The Bullet

by Mary Louise Kelly

  “Right. Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

  Dr. Gellert coughed. “I’m reaching out to you myself because of . . . uh . . . an additional irregularity. Your chart seems to have disappeared.”

  “My chart?”

  “That purple folder that I was taking notes in. You didn’t happen to take it with you, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Weirdest thing. I’m sure I left it on my desk, so I could review my notes and follow up today. Not to worry. Your test results are backed up online, and I can re-create everything else.”

  “Maybe one of the nurses filed it?”

  “They say they didn’t. They all know not to touch papers on my desk. Anyway, sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll be in touch in the next few days. Everything’s on track for your surgery next week.”

  I sat thinking. “You’ll let me know if my file turns up?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And if they find the guy who broke in?”

  “Sure, if you like. Security thinks they caught him on a CC camera as he exited through the parking garage. Heavyset guy with dark, curly hair. Couldn’t see his face.”

  • • •

  AT HOME THAT evening, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the sofa. It would be hard to pinpoint which of the day’s events I found most unsettling. The news that Dr. Gellert’s office had illegally been entered and my chart was missing? The revelation that my elderly boss could outcurse a Marseilles dockworker?

  It was infuriating, meanwhile, to admit that Madame Aubuchon’s judgment in ordering me to take time off was probably sound. I was in pain. My wrist hurt steadily, exhaustingly. The throbbing in my neck was less reliable but more frightening when it came. Even if the surgery went beautifully, I would need weeks to heal. And there was no denying that I was emotionally drained.

  I made it upstairs to my bedroom and was changing into my oldest jeans and a soft, dove-gray cardigan when a knock sounded at the front door. I frowned. One of my brothers, stopping by for a drink on his way home from work? I peeked out the window, expecting to spot the blond head of either Tony or Martin.

  It was Will Zartman.

  I had not seen him since we’d parted ways at National Airport on Friday. I swiped a brush through my hair and ran downstairs. Neither of us spoke right away. We stood a few feet apart, me in my front hall, just inside the door, Will still out on the front step. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and on his face was the same mix of sheepishness and defiance that I remembered from the last time he’d shown up un­announced, in the hotel lobby in Atlanta.

  “This is a nice surprise. I would have changed if I’d known you were coming.” I tugged the sweater tighter around my faded jeans. “I was about to open some wine, if you wanted to—”

  “You would have changed if you’d known I was coming? If you’d known I was coming?”

  “Well, yes, I would have put on—”

  “Check your phone.”

  “My phone?”

  “Check it.”

  “Oh. I see. You did call?”

  “Twice. In the past hour. To ask if I could take you to dinner tonight. Caroline, I swear to God. Maybe we should switch to a more modern, reliable form of communication. Say, carrier pigeons?”

  “All right, all right. I’m sorry.”

  “Or maybe smoke signals?”

  “It’s because I turn the ringer off when I’m in class, and then I always forget to—”

  “What about Morse code? That could be fun.” He was starting to smile. “Or semaphore flags. The yellow and red ones, like they used to wave to signal trains. Doesn’t the navy still use them on ships?”

  “I’m about to slam this door on you. Get in here before I whack a semaphore flag over your head.”

  I reached for his jacket, grabbed the edge of a pocket, and pulled him in. It was dark in the hall after I shut the door against the streetlight. An October chill rose off his clothes, and I caught his scent, the now-familiar mix of soap and maybe a warm animal waiting at home. I thought he might kiss me and I felt suddenly, unexpectedly shy.

  Instead, Will bent down and pressed his forehead to mine. “I’ve been trying to give you your space,” he whispered. “I know you needed to spend the weekend alone. But I’ve been going crazy, wanting to see you.”

  We stood there, heads touching, not speaking, until my breath slowed to match his own. His fingers brushed mine in the dark. Then his hand climbed my arm, circled it, teasing, lingering in the velvety crook of my elbow. It took Will a hundred years to reach my shoulder, to stroke my throat, to round my chin. His thumb, the thick pad of it, on my mouth. Pressing. Bruising. My lips swelling under his touch. I began to shake.

  “Beautiful girl,” he whispered.

  For a man who was not my type, Will Zartman was definitely growing on me.

  Twenty-five

  * * *

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 2013

  Word of my possible inheritance came before breakfast.

  “Good morning,” trilled Jessica Yeo. “Are you awake? Got a minute?”

  “Sure. Just making toast.” She had in fact caught me cracking eggs for an omelet that I was planning to stuff with chorizo. Will and I had never gotten around to dinner last night; we’d found too many other ways to pass the time. When I woke, he was already gone.

  “You’re up early. Already at work?”

  “God, no. You’ve clearly never worked in a newsroom. Nobody shows up before ten. It’s like some unspoken but unanimous pact among the reporters.” She giggled. “I have got your article open on my laptop, though. It looks good.”

  My article? “You mean the follow-up that Leland Brett was writing? It’s already finished?”

  “It’s on the front of today’s Metro section. He might be a horny old bugger, but he writes fast.”

  “Jessica!”

  “Sorry. But I speak the truth. Both about Leland being a horndog, and about the story looking good.” She blew her nose loudly. “Excuse me. It sounds like your parents were really nice folks. Ever since the first article ran last week, people have been calling the paper, to say kind things about them, and to wish you well. Leland quotes a bunch of them in today’s story.”

  “He told me he was planning to. I’ll take a look when we hang up.”

  “Cool. Anyway, a couple of developments. I’ve been following the money. Your money.”

  “Not my money. My birth parents’ money. Whatever there was of it.”

  “Kinda fascinating, actually. The cemetery wouldn’t tell me anything. Just the date your parents were interred and the location of their graves.”

  “I know. I already went out there to take a look.”

  “It was a long shot, but I was hoping your paperwork would still be in a file somewhere. That it might show who paid for their plots, what bank the check was drawn on, that type thing. It sounds like that stuff got dumped ages ago, though, and it wouldn’t be public record anyway. In better news, I’m making progress on Boone and Sadie Rawson’s Social Security numbers.”

  “Yeah, about those—”

  “Listen to this,” she said, ignoring me. “Officially, it takes weeks to find out a dead person’s number. You have to pay twenty-nine dollars and fill out this form. I’ve got one here, hang on.” I heard her shuffling papers, then the sound of something heavy, a book maybe, crashing onto a hard floor. “Damn it.” She came back on the line. “I need to improve my filing system. Complete chaos. But here we go: form number 711, ‘Request for a Deceased Individual’s Social Security Record.’ You mail it off and then you’re supposed to wait four to six weeks for a response.”

  “Jessica—”

  “However, since I am a rock-star researcher”—she paused ­theatrically—“I think I can get them for you by the end of the week. The stupid public-a
ffairs lady gave me this lecture, about how it’s impossible to expedite a search, and how I had to wait my turn, and blah, blah, blah. But I went over her head and—”

  “I already found them.”

  “You what?”

  “I found the numbers. On Ancestry.com.”

  “Really?” Jessica sounded stunned. “Everyone’s Social Security numbers are just sitting there?”

  “Well, at least, dead people’s are. My parents popped right up. You could have found them yourself in five minutes. The Social Security Administration keeps something called the Death Master File. Grim name, but useful. It lists everybody whose deaths were reported to the government, all the way back to 1875.”

  “Jeez. I feel like an idiot.”

  “Not at all. I had time on my hands over the weekend. I pulled up the state records, too. Every death recorded by the Georgia Health Department from 1919 to 1998. I already ordered copies of their original death certificates.”

  “Great,” said Jessica, sounding deflated.

  “There is one thing I can’t do from here, though.”

  “The property records, right?” She perked up. “I was getting to that. It’s taken me a few days because I can’t search online. The database only goes back to 1980. But so far, lunch today is looking quiet, so I was going to drive down to Fulton County courthouse. Apparently they keep books—I mean, actual books—in the Deeds and Rec­ords room.”

  “And the books would show . . . what? Who bought my parents’ house? The purchase price?”

  “The deed itself. Who sold the house on your parents’ behalf, I’m hoping. I’ve got the lot number on Eulalia Road. So, that should be easy.” She clapped her hands. “While I’m there, guess where else I was going to go?”

  “Umm . . . no idea.”

  “Probate court!” she crowed with improbable delight. “It’s right there in the same government complex. If your parents had a will—and let’s assume they were organized, responsible citizens, and that they did—it should be filed there. And wills are public record, isn’t that cool? We can just walk in and ask to see them. I learned that yesterday, from one of the political editors.”

  I set down my mug of tea on the counter and considered this. “I would have thought that wills were . . . private. I mean, mine certainly is. A stranger couldn’t stroll into some government office and browse through it.”

  “Right, but you’re not dead, are you? Your will hasn’t been probated.”

  “Okay, but surely even dead people have some right to—”

  “Nope. ‘The dead have no rights and can suffer no wrongs,’ ” recited Jessica. “I’m quoting—oh, what was his name? Some English judge. They taught us all this in journalism school. How you can’t libel a dead man.”

  “Huh. But you can read his will.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Well, if you’re right—if we really can read Boone and Sadie Rawson’s wills, we might be able to figure out what happened to the house. And why nothing ever passed to me.”

  “If we can get our hands on your parents’ wills, then we might be in business.”

  • • •

  THE NEXT TIME my phone rang, the conversation was more tense.

  “You need to stop talking to the press,” ordered Beamer Beasley. “Next time that Leland Brett calls, you tell him bye-bye and send him straight to me.”

  “With pleasure. But why? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s a nice story in the paper this morning. But from a police point of view, it’s time to shut down the conversation. The press has served its purpose.”

  “If it weren’t for the press, you wouldn’t have known about my coming back to Atlanta.”

  “That’s true. I don’t deny a little media coverage can work wonders. Helps jog people’s memories, for one. But you also got to remember, whatever gets printed, it’s out there for anyone to read. So information about evidence might be best kept to yourself.”

  “You mean I should shut up about the bullet and my plans to get it removed?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. Information about evidence might be best kept to yourself.”

  “Speaking of which, there’s something I should mention.” Beasley listened while I described the disappearance of my chart from Dr. Gellert’s office.

  “I don’t know what to make of that,” he said when I was done. “Could be something, could be nothing. But I’m sure it’s occurred to you, as it has to me, that that bullet in your neck might be of interest to any number of people. So be smart. Keep your doors locked, don’t open up to anyone you don’t know, don’t go out on your own if you can help it.” He hesitated. “I suppose this would be an opportune moment to tell you that your case here is being officially reopened.”

  “No! Really?”

  “That’s another thing the press is good for, putting pressure on us. Between those news stories and the possibility of new physical evidence, it was inevitable. The decision’s already made. They want to go back over all the old files.”

  “My God.” I tightened my grip on the phone.

  “We’d also like to do a formal interview with you. Just to set down for the record some of the things you and I’ve already gone over. If you like, I’ll sit in on that.”

  “It won’t be you asking the questions, though?”

  “Likely it’ll be the current head of the Cold Case Squad. He’s good. You want a young guy; it’s been a while since I led an investigation. I’ve been part-time for years now. But given my history with the case, and the fact that I already made contact with you, I’ve agreed to work this full-time. See if I can spot anything the young guys miss.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’m glad, too. But let me say it again: don’t get your hopes up. Please. All this means is me and a couple junior detectives will reread the old folders. The answer wasn’t in them thirty-four years ago, and personally I doubt it is now.”

  “But you said yourself there’s new evidence. If the bullet in my neck—”

  “If the bullet in your neck comes out intact, and if the techs can do anything with it, then we might have ourselves a lead. But let’s cross that bridge when we get there. All right?”

  “All right.” Deep breath. “All right.”

  “Ms. Cashion,” he said in a gentler tone, “chances are whoever killed your parents is dead himself by now.”

  “I know. You must . . . you must think there’s a chance of solving it, though, or you wouldn’t be taking this on.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Beasley said, “Let me answer that indirectly. This past spring we charged a guy named Daniel Wade with rape. Actually, five rapes. Possible ties to two dozen more. He was known as the Maintenance Man because he attacked women in their apartments, pretended to be there to do repair work. One lady, he poured water under her front door. Then he knocked and told her he was checking on a leak.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It is. What’s interesting is these rapes were committed nearly thirty years ago. Back in the mideighties. Not quite as long ago as your case, but close.”

  “What changed? Why charge him now?”

  “DNA evidence. There wasn’t a national database thirty years ago. DNA from the rape kits of several victims indicated it was the same guy. But we only had his DNA profile, not his name. In May, Wade popped up as a match.”

  “So you’ve arrested him?”

  “No need,” Beasley said wearily. “He’s already in federal prison in Kentucky. Locked up on unrelated robbery charges, until at least 2021. After that we’ll aim to extradite him back down to Georgia.”

  I was quiet.

  “Not a fairy-tale ending, by any stretch. But I raise it because at least those victims get some closure after all these years.”

  “Closure.
” I rolled the word around my tongue. “No disrespect to those women, who I’m sure went through a horrible experience. But I don’t know that there is such a thing as closure. Not in a case like mine. My parents were murdered, right in front of me.” My voice cracked. “Even in the one-in-a-thousand chance that somehow, after all this time, you could find the man who killed them, it wouldn’t—it won’t bring them back.”

  “Course not. No power on this earth’s gonna bring back your family. But you’re confusing two things. Closure isn’t about raising the dead. It’s about providing the victim with a sense that—that justice has been served.”

  “I guess.”

  Beasley heaved a heavy sigh. “I know it comes too late, and that it’s not enough. But in a case like that—in a case like yours—that’s what we aim for now. Justice.”

  Twenty-six

  * * *

  Jessica Yeo hit pay dirt at the Fulton County courthouse.

  She dug out the deeds for the house on Eulalia Road within ten minutes. They showed that my birth parents had bought the house for $45,300 in 1975. It had sold four years later, in December of 1979, for $99,500. A tidy profit back then, especially for a young couple barely out of college. I felt a stab of pride for them. They had been on their way to building a comfortable life for our family, before it had all been snatched away.

  Boone and Sadie Rawson’s wills had proven equally easy to lay hands on. The clerks in the Records room had needed only their full names, and the year they had died.

  “Bingo!” said Jessica, when she reached me that afternoon. “Guess what I’m holding in my hot little hands? All freshly photocopied and stapled? They’ve got all the wills lined up on open shelves, just sitting there in white plastic binders.”

  The wills were straightforward, two pages each. There were no complicated assets to dispose of. The documents were mirror images of each other. Boone left everything to Sadie Rawson; she left everything to him. Should they not survive each other, then their daughter, Caroline Smith, was to be the sole beneficiary of their estate.