Page 39 of Concealed

Even a task with the smallest chance of success should be pursued.

And who knows, maybe one of these bastards does know something, even if it’s just a passing rumor they’ve heard. Interviewing is something I’m damn good at, so if they have any information, they’ll talk.

Hopefully, I can prove myself today so Grant will start letting me do some real work.

I’m knocking on the last door I’ll have time for before heading back to the station. Discouragement is heavy on my shoulders.

It’s been a fruitless, exhausting day that is going to result in a ton of paperwork and not much else. It’s not exactly the update that I want to give Grant. But he’s been in my shoes, and he knows how this kind of work goes.

It’s a whole lot of nothing until there’s something.

Gary Chider opens the door after I do my third “police knock.” The sour expression on his doughy face assures me that he’s none too pleased to find me standing there.

And I would imagine that someone who raped his eight-year-old niece wouldn’t want the cops knocking on his door.

He’s wearing stained grey sweatpants and a T-shirt that may have been white at one point, but now is more of a grungy yellow. Everything about him is greasy and repulsive from the beer gut hanging over his pants to the aroma surrounding him like a cartoon stink cloud.

Rather than invite me in, he stands on the dilapidated porch with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, carefully avoiding a few of the boards that couldn’t hold up a mouse.

His tiny bungalow is in a similar state of disrepair and located on a street that I’m learning is as bad as it gets in Sunnyville.

“Fuck do you want?” he demands.

My fists are already clenched because Chider’s story is so similar to what happened to my cousin. It’s why I saved him for last.

I need to just focus on breathing steadily and not driving my fist through his face. That’s exactly what Grant was worried about me doing, and I’m not about to prove his worst suspicion about me to be true.

“Hi, Mr. Chider.”

It makes my skin crawl to be civil to this piece of shit, who was actually found guilty, given a measly sentence, and is already back out in society living his life like he didn’t ruin someone else’s. Sex crimes stick with a person and have long-lasting effects on their mental health and future relationships.

“I ain’t done nothing.”

“I never said you did. I’m not here about anything you did or didn’t do. Sir. I’m just here to talk to you.”

“Why would I wanna talk to a damn pig?”

Breathing is harder than it should be, and I forcibly relax my shoulders and unclench my fists. He is not going to get a rise out of me. I’ve been called worse by much, much better men.

I shrug. “I thought maybe you could help me. You seem like the kind of guy who wants to do the right thing. Maybe you just got a bad rap. That’s the vibe I got from reading your file.”

He’s glaring at me, beady eyes full of suspicion. He looks – and smells – like he hasn’t showered in days.

The glow of monitors behind him illuminates living quarters that belong on a hoarding documentary – there are discarded food containers, stacks of rumpled cardboard boxes containing God knows what, and likely things with lots of legs crawling everywhere.

His screens are probably open to kiddie porn.

But I can play him.

And then I can save some young women from a fate worse than death.

“I ain’t done nothing, and I ain’t know nothing,” he insists.

“Okay. Too bad. Then I guess I can’t help you when the time comes. You never know when you’ll need a cop on your side. But it has to be a fair exchange, right? That’s how these things work.”

He glares harder. “Like my speeding ticket? You got jurisdiction over that?”

For fuck’s sake.

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