The tan sedan pulled to a stop at the curb a half-block away from Newman's Gym on Leavenworth.
"Did you know that Wyatt Earp once refereed a boxing match at the old Mechanic's Pavilion over on Union Square?" Mike asked with a chuckle as he fell into step beside his partner on the sidewalk.
"What?" Steve snorted in surprise as they started down the street, shooting the older man an amazed glance. "You're kidding, right?"
"Nope," Mike replied, shaking his head with a grin, "it was back at the end of the last century. It was a 'heavyweight championship bout'," he continued lightly, making quote signs with his fingers. "Both sides didn't trust the other and they couldn't agree on an unbiased referee. So they drafted Earp, who was living here at the time."
"The Wyatt Earp? Gunfight at O.K. Corral Wyatt Earp?"
"The very same. Turned out not to be the most, ah, how shall I say, fortuitous decision of his long and… storied life." They had reached the entrance to the gym and Mike pulled one of the heavy wooden doors open, glancing at his partner with bouncing eyebrows as he gestured the younger man to enter before him. They were immediately assaulted with the strong stench of sweat and liniment.
Looking back, knowing Mike would finish the story when they were through here, Steve chuckled as he led the way down the dark corridor towards the sounds of punches being landed, feet thudding on canvas and shouts of instruction and encouragement.
"You know, I heard that George Foreman and Sonny Liston trained here when they were in town," Steve whispered as they got closer to the main gym.
Mike nodded, starting to fish the leather I.D. case out of his pocket. They approached one of the older men standing near the centre ring, watching two sparring lightweights. "Lieutenant Stone, San Francisco Police," Mike introduced himself quietly then nodded over his shoulder. "Inspector Keller."
Steve flashed his own I.D. and nodded curtly with a tight smile.
"Who's in charge here?" Mike asked, his eyes flicking around the large room, looking for their quarry.
"Oh, ah," the older man growled, his voice low and gravelly, "I guess that'd be Billy, the owner, but he ain't here right now. Somethin' I can do fer ya?"
"Maybe. We're looking for a John Beaton. We hear he comes in pretty regularly. Is he here now?"
"Johnny?" the elderly gym rat retorted, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Sure, Johnny's here a lot. He's a pretty good middleweight. Yeah, he's here. He's in the locker, jus' finished a good workout."
"Where're the locker rooms?" Steve asked.
The older man gestured with his head towards the far end of the cavernous building. "Back there." As the two cops began to move off, he asked, "So what's he done?"
Mike turned back briefly, his quick smile not reaching his eyes. "Hopefully nothing. Thanks for the help."
As they moved between the rings in the direction indicated, Steve touched his partner's arm. "Did you see that?" he nodded at a ring in the far corner. "Women!" They both stopped momentarily and watched as two young women, both built like light middleweights, traded jabs under the discriminating eyes of the gym regulars.
After several seconds, Mike turned to move on, Steve falling into step beside him. "They're pretty good," Mike offered and was rewarded with a snort.
"Pretty good?" the younger man teased, grinning. "I'd like to see you up against them. You'd be flat on your ass in seconds."
"Oh ho, you think so, hunh?" Mike chuckled, sidestepping quickly to elbow his partner, knocking him off balance.
They had reached the locker room door and they both sobered, the reason for their presence flooding back. With a quick breath and tilt of his head, Mike pushed the door open and they stepped into the large, locker-lined, sweat-filled room.
It didn't take long to find John Beaton; he was sitting on a bench in front of an open locker, his hair wet and a white towel wrapped around his waist. Mike took a step forward, holding out his I.D. and badge once more. "John Beaton?"
The well-built younger man looked up. The two detectives noticed the spider-web tattoo on his right shoulder, the eagle head on his left. His dark eyes were hooded, and he didn't smile.
"Yeah, that's me," he exhaled heavily, eyeing the badge then looking up at Mike. He straightened up slightly, his head moving back. "What, did you find my son? Did you find Donny?" There was a sudden urgency in his voice.
Mike put one foot on the bench and leaned forward as he raised a hand. "No no no, we're just here to ask you some questions." He slid the black leather case back into his pants pocket. "I'm Lieutenant Stone, this is Inspector Keller." He gestured slightly over his shoulder at Steve who, leaning with studied casualness against a locker, nodded.
"Why are you here talking to me again?" Beaton spat angrily as he stood and started to take his clothes out of the locker. "Why aren't you out looking for my son?"
Mike, smiling gently, offered calmly, "Well, Missing Persons has their whole team out looking for Donny, as well as a bunch of volunteers. We're just giving the boys a hand, trying to figure out if there's some way we can help, maybe come up with something they missed, that's all."
"Yeah, well, I already told the other cops everything I know. I wasn't with my wife when Donny disappeared; I was here. And I know what you're thinking, but I didn't have anything to do with him disappearing. Why would I?"
"Well, you tell us, Mr. Beaton."
The request obviously threw the young father and he froze, looking from one cop's steely-eyed stare to the other. He seemed to regroup, his tone modulating as he picked up his boxers and slid them on under the towel. "I don't have a reason," he said softly, "I loved Donny. He was a special kid."
"That's what your wife told us," Steve offered softly, hoping to keep the lid on any unnecessary tension.
"So, what do you think happened?" Mike asked gently. "I mean, you and your wife, you aren't exactly rolling in dough now, are you? So that kind of rules out a kidnapping for ransom, doesn't it? So that leaves… what? Someone took him for, ah," he cleared his throat and glanced away, "sexual purposes –" Beaton's head snapped towards him angrily but he continued, his eyes now boring into the young father's, "or maybe you just got tired of having a handicapped kid around?"
Beaton froze, not expecting the last question, and for a split second both cops could see the rage and fear in his unguarded eyes. As they waited, he took a deep, steadying breath and slowly lowered his gaze, trying casually to reach for his jeans with a shaking hand. "I told you, I didn't do anything to my son. I loved him. I didn't care if he had problems; he was a happy kid. He wasn't a burden." As he slowly stepped into the jeans and did them up, he struggled to keep his voice low and calm.
Mike continued to stare, unmoving. After several seconds, he began to straighten up, taking his foot off the bench, nodding with a facial shrug. "All right, Mr. Beaton, I believe you. But answer me this, will ya? What is it that makes you so mad that you put your fist through the walls in your kitchen? Is it the kids – do they drive you nuts after awhile? I mean, come on, five kids all under six? I only have one and she was a handful at times when she was a toddler. And you've got five…"
"I love kids," Beaton said quietly, pulling his polo shirt over his head and sitting down on the bench to put on his socks and shoes.
"You must," Steve offered quietly and the younger man froze for a split second. "But you didn't answer my partner's question. Why the holes in the wall?"
Avoiding the penetrating stares, continuing to dress, Beaton said quietly, "I've been diagnosed with manic depression, they call it. My mother had it. The psychiatrist I see says it's something I have no control over… I take medication for it and it helps… a lot." He looked up at Mike, and the older cop could see the anguish in the brown eyes.
"I take my anger out on walls, Lieutenant, not my kids. I swear. Ask my doctor; he'll tell you. I'm not a violent man."
Mike held his stare for several seconds before he nodded. "Okay, Mr. Beaton, we will, believe me, we will. But for now, well, you could do us a big favor if you could come down to headquarters with us right now."
"What for?"
"Well, as you know, when something like this happens, the parents and family are always the first suspects until we can rule them out. And you'd be doing yourself, and us, a huge service if you would consent to a lie-detector test –"
"What?!" Beaton gasped, standing quickly, his frantic eyes snapping from Mike's to Steve's.
"It's just routine, Mr. Beaton," Mike assured him calmly, both hands up slightly, "we can't use lie detector tests in court, so it's just to help us eliminate people so we can move on." He watched as this new information seemed to sink into the younger man's suddenly frantic brain. "You can help yourself if you agree to do this, John."
The voice was so soothing, and with the use of the first name dropped at just the right time, the young father looked up and nodded.
"All right. Anything for Donny, okay?"
Mike nodded encouragingly and, as Beaton shoved his boxing gear into the locker, turned to Steve and raised his eyebrows, flashing a quick self-congratulatory smile. Steve shook his head in wonder.
# # # # #
They stepped out of the darkened gym into the bright afternoon sunshine, all three squinting in the harsh light. As they started down the street towards the car, Steve glanced over at his partner. "So, what's the end of the Wyatt Earp story?"
Mike shot him a quick confused look then his face brightened. "Oh right," he chuckled. Beaton looked from one cop to the other, confused and suddenly curious.
"Well, turns out, after they disarmed him in the ring – he brought a Colt .45 with him – that the bout was more alley fight than world heavyweight championship. One of the boxers accidentally hit the other guy in the groin. And not once, mind you, twice. Most of the crowd didn't see the second blow, which laid the poor guy out, but Earp did and he stopped the fight and awarded it to the guy who couldn't even get up!
"Anyway, a lot of people lost big money on that fight, and he was vilified in the papers for being in on the fix, and then to top it all off, they fined him for bringing a gun into the ring. Needless to say, his reputation, which was already suffering in the years since that shootout, took another blow and he got outa town. He never came back."
They had reached the car and Mike finished the story overtop of the roof. With a chuckle and shake of his head, Steve got behind the wheel. Mike opened the passenger side back door and gestured for Beaton to precede him into the back seat and slide across to the far side.
# # # # #
His arms crossed, Mike was standing outside the glass-walled interrogation room, staring at Beaton, who was hooked up to the polygraph machine. A technician was sitting opposite him, asking a series of pre-arranged questions and making notes on the graph paper emerging from the large contraption on the desk between them.
Two coffee mugs in hand, Steve approached his partner and held one out. Mike glanced over and took it. "Thanks."
Steve gestured towards Beaton with his chin. "What do you think?"
Mike shrugged before taking a sip of the coffee. "I have no idea. He seems pretty calm. Who knows?"
"Listen, ah, I got a hold of Beaton's psychiatrist. He's agreed to see us in an hour."
"Good, good," Mike said, turning away and starting back across the bullpen towards his own office, Steve in tow. With a weary sigh, he circled his desk and dropped heavily into the chair, Steve settling into the guest chair and crossing his legs.
"Did you notice he said 'loved' and 'was' when we were talking about Donny in the gym?" Mike asked quietly, staring at the desktop.
"Yeah. But you know that really doesn't mean anything, people do that all the time. We can't nail him on it."
"Yeah, I know. Still… it's something to grill him about, isn't it?"
"It's a straw at best, right? Anyway, ah, what do you want to do if he passes?"
Mike raised his eyebrows and snorted. "Good question. Say, have you heard from Phil? Anything new from their end?"
Steve shook his head. "Not a thing. He did say if they don't find anything by the end of the day, they're calling off the search."
"Yeah, I can understand that. Three days is a long time to get no results whatsoever."
A sudden presence at the door caught their attention and they both looked up. Bradley Stanton, the polygraph specialist, was standing in the doorway, the paper readout in his hand.
"So?" Mike asked quickly before the bespectacled pencil pusher could utter a word. "What's your professional opinion, Brad?"
Stanton's pale eyes widened and he took the two steps to the corner of the desk, dropping the readout with a flourish. "Well, Mike, you were right – he's lying."
