Cold Tears

by AR Simmons

  Katie suddenly ran out of words again, paused uncertainly, and then went back through the doorway without speaking again.

  “Come on,” mouthed Molly, leading the way.

  The kitchen was spare, with Formica-topped table and counters, cheap white appliances, and more kitties, some adorning the windowsill above the sink, and others the top of the refrigerator. Katie took a plastic pitcher from the refrigerator and poured tea into matching glasses embossed with black-and-white kittens playing with a ball of yarn. She presented one to each of them wordlessly before returning for her own.

  “Katie, Molly has told me everything she can remember about the day someone took Mancie. Can you tell me what you remember?” asked Richard.

  Instead of answering, Katie looked beseechingly at Molly.

  “Go on, Katie. He’s trying to help.”

  “But I don’t know nothing, Molly,” she said as if begging out of an unpleasant task.

  “It’s okay. He’s really nice.”

  “All I want you to do is tell me about that day,” said Richard, trying to reassure her. “Just start with when you got to Molly’s house and go with what you can remember from there.”

  “Tell him, Katie,” encouraged Molly.

  “I got there early—like I always do. I’m always on time.”

  “Okay, when was that,” Richard prompted.

  “It was a quarter of five, fifteen minutes early. I like to get everything ready before I start.”

  “Go on,” he encouraged. “Tell me everything you can remember happening.”

  “Nothing happened. I just fed her and changed her diaper when she needed it. I rocked her and put her to bed.”

  “Do you remember me calling you?” prodded Molly.

  Katie bobbed her head. “Sure. You called two times.”

  Haltingly, and with frequent prompting, Katie got out the story, substantially confirming Molly’s version of events, giving precise times for the phone calls. She insisted that nothing unusual had happened while she tended to Mancie. No one had stopped by or called until Molly came home at 2:48 in the morning.

  “I thought it was a little earlier than that,” said Molly, “but if Katie says 2:48, she’s probably right. She’s good with numbers. Let her hear a phone number one time, she’s got it, don’t you, Katie.

  Katie nodded.

  “Tell me about Molly coming home,” said Richard.

  Again, Katie looked at Molly instead of answering. Molly encouraged her with a nod.

  “You was kind of … loopy.”

  “I was drunk,” corrected Molly. “Now just go ahead and tell him about it. You have to, Katie. I don’t remember much of it.”

  “You come home late. Mancie had been asleep a long time. And you was holding your tummy like you had a bellyache. You went in the bathroom and throwed up. I cleaned it before I left. When I got through, I went to see if you was okay, but you was already asleep. I went in the nursery and checked to see that Mancie was covered up. Then I just locked up and went home.”

  “Are you sure you locked the door when you left?” asked Richard.

  Katie’s looked stricken.

  “Tell him, Molly,” she blurted. “I always lock up. I always lock up because you never know who’s out there watching you. I always lock up.”

  “She always does, Mr. Carter. And I always put the security chain on, but I didn’t that night because I passed out before she left.”

  “Okay. When did you leave the house, Katie?”

  “At three minutes to three.”

  “Did you see anything outside, or as you drove home that seemed unusual?”

  “Like what?”

  “A car parked where it shouldn’t be, or maybe someone outside?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, Katie. You’ve been really helpful. What do you think happened to Mancie?”

  “Some baby stealer snuck in and took her,” she blurted.

  Richard flinched at the insensitive remark, but attributed it to Katie’s naiveté and slowness. The succinct remark hit Molly hard. Her face contorted as she fought off tears, a reaction which distressed Katie.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said. “No one will hurt sweet little Mancie. It was probably just some lonely woman who wants a baby. Nobody would hurt a little baby. She’ll probably take real good care of her.”

  “I know she will, Katie,” said Molly, regaining her composure.

  Although he thought he knew the answer, there was one other question that Richard needed to ask.

  “Katie, do you have a boyfriend?”

  Her chalky face suddenly burned bright red. “No,” she said quickly, avoiding eye contact.

  “It was really nice of you to talk to me,” said Richard, trying to sound soothing. “If I think of anything else to ask you, do you think Molly and I can come over again?”

  “That would be okay I guess.”

  •••

  “I don’t know if she has a boyfriend or not,” said Molly when they were in the car again, “but I think there’s someone she likes.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea. I can’t even imagine who, but you saw her blush. Katie’s got someone she likes.”

  “Molly, don’t take this wrong, but … she doesn’t seem too bright. How come you were comfortable leaving your daughter in her care?”

  “She’s great with kids, single-minded. She doesn’t get distracted like some of the other ones I tried. They’d watch TV, or play them electronic games, or spend all day texting. Katie loves kids, especially babies. All she cares about is what the baby needs. Nobody could have taken better care of Mancie than her.”

  “Maybe she’ll tell you who it is she likes if I’m not around,” Richard suggested. “If there’s a boyfriend, we have to know who he is. See if you can find out. And find out how long he’s been seeing her.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s possible that he came over to see her while you were at work that day.”

  “You think she had a boyfriend who done something to Mancie?” she asked, dismissing the idea. “No, Mr. Carter. Katie would never have been able to hold it together if that happened. You have to know her. When something unexpected happens, she gets real nervous. I would have noticed that when I got home.”

  “You were drunk, remember?”

  “I would have still noticed,” said Molly dismissively. “I think you’ve got something wrong about her, Mr. Carter. You think Katie’s dumb. She’s not. I hired her because she’s really good—and she’s not cheap.”

  “She seems …”

  “Retarded? She’s not. She’s a little slow, but mostly just socially backward maybe. She’s plenty smart, and when she can stick to her routine, she’s great.”

  “What if something unexpected comes up?”

  “She has a list—not that she needs it. She’s got it memorized. It spells out what she’s supposed to do for everything from Mancie getting sick or hurt to a fire or a tornado, even an earthquake. Other people might lose their heads when something like that happens. Katie falls back on her lists. She came up on a bad accident out on the highway once. She made all the calls she was supposed to right away, and then got out and helped until the police and EMTs got there.”

  “How did she know what to do?”

  “She memorized a list she read somewhere. I think it might have been an EMT manual.”

  Richard tried to reconcile what Molly was saying with what he had seen of the babysitter.

  “Are you sure about that? I mean that she can really understand stuff like that?”

  “Neither of us is as stupid as you think we are, Mr. Carter.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, Molly.”

  “I don’t blame you. I know I don’t sound too smart, but I wasn’t irresponsible when it came to Mancie. I wouldn’t leave her with someone who couldn’t take care of her good. I didn’t neither.”

  “I don’t think anything like that about you.�
��

  “Sure you do, and I don’t blame you. I made me plenty of mistakes, like marrying Pat, but I took good care of my baby. Katie was as good a sitter as anyone could want. When something happened to Mancie, she was with me, not with Katie. That was the only time I was ever irresponsible. I swear it was.”

  •••

  September 6

  Richard drove to Kirk Tinsley’s apartment after dropping Jill at the campus. Molly had secured the man’s reluctant assent to the meeting. Tinsley met him at the foot of a flight of exterior stairs leading to his second-story apartment. With arms folded, the body language said that he intended the interview to be short.

  “What do you think I have to do with any of this?” demanded the muscular little man, thrusting an indented, rather than cleft chin forward in challenge.

  “I didn’t say I did,” responded Richard mildly. “I’m just talking with everyone Molly met or talked to that night. You did, so you’re on the list. It’s as simple as that.”

  “By the way, I’m Richard Carter,” he said, offering his hand.

  Tinsley ignored the hand. “Are you some kind of private investigator or something?”

  “No. I’m just a friend who happens to have a little investigative experience.” (It was technically true. He had interviewed Katie Nash the day before.) “Molly wants me to help her find out what happened to her baby. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  Tinsley softened. “We talked at the bar, and then she came over here for a drink after closing. She didn’t stay long. I don’t have any idea what happened to the baby.”

  “When did she decide to come over? Did the two of you arrange that before she went on shift, during her shift, or after?”

  “Why? I mean what does us getting together that night have to do with anything?”

  “Maybe whoever took her baby that night overheard the two of you talking. If he knew she was coming over here, maybe he saw it as a chance.”

  “I don’t think it happened like that,” said Tinsley, speaking for the first time without rancor.

  “You mean you don’t think anyone overheard you two talking?”

  “No. We talked awhile before she went on shift, and then passed a few casual words during the night. After closing time, I hung around until she came outside. That’s when she decided to come over. There wasn’t anyone out there close enough to hear what we said.”

  “So before that, while you were inside—you stayed there all evening, or did you go somewhere for a while?”

  “I never left.”

  “Were you with anyone?”

  “Just some guys. We watched the baseball game.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  Richard wanted a list of names, but hadn’t established sufficient rapport to ask for one yet. He decided to come at him from a different angle.

  “You know, I didn’t meet Molly until my wife and I moved in next door to her about two weeks ago. Have you seen her lately?”

  “I ain’t seen her since that night.”

  “I saw a picture of her—the way she looked back then,” continued Richard. “She’s really changed since she lost her baby. You should see how much weight she’s lost.”

  “I imagine it’s been hard on her.”

  “She was a real looker, wasn’t she?” asked Richard.

  “Nice too,” said Tinsley uneasily. “I knew she was divorced, but I didn’t know about the kid until she got here. That’s why nothing happened between us. I didn’t want … Well, that whole situation was way too complicated for me. She came in, we had a drink or two, and then she went on home.”

  It rang true. A lot of guys shied away from women with children.

  “A woman in her condition might expect more from a guy than he’s willing to promise right off the bat,” said Richard. “A lot of guys would take advantage of her without a second thought. If your friends are like mine, they gave you the business about her.”

  “A couple of them said something,” allowed Tinsley. “Normal stuff.”

  Richard imagined how it went as the men watched and talked about the pretty barmaid.

  “Any of them have a history with her?”

  “Nobody knew nothing about her except her name. She hadn’t been at the Blue Hole that long.”

  “The Blue Hole?”

  “Name of the place before McComb took it over.”

  “So who was there with you that night?”

  “Just some of my friends,” said Tinsley vaguely. “You don’t need to know their names.”

  Richard understood the reluctance. “I guess I can get the information from the bartender or other waitresses. Of course, they might get it wrong. Why don’t you help me get it right?”

  “I don’t have to. You’re not the police,” Tinsley said pointedly.

  “No, but a baby is missing. That’s the real point here. How in the world can the truth hurt you or your friends?”

  Tinsley gave him four names. Richard wrote them in a small notepad and put it back in his shirt pocket. “What shape was she in when she left here?”

  The little man scowled grimly and looked away. “I feel bad about that,” he finally replied. “She was in no condition to drive. I should have taken her home, but I wasn’t in much better condition.”

  Until that moment, Richard hadn’t known that Molly had driven her own car over. He had assumed that Tinsley had brought her home with him. Some detective, he thought.

  “She was drunk?”

  “A DUI waiting to happen. She didn’t drink that much here though.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “Not long, maybe a half hour. I think she left a little after two.”

  “Whose idea was it to call it a night?”

  “Mine. She had trouble focusing, you know. I thought it was a good idea for her to go home before she passed out on the couch.”

  “Because of her child?”

  “Yeah,” said Tinsley, jumping at the suggestion, although it clearly hadn’t occurred to him at the time. “I thought she should be getting home to her kid.”

  •••

  As he approached the bar where Molly had worked (now called “The Honeycomb”), an iridescent pink BMW with nearly black windows lurched backward onto the street like something from a demolition derby. With a duet of squealing tires, both vehicles jerked to a stop scant inches apart. Incongruously, the other driver laid on the horn before burning angry rubber half way to the corner. Richard stared in wonder at the vanity plate of the departing car: CHARITY, it proclaimed. The license plate holder was a chrome chain of heart-shaped links.

  “Obviously not a motto,” he muttered as the car disappeared around the corner, ignoring the stop sign.

  The respectable-looking Midwestern bar sat on a neatly lined parking lot. Tinted windows in its brick facade beckoned with the requisite neon logos, but a tastefully professional sign proclaiming its name, and substantial brass door fittings lent a slight touch of class. Inside, dark faux paneling of intermediate cost covered the walls, while a polished wood bar with padded leatherette armrest and brass foot rail fronted mirrored shelving holding stock and tumblers.

  At the far end of the room, a small slightly raised stage, now darkened, sat replete with a sound system. Matching booths and tables filled the remaining space to near capacity but short of congestion. Suffusing it all was a cool, twilight veil, and a mélange of alcohol, stale smoke, and air freshener common to such establishments in the early daylight hours. There were two places a blind man could be plopped down and know immediately by the odor where he was: a hospital and a tavern.

  Richard swung himself forward on his crutches, attracting the attention of a man about his own age standing behind the bar holding a clipboard. Three boxes of liquor sat on the bar. The man lifted eyeglasses, letting them rest on his receding hairline and looked in his direction.

  “I don’t suppose it’s ever too early for business. What can I get for you
?”

  “Too early for me,” said Richard with a good-natured smile. “My wife says I can’t drink until the sun goes over the yardarm. I think that’s sometime around eleven.”

  “If you’re looking for a job, you’re out of luck. I’m not hiring right now.”

  “Not looking,” said Richard. “How about a Bud Light?”

  That earned him an amiable smile. “What Mama don’t know won’t hurt her, huh? Draft or longneck?”

  “Bottle’s fine. By the way, I’m Richard Carter.”

  “Bobby McComb,” replied the man with a questioning look as he brought a bottle from under the counter.

  “I actually came to ask a few questions for a friend of mine,” said Richard “Molly Randolph. She used to work here about three months ago. Were you here then?”

  McComb carefully wiped moisture from the bottle, uncapped it, and set it on the bar in front of Richard. “I hired Molly. Damn shame about her baby girl.” he paused and frowned. “Friend?” he asked skeptically.

  “Next door neighbor actually.”

  “How’s she doing?”If he didn’t really care, he did a good job of sounding like he did.

  “How well could she be doing?” replied Richard.

  “I don’t know, man. She was so screwed up, and then that happens. Probably blames herself.”

  “What do you mean, ‘screwed up?’”

  “Higher than a kite that night—not like her.”

  “Drunk?”

  “No. I know what she drank that night. It wasn’t enough to mess her up that much. I mean, I’m not for sure, but … she wasn’t acting right.”

  “Just that night, or was it like a habitual problem?”

  “She wasn’t right from the day her old man dumped her.”

  “Was she doing her job all right? Or did you keep her on because you felt sorry for her?”

  “I don’t run no social program. She showed on time, did her job, turned in all her tips. It’s just sometimes when she came in she looked like she had something under her skin, you know … too fidgety and … bird-like.”

  “Did you know she was working two jobs?”

  “No. But that might explain it.”