There Once Was A Child

by Debra Webb

  No matter that I’ve been late every night for days. No matter that David will be home soon, instead of going to his house I go to the farm where I was raised. Half an hour commute from Nashville into the horse country of Franklin.

  Am I avoiding the man I love? The man I’m supposed to marry? Yes. If I avoid him I don’t have to reveal my fears and uncertainty about us, about the baby. I can pretend I’m too busy to go into such a profoundly life changing discussion at the moment. Life will be calmer when this case is solved and David and I can discuss and plan for this new reality at that point.

  He wants children. We haven’t discussed the when, but that’s irrelevant now.

  I unlock the house, step inside and disarm the security system, then close my eyes and inhale deeply the scent of home. I’m not sure how many years it will take for me to see anyplace else as home. I know it happens. People marry and leave home and start their own homes. But some part of where you came from is always home, I think.

  David is intent on me selling this place. The house is so big and there’s more than forty acres of woods and pastures. Someone who has horses should have the place, he reminds me. Someone who has the time to appreciate the property and all its natural majesty. He’s right, I suppose, but I can’t imagine not having this place to escape to whenever I feel the need.

  Like now.

  Walt suggested I lease the land and keep the house for a getaway from the city. Lots of Nashvillians have country houses or lake houses. No reason I can’t keep it. It’s mine. It’s paid for. I open my eyes and survey the massive great room that serves as the centerpiece of this house. Any way I look at it, this is home. Large and airy but not the slightest bit ostentatious.

  I lock the door behind me and wander through the room. Those damn packing boxes are scattered everywhere. I feel ashamed that I even started the process of packing up my parents’ things. It’s too soon. I shouldn’t have listened to David. Since I didn’t argue with him on the subject I can’t blame him. If I don’t want to sell the house or pack up their things all I have to do is say so.

  The past is the past, Liv. Living there can sometimes be a futile and harmful thing.

  My father reminded me often that though it was perfectly fine to feel wistful about the past, particularly lost loved ones, it was never smart to linger there unless it was in the good memories. The past is the past for a reason, he would say. It’s behind you. Move toward what’s in front of you, Liv.

  But it’s the past that has drawn me back here today. Right after my father’s death, it was necessary to pull out his will and other essential papers and to go through his office. He’d had a number of those necessary documents laid out on his desk already. I don’t know whether he was feeling ill and just didn’t tell me or if he was merely doing an annual update to his paperwork. Some financial records and insurance documents were out of their folders. A sealed envelope that contained a letter of instruction, reminding me where important documents were stored, the names of insurance companies, passwords for bank accounts and other online accounts had been right on top. He made sure the instructions were as easy to follow as a detailed road map.

  I walk beyond the cavernous great room and into the side hall that leads to his home office and on to the master suite. My father loved his office. It looks out over the rolling green pastures of the property. Those pastures spill out around the front and west side of the house’s perch on a rise. Behind the house are acres and acres of woods. I loved exploring those woods when I was younger.

  I round his desk, pull out his Herman Miller chair and sit. My father swore these were the most comfortable chairs on the market. After spending so much time at his desk going through the estate papers, I have to agree.

  The files are neatly arranged. Most are personal files related to his finances and the property and all that it entails. All but a few I pulled from where they were stored as I prepared for settling the estate. I’ve been through those repeatedly. Across the room the row of steel cabinets house his professional case files. There are certain steps that need to be taken on those files. He left specific instructions. Just something else I need to get around to. I open the center drawer of his desk and retrieve the notes I stuffed there after removing them from the trash bin under his desk. The day he had the heart attack he’d been right here at this desk, cleaning out some of his drawers apparently.

  I didn’t find out until after the funeral that he had been having some heart issues. I found the prescriptions and visited his doctor, a family friend. He hadn’t said anything at the funeral because he assumed I knew. But my father never told me. Didn’t want to worry me, I suppose. He was always far too concerned with ensuring I was happy to tell me bad news. I could never understand why he viewed me as so fragile. I’m strong. I’m a cop—a homicide detective.

  Even if these migraines have kicked my butt recently.

  So far, so good today. Any aches I’ve suffered have been a distant twinge. I mentally cross my fingers.

  My intention is to go through everything—eventually—and burn all the papers that were related to his work or finances that he appeared not to want or need—which is what he wanted according to the letter of instruction. Discounting, of course, the official patient files. Those are the ones with the precise instructions on disposition. Anything else I deem simple rubbish I will toss in the bin and burn. I probably would have burned the pages of notes I found in the bin under his desk if I hadn’t noticed a name. At the time the name wasn’t one I recognized but I worried that it was either a patient or a work-related associate. It wasn’t until Walt mentioned that Sanchez would be home from Mexico on Sunday that the memory finally clicked.

  So maybe I didn’t come here after work to avoid David. Maybe I came in search of some truth that will help us solve this case. Only this doesn’t feel like a simple, unexpectedly discovered truth. This feels like a stumbled upon, well-hidden secret.

  I open the papers and confirm that nagging worry: the name on my father’s tossed handwritten notes is Mario Sanchez. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t exactly be a stunning revelation. He treated hundreds of patients in the Nashville area over the course of his long and prestigious career. But this is not just any name, this is a name on Walt’s and my list of persons of interest.

  I skim through the notes once more in search of any other names I might have overlooked. I reach the last page and my gaze stalls. Letters—initials possibly. Two simple pieces of the alphabet that were jotted next to each other shock the breath out of me.

  JF.

  Joseph Fanning.

  I call Walt.

  Detective Walter Duncan

  I park next to Liv’s Subaru. She waits at the front door of the house, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed over her chest.

  She knows before I get out of the car the things I’ll ask first and she’s ready to defend her feelings and choices. You feeling okay? I’m fine, she would say. You don’t need to worry about me. A little headache isn’t going to keep me down. Have you been home? Aghast, she would demand, how is that relevant? I’ll get there when I get there. I called you here for an important reason, Walt.

  I know her almost as well as I know myself. I’ll bet she hasn’t been home yet. It’s almost seven. The fact that she’s still wearing the gray jacket and black trousers she wore to work today tells me I would win that bet. I wonder if she’s even called him. As much as I dislike the knucklehead, I know she loves him. I just can’t figure out why she’s working so hard to push him away. Even when I play devil’s advocate, she won’t exactly say she doesn’t love him or that she wants to end the relationship. She’s confused and feeling uncertain.

  Then again, he does make it a relatively simple reflex to push him away. He just can’t help himself when it comes to trying to control every last detail of her life. If Stella were here she’d tell me to mind my own business.

  “But she’s like a daughter to me,” I mumble.

  Stella woul
d say I know.

  I climb out of the Tahoe and amble across the yard. “Traffic was murder.” This is my excuse for taking an entire forty-five minutes to get here when I was actually following up with Reynolds to see if he had anything back on the DNA from the scene. Sometimes a face-to-face works far better than a phone call. It wasn’t my intent to put Liv off. Absolutely not. I guess I just feel guilty for making that planned stop even after she called.

  Then again, she hadn’t said to hurry. She hadn’t even sounded worried, just distant and distracted somehow.

  Ultimately the visit to Reynolds was a waste of time. He did not have the DNA reports back yet. Furthermore, he had nothing relevant from the numerous pieces of trace evidence the crime scene folks had spent hours collecting at the scene. White cotton, potentially from a sheet or other piece of linen. A hair that belonged to Fanning. Some animal fecal matter that likely got tracked in on Fanning’s or the perp’s/vic’s shoes. One of the neighbor’s dogs liked taking dumps in any yard but his own.

  Reynolds had nothing that would help us determine what the hell happened to the bastard.

  The worst part is that we still can’t be certain Fanning is even the victim. He could be the perpetrator of whatever took place in that dump he calls home. Either way, someone—two someones, actually—were injured and we need to figure out what happened. Hopefully while we can still make a difference.

  “You okay?” I ask this expected question as I climb the steps up to the porch.

  As I take the final step a weariness washes over me and I resist the urge to sit down right there and just lean against the railing. I am tired. More tired than I have felt since those all night vigils with Stella. I’d work all day while the nurse sat with her and then I’d spend the night entertaining her or just watching her breathe. I was terrified that if I closed my eyes I’d wake up and she’d be gone.

  “I don’t know,” Liv admits. “Okay is suddenly complicated.”

  These words surprise me. Liv isn’t one to bemoan her lot in life. If she’s having a bad day she usually pretends it’s merely challenging or that she has no idea what I’m talking about. She keeps her chin up. Always. Even, I’ve learned lately, when one of those headaches kicks her butt. Frankly, the worries she recently voiced about Preston are unusual. I can’t help wondering if something more is going on.

  “How complicated?” I pause at the door as she steps aside to let me in.

  “You should have a drink.”

  “Oh.” I groan. “That complicated.”

  Liv is not a drinker. The occasional glass of wine or beer but she’s way too level headed to go overboard with either. Never smoked. Runs and works out. Eats all those natural colorful veggies they say are good for you. The list of healthy stuff she does makes me exhausted just thinking about it.

  I lower myself onto Dr. Newhouse’s leather sofa. Liv rounds the bar and pours me a Scotch. My mouth waters. This won’t be the cheap stuff. Her daddy bought only the best. She returns to where I wait but she’s carrying only one drink.

  “What about you?” I accept the glass she offers.

  “That’s part of the complication.”

  I knock back a slug of the scotch, clear my throat. “All right. I’m listening.”

  Liv sits down on the coffee table, her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees. “All these migraines and feeling utterly exhausted all the time really had me worried. And I was late.” She glances up at me and I nod in understanding. “So I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. That’s really why I went to the doctor. With all the headaches I thought something might be wrong.”

  The wind goes right out of my sails. I’m nodding again, like a cheap bobblehead doll. “What does your fiancé have to say about this?”

  I recognize my tone is accusing as if the man has done something bad and needs taking down a couple of notches. When she smiles some of the heaviness lifts from my chest.

  “You’re the only person besides my doctor who knows.”

  My smile turns into a grin. “He won’t like that you told me first.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s the least of my worries. I don’t know if I’m properly equipped to be a mother, Walt. This is seriously complicated.”

  I reach out, take her hand in mine. “First, yes it’s complicated but it’s also amazing and crazy wonderful. Stella and I wanted children so badly. It’s a blessing. After losing your father, it’s a miracle. That’s what it is. Second, you’ll be an incredible mother. The best. No question.”

  “I wish I could feel as sure as you do.”

  My mind goes back to the logistics of all this. “So is the pregnancy causing the headaches?”

  I’m hoping the answer is yes and that there isn’t some other underlying issue.

  “Dr. Raeford said it’s a combination of the pregnancy hormones, and all the loss and stress I’ve experienced lately. She thinks it’ll pass or at least ease up in the next few weeks as I move into the second trimester.”

  Regret and sadness gore me. “So when is this baby due? I have to start making plans, kid.”

  “December fourteenth, give or take a few days. We’ll know more after an ultrasound.” She shakes her head. “Merry Christmas to me.”

  The pages of the calendar—the days, weeks, months—whirl in my head. The chances of me making it that long are slim to none. For the first time since I came to terms with my terminal prognosis, I want to howl in misery. The idea of not being here to see Liv’s baby rips my heart into shreds. The urge to tell her I’m dying is nearly overwhelming but I will not put that pain on top of all that she’s suffered this year already. No way. Not until I have no choice.

  She deserves happiness. I refuse to be the reason even a smidgeon of that happiness is tarnished right now. My own complicated news will come soon enough.

  I square my shoulders and do the fatherly thing. “You have to talk to Preston about this. It’s not right to leave him out.”

  “I know.” She nods. “I will talk to him, I promise. I just need to get used to the idea myself before I go there. He’ll want to tell his parents and, well, you understand. Particularly right now, with this case. I just can’t handle all that.”

  I do understand. “So, how does he feel about dogs?”

  I can’t exactly ask her to take Sandy without telling her the reason. For now, feeling out how her future husband might react to having a pet around the house will have to do. If I die before we have the second part of the conversation, she’ll look back on this moment and realize why I was asking.

  To explain my reason for asking, I add, “You know they say men who like animals make better fathers.” I have no idea if this is true but it seems reasonable.

  “He loves dogs.” She says this as if she finds the answer surprising herself. “He had a border collie for twelve years, she died just before he and I met. He hasn’t had the heart to get another one.” A smile tugs at her lips. “So I guess that’s a good sign.”

  I nod, relieved. “Definitely a good sign.”

  “There’s more.” She stands. “This is complicated in a different way. I need you to look at something for me.”

  “Okay.” This does sound ominous. I stand, leaving my glass on the coffee table, and follow her across the room and down the hall. In her father’s office, she crosses to the desk and picks up a few pages of paper that look as if they’ve been crumpled and then smoothed out.

  “You starting with your father’s office on your packing or was he doing some housekeeping before he passed?” Doesn’t take a crystal ball to see either scenario is possible. There are a couple packing boxes taped and ready to fill on the floor. Several file folders lay in a neat stack on the desk.

  “A little of both.” She hands me the pages. “There are several notes about a man he spoke with or treated.” She shrugs. “Or had some sort of relationship with.”

  I scan the first page, but don’t see a name until I reach the second. My gaze crashes into hers. “Ma
rio Sanchez.”

  “Yeah. The notes don’t make a lot of sense. It’s mostly dates and locations. But there are initials noted on that last page. I think he was referring to Fanning.”

  I scan the third page again, more slowly this time. I see what she means. JF. “Okay, I see it. The rest of the notations are mostly dates.” The realization of what I’m looking at suddenly sinks in and I tap the page. “These are dates from the time period of Fanning’s trial.” The bastard was arrested in June, but he didn’t go to trial until early the next year.

  “Maybe my father evaluated the victims, assessed their reliability. Something like that.”

  “Have you found any files related to Fanning or Sanchez or any of the others?” I don’t have to tell her that Dr. Newhouse’s name is not in the official case file. If he was officially involved in any capacity, it was for the defense and was never revealed. Not something Liv will want to discover, I’m sure.

  “Not so far.” She turns to the row of filing cabinets on the far wall. “I’ve been through all those and there are no names from our list—unless the patients were listed under aliases. I suppose that’s possible in which case I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Before I can pull together a reasonable theory, she warns, “It gets worse. While I was waiting for you to get here I did a little more looking around.” She picks up the leather bound calendar from her father’s desk. As she shuffles through to find whatever she’s looking for I see numerous notes on page after page. Like me, her father preferred making notes the old fashioned way.

  “Have a look at this.” She passes me the calendar.

  I stare at January twentieth. Just over two weeks before her father died. J. F. Riverbend.

  “Why in the world would my father visit Joseph Fanning in prison?”

  Although, knowing her father, I’m certain there is a perfectly logical explanation, I can’t for the life of me think what it would be.