“A SURVIVOR?” Reuben said.
“Alan never said anything about a survivor,” Reg added, just as shocked.
"I didn't tell him—TOKE—I wanted help, but I couldn’t have people poking around for survivors. Asking questions of the ex-Mayor and KIWI was one thing, they could deny any allegations, and the story would probably go away. But if anyone found proof, it would blow the whole thing out of the water.”
"Why tell us now?" Reuben said.
"Because, man, look at me. You don't have to say it, I’ll say it for you, I'm screwed. I can’t go a day without scorching my brain, my sweats and night terrors are back, and if I want to get laid, I have to call the hooker-maid service. They clean your house and then your pipe, if you know what I mean—toke."
"Would you be willing to help us find this survivor?" Reuben said.
"I don't know, man."
"Come on, Roger, it’s too late for your case, but if you help us with this one, maybe your conscience will give you a break."
"I guess—"
"No guessing.” Reg backed his partner’s play. "Give us what we need, and maybe you will get a good night’s sleep.”
Quarterman considered what both men were telling him. He considered what they went on telling him, as he considered what they told him. If he gave this up and KIWI got wind of it, they would come after him. The same men who threatened his family when he was hesitant to take the payoff. The same KIWI goon squad who ordered him away from counseling.
If he knew his mother was going to die just seven months later, he might have called their bluff. His fiancée flew the coop with his Ninja Blender, soon after the substance abuse began. There was no one left to intimidate him with. Ex-Frankenmuth Police Officer Roger Quarterman had held it in for nine years. It was time to let it out.
"The last few years I lost touch, but I know who you can talk to."
"Who?" Reg asked.
"The Boot Lady."
"Boot Lady?"
"The Boot Lady," Quarterman confirmed the title.
"Who or what, exactly, is the Boot Lady?"
"A specialist who deals in counseling children. They call her the Boot Lady because of that nursery rhyme, you know, ‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children she didn't know what to do?’ Except, she’s not really old or anything. In fact, it crossed my mind a couple of times to—"
“We get the point,” Reg cut him off. “Where can we find this Boot Lady?"
Quarterman gave them the Boot Lady's address as he remembered it. Reuben wanted to make a quick exit. Reg convinced him to stay, in case their witness gave up any more nuggets. They hung around long enough for Quarterman to polish off his second twister, and drink the Jack Daniels down to a third of the bottle.
He talked some more about Dr. Hanson, KIWI, Roach, and life in general. None of it was helpful, save to give them insight into a tortured soul. About the time he offered them cold pizza, Reg figured they had gotten all they were going to.
"Listen," Reg said, as soon as they stepped outside, "this Boot Lady is not likely to pack up shop before tomorrow. You go ahead to the station. I’ll do what I have to do. If our perp stays true to form, we have twenty eight days before he kills again."
Reuben agreed.
"Good. Drop me off at dear old mommy-in-law’s, and I’ll hop the train back to Bay City.