I’m going to go see him now. Do you want to
come back with me?”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Marty gathered up the
remainder of their meal and deposited it in the wastebasket. If her mother saw
what the couple left over, there would be hell to pay.
“These were in the back of the pickup. I figured the kid
might need something familiar.” Justin said, as they all gathered in the
corridor outside the boy’s room. Jean had joined them and was frantically
trying to open a bag of chips she had gotten from one of the vending machines. Marty
watched as she used her teeth to tear into it; the bag exploded, scattering
chips across the floor. Cussing under her breath, she began to pick them up,
but one of the hospital’s orderlies stopped her with a wave of his hand,
signaling that he would take care of the mess. She gave him a half-hearted
smile, letting him know how grateful she was.
Justin held up a child-sized striped polo shirt and a pair of
jeans. The shirt was clean but wrinkled. As Marty took the shirt from the pile
in Justin’s hands, he noticed it still had a strong scent of laundry detergent.
Stuck to the chest pocket was one of those paper name tags. Written in red
marker, in block letters, was a name. TRISTAN.
Marty read the name out loud and watched to see if he got a
reaction. The boy was laying curled up in fetal position, both hands curled
into a fist. Brown, wavy curls fell, covering what he remembered as his round,
deer-like green eyes, but he was still able to see the kid was watching them
suspiciously. The moment Marty said the name out loud, the boy’s eyelids closed
shut and his facial muscles tightened from clenching his teeth. Marty was
pretty sure that the boy had heard him and the question of his having a hearing
problem, in his opinion, was now moot.
Justin handed Hope the jeans and then pulled out some paperwork
from his pocket and began to read the contents aloud.
“The dead guy, Archie Blakey, aka Fred Blakey, aka Freddie Archman
has a rap sheet a mile long. Man was arrested and convicted in 1978 for
molesting a seven-year-old boy. Spent one year in prison in the state of
Washington. Arrested again in Oregon in 1985, accused of trying to abduct a
neighbor’s six-year-old son. He was represented by a court appointed attorney
and acquitted on some technicality. He was arrested in New York for soliciting
in 1988, and a few more misdemeanors, but there doesn’t appear to be any
convictions. A few traffic infractions in 1990 after that, and one domestic
dispute arrest in Oregon, but we can’t find anything else.”
He went on.
“The guy in surgery fits the description of the registered
owner of the pickup. Troy Blakey; age twenty–eight. Address on record is also Fort
Rock, Oregon. No priors. The deceased, Archie Blakey, had some I.D. on his
person with the same exact address.”
Marty saw Jean and Hope look at each other. They were
engaged in some sort of silent communication being conducted with their eyes.
The two of them seemed to know what the other was thinking.
Marty turned and directed his question to Hope. “What?
What’s going on? What are you thinking?” he asked her.
She shook her head, but it was Jean that answered his
question. “Same address, same last name. I just hope we don’t have another one
of those father and son sociopath teams.” she said, taking the report from
Justin’s hand.
“Do you think they’re father and son?” Hope asked her.
Then it finally hit Marty, they were both thinking about
Dennis and Arnold Maurer, the infamous father and son serial rapists and serial
killers.
Jean handed the paper back to Justin. Folding the sheet of
paper, he placed it back in his pocket. He started to walk out of the room, but
stopped. “They have been searching the system for missing kids that fit this little
boy’s description, but so far nada. We don’t have a clue who this kid is.” He
turned to face the boy lying on the hospital bed.
Marty
come back with me?”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Marty gathered up the
remainder of their meal and deposited it in the wastebasket. If her mother saw
what the couple left over, there would be hell to pay.
“These were in the back of the pickup. I figured the kid
might need something familiar.” Justin said, as they all gathered in the
corridor outside the boy’s room. Jean had joined them and was frantically
trying to open a bag of chips she had gotten from one of the vending machines. Marty
watched as she used her teeth to tear into it; the bag exploded, scattering
chips across the floor. Cussing under her breath, she began to pick them up,
but one of the hospital’s orderlies stopped her with a wave of his hand,
signaling that he would take care of the mess. She gave him a half-hearted
smile, letting him know how grateful she was.
Justin held up a child-sized striped polo shirt and a pair of
jeans. The shirt was clean but wrinkled. As Marty took the shirt from the pile
in Justin’s hands, he noticed it still had a strong scent of laundry detergent.
Stuck to the chest pocket was one of those paper name tags. Written in red
marker, in block letters, was a name. TRISTAN.
Marty read the name out loud and watched to see if he got a
reaction. The boy was laying curled up in fetal position, both hands curled
into a fist. Brown, wavy curls fell, covering what he remembered as his round,
deer-like green eyes, but he was still able to see the kid was watching them
suspiciously. The moment Marty said the name out loud, the boy’s eyelids closed
shut and his facial muscles tightened from clenching his teeth. Marty was
pretty sure that the boy had heard him and the question of his having a hearing
problem, in his opinion, was now moot.
Justin handed Hope the jeans and then pulled out some paperwork
from his pocket and began to read the contents aloud.
“The dead guy, Archie Blakey, aka Fred Blakey, aka Freddie Archman
has a rap sheet a mile long. Man was arrested and convicted in 1978 for
molesting a seven-year-old boy. Spent one year in prison in the state of
Washington. Arrested again in Oregon in 1985, accused of trying to abduct a
neighbor’s six-year-old son. He was represented by a court appointed attorney
and acquitted on some technicality. He was arrested in New York for soliciting
in 1988, and a few more misdemeanors, but there doesn’t appear to be any
convictions. A few traffic infractions in 1990 after that, and one domestic
dispute arrest in Oregon, but we can’t find anything else.”
He went on.
“The guy in surgery fits the description of the registered
owner of the pickup. Troy Blakey; age twenty–eight. Address on record is also Fort
Rock, Oregon. No priors. The deceased, Archie Blakey, had some I.D. on his
person with the same exact address.”
Marty saw Jean and Hope look at each other. They were
engaged in some sort of silent communication being conducted with their eyes.
The two of them seemed to know what the other was thinking.
Marty turned and directed his question to Hope. “What?
What’s going on? What are you thinking?” he asked her.
She shook her head, but it was Jean that answered his
question. “Same address, same last name. I just hope we don’t have another one
of those father and son sociopath teams.” she said, taking the report from
Justin’s hand.
“Do you think they’re father and son?” Hope asked her.
Then it finally hit Marty, they were both thinking about
Dennis and Arnold Maurer, the infamous father and son serial rapists and serial
killers.
Jean handed the paper back to Justin. Folding the sheet of
paper, he placed it back in his pocket. He started to walk out of the room, but
stopped. “They have been searching the system for missing kids that fit this little
boy’s description, but so far nada. We don’t have a clue who this kid is.” He
turned to face the boy lying on the hospital bed.
Marty
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