SAFELY BURIED Chapter 24: A Blue and Green Daydream

“Oh, Mr. Larrison,” she said. “I’m Adele Brandon. Lillian told me about you. She said you might call. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to talk to the Judge today though. He’s acting like a big crab. We just got home from Vietnam last night.”

“I know,” I said. “I can call some other time.”

A loud, deep voice broke in: “This is the big crab. You come out this afternoon, Phil. I always have time for the press—especially the Gleaner.”

“There’s your answer,” Adele said. “Good luck.” She hung up.

Jack “Red” Brandon was well into his seventies, but his voice remained strong and authoritative. It conveyed the ready smile and firm handshake of a successful politician. We set a two o’clock time for our meeting.

While I was making myself a sandwich for lunch, Detective Lieutenant Bakery called back.

“I got your fax,” he said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I thought you probably had that information already, but I sent it just in case you didn’t.”

“I did not have it.” He sounded disgusted. “I did a Triple-I on Boofey, but no arrests showed up.”

“What’s a Triple-I?”

“A police-record check. If he wasn’t indicted, he may have had his arrest expunged, or the agency that arrested him may have removed it automatically. I wish that didn’t happen. I think the arrest should stay on the record whether the accused is convicted or not. I think the police should have access to that information.”

I wasn’t sure I agreed with him, but I didn’t say so. Instead I asked if he’d had any luck finding Edna Mae and Paula Boofey?

“Not yet,” he said. “Still looking. All I know is they’re never at home and Edna Mae Boofey hasn’t been at work for the past week.”

“What does she do?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“She works in a package store off of College. But she won’t be working there anymore. The manager told me she’s been terminated. He said she just stopped coming to work. Didn’t quit. Didn’t call in sick. Not a word.”

“Maybe something happened to her.”

“Yeah, and maybe not. These Boofey characters are a pretty slippery bunch.” Before I said anything else, he blurted, “Gotta run. Thanks again for the fax.”

As I ate my lunch, I wondered why Edna Mae had given up her job so abruptly. From what Bakery had said, it sounded as though she had quit right after driving my car back to Campbellsville last Saturday. Maybe she didn’t even work that night. What the heck, maybe she didn’t take the bus back to Indianapolis either. All that talk about trading shifts with another clerk may have been nothing but camouflage. Maybe Paula was the one who took a bus ride—from Indianapolis to Campbellsville. . . .

No, none of this made any sense. If they had wanted to return my car and come back to Campbellsville, all they had to do was drive it back together and abandon it somewhere. They did not need to call me up and get me to drive to Indianapolis . . . unless they were using me for something.

Using me for what?

What was the most important thing I had learned by going to Edna Mae’s house?

Paula’s story about Chuck Martin.

Maybe they were hoping I’d put it in the paper and Martin would get arrested and go to prison and they wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. Or maybe her story wasn't true. Or maybe Alzheimer’s was contagious and I had caught it from Esther Dubbs. I felt as if I was going nuts. What was I doing playing detective? I wasn’t solving anything. It was just a game I was playing. I was on some kind of ego trip.

I began to feel hot. I turned on the air conditioner and went around closing and locking the windows. I paused to admire the new double-glazed sash in the living room and the new deadbolt locks on the doors. Fast action by the landlord. Try to remember to thank him. Damn, 1:15 already. Better wash up. You’re supposed to be at the Judge’s house in forty-five minutes. That’s Judge with an upper-case J. Get it in gear.

I pulled off my clothes and did a quick washup at the sink. I was in my car at 1:35. Instead of taking the scenic route through Blind Horse Hollow, I took the shorter western route, which bypassed the knobs. I didn’t get a speeding ticket, so at 1:59, under a hazy blue sky, I was circling up the driveway toward the Judge’s house.

Lillian opened the door and started in surprise. “You’re growing a beard!” She was wearing a bright, colorful blouse that had to be a gift from Southeast Asia.

“Did I scare you?” I said.

She laughed. “No, I like it. You look like an artist.”

“Not Toulouse-Lautrec, I hope.”

She laughed again. “No. Not Van Gogh either,”

She didn’t seem to notice my scratches. Maybe the beard was working. “How are you, Lillian?” I said.

“I’m good.” She lowered her voice: “My grandfather’s mad at me though.”

“Why?”

“For increasing Scott’s medication.”

“Oh, he noticed, did he?”

“Yes, the minute he saw Scott at the airport.” She rolled her eyes. “He lowered the dose a little bit this morning. Oh well, at least he’s back to help deal with him. Come on in, he’s waiting for you.”

She showed me into his den, which was on the right, just inside the front door. “Gramps, Phil Larrison’s here to see you.”

“Hello, Phil,” he said, rising from behind an intricately carved desk where he had been sorting a pile of mail. He gave me a firm handshake across the antique desk. Sitting on the floor beside the Judge’s chair was Scott, who was looking at a comic book. “Say hello, Scott,” the Judge said, but the Buddha did not budge.

“What happened to your cheek?” the Judge said.

So the beard was not working. Lillian lingered to hear my answer. I told them how I was tripped down the steps at the Garth house. The Judge was riveted. He looked deeply concerned, as if the sight of my face hurt his old, oyster-like eyes.

Law books filled the wall behind the desk, and a brown leather sofa and armchair stood in front of three glass-doored bookcases that contained nothing but an extensive collection of small lead soldiers. Plaques, diplomas, photos of the Judge with other politicians, including President Kennedy, covered two walls.

“Lillian tells me you gave her a hand with Scott one day,” the Judge said. “I want you to know I appreciate your help, but Scott would not have hurt the boy. He’s very careful. Aren’t you, Scott?”

“I didn’t know what was going on,” I replied, “but it looked like Lillian and Jodie were having trouble handling the situation.”

“I understand. I wish they had kept their heads instead of getting Scott excited.”

He came around the desk and stood with his back to the double windows and his hands clasped behind him. He looked like an elder statesman. Despite a slight teeter in his step, he held himself straight and tall. He had a high, sloping forehead and a sloping chin that disappeared into his neck because of the way he held his head back. His hair was gone on top, but it flowed past his ears like silver flames painted on the sides of cars. He was thinner, much more gaunt than the only other time I had seen him, about six years ago, when he was still on the bench.

He asked me how my boss, “Wild Dog Wylie,” was doing, and we chatted about my job for a few minutes. I asked how he had enjoyed his vacation, and he said he had absolutely loved Angkor Wat in Cambodia but he was getting too old to go gallivanting around the globe. “I told my wife no more trips to Asia,” he said. “She loves it there, but I’m not up to those long flights anymore. Next time she wants to go to some backward little country where you have to squat to take a crap in a stinking hole in the floor, I’ll go to Paris by myself and stay at the Ritz.”

I had to endure a travelogue about Hong Kong and Nepal for another ten minutes. Then he went back around his desk and sat down. His silver eyebrows arched as he said, “What is it you want to see me about, Phil, the couple that was murdered in the bathroom? Lillian told us all about it last night on our way home from the airport, and I read some of your stories this morning. I had to get caught up on the news.”

“No, actually I came to—”

I wanted to go on, but Scott grabbed the Judge’s attention by scratching at the desk and pulling himself up off the floor. His broad forehead rose above the desk, and he stood up and swayed back and forth like a chubby metronome.

“Yes, Scott?” said the Judge. “What is it?”

Scott made a loud, flubbery fart.

“Damn it, Scott, you know you mustn’t do that. You do that in the bathroom. Go on. Go the toilet.”

The odor drifted across the room, and Scott plodded through it. I pulled in my feet to give him more space. Lillian took his hand and hurried him away.

The Judge bit his lip and shook his head. “Poor guy. He never does that in front of people. He’s not himself. He’s been underfoot all day. He’s happy we’re home. I shouldn’t have yelled at him. I hurt his feelings.”

“You didn’t yell,” I said.

“No? Good. I hope not.” He stared at the vacant doorway.

I waited a moment and then said, “The reason I’m here, Judge, is to see if you can tell me something about the Good Shepherd Home, the foster home that Hugh and Grace DeLong used to run. I’ve heard some allegations that some of the children who stayed in the home were physically or sexually abused.”

He had been staring blankly out the window until my last few words sank in. “What?” He scowled in disbelief. “Who the hell said that?”

“I’m sorry, Judge. That’s confidential.”

He made another scowl. “All right. What do your confidential sources say was done to them?”

I related what Paula had told me, omitting no details except names and sexes. The part about a deputy sheriff who took young children to some pedophile’s house made the Judge wince and shake his head, either in doubt or disgust. The part about forcible sodomy in a car made him shut his eyes and throw up his hands.

“These are mighty serious charges,” he said. “Hard to believe. Hard to believe without proof.”

“I know, Judge. That’s why I’m here. Grace DeLong told me they’re a pack of lies. She said you would back her up.”

“And I do. There’s not a scintilla of truth in it, as far as I know.” His slack cheeks shook emphatically.

“Did you ever hear any complaints or rumors about child abuse at the Good Shepherd Home?”

He stared at me as if I had slapped his face. “If I had, I would have ordered an investigation. My God, Phil, do you think I would have sent children there if I thought there was the remotest possibility they would be abused in any way? I certainly hope not.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that, Judge. I’m just checking out what I’ve been told.”

He nodded. “I understand. That’s your job. No offense taken. But I want you to understand how seriously I would have responded to the slightest hint of such abuse.”

“How about the couple who ran the home, Mr. and Mrs. DeLong—did you know them personally?”

“Yes. We weren’t close friends, but I knew them.”

“What do you know about them? Did they have any training in running a foster home?”

“I never did a background check on them. That wasn’t the court’s responsibility. Having said that, I do know that the DeLongs were good people. They owned a small farm, and Mr. DeLong drove a school bus.”

“I hadn’t heard he was a school-bus driver.”

“Yes, for many years, I believe. He knew how to deal with children. A school bus can get pretty rowdy. I never heard of any complaints against him. And you know, for many many years I was the only judge in Meridian County, so I believe I would have heard if he was a child molester.”

We sat in silence. I tapped my lips with one finger and stared outside.

“Is there a problem?” he said.

I went on tapping. Then I said, “I’m having a problem making sense of it. Almost everyone I’ve talked to, including some people who were in the home when they were kids, denies that children were abused there. But I don’t think my informants were lying. The descriptions of what took place were too detailed—that is, when they finally were willing to talk about it.”

“How many informants do you have?”

“Three. But maybe ‘informant’ is the wrong word for two of them. One person made some very strong accusations. The other two were less willing to talk about what occurred at the home; however, some of the things they told me seemed to jive with the other one’s story.”

“I see. You said you didn’t think any of your—let’s call them witnesses—were lying about their experiences. Perhaps ‘lying’ is the wrong word too. Perhaps they simply exaggerated to get your attention. Or maybe they made up some of the details and then convinced themselves they had really occurred.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“People do strange things.” He prodded gently: “Just between you and me, Phil, who gave you this information? Were they people I sent to the home?”

“I can’t say for sure. I assume they were.”

“It’s certainly possible. Or it may have been a special judge. I wish you would tell me their names—in strict confidence.”

“I’m sorry, Judge.”

With a patronizing smile he said, “Well, I admire your discretion.”

I stood up to leave, but he raised his hand like a traffic cop. “Tell me, Phil, why all this interest in the Good Shepherd Home. Is it connected with the murders in some way?”

Through the wide windows the manicured lawn seemed to doze under an endless sky. The house was quiet. The air around me seemed to shimmer, as if I were sitting in a bubble. It felt like a languorous daydream. I wished the Judge wasn’t there. His words hung in the air like an axe.

“It just came up,” I said. “It was serendipity.”

“It has no connection to the murders, then?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What was the name of the woman you were with when you found the two bodies in the house? I know you had it in the paper, but it’s slipped my mind.”

“She told me her name was Paula Henry, but the state-police detective in charge of the case said her name is actually Paula Boofey.”

“Ah, yes.” He sat back, nodding thoughtfully. “I remember a case with a woman named Boofey. It was ten or fifteen years ago, as I recall. Now what was her name? Ellen? Edith? No, Edna. Edna Boofey. She had a daughter named Paula. See, the old brain still works.” A sly triumph twinkled in his eyes. “If I had to guess, I’d say Paula is one of the sources of your information on the Good Shepherd Home.” Grinning mischievously, he added, “But you don’t have to tell me. You have to protect your sources.”

My reverie had dissolved. I sat up straight and met his gaze. A fine crazing etched the whites of his eyes. “I still can’t confirm it, Judge,” I said.

“You don’t have to. It’s no longer necessary.”

“I don’t think my informants were deluded,” I said. “I don’t believe they made it up.”

“That’s your prerogative. But as for Ms. Boofey, she must have something to hide, or she wouldn’t have disappeared the night you found the bodies.”

“She was afraid of the police for some reason.”

“Yes, so you said in your article. She sounds to me like a clever, gutsy young woman.” He got up unexpectedly. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in what she says, if I were you.” He smiled benevolently and stretched out his hand. “This has been very interesting, Phil.” His handshake was even tighter than before.

As we left the den, Lillian came rushing through the hall. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been on the phone all this time. I was going to ask if you’d like some coffee.”

“None for me, Lill,” the Judge said. “Nature calls. Good visiting with you, Phil.” With a tottering but stately stride, he disappeared into a hallway on the right.

Sunlight dappled the polished floor. Lillian stood on one stiff leg and swayed slightly on her other heel. “We’re having a little get-together tomorrow night,” she said. “Sort of a welcome-home party for the Judge and Adele. Would you like to come?”

I didn’t think twice about it. “Yes, I would. Thanks.” It would give me a chance to meet some more Brandons.

“Good. Around eight. Nothing fancy.”

Pots and pans banged and clattered in the kitchen. “Now what?” Lillian said. She hurried around me to open the door. “See you tomorrow then, Phil.”

“I’ll be here.”

I walked out into the blue and green daydream.