He wanted to look at some recent back issues of The Jefferson Courier at the newspaper’s office and he wanted to talk to Dave Taylor. He also wanted to be alone for a while to think. Or to try to figure out what to think. He had always dismissed unidentified flying objects as part of some kook fringe. But now he had a trusted friend telling him he had not only seen one, but that it was somehow involved in the disappearance of his daughter.
At the Courier office Bill was delighted to find that Graham Neal, the man who had hired him to cover basketball games while he was in high school and later hired him as a reporter during the summers between his college years, was still the editor. Not surprising, since his family had owned the newspaper for almost a century. The old man roared with joy when Bill stuck his head into his small office. Neal was older and grayer but had the same firm handshake and springy walk.
“Son of a bitch! Where the hell have you been? Last time I heard you were in South America. Damn, it’s good to see you again!”
Neal, which was all anyone could ever remember calling him, insisted on showing Bill around the office, which had been remodeled five years ago. Only a couple of office workers had been there long enough to remember him.
“You know how it is,” Neal said. “We hire young reporters and editors, train them and then they go off and get jobs on bigger papers. Just like you did. But you switched to books. Guess you hit the jackpot, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve done okay.”
“I was mighty sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thanks. It’s taken awhile, but I’m dealing with it.”
“So, what brings you to Jefferson?”
“Well, I came to help Paul and Sharon Watson.”
“That’s right. I forgot. You and Paul were best friends. Sad story. I wonder if they’ll ever find that little girl.”
“I sure hope so. Neal, can I look at some back issues of the paper? I didn’t know anything about what happened to Cindy until yesterday, and I want to catch up on the details. I know the stories are online, but I’d like to see the actual papers. There’s no context to a single story online. Plus, I guess I’m a little old-fashioned.”
“Sure. Help yourself. But there’s not much. She seems to have vanished into thin air. You know, there are rumors around town that the Sheriff’s office might be withholding some facts in the case. Dave Taylor swears not. Our new reporter, Daniel Scott’s his name, has been digging around, but I don’t think he’s found anything. If you hear something, let me know. You always were the best reporter we ever had here, even if you were only a part-timer. Remember when you had the whole damned city council pissed off at you and the paper? The bastards tried to organize an advertising boycott, but it never got anywhere.”
Bill remembered. He had written a story exposing a sweetheart deal between the council members and Jefferson’s major merchants. The politicians, Democrats and Republicans, were getting all kinds of freebies ranging from things as petty as movie tickets to clothes and groceries and even the use of new cars, which were later sold by dealers as demonstrators. In return, the merchants could count on favorable treatment on tax and zoning issues. Two council members resigned and there were a lot of red faces on Main Street, but not much else came of it. The county attorney refused to take the case to a grand jury, and the story just petered out after Bill returned to Indiana University for his senior year. That was his last summer at the Courier. After graduation he got a reporting job with The Louisville Courier-Journal. Within a year he was transferred to the paper’s Washington bureau.
“Say,” Neal continued, “how about we do an interview with you? Famous writer returns to his hometown to help an old friend. I’ll write it myself.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t. I want to be able to poke around a bit without everybody knowing what I’m up to. Maybe later, when this is all over.”
“Okay. Your call. But one thing you’re not going to get out of is dinner at my house. Marge will be delighted to see you again.”
“That’d be great. Give me a couple of days to get my bearings. I trust you still know how to make a martini?”
“Now you’re talking.”
Neal offered Bill a desk to use and in a few minutes Sarah Wong, the office manager who had worked at the Courier when he was a young reporter, brought a stack of papers spanning the last month.
It didn’t take long to see that Neal was right. There wasn’t much. Lots of photographs of Cindy and Paul and Sharon. The usual stories, all by Daniel Scott, and pictures about the search parties that had combed the countryside. That was about it. The quotes from Dave Taylor didn’t give a hint that there was anything more to the story than there appeared to be. Nothing of what Paul had told Bill earlier that morning. The most recent article reported that Sharon’s father had offered a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to Cindy, alive or dead.
But something else caught Bill’s eye. It was a box below the fold on the front page of an issue that was dated exactly one week prior to Cindy’s disappearance. It briefly recounted the story of two teenage boys who were picked up near the river by the police at one o’clock in the morning. They were charged with possession of marijuana and released to their parents. But before their parents came to the police station to pick the two up, the boys told officers they had seen a UFO just before midnight, hovering over the Ohio River near Jefferson’s waterfront.
They described it as triangular-shaped, and bigger than a barn.
CHAPTER 7
It was almost eleven when Bill left the Courier office and walked four blocks along Main Street to the Madison County courthouse. The Sheriff’s office was off to the side of the building, the double-door entrance beneath a big sign reading: David G. Taylor, Sheriff, Madison County, Indiana. Opposite the entrance were three brown and tan police cruisers.
As Bill started toward the doors, Dave Taylor pushed through them, squinted at the sun and reached for a pair of sunglasses in his shirt pocket. He had put on extra weight over the years and his hair was nearly all gray, but he was instantly recognizable to Bill.
“Dave?”
“I’m Sheriff Dave Taylor. Can I help you?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“No, I reckon I don’t.”
“I’m Bill Sanders. I was a year ahead of you in high school.”
“Bill Sanders! Son of a gun. What brings you back to these parts? You’re pretty famous. Say, I was sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thanks. Can we go somewhere and talk privately for a few minutes?”
“Sure. Let’s walk over to the Jefferson Cafe. I’ve practically got my own private booth there. It used to be the Douglas Sandwich Shop. Remember?”
“Sure do. Spent many a happy hour there.”
“Me, too. Mrs. Douglas has been dead I guess six, seven years now. Come on.”
It was early for the usual lunch crowd; the restaurant was nearly empty. Bill followed the Sheriff past the counter, and they took seats in a booth in the back.
A waitress brought coffee as soon as they sat down. She smiled at Dave. “Anything else, Sheriff?”
“That’s it. Thanks, Darleen.”