Favorite Sons (27 page)

“I suspect. Dad said Jack Vukovich was nothing more than a child rapist and he was just trying to save his sorry ass at the expense of a good kid. Dad told the sheriff to leave and not to come back unless he had a warrant. Dad asked Sky if he had a murder weapon. He didn't. Did he have any collaborating witnesses? No, he didn't. He said, you've no physical evidence and no witnesses, just the word of an admitted rapist. If all you've got is Jack Vukovich's word, then you've got nothing. We watched the sheriff's car pull into the drive, back out, and leave. About the same time the taillights disappeared down the street, the old man started up the steps. We were both sitting in Adrian's room in our underwear when he came in. He sat down on the edge of Adrian's bed and said, ‘Okay, let's hear it.'

“We told him everything. We laid it out, including throwing that maul in the river and our agreement to keep quiet. Dad sat there for a few minutes, absorbing everything we'd said, then he said, “Get some rest,” and went back downstairs. You know what I remember most about that night? Adrian was an absolute basket case. He was sobbing so hard he could hardly get his breath. Hell, he was only fifteen and I thought he was going to have a heart attack. The old man never gave him a hug, never told him things were going to be okay, gave no reassurance at all. It was all business. He was working on a plan to get Adrian out of trouble, but he didn't show the first bit of compassion. After he went downstairs, I heard him talking on the phone. I couldn't hear what he
was saying, but when we came downstairs the next morning there was a defense attorney from Pittsburgh sitting at the kitchen table talking to Dad. His name was Frank Guyton and I remember thinking that he smiled and laughed a lot for a defense attorney. He gave us each a business card, and on the back was this paragraph we were supposed to read to a cop if he tried to question us. Basically, it said we're not talking and you need to call our attorney.”

“Was that it?”

“No, Guyton came back later that day. He and Dad talked in whispers out on the patio. I don't know what all was said, but I saw Dad exhale, like he was relieved about something, then he pumped Guyton's hand and told him how grateful he was for everything Guyton had done. That was it. Before Guyton left he told Dad, ‘Make sure you take care of the other two.'”

“Deak and me?”

He nodded. “Remember when you and Deak came over to the house for the cookout after that baseball game against Cadiz? We ate, then Adrian and I left with Mom. That was all arranged so Dad could have some private time to talk to you two and make sure you were going to keep quiet.”

“Where did Guyton go after he left the house that morning? Up to talk to the sheriff?”

“Beats the hell out of me, Hutch. I honestly don't know what happened, and I never asked. Can I guess? Sure. I'd say someone got a big, fat payoff to stay away from Adrian, but I don't know that for sure. They charged Vukovich with the murder and even though I knew he didn't do it, I was just grateful that Adrian was off the hook and it wasn't our problem anymore. I figured once that bastard went to prison we were home free.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and pondered the story I had just heard. It didn't dramatically change the situation, as far as I could tell. “I hate to ask this, Pepper, but is your dad still alive?”

“Yeah, he had a bout with lung cancer a few years ago. No surprise, I guess, considering he smoked cigars the way most people smoke cigarettes. He went through chemo and radiation and it's in remission. He's plugging away, too damn mean to die. He's at the bank every day at six in the morning, and he's never at home before six at night.”

“What about Adrian?”

He shrugged. “Believe it or not, I haven't seen him in about four years. He doesn't come around. He's living on a little dirt farm that Dad bought for him somewhere out around Bergholz.”

“Adrian's a farmer?”

Pepper shook his head. “No. I think that was the original idea, but he just lives there. I think he leases out the land to a farmer down the road. Adrian doesn't do much of anything these days except drink, smoke dope, and mooch off the old man. He's a fuckin' embarrassment. You know, I can remember sitting at the dinner table and Adrian said his long-term plan was to go off to college, win the Heisman Trophy, and come back and be president of the bank after his career in the pros was over. Obviously, that didn't work out quite the way he planned.”

“Was the knee injury the start of the problems?”

“Knee injury?” Pepper scoffed, spitting like he had a mouthful of dog piss. “You know what Adrian's problem was? He got to the University of Iowa and found out that no one there gave a rat's ass that he was the great Adrian Nash, or that his dad was the bank president. He also found out there is a great big world outside of Crystalton, Ohio, and there are lot of guys out there who can play the game, and a whole bunch of them were anxious to take his head off. He thought he was simply going to walk on the field and take over, and it didn't happen like that. Some other freshman beat him out and was the starting varsity quarterback. It zonked Adrian's mind. They moved him to fullback, tight end, wide receiver. He was a fish out of water. He dropped out of school after fall semester of his sophomore year. My dad said it was because Adrian had a bad knee, but the only thing wrong with Adrian was this.” Pepper pointed to his forehead. “He was a damn head case.”

“Why didn't he at least stay and get his education?”

“Because he was the great Adrian Nash. He couldn't stand the fact that he had failed. In his defense, my dad put so much pressure on him it was ridiculous. He couldn't stand it that Adrian wasn't a star, either. After the seventy-six season, the year Pitt won the national championship, we had a big banquet and I invited Mom and Dad. I earned a varsity letter as a redshirt freshman. I mostly played special
teams and mop-up work at safety, but what the hell? It was a varsity letter on a national championship team. You know what the old man talked about all night? He wanted me to talk to the coach about getting Adrian a scholarship to Pitt.” Pepper got up and went to the window overlooking the restaurant. He ran his hands through his thinning hair and locked them atop his head, taking a couple of deep breaths. “That was just about the beginning of the end of any civil relationship with the old man.” He walked back to his chair and sat down, slouching, his legs extended and crossed on the granite table. “This mess with Vukovich is not a good thing for either of us.”

“Agreed.”

“Not for Deak, either. He's built up a nice church just outside of Steubenville. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“Heck of an operation. He has a Christian school and some kind of social outreach program that's gotten a lot of attention for helping the poor.”

“What about Adrian?”

“It's not going to bother him. Legally, could they do anything to him?”

“No. He was a juvenile. They won't pursue it.” I took the last sip of my coffee and set the empty cup back in the saucer. “Hard to believe that we did this to protect Adrian and now he has less to lose than any of us.”

“True, but not in the eyes of our old man. He's the most realistic person I know, except when it comes to my brother. You bring up Adrian's name around Dad and his eyes light up and he starts doing a play-by-play of Adrian Nash heroics. You'd think it was still nineteen seventy-three and Adrian was leading us to the state championship. Trust me on this—Carson Nash will have a stroke if this gets out and bruises the precious memory of his eldest son.”

“How do I get in touch with Adrian?”

He shook his head. “I don't know, Hutch. I don't think he even has a telephone. The last time I asked Dad about him he said Adrian was spending most of his time at a place called the Crazy Horse Bar, somewhere out between Jewett and Scio.”

“I want to get everybody together and talk this over.”

“What's to talk about? Are you going to go after Vukovich?”

“Maybe. I'm waiting on some lab results to come back.”

“Christ, Hutch. That'll open up a shit storm. We've all got an awful lot to lose, and you're at the front of the line.”

“True. But I've got a fifteen-year-old mentally retarded boy who Vukovich has been molesting. I don't know that I can sit back and ignore it.”

“Can you wait until after the election? If this comes out it will kill your chances to be attorney general.”

I grinned. “Sounds like you've been talking to my campaign manager. Are you going to be around town for a while?”

“No travel plans.”

“Let me see if I can track down Adrian. I want to talk to Deak, too. If nothing else, I need to let them know what's coming down the pike. If Vukovich goes public with the information, I'd like to know if everyone will recommit to our continued silence.”

“I'm in. The solution's as simple today as it was then. We don't know anything, and we feign outrage of being wrongfully accused.” Pepper shook his head. “What year did that happen?”

“Nineteen seventy-one.”

“Thirty-three years, and it still hasn't gone away.”

I smiled and we walked toward the door. As I reached for the handle he slapped me across the shoulder with a backhand. He pointed to a photo propped on a bookshelf—a high school football team dressed in white pants and purple jerseys with gold trim. Printed across the bottom of the photo were the words “State Champs.”

“Remember those guys?” he asked.

“Every day,” I said.

Pepper walked me out to the car, gave me a business card with his cell phone number, and told me to keep him in the loop. I promised I would. Before I left the parking lot, I turned on my cell phone. There was a terse message from Shelly.

“Where the hell are you?”

A
t six fifteen Friday morning I called Shelly. I knew that she would be in the shower; I left a brief message, promising to call later, and hung up. This would infuriate her because she would know that I timed my call to avoid talking to her. I was in the shower when she called me back ten minutes later, and the call rolled to voice mail, which I'm sure made her eyes bleed.

I had spent the night at the Stoney Hollow Motel in Steubenville. As soon as I finished my shower I caught up on some work in my room, answered some e-mails, and drank several cups of harsh coffee that I made from the pot in my room. I ignored two more calls from Shelly and read the Wheeling
Intelligencer
for the first time in years. It was pushing eight by the time I called Margaret on my cell phone. “Just touching base,” I said.

“Have you talked to the girl?” she asked.

“No, not yet. I tried earlier but couldn't get a hold of her.”

“Uh-huh. You're not trying too hard, because she called here four times yesterday—that's
three
times after I told her you weren't here and I didn't know where you were—and she's already called twice this morning. And just so you know, I am about out of graciousness and good nature.”

“Okay, I'll call her in a little bit.”

“Please do. You also had two calls from a man named Jack. He said it was important that you contact him.”

“Did he leave a number?”

“No, he said you knew how to get a hold of him. Is this Jack the saggy-eyed creep that was in here the other day?”

“Uh-huh.”

She waited for me to offer an explanation, but I didn't.

My original plan was to drive to Jewett that morning and track down Adrian. However, I was disturbed by the story Pepper had told me the previous night. Vukovich had fingered Adrian as the killer, so why did Sky Kelso stop investigating? I had always assumed that with the physical evidence against him, Vukovich was without alibi and took a plea deal to avoid the death penalty. But that obviously wasn't the case. Vukovich told the authorities who killed Petey. So, why had the information died somewhere along the trail?

With the help of a phone book and the Internet map function on my laptop computer, I left the hotel at eight thirty and headed to nearby Wintersville and a story-and-a-half bungalow on Nimitz Avenue. I stopped by a fast food restaurant and bought a breakfast sandwich and a large black coffee. A girl who looked like she was twelve handed me my bag of food and gave me change for my twenty without comment. I wrapped the grease-stained receipt inside the bills and dropped the wad into a cup holder, then ate my breakfast on the way.

The brick house was modest but immaculate, all edged in white. The yard was lush and cut on a diagonal, the sidewalk trimmed, the flower beds stripped of their summer residents. A man who appeared to be in his mid-seventies sat on a porch swing, a pair of reading glasses low on his nose, whittling a piece of basswood with a pocketknife. He was unshaven, his white hair thin and brushed back on his head. Wood chips were sprinkled across the belly of his dull white T-shirt, and a wooden cane was hooked over the back of the swing. “Good morning,” I said.

He nodded. “Mornin'.”

“Whatcha whittlin'?” I asked.

He held it up for inspection. “It's a whistle for my great grandson. He likes trains and this'll sound like the whistle on a steam engine when I get it done.” He grinned. “It'll drive his parents crazy. What can I do for you?”

“Are you Sheriff Kelso?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I quit being Sheriff Kelso twelve years ago.” He worked his knife into a crevice of the wood and for a moment seemed to forget I was there. When he looked up he said, “I'm just Sky now.”

There appeared to be the outline of a .22-caliber pistol in his front pants pocket. I nodded toward it and said, “Is that just a habit or are you worried about old grudges?”

As he continued to work, he said, “Mister, there are a hell of a lot of crazy people in Jefferson County, and I suspect most saw the inside of my jail at one time or another. I see no cause to take chances.”