Connections

by Beth Urich

  “Good enough,” Tom said. “What about the basement?”

  “From what you said you’re looking for, I would bet the files are up here. If not, we’ll move on to the next stash.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Sid said, accepting the key from Cindy.

  “You know where to find me,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  Tom said, “Okay, partner. Pick your poison. We need to review all 1960s and earlier missing person cases, solved or not.”

  Sid said, “Going back to when?”

  “Let’s say the thirties for now. You take even decades and I’ll take odd. I’m not sure how much help the logs will be, but we can grab one for whatever year we’re exploring, as Cindy put it.”

  “So be it,” Sid said. “See you in the witness room.”

  Chapter Ten

  Kate walked out of Helen’s office and exited the newspaper building. She needed a break from editing her article and hoped a short walk and some fresh air would help. She understood Helen’s instructions, but she didn’t agree with them. The proof of the article was in the facts provided in the backup. Why didn’t her boss see that?

  Kate started down Commercial Street and then cut down the alleys toward the skeleton lot a few blocks away. Maybe she could speak to Tom about the case. She didn’t expect him to tell her anything, but she always took the opportunity to inquire.

  Unfortunately, the coroner’s van sat alone on the empty lot. Two men were working the scene, which was still encircled by police tape. She recognized Artie Richards but didn’t know the other man. Crossing the street, she not-so-discreetly circled the van. The windows were tinted, to prevent media snooping, no doubt. Never dissuaded, she eased the handle down on the rear door hoping to silently unlatch it.

  “Can I help you, Kate?” Artie asked, as he emerged from the side of the van.

  “Artie, hi. Uh, I’ve never seen inside one of these things. You know how curious we reporters are.”

  “I’m sure you concluded that we’re conducting official business. Right? Maybe you noticed the crime scene tape and the tent?”

  “Yes, I do now,” Kate said, staring over his shoulder. “Hey, who’s your friend?”

  “He’s an expert we called for this case.”

  “Tom told me you were calling a specialist. What kind is he?”

  “Sergeant Collingwood?”

  Kate smiled and said, “We’re old friends.”

  “I see,” Artie said, a tinge of doubt in his voice.

  “We went to high school together, but we’ve also dated since he came back to Branson.”

  Artie’s forehead wrinkled with concern.

  Ignoring the silent rebuff, she asked, “Is this man a forensic expert?”

  “Forensic Anthropologist.”

  “Sounds impressive. What’s his name?”

  “Kate, you really should leave. I have to get back to work.”

  “Is his name a secret?”

  “Charles Fredericks.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard. So, what are you guys doing? I’d love to see a forensic anthropologist in action. Must be tedious work.”

  The furrows in Artie’s brow took on more depth. “You know, I’ve never seen you in action. Heard some good stories though. I didn’t believe them until now.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “I’ll let you decide,” he said.

  When she stood her ground, he shrugged and walked away but stopped and turned back toward the reporter who had not budged.

  “Kate, uh ... so you know ... the van is locked.”

  “Makes sense. Thanks for the info, Artie.”

  KATE PULLED THE ARTICLE to her screen and reread the first sentence several times, unsure what changes would please Helen. She printed the four pages and walked down the hall to the front desk, hoping to find Cassie Yeats, the eighteen-year-old high school senior who had interned at the newspaper office for a couple of school terms.

  “Hey, Cassie, I’m glad you’re still here,” Kate said, stopping at the customer counter.

  “Until the last person leaves,” the young girl said.

  “Great. I want you to read something for me.”

  “No problem. Do you want me to copy edit?”

  “That would be okay, but I basically want your opinion.”

  “Okay, I can do that.” Cassie began reading the first sheet, then glanced at Kate.

  “I’ll go to my office,” the reporter said. “Be back in a few minutes.”

  Kate returned to her office, packed her portfolio in preparation to leave for the evening, rinsed and dried her coffee mug, and sat down at her desk. The clock on the bookshelf indicated it had been only five minutes, so she read through her article once again, straightened each pile of papers on her desk and filled her stapler for good measure.

  Cassie was hanging up the phone when Kate returned to the newspaper customer service desk. “Did you get a chance to read the article?”

  “Yes. I’ve enjoyed all the stories about Etta and the crafts fair. My cousin is the receptionist at the Riverside Mercantile building.”

  “Young woman with long blond hair, who works upstairs in the Brighton office suite?”

  “Yeah, that’s Ellen. She’s a few years older than me, but we’ve always been close.”

  “That’s good to know. But about my new article. Did you like the different angle I used?”

  Cassie spread the four sheets down on the counter. “Can I be honest?”

  “Let me have it ... so to speak.”

  “The introductory paragraph is great. So is the rest of the first page and the top section of page two.”

  “But?”

  “I read it several times. Forgive me, but it’s like you lost the point of the article. You sort of changed the subject. I kept expecting you to come back with a tie-in for the miscellaneous information.”

  “Miscellaneous information?”

  “Several statements don’t tie in together or with the crafts fair. It’s like they belong in another article.”

  Cassie’s final words echoed Helen’s earlier censure. The reporter took a deep breath and collected the four sheets.

  “Thanks. I know how to fix it now.”

  “I’m sorry,” the young girl said.

  “Don’t be sorry for being honest,” Kate said, walking down the hall.

  As Kate reread the article objectively, the extraneous material became more obvious. She replaced everything from the middle of page two to the end, consulting her notes from her interviews with Etta. She dropped the skeleton lot tie-in but reserved the text for later use. By the time she reread the finished piece, her anger—with Allen, with Tom, with Helen—was gone.

  She tagged the file for Helen’s review and then reached for her rolodex.

  “Time to find out about Dr. Charles Fredericks,” she said aloud as she placed a call to a contact at the University of Missouri.

  “Columbia Missourian, Anne North speaking,” the familiar voice said.

  “Hey, Anne. Katie Starling here. How goes it at Mizzou?”

  “Not too bad. I’m glad I came back to Columbia and the University.”

  “Are you still on faculty too?”

  “Yes, you should try it.”

  “I’m not in your league.”

  “You could finish your master’s degree.”

  “Maybe someday. But I’m a long way from your PhD status.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need some help finding background on a Charles Fredericks, PhD. He’s an expert in the field of forensic anthropology. Any ideas?”

  “Have you called the anthropology department?”

  “Not yet. I guess I wanted to say hello to an old friend first. This has been a low self-esteem day. Any suggestions on who to talk to in anthro?”

  “Ask for any expert or interested professor in forensic anthropology. I’m sure they have a professional organization somewhere. Have you tried the internet?”


  “I’m not sure the internet has reached Branson yet.”

  “Sure it has. Isn’t your paper connected?”

  “And what might I find on this incredibly cool internet?”

  “We use AltaVista for searches. It’s new and limited, but worth a try if you have access.”

  “I’ll stick with good, old fashioned, long-distance information.”

  “Good luck with your research, Katie. Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Thanks, Anne.”

  Forty minutes later Kate had the number for the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, and several other long-named organizations. None of them would provide information—if they had it, which they wouldn’t admit to—for Charles Fredericks, PhD. But the contact for one of the groups directed her to another professional certification society. After being forwarded to three different departments and back to the first, she repeated her name and credentials.

  “Hi, Kate, my name is Sherry. How can we help you?”

  “I’m trying to find information on a Charles Fredericks.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Kate assumed she was being forwarded again and was about to hang up.

  “Okay, are you still there?”

  “Yes. Do you know a Charles Fredericks?”

  “We have two Charles Fredericks. Both hold a PhD in anthropology. Do you want me to send you their bios?”

  “That would be terrific,” Kate said. “Let me give you our fax number.”

  “I’ll get these right to you,” Sherry promised.

  When Kate went up front to retrieve the fax, Tom was coming in the front door. Her tummy took a little tumble relishing the surprise arrival.

  “Working overtime?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, taken off-guard by his smile. “I didn’t know it was this late.”

  Kate took the fax sheets from Cassie and then motioned for Tom to follow her.

  “Sorry I didn’t call first. I saw your car in the lot and took a chance we could have dinner tonight. I mean, if you’re free.”

  “Dinner?”

  “You agreed last night, we could have dinner.”

  “Did we say tonight?”

  “No. I took a chance.”

  “So you said. Uh, I’m trying to get Helen’s approval on an article for tomorrow. I submitted it a few minutes ago. She’s left for the day, but she’ll dial in to check for it soon.”

  “Maybe I could read it while we wait. Sort of a preview for an old friend.”

  “That’s very funny. But I have no problem letting you read it. Come around.”

  Tom sat in her chair and scrolled the screen as he read. “This is good, Katie. Even better than the last one. Who knew the crafts fair could be so interesting?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “I hope Helen agrees.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “She hated the first version.”

  “Let me guess. You threw in a few zingers for some unlucky victim?”

  Again, his smile disarmed her, and she couldn’t conceal one of her own. “You do know me well.”

  “Hey, I’ve been one of those victims.”

  “That was in junior high school. And it was true. Contrary to some people’s opinion I do not make this stuff up.”

  “Truth, maybe, but stinging nonetheless.”

  The computer screen cleared, and a small box appeared in the center. Tom read aloud, “Much better, Kate. It will be in tomorrow’s edition. Helen.”

  Kate stepped behind him and leaned over his shoulder. “Let’s have dinner and celebrate.”

  Cassie met them in the hallway. “Is it okay if I lock up behind you and go home?”

  “No problem, Cassie. And thanks again for your input.”

  “You’re welcome,” the intern said. “Here’s the last fax sheet on that Fredericks guy.”

  Kate took the sheet and stuffed it into her purse as she opened the front door.

  Tom said, “Charles Fredericks? Wouldn’t be a forensic anthropologist, would he?”

  She closed the door and said, “That’s the one.”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “Did you forget that I have excellent sources?”

  The detective chuckled and said, “Italian or barbeque?”

  THE WAITRESS SET THE pizza between the couple and asked if they wanted more beer. Tom eyed his date with an unspoken question. Kate nodded and he turned to the waitress, who had already headed for the bar.

  “I hope this is as good as it smells,” he said.

  Kate served each of them a slice. She sipped her beer then took a bite of pizza. With her next bite, she realized Tom was staring at her.

  “Sorry, am I eating like I’m starving to death?”

  “No. I’m happy to be with you. I’ve missed it.”

  “It?”

  “Our relationship, the real one, not the cop-reporter thing.”

  “Yeah. That one can be a real downer.”

  “Seems to me, two reasonably mature adults who try hard can find a way to make this dual relationship work out.”

  Kate recognized the sincerity in Tom’s voice and eyes. She focused on the remaining pizza slices wondering how to respond.

  “Okay. I’m officially worried. I have rendered you speechless,” he said.

  “You know, maturity and reasonableness should automatically arrive as one ages.”

  The lines between Tom’s eyebrows deepened. “Hey, I didn’t mean for this to be a serious conversation.”

  “I’ve had a long day and my biorhythms are out of whack. Helen’s putting pressure on me to change my approach to reporting. She says I offend people with my articles.”

  “All managers are driven by outside influence, even Lieutenant Palmer. Normally, whatever Sid and I do is fine, but let some citizen call with a complaint and he’s all over us.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone questioning your professionalism,” Kate said.

  “Thanks. Mostly they want us to move faster. For example, how long have I been working the skeleton case?”

  “Two, maybe three days.”

  “Exactly, and yet the owner thinks now that we’ve moved the remains, we can release the lot. He’s called the lieutenant twice already. Says he’ll go to the mayor if necessary.”

  “Jack Brighton?”

  “No, Larry Allen.”

  “The councilman doesn’t own the lot,” Kate said.

  “Why am I not surprised you know who owns the lot?”

  “Allen is the project development manager for Fortune Enterprises. Brighton and Etta own the lot. He works for his grandfather.”

  “See. It pays to be best friends with the press, they know everything.”

  “All of that was in the draft of the article. Helen said it wasn’t relevant to the crafts fair.”

  “Apparently you made her happy with the rewrite,” Tom said.

  “Until the next time. I’m beginning to question my qualifications for this job.”

  “Whoa. Your rhythms are whacky!”

  Kate chuckled.

  “That’s better,” Tom said with a grin. “Not all the way to laughter, but close enough.”

  They finished the pizza, exchanging updates on mutual friends and Kate’s dad, who Tom saw more often than Kate did. “Why is that?” she asked.

  “I like Roger,” Tom replied. “You may remember I’ve known him a long time. We hit it off from the start. Hard to explain why relationships click.”

  “Definitely inexplicable,” Kate agreed.

  Tom took out his wallet and pulled enough cash to cover the tip. He paused then placed his hand on Kate’s. “I’ve had a good time tonight.”

  “Me too,” she said, placing her free hand on his.

  They walked silently to the register to pay the bill, and then across the lot to their cars. Kate leaned back against her
driver’s door, relaxed for the first time in days.

  Tom stepped closer. “We’ll have to do pizza again soon.”

  “I agree,” she said, instinctively reaching for his hands.

  He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. A warm, tingle started in her lips and rippled through her body. She moved closer and kissed him back. Her heartbeat echoed in her temples as he took her in his arms and kissed her again. A familiar—if somewhat distant—feeling of belonging washed over her until the static squeak from Tom’s radio broke the spell.

  “D-1, Dispatch, come in please.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t turn this thing on yet.”

  “Make a note for future reference,” Kate said with a smile.

  He rolled his eyes as he keyed the radio. “Dispatch, this is D-1, over.”

  “Detective, patrol officers request your assistance. Over.”

  “Stand by, Dispatch.” He turned toward Kate. “I have to take this. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “You better.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Despite the grainy photos included on the fax sheets, Kate recognized the older Charles Fredericks as Artie’s companion. Although no specific birthdate or academic dates were provided his credentials suggested he was in his mid-fifties. Recognized by several professional groups, he’d been on numerous large search, exhume, and identify projects involving mass graves. He offered consulting forensic anthropology services in addition to workshops and seminars on the subject. Several impressive reviews accompanied a list of organizations he had served. Kate highlighted key points on the sheets and stuck them in a file for use in a future skeleton lot article. Then she called a few local hotels until she found him.

  “Charles Fredericks,” the male voice said after the fourth ring.

  “Hello, Dr. Fredericks, my name is Kate Starling. I’m a reporter for Tri-Lakes Newspapers in Branson, Missouri.”

  “That’s quite amazing,” he said.