“I’m not saying there’s no association between the deaths.” Dorothy glanced at Keith’s bowl. “You need more soup.” She rose, picked up Keith’s bowl and headed for the stove. He looked at me with a wry smile and shrugged like he was getting used to being bossed around by the women in the family.
Dorothy wore simple jeans with ease at the waist and a handknit gray cable pullover that came to the top of her hips. It was no nonsense attire that was in keeping with her very practical observations. She could fit in anywhere. And did. If people didn’t know she was a best-selling novelist, she was invariably overlooked. In a restaurant, on a bus, standing on a corner. There was nothing that called attention to herself.
She placed the bowl in front of Keith. “I’m saying there’s a different element in play. We’ve already found a similar case to the abandoned baby in the Garden of Eden. We have babies that died of exposure shortly after birth. In freezing weather. Placed in the arms of women that were statutes. The Ghost Baby deaths are connected in several special ways and Brent’s isn’t directly linked to anything.”
Keith nodded. “I see what you are getting at. Hard proof.”
“Yes. We only have theories so far.” We were silent and concentrated on the meal. “The statues are also well known,” Keith added. “That’s another connection.”
“Only by Kansans,” I argued. Ideas were flowing now. I stood and went after the notepad by the phone and brought it back to the table.
“Oh, they are known beyond Kansas,” Dorothy said. “Not famous exactly, but a lot of artists know about Pete Felton’s work. And the Garden of Eden certainly has a national presence. I agree that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea.” She reached for a biscuit. “Another thing, do those two statues look like they have something in common to you? I mean Elizabeth Polly and Reaching Woman?”
“Yes.” Keith replied quickly like he had been thinking about it. “They both have a heavy look. The features are more suggested than spelled out. One made by Dinsmoor and one by Peter Felton. They are not romantic and don’t have lot of detail.”
“Exactly.”
Dorothy rose, carried the bowls to the sink, and began clearing the rest of the table. “After I collect my things from your bedroom, I’ll go on to my new place. I’m basically a morning person and need to get my rest. I’ll stop in at the sheriff’s office tomorrow to see what has developed. After I’ve finished my writing.”
“No need to rush off,” Keith said. “Have another cup of coffee. This little discussion is doing quite a bit of good.”
“No more coffee for me tonight, but I agree that we should put our heads together.”
“It’s done more than a little bit of good. Thanks, Dorothy, for suggesting that we start locating female statues first. But while you are here and I’ve got the go ahead from Dimon, I want to talk about where I want you and Keith to focus.”
My husband smiled at my injection of authority. He was used to taking orders from me, and Dorothy obviously wasn’t.
“Keith, I want you to go back out to the family tomorrow. The reaction of the Suter family has bothered you from the very beginning.”
“There’s something off there.”
“See if you can talk privately with the daughter. Don’t wear your uniform shirt or your badge. I want them to think of you as their friend, not as an officer of law.”
“I am their friend,” he said sharply.
I sighed. “I know that, honey. You know what I mean. But this family is going to resist talking about things we need to know. They are too proud to air the family laundry in public. You stand the best chance of getting information.”
“Dorothy, can you manage to hang out around town some more without seeming to be too obvious?”
“Sure. There’s nothing more natural than a writer in a coffee shop. They’ll all feel free to come over and talk to me. I’m like a magnet. I’ll just tell the owner I’m having trouble with my Internet connection at my house. They have Wi-Fi in the coffee shop. For free. Students bring in laptops all the time.”
“Instead of using the library’s server?”
“Yes, and all kinds of people come to The Coffee Shop. People that never go to the library. It’s gossip central.” She glanced at her watch. “The Coffee Shop. Not the catchiest name in the world, by the way. Reminds me of a certain editor that used to rework my headlines.”
“And they just come right up and talk to you?”
“Right. Because I’m a writer. Especially because I’m a novelist. And you won’t believe the number of people who want to tell me their life history. Or their family’s most intimate secrets.”
“I hope you’re not planning on getting any work done.”
“No, but everything is grist for the mill. The only ones I really dread are the ones who want to give me their idea, have me do all the writing, and then split the money.”
“How do you handle that?”
“They are the only ones that I don’t encourage to hang around. I tell them I have an even better proposition. I’ll give them an idea, they can do all the writing, and we’ll split the money.”
While she was upstairs I went into Keith’s office and removed his Bible from his desk. When Dorothy came back down with her suitcase and her knitting bag I was waiting for her.
“We need to make this official. Consultants take the same oath as deputy sheriffs. At Sam’s insistence.”
She slowly set down her baggage and walked over to me. She repeated the words with a little quiver in her voice. When she vowed to uphold the Constitution of the United States, tears formed in her eyes.
Touched, Keith looked away.
“All done,” I said cheerfully. “Nice and proper. You are now officially an officer of the law.”
“Well.” She stood there as though uncertain of her next move. “Well. So I am.”
She retrieved her luggage again and we walked her to the door. I saw her off with a simple wave. There was nothing huggable about Dorothy Mercer. She drove around the circle in front of our house and her taillights disappeared down the lane.
Keith went to the music room, and began picking around on his favorite guitar. He played a variety of soft instrumental compositions. Nothing as revealing as a ballad. I smiled and paused in the doorway. “I’m going up to bed. Good night, honey.”
He went on searching for a chord as though he hadn’t heard me.
“Good night, honey,” I said again.
At this he looked up and nodded. “Night. I’ll be up pretty soon.” His fingers found the pattern he had been searching for. “Aren’t you going to call Josie?”
“Not tonight. I’m too tired. I’m going to wait until morning and then I want to be at the office.”
As I walked toward the stairs I thought about Dorothy’s tears during the oath. She’d been awestruck. Honored. Validated. Transformed into the real thing. Not just a writer about the real thing.
Then I mulled over her comments about The Coffee Shop. I wished she didn’t see everyone as grist for the mill. It sounded morbid.
Chapter Seven
Keith was already out choring when I got up in the morning. Normally he depended on our hired hand, Zola Hodson, to have things started. But she was off visiting relations. She had begun as my housekeeper, then answered Keith’s ad for a hired hand, which shocked the hell out of both of us.
Amused, she had presented us both with her credentials as an estate manager who had worked for wealthy film families in California. Through her grandfather who had managed estates in England, she became skilled at working with animals. She was the greatest gift our complicated household could possibly have received. But with her fabulous carriage, whippet-thin body, and sculptured hair she could easily step into a modeling job if our place burned to the ground.
When I got to the sheriff’s office, I checked the des
k for one of Sam’s notes telling me what had happened the day before. Nothing much. Somebody’s dog barked. Somebody’s didn’t. Animal Control was supposed to take care of both cases, but since the county commissioners had done away with that service the sheriff’s office was expected to rise to the occasion: scold the errant owner in the first case and bury the dead dog in the second case. Sam had turned the phone over to Betty Central and took care of both dogs on his way home last night. I called Betty and got the phones transferred back.
I called Josie at exactly nine am. She would not be teaching at Kansas State today and, like me, was a morning person. Before she could answer, I hung up, switched to Skype and called her back. I wanted to see her face.
“Whasup, Dude?”
I smiled at her mock informality and replied with the obvious. “It’s me.” I knew she was trying to put me at ease because when I Skype, the conversation will involve police work.
“So I see.”
“Have you been reading the papers? About the Ghost Baby?”
Her face froze. “Oh my God. Will this involve you, Lottie? When I read that article I was glad the death wasn’t in Carlton County because the crime was so hideously deviant. I thought it was out of your jurisdiction.”
“Guess again.”
“Oh, no. Why?”
“The why is what I was hoping you would help with.”
“No, I mean why would this be your responsibility?”
“Because I’m the brand new regional director, that’s why. And, believe it or not, it’s been turned over to the brand new Northwest Kansas Regional Crime Center. I’m calling because Frank Dimon wants to bring you in. Because you’re the best at what we need right now.”
I love Skype. She couldn’t hide a single emotion.
“This is Frank’s idea? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, tell me what I need to know.”
I went through the details of the Ghost Babies deaths, the connection with the female statues, the freezing weather. I could see Josie writing furiously.
“There was another death at the Garden of Eden.” I told her about the Suter boy. “We were focused on that murder. Sam’s the one who spotted the baby.”
She didn’t blink when I gave her the details. “Are the murders connected?”
“They have to be. But right now we don’t know how. The Suters are longtime friends of Keith so he’s the best one to question them. From a professional standpoint, what can you tell me about the kind of the person who might have done this?”
She looked up from her legal pad. “He’s crazy.”
“No kidding.”
“Seriously, I’ll have more for you this afternoon. This goes into some really unusual psychology. And I’m not a trained profiler. All you’ll get is my educated opinion.”
I cleared my throat. “That’s not good enough, Josie. I’m formally calling you in. To be part of the task force.”
Warring emotions and a deep sadness flitted across her face. “Lottie…” She stammered.
I was tempted to let her off the hook. She had a beautiful life as a teacher at Kansas State. She had a great practice and, through a nasty divorce from her first husband, more money than she would ever need. I had dragged her through hell twice before with other cases.
What I was asking wasn’t fair, but finding this killer would make the reputation of the regional center and this approach would be a role model for police and sheriff’s departments nationwide. I wanted to prove the worth of local and rural expertise. Privately owned and for-profit prisons were popping up all over and I didn’t like them. Somehow Western Kansas was viewed as a logical solution to all kinds of social and environmental problems. All that space! And so few people! What a great place to dump nuclear waste. And store missiles. And conduct dangerous armament tests.
Like most of the citizens, I wanted all the bastards to stay the hell away from our prairies.
Besides, Josie had told me she loved her new role as a forensic psychologist.
But, oh, that rueful look on her face! I couldn’t bear being the cause of it. Suddenly ashamed I said, “Josie, don’t give it another thought.” But I knew she wouldn’t stop thinking about it. “I’ll tell Dimon that you have too many obligations to take on another murder in Carlton County. Not murder, murders.”
“No, I’m in. How can I not be? This will be the first time to apply all my expensive forensic training to a case this important. I hoped you would be spared this kind of problem. The other times have been logical. With a clear motive.” She closed her eyes. “Problem. That’s a stupid thing to say. This was a baby, not a problem. I apologize. Whoever did this is really dangerous. I’m trying to think of all the ramifications. And logical? Murder is never logical.”
“I understand, but think it over before you decide for sure.”
“I don’t need to think. I’m in.”
***
After I hung up the phone, I read over the autopsy report of the Suter boy and the baby. There were no surprises. Gene Romney had already pointed out how very soon after birth the baby had died, and that Brent Suter had died of the gunshot wound to the chest. I already knew that. In both cases there were no traces of drugs in the preliminary toxicology report. They were forwarding samples anyway for further testing for substances that didn’t show up in a routine screening. The only part of the report I couldn’t bear to read about was the time it took for the baby to die of exposure. It doesn’t take long for an infant to freeze to death.
I threw down the pages. Some of them fluttered off the desk. I picked them up and whacked the edges together. Dorothy would drop by sometime this morning and I wanted her to know I was handling all of this just fine. There was nothing to do in this damned office right now except think, and at the moment I couldn’t stand that. In my mind there was an image of a tiny newborn pelted with ice and snow struggling to breathe in the arms of a cold, cold woman, reaching, reaching for something that would never be hers. A woman yearning for life but immortalized in cold concrete.
I picked up Franklin Slocum’s commonplace book. It wasn’t exactly cheerful reading but I hoped it would dispel the image of the baby.
I learn mostly through the animals. It’s fun to see if I can do the same things they do. I’ve started a chart with little boxes to check off when I think I’m good at doing some of the same things.
The chart followed:
◊ Snakes—slither through grass
◊ Wood frog—live and hide anywhere even freeze and still live
◊ Possums—play like I’m dead
◊ Prairie dog—hide fast
◊ Fish—swim under water
◊ Squirrel—jump from branch to branch
◊ Owl—???
I read a book about Indians and how they can shape shift and become an animal. I want to learn to do that. First I must decide what I want to be. I think I want to become a little wood frog because they make such a cool sound and can hide anywhere.
There was a three weeks gap between the dates. Usually he wrote every day.
They kicked me out of school for touching myself. I didn’t know it was wrong. It feels so good. The principal said my behavior was inappropriate and disruptive for the other children.
Biddy was so mad she took me to the doctor and asked him to fix me. Then the doctor got really, really mad at Biddy. He threatened to turn her in to social services and have me taken away. He made her leave the room while he talked to me. I know what to say to keep Biddy from getting into trouble.
He told me that I would soon be starting puberty and my body would be going through a lot of changes. I wanted to ask him questions but I still can’t talk right so I just nodded. My face turned bright red. I could feel it. He gave me a sack filled with a lot of pamphlets and brochures and told me to read them.<
br />
When he let Biddy into the room again he had settled down. He told her he knew how hard it must be, but his voice was all fakey syrupy and I knew he was still mad. Biddy made me sit in the backseat and wear my seatbelt on the way home. She wants people to see her take care of me and it’s not all an act because she would not get her money anymore if something happened to me.
I was afraid she would take the doctor’s sack away from me. She didn’t seem to care what was in it but I knew how fast that could change. When she was fast asleep I crept outside and took it to the big cottonwood tree next to the creek because Biddy changes her mind a lot and turns mean. I have a plastic bag buried there where I keep all my stuff. I learned to do this from all my little squirrel friends.
I’m free, free, free. They are not going to make me go to school anymore. No more names. Just me and the animals. I don’t have to do anything. Biddy never pays the slightest bit of attention to me anymore either. I don’t have to take a bath or wear clean clothes to keep the teacher from calling social services. I can stay at the pond all day and all night too if I want to. The State won’t make the school teach me. I’m so happy. I’m so happy.
I don’t sleep in the house much anymore. I will when it gets cold. But Biddy won’t ever make me.
I’m studying the animals again. I like the owl the best but I couldn’t finish my chart because I don’t know what an owl does when it is worried. Snakes slither, beetles run away, chicken sort of run around, possums play like they are sleeping. Tomorrow I will go to the library and find out.
There was a full month’s gap in the entries. Then:
I cry and cry. Even Biddy noticed that I’ve started sleeping inside again and cry in my sleep or when I’m awake. But I don’t know what to do. When I went to the library, they wouldn’t let me have any books. I wanted to get an owl book. I found the book and went to check it out. Then, the librarian told me I didn’t have any rights anymore. Because I am not in school. I was so ashamed. She said that I only had been given a library card because I was in school and now I wasn’t. She said all the words really loud like I couldn’t hear since I couldn’t talk. And like I was stupid too. Like I couldn’t understand all the books I checked out before.
Fractured Families Page 6
