shuffled his way to the table, led by a guard. His feet were encased in cuffs with chains that ran between them. Another chain ran from this one up to his waist, where it circled around him. His wrists were contained in cuffs that were attached to this waist chain. The man looked like the setup for a Houdini stunt.

The guard pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table and Lonnie shuffled over and dropped into it. He took us all in with a sweeping, wary glance and then settled his gaze on his lawyer. The guard retreated through the door he had come in, but he didn't go far. I could see his silhouette on the other side through the small, mesh-filled window.

“Mr. Carlisle,” I started. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”

“I didn't agree to talk to anyone,” Lonnie grumbled. “I said I would meet with you and hear you out.” His voice was hoarse and raspy, and it made me taste burnt toast.

“They're here about the Gruber-Hermann case,” Longhorn told Lonnie. “Supposedly someone wants to write a book about it.”

Lonnie had been leaning forward, arms on his knees. With Longhorn's announcement, he leaned back in his chair as far as his chains would let him, effectively distancing himself from us. “I got nothing to say about that case,” he said, his lips set with determination.

With this statement, the taste of his voice changed from burnt toast to something more like a burnt marshmallow—pasty, with a metallic tinge to it.

“We aren't here to try to pin anything on you,” Tyrese explained. “We're simply on a fact-finding mission for the book, as your lawyer said.”

Lonnie said nothing. He just sat there, a defiant look on his face.

After many long seconds of silence, Lonnie turned and looked over his shoulder. “Guard!” he yelled. “I'm done here.”

The guard who had brought him in reentered and Lonnie stood and allowed himself to be escorted from the room the same way he'd come in.

“I guess this trip is a bust for you,” Longhorn said. He looked pleased. I found myself wishing Duncan had been able to come with us because he's good at talking to people and getting things out of them. But he wasn't there and I didn't see much point in dwelling on it.

“He knows something about that case,” I said. “Why doesn't he want to talk about it?”

Longhorn eyed me curiously for a moment and then shrugged. “There's a chance he might be paroled soon. I'm guessing he doesn't want to dredge up anything that might risk him being denied.”

With that, Longhorn got up, went to the door we had come in, and knocked three times. The door opened a moment later and Longhorn left.

“You folks done here?” Karl said.

Without a word, we all got up and retraced our steps out of the prison and to the parking lot. Once we were in the car, Mal turned to me in the backseat and said, “You sensed something about Carlisle. What was it?”

“He definitely knows something about the girls' case,” I told him. “I have a feeling that he's afraid. Maybe his lawyer was right and he's afraid of messing up his chances at parole.”

“But you don't think that's what it is, do you?” Mal said, eyeing me closely.

I frowned as I considered his question. “I'm not sure what to think. But I did get the sense that his fear was more visceral than simple worry about his parole.”

Tyrese started the car and headed for the exit gate. “I'll make a call to the warden tomorrow and chat with him about Lonnie, see if he can add any insight. I'll find out who's been visiting him, who he talks to, what he's said to the guards and such. Maybe that will give us a clue.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “Well, since this trip was a bust, should we try another tack?”

“Have something in mind?” Tyrese asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let's drop in on the neighborhood weirdo.”

A little over an hour later, we stopped back at the bar so I could grab the information sheet we'd been given the night before to get the address for William Schneider. The bar was empty and the guys waited outside in the car, so I took a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet. Looking at the bar, it was easy to imagine Duncan behind it, mixing drinks, something he discovered he enjoyed doing. I couldn't wait to see him later and the time seemed to be crawling by. Still, it was better that I was busy and distracted, and with that in mind, I pushed Duncan to the back of my thoughts and headed outside.

Twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of a house that had definitely seen better times. There were some scraggly half-dead bushes in the front yard, bare spots in the lawn, and the concrete stoop on the small bungalow was crumbling away, its wrought-iron railings tilting at precarious angles. The paint on the door and window trim was peeling and appeared to have been white at one time, although now the color was more of a dingy gray. Oxidation on the aluminum siding left many of the pieces shiny and metallic along their edges instead of the brown they used to be. The roof appeared similarly neglected and pathetic, with missing shingles, sap stains from a towering pine in the backyard, and a chimney that looked ready to crumble if someone blew on it too hard. Bring on the big bad wolf.

Every window in the front of the house had blinds that were down and closed, but as we pulled into the driveway—which had more grass growing in it than the lawn did—I saw the slats in one of the windows move.

“We're being observed,” I said, and Tyrese nodded.

“How are we going to approach this guy?” Mal said. “Same story we've been using?”

“Might as well,” I said with a shrug.

We all piled out of the car and headed for the front door, stepping carefully as we climbed the steps to the stoop. Mal raised his hand to knock—there was a hole in the wall where the doorbell should have been—but before he could do anything a male voice hollered out from within.

“Go away! I ain't interested in buying nothing and my soul don't need saving.”

We all looked at one another and through some unspoken agreement, Mal took over. “We aren't selling anything and we aren't from any church. We're here to talk to you about the deaths of Lori Gruber and Anna Hermann twelve years ago.”

He paused, and when we heard nothing, he added, “We're conducting research for a true crime book. We're hoping we'll finally uncover the real culprit and clear the names of those who were falsely accused.”

Another interminable wait and after a minute or so, Tyrese shrugged and said, “I don't think he's going to talk to us.”

And then we heard a lock thrown. Then another. And another. Finally, the front door cracked open. Beyond, I could see a grizzled, bearded face, filthy, thick-lensed glasses, and pasty white skin that I guessed was due to an utter lack of exposure to sunshine.

“Mr. Schneider,” Mal said with a warm smile. “May we come in and talk to you?”

He stared at us with wild, rheumy eyes, his gaze darting back and forth between the three of us. Something about the way he looked suggested a mind bordering on the edge of sanity, losing its grip on reality.

“You trying to pin what happened to them girls on me?” he said, his voice gravelly and rife with suspicion. It triggered a taste that was like eating a handful of salted nuts and I wondered if the food choice was somehow predicated by my opinion of the man. It didn't last long enough for me to give the idea much thought because a cloud of alcohol-infused breath hit me seconds later. With it came a tinny, tympanic grating sound mixed with the deep bass sounds of a cello, similar to what I'd heard when I smelled the most recent, blank letter. This told me that Schneider's boozes of choice were beer and cheap whiskey. It was all I could do to keep my expression neutral and not back up a few steps.

“No, sir,” I said. “We're conducting interviews and looking into the case for a writer who is working on a true crime book about the case. Mainly, we're interested in getting facts from you as to your whereabouts on the day in question, anything else you saw or heard that day, and any ideas you might have about the case. With luck, we might be able to identify the real killer and figure out what actually happened to those girls.”

He narrowed his eyes at me as I spoke and I sensed his skepticism. But after weighing us and our intentions for a few seconds, he apparently decided we were okay, at least for now.

“Come on in,” he said, stepping aside and opening the door wider.

We entered the house, which was dark and musty smelling. The windows were all covered with closed blinds and the few stray beams of sunlight that managed to eke their way around the edges highlighted a thick layer of dust atop everything. I was relieved when Mr. Schneider bypassed the living room area and headed for a small table in the kitchen because I sensed that settling into any of the chairs in the living room would have triggered a mini dust storm.

The kitchen was cluttered, but it didn't appear particularly dirty. There were dishes and an assortment of boxed food items covering the counters, but the dishes appeared clean. There were empty beer cans piled high in the trash and a smattering of alcohol bottles on the counter—cheap whiskies, thus proving my nose correct once again. Most of the bottles were empty, though a few had a little left in the bottom. We settled in at the table, a retro chrome and yellow Formica set with matching chairs. The set was in surprisingly good shape, although one of the vinyl seats did have a small tear in it, stuffing protruding. I settled into that chair and the feel of the rip beneath my thigh made me see smooth, rounded pebbles.

“I don't know that I can help you much in figuring out what happened to them girls,” Schneider said once we were all seated. “I wasn't anywhere near 'em when it happened.”

“Where were you?” Tyrese asked.

“I was home,” Schneider said, scowling.

“I understand both girls lived near here,” Mal said.

“So? What's your point?” Schneider grumbled. “I was here in my house and I didn't leave it.”

“Did anyone see you here?” Mal asked.

Schneider turned his rheumy gaze toward Mal and narrowed his eyes down to a steely glint. “No, and no one seen me anywhere else either, because I was here and never left. I didn't go out much then. Still don't.”

“Why is that?” Mal asked.

Schneider looked at him like he was stupid. “People ain't never liked me much. They think I'm crazy or something and the kids make fun of me whenever they see me. They did it back then and they still do. Heartless little bastards!” He spat this out with a surprising amount of venom and the nutty taste in my mouth turned rancid.

I sensed his anger rapidly building and decided to try to defuse it. “You had a child once, didn't you?”

The change in his demeanor was startling. It was like watching a balloon deflate. He sank back into his seat, his face sagged, and his whole body went limp. A devastating silence followed and Mal, Tyrese, and I exchanged worried looks.

Finally, Schneider spoke, though it was as if the flat, tinny voice was emanating from a dead body. “We don't talk about that anymore, understand?”

No one said a word for a minute or so. Schneider didn't move. I don't think he even blinked. My heart ached for the man. Clearly, his daughter's death had been a life-shattering event for him. So I decided to leave that topic alone for now and get back to the case at hand.

“Mr. Schneider,” I said in a soft, nonthreatening voice. “Do you have any theories about what might have happened to those two girls, Anna and Lori?”

His head snapped up, he leaned forward again with his arms on the table, and looked me straight in the eye. It was as if some switch had been turned off and then back on again. “How would I know?” he said with an irritated tone. “And why should I care? Ain't like anyone is ever nice to me, or says a kind word.”

“That must make you mad,” Tyrese suggested.

“Damn right, it does,” Schneider said, shifting his rheumy gaze. “Nobody has respect for a man like me who fought for the freedoms these snotty kids these days take for granted. I watched men die, young men, men filled with hope, men cut down in the prime of their lives.” His voice and his emotions were both escalating again. “Those men died so folks in this country could live and live well. I almost died, too, and what do I get for my efforts? Gratitude? Hell, no! I get insults. I get rocks thrown at me and my house. I get people looking at me like I'm crazy, and talking 'bout me like I'm something for them to be scared of. Hell, people these days don't know the meaning of scary.”

“You were in the military,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Damned right,” he said, puffing his chest out a little. “I was a Marine and proud of it. Not that anyone respects that anymore.” He shoved his chair back and stood up suddenly, startling us all. Both Mal and Tyrese rose, too, and as Schneider spun around and stormed out of the kitchen, they stared after him with worried, questioning looks.

“Maybe we should leave,” Mal said.

Tyrese nodded, but I stayed where I was. “Give him a minute,” I said.

Seconds ticked by and the two men stood there, twitchy, nervous, ready to jump at the first hint of a problem. I probably should have been nervous too, but for some reason I wasn't. Schneider was a broken, bitter, and angry man; there was no denying that. But my gut told me he meant us no harm. He finally returned from whatever dark recess he'd retreated to, carrying a small wooden box.

“What have you got in there?” Tyrese asked, his voice as suspicious as Schneider's had been moments ago. Tyrese's hand moved to the back of his waist inside his jacket, and I knew he was reaching for a gun. Except I also knew he didn't have one there, because we'd been searched at the prison.

“Sit down,” Schneider grumbled.

Tyrese remained standing, as did Mal. Schneider ignored them both and took the seat he had vacated moments ago. He set the box on the table and opened it. Inside I saw a bunch of papers and some old photos. He moved the papers aside and grabbed a handful of photos, tossing them onto the table. Beneath them in the box was something metallic and colorful. He grabbed it and held it out to us in the palm of his hand. It was a round, brass colored medal attached to a gold ribbon with green and red stripes. The medal had the words
REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM SERVICE
on it.

“This is all I got out of that war,” Schneider said. “Wait, I take that back. I also got a chunk of metal in my head, a bum hip, and a whole lot of nightmares.” He dropped the medal on the table and grabbed a couple of the photos he'd tossed down. “Even so, I got out with my life, which is more than these guys got.” One by one he looked at, and then dealt each picture back onto the table.

He stared off then, and I sensed he was lost in some memory of those times, but whether it was a good memory or a bad one, I couldn't tell. Tyrese and Mal had both relaxed by now, and the three of us watched Schneider in silence, leaving him to whatever tortured reverie he was in. When he finally snapped back to the present he said, “I think kids today are spoiled, disrespectful, and unappreciative, but that ain't no reason to kill them.”

Outside a car backfired and Schneider leapt from his chair and ducked beneath the table, knocking into my legs. I scooted my chair back and stood. Mal and Tyrese, both of whom were still standing, stepped back. And the three of us stared at the sight beneath the table. Schneider's face had changed so dramatically that he didn't look like the same person. His eyes were wild with fear and tension. He was squatting beneath the table, arms wrapped around his legs, muttering some type of wartime rhetoric peppered with racial slurs and geographic references specific to Vietnam. I got the sense that he didn't know we were there any longer, or perhaps he didn't know where he was any longer. Then he looked me dead in the eye and stopped rocking. “You can beat me, you can starve me, you can torture me all you want. But I'll never talk. And you better stay on alert because if you turn your back on me I'll slit your throat the first chance I get.”

Schneider's eyes were filled with hatred and venom, all of it directed at me, or whoever he thought I was, because I felt pretty sure that his mind was lost in some other time and place. It was sad, but it was also very scary because he looked mad enough to do what he said. Tyrese and Mal must have come to the same conclusion because Tyrese said, “We're outa here.” The two men came toward me and quickly escorted me out of the house, never once taking their eyes off Schneider as we left.

Once outside, I breathed a sigh of relief. “That was creepy,” I said.

“No kidding,” Tyrese agreed. “Now we know why Schneider is called the strange neighbor.”

“It's kind of sad,” I said, my heart aching for the man Schneider might have once been and could have become if not for his family tragedy and that war. “Clearly his time in Vietnam had a profound effect on his mental health. It sounds like he was a POW or something. That makes his paranoia a little easier to understand. He's probably been suffering from PTSD all these years. And I'm sure the death of his wife and daughter did little to help the situation.”

“That may be true,” Mal said as we all settled back into Tyrese's car, “and if it is, it is indeed sad. But it's also dangerous. Based on the look in his eyes, the behaviors, and the things he said there at the end, it's clear that the man has a slippery grasp on reality at times. If those two girls were nearby when Schneider went off like he just did, I could see him thinking they were there to hurt him. He might have killed them because he thought they were the enemy.”