Having been provided with his address by Marsha Russo, I pulled up in front of Bobby Siegler’s house in West Freedom.
Located in one of the better neighborhoods, the Siegler house sat on what looked to be at least half an acre of land. It was a Colonial, with rows of hedges and a pair of heritage oaks in the front yard.
It was eight-thirty on a Saturday morning and the doorbell was answered by an unshaven middle-aged man still in his pajamas.
He stared at me. “Sheriff?”
“I’m looking for Robert Siegler.”
“I’m him.”
After a moment, I asked, “Is there perhaps a Robert Siegler, Jr?”
“There is.”
“Would he be at home?”
“I think he’s still asleep.”
“Would you please let him know I’m here to see him.”
“Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Too soon to tell.”
A flash of alarm briefly registered on the elder Siegler’s face. “Forgive me, Sheriff. Excuse my manners. Would you care to come in?”
“Might be better if I did.”
“Please.” He stepped aside to admit me. “I’ve just made fresh coffee. May I offer you some?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He led me into a den that appeared to serve primarily as a TV room. A sofa and several lounge chairs stood facing a giant-screen home entertainment center.
“Please have a seat. I’ll go get Bobby.”
I wandered around the room, stopping to look at the contents of the wall-sized bookcase that was bolstered by forty or so leatherbound classics ranging from Dostoyevsky to Steinbeck. A separate section was reserved for more contemporary books, novels by the likes of Michael Chabon and Paul Auster; nonfiction by Michael Lewis, David Halberstam, and Malcolm Gladwell.
The Sieglers, Senior and Junior, stepped into the room. Junior was also in his pajamas, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying to recall just who I was and where we had met.
“Sheriff Buddy Steel,” I said. “Good morning, Bobby. Sorry to wake you up so early.”
Bobby Siegler stared at me questioningly.
“I want the names of the two football players,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“The two football players that Coach Hank brought aboard to provide security.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” To his father he said, “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
My gaze wandered from Junior to Senior. “This can go easy for him or it could go hard. He knows what I’m talking about and he has about a minute and a half to give me the information I’m requesting. If he continues to play dumb, I’ll sure as hell arrest him and make certain he enters the system which will be a lifetime stain on his record.”
Mr. Siegler looked at his son. “Do you have the information the Sheriff is seeking?”
Bobby lowered his head and nodded.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the elder Siegler said.
Bobby nodded again.
“Then tell it to the Sheriff. Now.”
Tears appeared in the corners of Bobby’s eyes. “They’ll fuck me over if I do.”
“Who will?” I asked.
“Them. They’ll beat the crap out of me.”
“They won’t,” I said. “I promise. Tell me their names.”
He pleaded with me. “I’m no squealer.”
I looked at his father. “I’m going to take him downtown to Sheriff’s headquarters. I’ll book him and request he be held without bond. You might want to contact a lawyer.”
I approached Bobby Siegler and removed the handcuffs from my service belt.
“Are you crazy?” Mr. Siegler said to his son, the intensity of his voice on the rise. “Tell the man what he wants to know. This could mess up your entire life.”
Bobby Siegler looked at me. “Ronnie van Cleave and Paulie Henderson.”
“Seniors?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Mr. Siegler and said, “Good call.”