No reply.
“Is he in the house?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wayne. Come on. That’s Karen Weatherfeld’s Jeep.”
“Jeep’s mine.”
“With California plates.”
“I used to live in California,” he said.
I squinted past the pickup truck. “Is he out back?”
Wayne Crahan took a drag. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem. Just want to say hello to him.”
He chuckled, smoke billowing. The dogs were still going crazy.
I said, “You have my word.”
“See, friend, I don’t know what your word’s worth.”
He flicked ash toward the sheds. “Hush,” he said.
The barking ceased.
“Well trained,” I said.
“Nobody wants a pit bull don’t listen to instructions,” he said.
He sucked the cigarette down to the filter, dropped the butt, and toed it out.
“Do I have your permission to look around?” I said.
Before he could reply, footsteps came up the side of the house.
Karen Weatherfeld emerged from the shadows, saw me, and stopped short.
I raised my eyebrows at Crahan, who shrugged.
“You followed me?” she said.
I said, “How’s he doing?”
She seemed torn over whether to yell at me or thank me. At last she sighed, rubbed her forehead, came over to join us. “Not great.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Not tonight. He needs to rest and let the medication take effect.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Let’s see how he is,” she said. “I was planning on coming by to check on him.”
“Did you give him my message?” I asked.
“I think it’s a bit much for him to handle right now.” She turned to Crahan. “You’ll keep an eye on him overnight.”
“Yup,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. Adding: “I wish you’d called me sooner.”
Crahan sniffed. “We’re fine.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said. “But that’s what I’m here for.”
“I said we’re fine.”
They regarded each other tautly.
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “It’s been probably two, three months since he ran out of meds. How’s he been managing this whole time?”
“I split him some of mine,” Crahan said.
We both looked at him.
“What,” he said.
We all arranged to touch base in the morning. Before leaving, Karen Weatherfeld went back to check on Julian once more. I stood in the yard, chapping my hands against the cold. Crahan fired up another cigarette and offered me the pack.
“I’m good, thanks.”
He blew out smoke. “Sorry I had to lie to you there.”
“I get it,” I said. “He’s your friend.”
He nodded.
“You two lived together long?” I said.
“Couple years. My uncle don’t charge no rent cept he takes half what we make from the dogs. Good dog get you three, four hunnerd.”
“You and Julian used to work together,” I said.
“Not since I hurt my back. He still likes to mess around. Him and tools, they get along.”
“I know, I’ve seen his stuff.”
“Oh yeah? Cool. I was the one helped him get the site set up.”
“Site... Website?”
“Yup.”
I said, “Julian has a website.”
“Etsy, man,” Crahan said. “People go crazy for that shit.”
“What’s he make? Chairs?”
“Nah, not no more. We don’t got the room for a workshop, pretty much just the lathe. Cutting boards, bowls. Little sells quicker and anyhow it’s easier to ship. He helps out with the dogs, too. The dogs like him.” He coughed. “Straight up: what trouble’s he in, huh?”
“None. I gave you my word.”
He nodded skeptically. “Then what’s your message for him?”
“That it’s okay for him to come home.”
Crahan sniffed, sucked in smoke.
“Whatever, man,” he said. “He’s home.”
Chapter 41
I checked into a hotel-casino in downtown Reno, fifty dollars for a nonsmoking room that smelled like a bonfire of used jockstraps. The window opened a maximum of six inches. I left it cracked and cranked up the thermostat. Let the elements slug it out.
For the next couple of hours I wandered neon streets, breathing steam, enjoying my anonymity. Dinner was a cheeseburger and fries. From my booth I watched through fogged glass as the lucky and the unlucky stumbled by.
Wayne Crahan’s words kept coming back to me.
He’s home.
Crahan had given me the address of Triplett’s Etsy page. The shop was called Two Dogs Woodworking; it made no mention of either man by name, which was why it had escaped my previous searches. Licking grease from my fingers, I thumbed through the catalog on my phone, browsing pet food bowls, salad bowls, birdhouses, coasters, bracelets. By and large, their feedback was positive. Beautiful item. Well made. Good deal. A few people had complaints about the seller’s slow response time or his grouchy attitude, which I had to laugh at. Michael Wayne Crahan, friendly face of customer service.
Back at the hotel, the heater and the window had fought to a comfortable stalemate. I showered off a day’s worth of driving, then called Nate Schickman to tell him the news.
He congratulated me, asking if I could collect a DNA sample from Triplett.
“Let me see first how’s his state of mind,” I said. “I’m not sure trying to swab him is the best way to establish trust.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been thinking on what we do next. Say we get everyone on the same page, it pans out, we wind up with enough to show it wasn’t Triplett. That only takes us so far. Overturning a conviction?”
“Bigger deal.”
“Exactly. So I was thinking. There’s this group over at the law school works on these sorts of cases. We could throw it to them.”
“Your bosses okay with that?”
“Ordinarily, hell no. Right now? You know how shit is.”
I did. Trust was at a low ebb. Even a cop like me, largely removed from the grind of the streets, felt it. I thought about the woman in Berkeley who’d cussed me out, flipped me off, called me a fascist. Both sides felt misused, hamstrung, frustrated, spooked.
“This prof, Berkowitz, runs the place,” he said. “It’s not like we’re her favorite people in the world. Or vice versa, frankly. Now imagine we bring her this on a platter.”
“Building bridges,” I said.
“Ames is a politician at heart. That’s as good a reason as any for him to sign off.”
“Plus he gets to put Bascombe on a spike,” I said.
Schickman laughed. “Yeah, that too. So what do you say?”
“Fine by me.” Then, thinking of Vitti, I said, “You’ll have to keep my name out of it.”
“No way, dude. I’m not taking credit for your work.”
“Still plenty left to do,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, after I’ve met with Triplett.”
“Enjoy Reno,” he said. “Stay classy.”
The price of my room included the breakfast buffet. Eight a.m., Karen Weatherfeld met me in the restaurant, nursing tap water while I feasted on tough eggs and pale toast.
“I wish Wayne had come to me sooner,” she said. She looked exhausted and sounded anguished. “I had no idea things had deteriorated to this point.”
“I’m sure he would’ve called if it became an emergency.”
She waved, denying herself forgiveness. Then, reconsidering, she said: “The fact of the matter is, Julian has done very well. As well as you can expect for someone with schizophrenia. If that’s really what he has.”