The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(68)
“I’m not judging you for being gay, mate. I’m judging you for wasting our time when a family’s lying dead,” Raco said.
The doctor nodded. “I know. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. Of course I would. I’m not ashamed of being gay,” he said. “And Jamie—he’s getting there. But there are plenty of people in Kiewarra who would think twice about letting themselves or their kids be treated by a fag. Or want to sit next to one in the Fleece.” Leigh looked at Falk. “You’ve seen firsthand what happens when you stand out here. That’s all we wanted to avoid.”
They sent the doctor on his way. Falk thought for a beat, then jogged out of the station after him.
“Hey, before you go. I want to ask you about Mal Deacon. How bad is his dementia?”
Leigh paused. “I can’t discuss that with you.”
“One more thing for the list, eh?”
“I’m sorry. I would. But I really can’t. He’s a patient.”
“I’m not asking for specifics. General observations will do. What kind of things can he remember? Ten minutes ago but not ten years ago? Vice versa?”
Leigh hesitated, glancing back toward the station. “Very generally speaking,” he said, “patients in their seventies with symptoms similar to Mal’s tend to suffer fairly rapid memory deterioration. The distant past may be clearer than more recent events, but often the memories blend and get muddled. They’re not reliable, if that’s what you’re asking. Generally speaking, that is.”
“Will it kill him? Last question, I promise.”
Leigh’s expression was pained. He looked around. The street was virtually empty. He lowered his voice. “Not directly. But it complicates a lot of things healthwise. Basic personal care, nutrition, it all gets compromised. I’d suspect a patient at that stage would have a year or so, maybe a little more. Maybe less. It doesn’t help if the patient’s had a drink or three every day of his adult life either. Generally speaking, of course.”
He nodded once as an end to the conversation and turned. Falk let him go.
“They should both be charged. Him and Sullivan,” Raco said when he returned to the station.
“Yeah. They should.” They both knew it wouldn’t happen.
Raco leaned right back in his chair and put both hands over his face. He gave an enormous sigh.
“Jesus. Where the hell to now?”
To kid himself that they weren’t stuck in yet another dead end, Falk put in a call to Melbourne. An hour later he had a list of all the light-colored trucks registered in Kiewarra in the year Ellie Deacon had died. There were 109.
“Plus anyone from out of town could have been driving through,” Raco said gloomily.
Falk ran his eyes down the list. There were a lot of familiar names. Former neighbors. Parents of his old classmates. Mal Deacon was on there. Falk stared at that name for a long time. But so was everyone else. Gerry Hadler himself, Gretchen’s parents, even Falk’s dad. Gerry could have seen half the town at the crossroads that day. Falk closed the file, fed up.
“I’m going out for a bit.”
Raco grunted. Falk was glad he didn’t ask where.
28
The cemetery was a short drive out of town, on a large plot shaded by towering gum trees. On the way, Falk passed the fire warning sign, the danger now elevated to extreme. Outside, the wind was up.
The burial itself had been a private one, so he hadn’t been to the Hadlers’ graves, but they were easy to find. Brand new, the polished headstones looked like indoor furniture accidentally left outside among their weather-beaten neighbors. The graves were ankle deep in a sea of cellophane, stuffed toys, and withered flowers. Even from several feet away, the pungent smell of floral decay was overpowering.
Karen’s and Billy’s graves were piled high, while the offerings under Luke’s headstone were sparse. Falk wondered if it would be Gerry and Barb’s responsibility to clear the graves when the gifts crossed the line from tribute to trash. Barb had had enough trouble in the farmhouse, let alone on her knees with a trash bag, wretchedly sifting through the withered bouquets and trying to decide what to keep and what to throw away. No way. Falk made a mental note to check.
He sat for a while on the dry ground by the graves, ignoring the dust that coated his suit trousers. He ran a hand over the engraving on Luke’s headstone, trying to shake the unreal sensation that had nagged him since the funeral. Luke Hadler is in that coffin, he repeated in his head. Luke Hadler is in this ground.
Where was Luke the afternoon Ellie died? The question resurfaced like a stain. Falk should have pressed him when he had the chance. But he’d truly believed Luke’s deception had been for Falk’s own benefit. If he’d known what was going to happen—
He cut the thought dead. It was a cry that had come from too many lips since he’d returned to Kiewarra. If I’d known, I would have done things differently. It was too late for that now. Some things had to be lived with.
Falk stood and turned his back on the Hadlers. He headed deeper into the cemetery until he found the row he was looking for. The headstones in this part of the lot had lost their shine years ago, but many were as familiar as old friends. He ran his hand over a few of them affectionately as he passed, before stopping in front of one particular sun-bleached stone. There were no flowers on this grave, and it occurred to him for the first time that he should have brought some. That’s what a good son would do. Bring flowers for his mother.