Window of Guilt (5 page)

Upon arriving home from shopping with her friends, Property Owner Helga Beckermann phoned nine-one-one after spotting the body in her driveway. ‘My heart just about stopped.’

No identification was found on the body. Yet police say the yellow jersey with the initials ‘TG’ printed on the front and the number ‘1’ matched the description given them yesterday by Camp Supervisor Lisa Freeman.

Rumors that the young man served time in prison for voyeurism of young children have not been verified. Burt Cummings, a lifelong resident of Lac La Belle, voiced the unspoken sentiments of many residents here.
‘I’m sorry the kid is dead, but I’m sure as hell glad we won’t have to worry about him bothering our young ones.’

Police Officer Carmen Gomez with the Lac La Belle Volunteer Police Department is investigating the case. ‘So far, the young man’s face has not been computer identified as a criminal in any context. If anyone has information about his identity, they should contact the police at 264-655-0200.’”

“This is great news,” said Ryan, attempting to give Laurie a high five.

Laurie pulled her hand away in midair. “Really?”

“The vagrant’s dead.”

“Question is, how did our dead vagrant skedaddle three houses over to Mrs. Beckermann’s driveway?” said Laurie.

“Simple,” said Ryan. “The vagrant expired on Beckermann’s property, not ours.”

Laurie meandered into the living room and peeked out the bay window. “This sideshow’s been going on since 6:00 a.m.”

Ryan shared her gaze. Photographers, reporters, and police were milled in their neighbor’s driveway like so many red ants. “It’s a regular media circus out there.”

“Luckily, the air-conditioner’s been running and the windows in Rory’s bedroom are closed.”

“Deep sleeper, that one.”

“How should we handle this when he wakes up?” asked Laurie.

Ryan turned away from the window. “Nothing to handle. The vagrant’s dead.”

Laurie’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to engage in another verbal battle but her husband was a pro in the field of denial. “Norman says you’re afraid of confrontation.”

Ryan started back to the kitchen. “If you had a father like him, you’d steer clear of confrontation, too.”

“When your dad’s around me and Rory, he’s lots of fun, like you used to be when I first met you,” mused Laurie.

“He’s a fraud, Laurie.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“Can you elaborate?” Ryan mimicked, slamming his hand on the tabletop. “Why bother? You always take his side anyway.”

Laurie covered his hand with her own. “I’m sorry to be such a bitch. I’ve been so bent out of shape about passing my real estate exam.”

“Stop making me your private punching bag.”

“I’m still hurt you don’t believe I found a body on our front lawn.”

“You make me crazy,” he yelled, grabbing her arm.

Little prickles of fright ran up and down Laurie’s arm.

“Angry electricity around here.” Her son plopped into a seat at the kitchen table.

Laurie yanked free from her husband. “We were just having a discussion,” she said, rubbing her arm.

“If I was yelling that loud, you guys would be really mad at me.”

“You’re a smart guy, know that?” asked Ryan, kissing the top of his son’s head.

“Guess what, kiddo? The police found that guy who was hanging out at your camp. He won’t be bothering you anymore,” said Laurie.

“Did they put him in jail?” Rory asked, pouring milk in his Golden Grahams cereal.

Laurie and her husband exchanged looks. “He’s not in Wisconsin anymore.”

“Will he be in Chicago when we get home?” the boy asked, his cereal-packed spoon raised in midair.

“The police took him far, far away, son,” Ryan said reassuringly.

Rory turned to his mom. “After I’m done eating, can I go swimming with Dad?”

Laurie started. She’d totally forgotten it was Saturday. No way was she allowing her son to personally experience the chaos taking place outside their window. “Later. Your dad rented
Coach Carter
last night.”

“My favorite!” cried Rory. Jumping up from the table, he guzzled his glass of milk, then ran into the family room.

“You guys go on,” said Laurie. “I’ll finish up in here.”

5

Laurie punched in Mitzy’s number on her cell phone. Thinking better of it, she clicked “end.” Too late. The Latin Tango on her cell phone announced the return call.

“Hey, Laurie.” Mitzy’s voice came through the speakerphone. “You must have hung up on me by mistake.”

“No mistake,” said Laurie as she piled newly dried breakfast dishes into the cabinet above the sink.

“Just read an article in the
Chicago Tribune
about that guy in Oconomowoc found dead on your neighbor’s driveway. Your name’s not mentioned.”

“Because someone hauled the dead kid to Helga’s house,” said Laurie.

“Unless he up and walked away. You sure he was dead when you found him?”

“No response to CPR? Yep, I’m sure.”

“I want to believe you, Laurie, I do. But you do tend to exaggerate.”

“Tell that to Rocky. He’s been peeing all over the house since yesterday.”

“Urinary tract infection?”

“Emotionally traumatized.”

“From a urinary tract infection?” Mitzy asked incredulously.

“From discovering a dead body in our yard! That poor kid. No ID on him, just ‘TG,’ a smudged Greyhound ticket receipt, and an empty peanut shell.”

“You never mentioned a ticket receipt.”

“Totally undecipherable. Kid wore an army canteen around his neck, too.”

“Hello! You mention those tidbits to the police officer?”

“I was so out of it, I honestly don’t remember.”

“Well, call her back.”

“And get our family’s portrait plastered all over the evening news? I prefer Officer Gomez consider me loony rather than a suspect. Maybe you could talk to your friend, Maggie.”

“Maggie’s a Chicago police detective.”

“You owe me from last night,” Laurie persisted. “What if it turns out the kid’s from Chicago?”

“You’re relentless!” Mitzy groaned.

“They say people who’ve been friends a long time adopt each other’s mannerisms.”

“Fine. I’ll run the unidentified kid past Maggie,” Mitzy grumbled.

“You’re a good friend, Mitzy.”

“That’s spelled p-a-t-s-y.” The phone clicked in Laurie’s ear.

*

Ryan Atkins allowed his son’s Yu Gi O chatter to wash over him as he silently congratulated himself on his Super Hero strength. Who would have imagined that he, a recovering heart attack patient the size of Elton John, could have pulled off such a job?

“Which one’s your favorite Yu Gi O! trading card, Dad?” Rory
asked.

“Can’t really say, bud.”

Rory hit his Yu Gi O bedspread. “Pay attention again, Dad!”

Forcing himself to concentrate, Ryan flipped through the deluxe edition starter deck. He removed the card of a dinosaur dancing on neon-pink, zebra-striped rods. “This guy looks ferocious.”

With his semi-flabby abs, Ryan was light years from ferocious. But returning home from the lake to find a dead body lying on his front lawn had transformed him.

Rory plucked the dinosaur card from his hand. “Great choice, Dad. Uraby’s way cool.”

Warily approaching the twenty-something body, Ryan’s nose had been assaulted by a strong urine smell. Yet the ground around the bottom portion of his body was dry.

His son read the card. “This dinosaur rips its enemies to shreds with its sharp claws.”

Ryan had laid his left ear on the jersey-clad chest, softly at first so as not to inflict pain, then more forcefully as a frantic feeling overtook him.

Another card was thrust into his hands. “Here’s the guy I like best, Dad.”

Ryan looked down at a picture of a robot the size of a sumo wrestler. “Giant Soldier of Stone,” he read. “Great warrior.”

Did a warrior’s heart pump as wildly as his own when faced with a threatening outcome? Thrusting aside the army canteen hanging from the young man’s neck, he’d searched the kid’s pockets for identification. Somehow the young man’s face looked familiar. He racked his brain for a connection.

Rory grabbed the card and read. “A punch from this creeper.”

Ryan leaned in closer to see the words printed on his son’s card. “That’s ‘creature,’ bud. ‘A punch from this creature has earth-shattering results.’”

Suddenly Ryan blanched. Long straggly hair, shoulders and arms almost skeletal. Could Todd Gray’s appearance have changed so drastically since bursting into his insurance office fourteen months before?

Sorrow overtook Ryan as he’d gazed at the dead figure. And yet, it was for the best. The kid had refused to take no for an answer. No doubt he’d hustled up from Chicago to blackmail him and his family.

It nauseated Ryan to pretend to his wife that no dead body had garnished the front lawn of their summerhouse. But if she learned his denial of this kid’s medical claim had put their family in jeopardy, she’d leave him. His fortuitous stop at home had saved them all.

“Daddy, are you getting sick again?” asked Rory, concern dripping from his eyes.

Ryan willed himself back into the moment. “I’m fine, big guy.”

He’d forced himself to focus on the dastardly job at hand. Due to soaring temperatures, no sunbathers or castle-building youth dotted the landscape. Yet it was broad daylight and he had to think fast. At first, he considered disposing of the body in the dumpster behind Taco Bell, but a dead body would stink up his wife’s car.

Next he considered rolling the young man down to the beach and letting the waves carry him out into the middle of the lake, but he wanted the young man found as quickly as possible. It would be cruel to cause the boy’s parents sleepless nights over their son gone missing. If, God forbid, his child ever met a similar fate, he’d want the same compassion for him.

In the end, Ryan adhered to the logistics of completing the task. Gently, he slipped a black plastic trash bag beneath the young man’s body and carted him over to the rusty wheelbarrow in their garage. He dashed back to retrieve the army canteen, then carefully lifted the bagged cadaver into the wheelbarrow and covered him with a picnic blanket.

Ryan shook himself as if waking from a nightmare.

“Daddy?” Rory asked in a worried tone.

Oh, that it had only been a bad dream rather than a fresh memory that would plague him through eternity. “I’m terrific,” he responded, his voice falsely illuminated. “How ’bout a book?”

“Arthur Goes to Washington
!” His son jumped up and down on the bed, scattering the trading cards onto the blue carpet.

Just watching his son’s simple joy convinced Ryan he’d done the right thing.

6

Balancing a teacup in one hand and a beat-up walking cane in the other, Helga Beckermann eased herself into a threadbare rocking chair. Her parakeets twittered joyously atop the kitchen curtain rod. “Pour a shot of whiskey into this here tea.”

“Yes grandma.” A stocky, broad-faced young man with bulging eyes scurried to her side. He fumbled with the bottle top, then carefully tipped the brown liquid over the coffee cup.

Helga abruptly shifted her cup. The flowing liquor puddled at her feet. “You clumsy good for nothing. Clean it up.”

Tears welled up in Arnold’s eyes. He knelt and attempted to gather the mess into his hands. “Why’d you move your cup away, grandma?”

“You making up stuff again, boy?” she asked, her voice as cold as an ice pick.

“No grandma,” he said earnestly.

“Any idiot knows to use a rag.”

“You’re out of rags, grandma.”

“Use your shirt then,” she instructed.

“My shirt will get dirty.”

“You back talking me?”

“No ma’am.” With sticky hands, Arnold pulled the oversized gray t-shirt over his stout chest. Kneeling on the wooden floor, he began to mop up the puddle with his shirt.

“Even though you’re way past twenty-one, I can un-enroll you from that retards group home anytime I like,” Helga said menacingly.

“Don’t under-enroll me, grandma,” the half-naked man said, mopping faster.

“Wring that shirt out in the sink, dummy.”

Arnold jumped to his feet and hastened to the kitchen sink. “They find out why that guy was sleeping on your driveway yesterday?”

Helga’ s voice lost its hard edge. “Told you he was dead, not sleeping.”

“Dead’s a sleep that lasts forever,” said Arnold.

“Most likely he got heat stroke.”

“If it gets too hot outside, you can die?”

His grandmother nodded.

“So he was thirsty ’cause he didn’t drink lots of fluids?”

“Didn’t see no canteen or water bottle on him.”