by Joel Goldman
Mason caught up to her as the elevator doors opened. She punched the button for the sixth floor without checking the directory. "It's there, I know it," she said.
"What's there?" Mason asked.
"They called it the Baby Book. All the mothers signed it when they checked in. They had at least ten volumes, hundreds of pages for all the babies born here. The nurses made a big deal of it."
Abby burst out of the elevator onto the sixth floor, Mason trailing her, not doubting her memory of the hospital's layout, hoping her memory of the Baby Book was as accurate. She pushed through the double doors marked Maternity, breathless, glancing around in near panic.
"They changed it," Abby said. "It used to be right over there." She pointed to a waiting area decorated in rainbow wallpaper and worn furniture, then marched to the nurse's station.
"Hi," she said to the nurse, catching her breath.
The nurse, a large gray-haired, black woman with a round, tender face, put down her charts. "What is it?" she asked evenly, accustomed to excited women.
"The Baby Books, where the mothers wrote their names when they checked in, what happened to them?"
"Oh, honey," the nurse said. "Just like everything else, it's all done by computer now."
"But what happened to the old books, the ones from twenty years ago?"
The nurse smiled. "Are you in one of those books?" Abby nodded. "Well, come on then," the nurse said. "I wouldn't let them throw those books away. I'm Evelyn," she said, taking Abby by the hand. "When were you here, child?"
Abby told her as Evelyn led them past the nursery where the newborn babies were on display, Mason following a few steps back, feeling like a stranger in a strange land, sensing again the depth of Abby's longing. They stopped at a linen closet filled with sheets and towels, except for three shelves that were lined with alternating pink and blue three-ring binders, each dated for the years they covered. Evelyn and Mason stood aside as Abby traced her finger along the binders, stopping at the one she was searching for, yanking it off the shelf.
Sitting cross-legged on the hallway floor, with Mason crouched next to her, Abby flipped through the pages, checking the date at the top of each page. Each page was divided into columns for the mother's signature, the date of admission, the date of the baby's birth, the sex, weight, and length of the baby, and the baby's name.
"Yes! There I am!" she said, jabbing the page with her finger.
Mason followed her finger across the line that began with Abby's signature, continued with the entries for the birth of a seven-pound baby girl, twenty-one inches long, and ended with a blank space for the baby's name.
"There's no name," Mason said, looking up at the nurse.
"Did you give your baby up for adoption?" Evelyn asked Abby. Abby, tears brimming, nodded. "That's why. Sometimes a birth mother didn't name her baby. It made it a little easier for some of the girls."
Abby stood, the binder sliding from her lap onto the floor, and walked back toward the nursery. Mason picked up the binder, found the pages for the two weeks before and after Abby's entries, and handed Evelyn the notebook. "Could you make copies of these pages for me?"
"Of course," Evelyn said.
Mason joined Abby at the nursery window, standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Abby pressed her hands against the glass, reaching for the babies more than waving at them. A nurse cradling one of the newborns in her arms smiled broadly and mouthed which one to Abby and Mason. Abby shook her head. Evelyn found them a few minutes later, handing Mason the copies. Mason thanked her, tugging gently at Abby's sleeve.
"It's time to go," he said.
Abby held onto Mason's arm, letting him lead her, blinking her eyes when they emerged from the hospital. The city was wrapped in a gauzy haze reflecting sunlight in a filtered glare, the day not sunny or cloudy, the uncomfortable ambiguity matching her confusion and disappointment.
Mason found a walkway that led around the hospital grounds, following it to a bench in a garden alongside a small fishpond. The flowers had been trimmed back for fall. Burnt orange leaves shed by the surrounding oaks floated on the surface of the pond, their tips upturned, like miniature junks. The air was crisp, a solidly autumn day.
Abby sat on the bench, her arms folded, rocking slightly. Mason studied Jordan's medical records and the pages from the Baby Books, letting Abby find her voice. The medical records were devoid of anything that identified Jordan's natural parents, reporting her birth and first days of life in neutral medical tones. The last page of the records was a copy of an order from the Family Court Division of the City of St. Louis Circuit Court granting Arthur and Carol Hackett custody of Jordan Hackett, the order noting that the unnamed natural parents had waived their parental rights.
Mason read every entry in the Baby Book. There were several others where the space for the baby's name had been left blank, a hole in the mother's history filled without the mother's knowledge by strangers.
"How could they have lost my records?" Abby asked at last.
"It's a big place. It's been a long time," Mason said, reciting the obvious excuses. "I'll tell you something else that's missing," he said.
"What?"
"Gina Davenport's signature in the Baby Book. The nurse gave me copies of the pages for the two weeks before and after you were there. Emily Davenport was born one week before your baby and Jordan were born. Either she didn't sign in, or she wasn't there."
"That's not possible," Abby said, sitting up and shaking off her funk. "Every mother signed the book. It was a ritual."
"Not Gina," Mason said.
Abby grabbed the pages from the Baby Book, studying each entry. Mason tried to tie the loose ends of Abby's missing medical records to Gina's missing Baby Book entry, but the knot kept unraveling. His cell phone rang, saving him from another attempt.
"Mason," he answered.
"Lou, it's Harry. Where are you?"
"Caulfield Medical Center in St. Louis. We talked to Abby's uncle. He sold Abby's baby, but claims he doesn't know who the buyer was. He's been marinated in booze so long, it's a miracle he remembers his name. We didn't do much better at the hospital. I hope you've come up with something."
"Your hunch about Robert Davenport was half right," Harry said.
"Which half?" Mason asked.
"The half about Davenport getting busted. It happened when he was living in St. Louis."
"Which half was wrong?"
"There's no connection to Centurion Johnson."
"I wouldn't have expected one in St. Louis. Centurion always stayed close to home," Mason said.
"There's still another half," Harry said. "Davenport was busted along with a few other guys. It was strictly small-time stuff, nickle-and-dime bags, but you'll be interested in who one of the other guys was."
"Harry, don't make me beg."
"Habit," Harry said. "It was Terry Nix."
"Do not shit me, Harry," Mason said, "or I'll tell Claire to put saltpeter in your warm milk."
"I shit you not," Harry said. "The charges were thrown out because of a problem with the search. I tracked down one of the arresting cops. Turns out we know some of the same guys. His name is Roy Bowen. He used to work narcotics, undercover. Now he's behind a desk. Said he'd be glad to talk to you."
"Where do we find him?" Mason asked.
"Where do you think?" Harry asked.
"Krispy Kreme?" Mason said.
"Very funny," Harry answered. "Turn yourself in at noon, downtown."
Chapter 27
"We've got three hours to kill before we meet Roy Bowen," Mason said, "and we're not spending it on this bench. Come on."
Abby said, "I'm not in the mood for sightseeing."
"And I'm not coming to your pity party," Mason told her. Abby's face fell, Mason cupping her chin in his hand. "I need your help," he told her. "I need you in the game, not on the bench feeling sorry for yourself."
Abby held his wrist, nodding her head. "Okay. What's next."
"Vital records," he said. "Another bureaucratic adventure. Emily's birth certificate will say where she was born. I want a copy. Might as well get one for Jordan while we're there."
An hour later, they were sitting in a Starbucks in downtown St. Louis, the birth certificates, medical records, and Baby Book entries spread in front of them, alongside a copy of the St. Louis Post Dispatch. Mason didn't like the taste of coffee, but he did like the smell. The double latte Abby ordered revived her.
"Emily's birth certificate confirms she was born at Caulfield and that Gina and Robert Davenport were her parents," Abby said.
"Gina just didn't sign the Baby Book, that's all," Mason said. "We can't check her medical records without an authorization or a subpoena, and the hospital would fight a subpoena."
"Why?" Abby asked. "She's dead. What do they care?"
"They don't, except they would want a judge to order them to turn over the records so that Robert Davenport doesn't sue them for invasion of privacy. If Davenport objected, the court wouldn't order the hospital to turn over the records unless I could establish some relevance to Jordan's case, which I can't do at the moment. That song and dance will take at least a month."
Abby leafed through Jordan's medical records again, smoothing the pages, stopping at the court order granting custody to the Hacketts. "What's this mean?" she said, pointing to the language in the order reciting that the natural parents had waived their parental rights.
"It means that the natural parents consented to the adoption. Otherwise, one of the parents could have shown up later and asked to have their baby back. I know what you're thinking," he said. "We could find the father, talk to him, but those records are sealed too."
Abby grinned for the first time that morning. "Don't be so certain you know what I'm thinking, mister. We don't need the court records. I know the father."
"Assuming Jordan is your daughter, you know where he is after twenty-one years?" Mason asked, basking in her smile.
Abby showed him the front page of the newspaper's sports section, pointing to the picture of a columnist whose byline and picture appeared beneath a column titled, "Kramer's World." Mason studied the photograph of Tony Kramer, resisting an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Kramer was bald on top, his full cheeks made heavier by a thick beard. Mason felt better.
"You followed his career after all these years?" Mason asked.
"Not really," she answered. "I knew he went to the University of Missouri for journalism. I heard from some friends that he ended up in St. Louis with the Post Dispatch." Abby turned the paper toward her. "In high school, his hair was on his head, not his face. He was cute and I was easy. Turned out to be a bad combination. Let's call him."
"Bad idea. Most guys don't like starting the week with a phone call from the girl they knocked up in high school. You won't get anything out of him."
"What do you suggest?"
"A personal visit. Really shake him up."
Roy Bowen was having a bowl of fresh fruit and raw vegetables for lunch. "I'm on a fruit-and-vegetable diet," he explained, patting his belly. "My wife tells me I've got done-fell syndrome. She says my stomach done fell and I can't see my feet anymore. My wife, she's a panic," he said with no trace of humor.
Bowen's desk job was deputy chief of police. His office was on the top floor of police headquarters, two doors down from the chief. The walls were lined with commendations and photographs with dignitaries. His desk was thick with paper. The Arch dominated the landscape beyond the windows behind his desk, reducing the Mississippi River to an afterthought.
"Harry Ryman said you used to work narcotics," Mason said.
"That was back when I thought it was fun to get shot at," Bowen said. "My wife didn't mind that so much, or the pierced ears. She drew the line at tattoos, so I went into management," he said with the forced laugh of a joke told too often.
"What can you tell us about Robert Davenport and Terry Nix?"
Bowen picked up a file from his desk. "I had somebody dig this out after I talked to Harry," Bowen said. "One of the perks of this job is that you can actually make somebody do something if it's about a two-bit bust twenty years ago. Davenport and Nix were small-time dealers. One of the cops screwed up the warrant and the case got thrown out. End of story," he said.
"You run into either one of them again?"
"Nope," Bowen answered. "We kept tabs on them for a little while. The bust cost Nix his job and he left town. I don't know what happened to Davenport."
"Where did Nix work?" Mason asked.
"That was the part that made me remember him when Harry called," Bowen said. "Nix was a substance-abuse counselor working at Caulfield Medical Center. The guy was supposed to be treating people and he was selling them dope. Can you believe it?"
"Yeah," Mason said. "I can. If you have a picture of Nix from when he was arrested, I could use a copy."
"No problem. Making copies is one of my secretary's specialties. There's one other thing you might be interested in based on what Harry told me about your case,"
Bowen said.
"What's that?"
"We heard rumors at the time that Nix had another sideline brokering illegal adoptions. Some of the girls he counseled were pregnant, and he offered them cash or drugs if they sold their babies. Nix left town before we could prove anything. You snag this guy or need some help, let me know," Bowen said, writing his home phone number on a business card and handing it to Mason.
"Count on it," Mason said.
A security guard stopped Mason and Abby in the lobby of the Post Dispatch building, making them sign in, produce identification, and wait while he called Tony Kramer.
"So much for shaking him up. I understand the need for security, but do we look like terrorists?" Abby asked, resuming the jittery pacing she'd done at the hospital.
"When your old boyfriend finds out you're waiting in the lobby, he might prefer someone with a bomb. He's probably got a wife, three kids, and a dog, none of whom know they have a relative about to climb out of the woodpile. And when he sees you bouncing off the walls, he'll figure you're here to ask for child support."
"I can't help it," she said, tapping her fingers on crossed arms. "First my uncle, then the hospital, now Tony. That's a lot of baggage to unpack."
"Abby? Abby Lieberman?" Tony Kramer said from behind them. Abby and Mason turned around. "I took the stairs," Kramer said, pointing to the door at his back.
Abby brushed her hair back, smoothed her blouse, and smiled weakly. "Hello, Tony. Long time."
Kramer exhaled, hiking his trousers around his spreading middle, tugging at his beard. "Just a couple of lifetimes," he said, waiting for Abby to fill the void, neither of them knowing what to say.
Mason broke the awkward silence. "I'm Lou Mason, a friend of Abby's. Is there someplace here where we can talk privately."
"Are you kidding?" Kramer asked. "At a newspaper? What's this about, Abby?"
"It's not what you think, Tony. It's about…"
Tony raised his hand. "Let's go for a walk."
The newspaper's offices were downtown on Tucker Boulevard. Tony led them down Tucker, turning left on Cole. Mason gave Abby and Tony room, letting Abby break the ice as he trailed behind them, Tony looking over his shoulder at Mason as she spoke, Mason waving back at him, trying to picture them as teenagers, shutting the image down when it heated up.
They stopped in Carr Square Park. Tony was breathing heavily after the short walk, glancing around for witnesses as Mason caught up with them. "I want nothing to do with this, Mason," he said so quietly the birds couldn't hear. "You understand that. I've got a very nice life here. Abby and I made a mistake. We were kids and kids make mistakes. Giving that baby up for adoption was best for everyone."
"I do understand that, Tony. I don't want to bring either you or Abby into this case, but my client is on trial for her life. That trumps everything."
"All I know is that a guy showed up at my dorm. I was a freshman in
college for Christ's sake," Tony said. "He told me if I signed the waiver, I wouldn't have to pay child support. So I signed it."
Mason showed him the picture of Terry Nix. "Was this the guy?"
"You want me to remember a guy I saw one time over twenty years ago?" Tony asked. "I don't remember what I looked like twenty years ago. I'm sorry," he said to Abby. "That's the best I can do. I'm on deadline. I've got to get back to the paper."
Mason and Abby stopped at her uncle's house before leaving town to show him Terry Nix's picture. He wouldn't let them in, shaking his head at the photograph before slamming the door closed. Mason dropped Abby off shortly after eight o'clock that night, understanding when she didn't invite him in. She shouldered her bag, her lips tight, her face drained from a short trip that had taken her too far into her past.
Tuffy jumped Mason when he got home, forgiving him for leaving her to be fed by a neighbor while he was gone. Mason had brought Jordan's file home from the office. He spread it out on his kitchen table, searching it for missing pieces while he drank a beer for dinner.
Mason had read every word on every page too many times to count. He didn't expect the words to change, but he knew that their importance could as he learned more about his case. The trick was to figure out what had changed. He finished his beer and started another, picking up Gina Davenport's autopsy report.
He forced himself to pay attention to each of the pathologist's findings, including the weight and color of each internal organ, the splintering of Gina's skull, and the pulverizing impact on her brain when she hit the pavement. He read the description of Gina's reproductive system twice, the second time out loud, to make certain he understood what he was reading.
Mason called his Aunt Claire. "Female anatomy is not my strong point," he told her.
"I'm so sorry," Claire said. "I thought by now you were more experienced."
"I'm good with the surface structures," he assured her. "Help me out with the internal stuff."
"You are such a sophisticated man," his aunt said. "How can I help?"
"If a woman's fallopian tubes are blocked, she can't get pregnant, right?"
