The secret was no longer just in the sauce. The secret was out. And although the photo of John Falstaff wasn’t front-facing and was shadowed, one item he was wearing really clinched it for me. He wore a fedora—the same, exact fedora I’d seen him in.
I called Miller, confirming the man whose name I’d given this morning was the same man whom I’d spoken to along the road. He was grateful for the tip and responded in kind, telling me they were sifting through things at John Falstaff’s house, which Tommy had confirmed was the place he’d been taken. John wasn’t there, and it seemed he had no plan to return. He had left a note on the table stating as much. Concerned he had a runner, Miller sent officers to the airport, anticipating John was about to leave the country and go off the grid.
I agreed John was going off the grid, but I felt he’d stick much closer to home, finding a way to blend in, possibly even reinventing himself. Cairns had a well-known, friendly backpacker community and was a place every type of person visited from a myriad of countries. All John had to do was make a few changes to his look, and he’d fit right in.
When I walked back to the table, Robert was sitting there, patiently waiting.
“What is it you think my son has done?” he asked.
“It may be hard for you to take.”
He shrugged. “My life has been hard to take, but here I am, still living. Go on now and just say it.”
For all the times in the past when I couldn’t put the brakes on my nonstop blathering, I found myself wanting to spare him the details of what his son had so violently done.
“I believe he murdered Caroline Ashby and Adelaide Wiggins,” I said. “And he tried to murder Senator Ashby.”
“How do you know? What evidence do you have to prove it?”
The way he said it gave me the impression he was curious, but not startled by what I’d said.
“I met your son,” I said. “I didn’t know his name at the time, but he confessed what he’d done to me.”
“And you’re sure you have the right man?”
I nodded.
Robert drummed his fingers along the table, thinking. “I see.”
I crossed my arms. “You don’t seem shocked to hear about what your son has done.”
“I’ve always known what he was capable of, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“My son can be ruthless at times, that’s all.”
Only it wasn’t all. Just looking at him, I could tell. He knew things, dark things I imagined he didn’t want to talk about, and I wondered if he’d known of his son’s character flaw because there had been a time when he’d struggled with the same one himself. Sitting in front of me now with heavy bags under his eyes and a crooked back, it seemed time had made him a different man than I imagined he once was.
“My son is not a bad person,” he said. “He really isn’t. He’s just been troubled from time to time. I blame myself for it.”
“How is it your fault?”
“I didn’t know how to deal with his pain and suffering after Helen died, and I wasn’t around a lot. Looking back now, I can see he didn’t have the support he needed. It was a different time then. People didn’t talk through things like they do now. We just shoved it down so far inside ourselves, it never had the chance to come up again.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you what’s happened. The police are at John’s place now, going through his things. He knew they were coming and left a note saying he wouldn’t return. Any idea where he might go?”
His father bowed his head and remained silent for a time. I waited. The conversation hadn’t been easy. Not for me, and not for him. The least I could do was to offer whatever patience I could. After a minute, he pushed his chair back and stood.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I need rest.”
“I understand. Would you be willing to answer my question before I leave?”
“I just can’t talk about this anymore,” he said. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I just ...”
As his words trailed off, his eyes began to roll back into his head. He tried to take a step forward and stumbled, crashing down on the deck below. I dropped to my knees next to him.
“Mr. Falstaff? Are you all right?”
He didn’t respond.
I ran out of the yard, waving my arms in the air at the police sitting in wait nearby. “Something’s wrong with John’s father. Call for an ambulance.”