Both greet us very politely, and each makes a practiced bow to Wallace, accompanied by a “Good afternoon, Keeper.” Madeline is then sent off to her room, but I think I detect a slight rolling of her eyes, a move common to teenagers everywhere. It’s the first spontaneous sign of humanity I have seen in this town.
The interior of the house is perfectly kept. Everything is meticulously maintained, and although nothing in the house seems to be of any real financial value, the feeling is that each possession is cherished and appreciated by Mrs. Barlow. On some level it makes it even more painful to think that she has lost a daughter to a horrific murder.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” I say.
“The Keeper asked me to,” she says, leaving no doubt that there could be no request from the Keeper that she would not rush to grant. This guy has an extraordinary hold over his parishioners.
“I’m representing Jeremy Davidson, the young man accused of the murders. Do you know him?”
She gives a half-nod. “I’ve spoken with him on the phone… I believe twice. We’ve never met.”
“But you know he was your daughter’s boyfriend? That they talked of being married?”
“I don’t believe that. They were simply friends.”
She’s either lying or did not exactly have the kind of relationship in which her daughter shared her secrets. “So your daughter never referred to Jeremy as her boyfriend?”
She shakes her head. “No, and Liz was very open with me. If that was the case, I certainly would have known it.”
“Did she tell you about Eddie?” I ask.
I see something in her eyes, only for a moment. It isn’t a flash quite of fear, but maybe one of concern. She covers it up quickly, but asking her about Eddie, the name that Liz’s friends at school said she had mentioned, has definitely gotten a reaction.
“I’m not familiar with anyone named… with anyone by that name.”
She seems unwilling to even say the name, so I say it for her. “Eddie.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Can you tell me the names of any boyfriends Liz ever had?”
Mrs. barlow glances quickly at Wallace, then looks back at me. “Not really. There was never anyone serious. She was so young.” Her last sentence may well be the first honest one she’s said to me, and the simple truth that her daughter died so young causes her eyes to fill with tears.
Keeper Wallace sees this and intervenes. “Must you maintain such a focus on this innocent young girl’s private life?”
“Did she have a public life?” I ask, perhaps too harshly because I’m annoyed. I’m trying to find out why this girl was hacked to death, and this guy thinks I should be asking about her favorite color.
The interview continues, but I get absolutely nowhere. At one point Madeline walks by the open door, and I request permission to speak with her, but Mrs. Barlow and Wallace rebuff me simultaneously. It’s a shame, because Madeline looks like the type to say what she thinks.
I thank Mrs. Barlow, and Marcus and I leave. He hasn’t said a word the entire time we were in there, but he got as much helpful information out of the session as I did. Zero.
I say good-bye to Wallace, who no doubt assumes I’m leaving his precious town for good. Instead we follow him in our car to the town hall. We all get out of our cars, me holding a manila envelope Calvin gave me, and I can feel Wallace staring at us as Marcus and I enter the building next door, in which I met Drummond.
I head to the office of the town clerk, which I saw on my previous visit. Marcus and I walk in without knocking, and the woman behind the desk seems about to have a stroke when she sees us enter.
“Good afternoon,” I say.
“I’m afraid that we don’t-,” she says, and since it doesn’t seem like the rest of the sentence is going to be terribly helpful, I interrupt her.
“We’re going to need some records,” I say, opening the envelope for her. “This request should speak for itself. We’ll need voter rolls, school enrollments, property tax lists… things like that. It’s all listed here.”
She has no idea what to make of this, but she’s frightened by it anyway. “I’ll have to speak to Mr. Drummond.”
I smile agreeably. “No problem. Just let me know when the information is ready, and I’ll come pick it up.”
Marcus and I leave, and I call Sam Willis on my cell phone. He seems happy to hear from me, and even more so when I tell him i need his help. Sam is a computer genius and can hack his way into any computer worth hacking into. It’s not always legal, but very often necessary.
Sam has helped me out with computer investigations in the past, and he enjoys doing so. He sees himself as Kojak with a keyboard. I always pay him for his efforts, but he would most definitely do it for nothing.
Sam is also a master at song-talking, and since he does it at every possible opportunity, proudly describing my “Town Without Pity” conversation with Laurie would only set him off, so I don’t. Instead I tell him what I need, which is to hack into both Center City and Wisconsin state computers to get exactly the same information I just requested of the town clerk.
“No problem,” he says. “When do you need it?”
“Yesterday morning,” I say. “But if that’s a problem, I’ll take it last night.”
“I’m on the case,” he says.
“Can you do it without them letting you know you’ve been in their computers?”
“Duhhhh,” he says, as a way of letting me know that he can certainly do that, and it was stupid of me to ask.
“Gotcha,” I say. “Call me when you’ve made some progress, Sam…”
“Hey, wait a minute, don’t get off yet. I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”a
He’s right; I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to even contact any of my friends. “Sorry,” I say, “what’s doing?”
“Things here are fine,” he says. “How are things in Wisconsin? Nice women?”
“Nice women?” I repeat, to make sure I heard correctly. “Yes, very nice. Very nice women.”
“That’s what I figured,” he says. “I mean, East Coast girls are hip, I really dig those styles they wear. And the southern girls with the way they talk, they knock me out when I’m down there.”
“Bye, Sam,” I say, cutting him off before he can tell me that the Midwest farmers’ daughters will really make me feel all right. He is an incorrigible song-talker.
Marcus and I no sooner arrive back at the house than we receive a faxed letter from Stephen Drummond, refusing our request for the information asked of the town clerk. He cites the town citizens’ right to confidentiality, which means he must think that I, having not gone to Harvard, am a legal idiot.
I turn to Marcus. “Do I look like a legal idiot to you?”
“Unhh,” says Marcus.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
• • • • •
CALVIN HAS ALREADY prepared the motion, called a writ of mandamus, and we file it with the court less than an hour after receiving the refusal by Stephen Drummond to provide the documents. Included in the motion is a claim that the documents are crucial to our preparation of an adequate defense for Jeremy, and we have an expectation that this claim will prompt Judge Morrison to act quickly.