Silencing Sam by Julie Kramer

that term and again wonderedif he’d been part of Honeywell’s long-abandoned cluster-bomb division. I decided to throw a few softball questions.
    â€œWhat made you decide to retire here?”
    â€œWanted to get away from the city,” he said. “Thought this would be God’s country. Instead it’s the devil’s playground.”
    Charlie was full of colorful sound bites. Certainly his reluctance to appear on camera didn’t come from being bashful. I figured he just wanted to make me beg him to change his mind. I tried to coax him by telling him what a good talker he was … what a critical viewpoint he held … and my favorite, that this wasn’t live TV and he could always start over if he stumbled.
    â€œWe can even put your dog in the shot,” I offered.
    â€œI’m a professional,” Malik added. “I’ll make you look good.”
    â€œNot interested in all that glamour,” Charlie said, “just want a simple life.”
    He replied with such ease I wondered if perhaps he had worked in Honeywell’s media relations department.
    â€œI hear you worked for Honeywell, Charlie. So what did you do during your career?”
    â€œSales.”
    His answer seemed rehearsed.
    â€œSo what did you sell?”
    â€œThermostats.”
    â€œSounds like an interesting job.”
    He nodded rather than elaborate.
    I didn’t believe Charlie for one minute. He felt like a man with a secret. But I didn’t want to dig too deep without a camera rolling.
    â€œWere you always based in Minneapolis?” I asked.
    â€œTraveled around the world. Met lots of interesting people.” Then he asked Malik what part of the Middle East he was from. And my photographer explained that while his father was from Pakistan, he had been born and raised in the United States.
    â€œWhat do you think about the wind turbine bombings?” I wanted to get to the point of our visit.
    â€œToo late now. The time to send a message was before the spinning started, not after.”
    â€œAny idea who might be mad enough to go boom?”
    â€œYou must be here because you wonder if it’s me.” He said it nonplussed, as a statement, not a question.
    This time I didn’t answer.
    â€œI’m an old man. Blowing up wind farms is a young person’s project.”
    Charlie looked like an early retiree to me. Yes, his hair was white, but planting a bomb is not the kind of crime that requires brute strength.
    â€œI’m following every lead I get,” I said. “That’s why I was hoping you might have some ideas, sitting here in the middle of the action.”
    He shook his head. “I’m as puzzled as the rest of the inhabitants.”
    Then he bent over, pulled the hem of his pants up to his knee, and showed us an artificial leg.
    â€œWhat’s your story?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t like to talk about it. But this way you don’t have to waste time with me. As you can see, I’m in no shape to bomb anything.”
    Then he pulled himself out of the chair and told us he had stuff to do. I thanked him, gave him a business card, and asked him to call me if he heard anything.
    Charlie didn’t have to walk far to get inside, but I noticed he moved with less difficulty than my father.
    On the walk to the car, Malik scolded me. “He’s probably a highly decorated war vet, and you practically accused him of being a terrorist.”
    I disputed his interpretation of our encounter and insisted I wasn’t crossing Charlie Perkins off the suspect list just becausehe was missing a leg. An arm maybe, not a leg. Because as far as I could see, he wasn’t missing a beat.
    I recognized my schoolyard nemesis, Billy Mueller, even though he’d added some weight and lost some hair, but he didn’t seem to remember me at all.
    He told his wife to run get the yearbook. They apparently kept it handy on the coffee table to