Kemmer, a tall, thin nervous-looking man about forty, met Greg at the Chattanooga Airport. He was dressed casually and driving a squad car, so there was no need for Greg to pick up a rental. Before they left the airport, Greg bought a bouquet of flowers.
On the phone, Greg had explained to Kemmer that he was here to investigate the similarities between the Dixon case and another he had been working on for three years. What Greg didn’t mention was that he was here on his own money and time, which was why they were meeting on Saturday. As far as anybody at the Sagamore station knew, he was off fishing for the weekend.
Kemmer gave him a copy of the Dixon boy’s complete file, including the names, addresses, and depositions of everybody they had interviewed since the boy’s disappearance as well as his medical and dental records. “Ten pounds of notes, and zero leads,” Kemmer said.
The drive took over an hour, mostly through backcountry roads. On the way, Kemmer warned Greg that the Dixons weren’t keen on the police. Apparently a few years back, Vernon Dixon had threatened a bank loan officer with physical harm because he couldn’t make mortgage payments. When the sheriff’s officer came by to investigate, Vernon met him with a rifle. He was arrested, put in jail for three days, and fined two hundred dollars for threatening an officer. “He’s one of those people who just doesn’t trust the law. Grady disappeared, and he refused to accept how we couldn’t find him. Bitched and moaned we weren’t doing enough, which was bullshit, man, since we had half the county looking for him, including dogs specially trained to sniff out cadavers. We musta covered twenty square miles of woods—and out there it’s as thick as fur.”
“Do you have kids?”
“Two.” Then Kemmer considered the question. “Yeah, maybe when it’s your own it’s different. But, man, we hit stone. Not a flipping lead. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say we felt exonerated when he turned up your way. But the old man’s still pissing on us, so prepare yourself is all I gotta say.”
As small as it was, the Dixon place was tidy and cheerful looking, belying the agony the inhabitants must have suffered. Against the red brick was crisp white trim, including a porch banister running the length of the place. Pots of red geraniums hung from support poles. The upkeep was no doubt an expression of the Dixons’ hope against all odds. Greg wondered where people found such strength.
Kemmer pulled the car under a large shade tree. Sitting on a crushed gravel driveway was a battered gray station wagon. Attached to the side of the house was a propane tank. From a nearby willow hung a tire swing. A wading pool lay nearby. The water was bright green. What caught Greg’s eye was the faded yellow ribbon tied around a tree at the edge of the drive.
Greg got out of the car and instantly he felt perspiration bead across his brow. The heat and humidity were borderline lethal.
Vernon Dixon came out to greet them. He was a heavyset man, with thick hamlike arms, a balding head, and broad unfriendly red face. He was dressed in blue jeans, yellow work boots, and a black T-shirt. He nodded at Kemmer who nodded back and introduced Greg who handed Dixon a business card.
Dixon scowled at the card and the flowers in his hand.
“I’m very sorry about your son, Mr. Dixon.”
He gave Greg a nod.
“What kind of a name is Zakarian?”
“Armenian.”
Vernon grunted. “We don’t get many of your kind down here.”
“I guess not.”
“Is that like Arabian?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Is that important to know?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes? What the hell kind of answer is that? You do or you don’t.”
“Mr. Dixon, are we really going to stand out here and argue my religious convictions?”
“I guess not. But I don’t believe in the bastard anymore, because He let somebody take my kid.” Then he tossed his head toward the house. “It’s cooler inside.” And he led the way.
The interior was cooler with the help of a small AC humming in a rear window and a fan on the coffee table. They had entered a small living room with oversized chairs upholstered in green imitation leather. Mrs. Dixon was standing at the threshold to the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. She was a solid-bodied woman with a drawn white face and short-cropped brown hair. She said hello to Kemmer and shook Greg’s hand.
Greg handed her the bouquet of flowers. “I’m very sorry about your son.”
She thanked him and went to get something to put them in.
“You boys want something to drink?” Dixon asked. “Beer? Lemonade? Dr Pepper? The lemonade’s fresh. Winnie just made it.”
Through the door Greg spotted an open container of frozen drink by the sink. “The lemonade will be fine, thank you.”
“Ditto,” Kemmer said. While Vernon went to get the drinks, Kemmer looked at Greg and rolled his eyes to say, I told you so.
Greg made a noncommittal smile and looked around. Most of the room was taken up by the couch and chairs. A faux fireplace mantel sat against the wall. On it sat several photographs of Grady. And one framed illustration of Jesus, his face raised into the light, his hands pressed in prayer.
Dixon returned with a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. “Do your people up there have any idea how Grady died, cuz the boys down here don’t have a damn clue?” He said that without even a glance at Kemmer.
“Not really,” Greg said. “But I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions because we may have a similar case.”
“We’re goddamn questioned out. It’s answer time.”
Mrs. Dixon returned with the flowers in a glass vase and set it on the mantel next to the boy’s photos. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying in the kitchen. “They’re lovely, thank you very much,” she said.
Greg nodded.
From a pack of Newport Lights, she punched out a cigarette and returned to the kitchen where she turned on a burner from the gas stove, stuck the cigarette into the flame until it started burning, then sucked it to a blush. She then returned to the living room. She looked shaky. “Do you have children of your own, Sergeant Zakarian?”
“No, I don’t.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of a name is Zakarian?”
This was becoming tiresome. “Armenian.”
“That’s Christian, right?”
“Yes,” he said, hoping she wasn’t going to begin another inquisition.
“Well, we had a proper Christian burial for our boy last week. Malcolm Childers, the reverend at Mount Ida’s Baptist, gave a very special service for Grady. And after, his wife, Pammie Rae, held us a lunch. It was simply lovely. I swear half the county turned out.” Her voice cracked, and she struggled to maintain composure. “There I go again, and I thought I was cried out.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“You know, just to give us closure.”
“Closure!” Vernon grunted. “There’s no such thing. Never’s any closure when your kid’s been murdered.” He shook his head. “I just hope he didn’t suffer, is all.” His voice hitting gravel.
“Well, I feel better cuz he’s home where he belongs.”
“Only way I’ll feel better is if I had five minutes in the room with the sumbitch who did this to him. Five minutes is all.” As he said that, the muscles in his neck and arms tightened, and rage darkened his face. Greg could understand how Dixon had run afoul of the law.
Greg got up and went to the mantel to inspect the photographs. Several shots of the boy outside on the tire swing, at a birthday party, in the wading pool. “Handsome little guy.”