On my way back home, I can’t help but wonder about a guy like Bryce Wilson. I’ve caught his show on the radio many an evening. Actually, he’s not all that bad. Glib sense of humor, decent speaking voice, and an eclectic mix of music that shows he knows his way around the medium. So, what’s he doing in this little hick town? Why isn’t he plying his trade in a bigger market? Is he hiding; doing his thing where nobody will notice? He doesn’t exactly keep a low profile, but in this neck of the woods, he certainly isn’t attracting major attention either. No doubt, the name’s a phony. But, I can check that out with the owners of the station. I decide to assign that task to Rick Dawley.
The next morning, I tell Rick what I want him to do.
“And when you find out what his real name is, run a trace on him. See if he’s got any kind of history with young girls. Who knows, maybe this guy’s a prime-time candidate for our—”
“Bryce? Shit, he couldn’t hurt a fly. I been listening to him for years. I will say he’s an asshole. Pretty much everybody knows he’s a cradle robber. I think this case is gettin’ to you. Hell, Matt, sometimes you just have to admit that even a ‘Big City’ detective can’t solve ‘em all.”
I look up from my desk to see Rick smiling at me.
“Gotcha!” he says.
“Yeah, well this ‘Big City’ detective does know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Just that if something walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck—”
“Yeah, I know, it’s a duck.”
“Nope.”
“What then?”
“It ain’t always a duck.”
Rick scratches his head, tilts it slightly, and stares at me with a blank look on his face.
“Never mind,” I say.
“But—”
“Just check the guy out, okay?”
“Sure, Matt. But, I’m tellin’ you, you’re sniffing up the wrong tree.”
“It’s barking.”
“What’s barking?”
“Never mind.”
Rick shrugs his shoulders, turns, and walks over to his desk in the corner. Soon, he’s on the phone with the State Police. I decide to call a few school superintendents.
With my fourth call, I strike pay dirt. Miles Rapkin, PhD, Superintendent of the Elmira School System, tells me of a young girl named Olivia Elge, who quit school.
“Actually, she ran away from home,” he says. “Kind of a shame, really. She was a good student. She would have graduated this June.”
“Do you have any idea why she left home?”
“I’m not really sure. I believe she was trying to get to New York City. Something about wanting to be a fashion model.”
“Typical,” I say. “Small town girl, going nowhere, scared to death of spending her life in a place like—”
“Like what? Elmira?” interjects the school administrator, clearing his voice, ready to lecture me on the virtues of small town life.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything personal. It’s just that coming from New York City, I’ve seen this type of thing countless times. They only see the glitz, never the reality. Do you have an address for Mrs. Elge? A phone number, perhaps?”
“Won’t do you any good,” he says. “They moved out, not long after Olivia left. At the time, I thought it was a bit strange. But, I’m guessing she found out something that made her think Olivia wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she moved back with her own parents, knowing that Olivia would find her.”
“You said ‘they.’ Who else was there?”
“Mrs. Elge and her son. Mr. Elge’s been out of the picture for years. He was killed quite a while ago, in Iraq…or was it Afghanistan? I’m not really sure. Well, anyway, it was one of the two.”
“Is it possible that Olivia went to live with a relative, a friend—maybe somebody she knew in the city?”
“Chief, we don’t make it a practice to pry. People have their own reasons for what they do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am quite busy. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I sense I’ve ruffled his feathers with the “small town” reference. “Just the last known address and phone number, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Suit yourself,” he says. “I’ll put my secretary on.”
“Thanks, Mr. Rapkin. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s Doctor Rapkin. No problem at all.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Oh, Chief, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is Olivia in some kind of trouble?”
“I really can’t say,” I reply. More trouble than you want to know about, I think. “Thank you for your time.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says. This time, there’s a subdued tone to his voice that causes me to think that he’s not really a prick after all. Maybe more of a prig.
“His real name’s Robert Finkelstein; from Los Angeles, by way of Detroit, Michigan, with a quick stopover in New York City—like two months.”
I look up from my desk to see Rick standing there with a piece of paper in his hand. “Bryce Wilson,” he says. “One charge of aggravated assault—”
“Let me guess. On a minor?”
“Close. A female. Barely legal; nineteen, to be exact.”
“Where?”
“Los Angeles. A Mexican girl he was ‘dating.’”
“Conviction?”
“Charges dismissed. Girl claimed she hit him first; didn’t want to pursue it.”
“Anything else?”
“The usual stuff. Unpaid parking tickets in Michigan. Landlord in New York sued him for not paying his rent. Oh, and he did do a couple of days for drunk and disorderly in Panama City, Florida. Spring break, 2001. But, other than that, he’s clean.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll just keep an eye on him. Maybe he’s clean and maybe he isn’t.”
“He’s just a jerk. A harmless jerk,” says Rick. “But, you can’t arrest the guy for being a jerk, right?”
“Just remember what I said about ducks…”
“Yeah, yeah,” replies Rick. “I get it. And the barking dogs, too.”
Instead of saying anything, I just smile; it makes him crazy.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing. I think I’ll take a ride. Maybe get some lunch.”
“Want company?” he asks, hopefully.
“Sure. Know somebody?”
“Ha, ha.”