What the Dead Leave Behind

by David Housewright

  Nina was working her way through “All the Things You Are” by Jerome Kern, improvising off the composer’s main theme while asking, “What do you think of this?” and “Does this work?” She didn’t expect an answer, which was fine, because I wasn’t dumb enough to offer one.

  From where I was lying, I was able to see Erica emerge from her room. Or rather I saw her sweatpants and fluffy slippers. She moved to the piano.

  “McKenzie,” she said. “Excuse me, Mom. McKenzie, I need your help.”

  Nina stopped playing. I slid out from beneath the piano and looked up at her. Erica’s hair was badly in need of a brush, and her face had that I-just-woke-up look.

  “Wut up?” I said.

  “Wut up? Who talks like that?”

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Nina asked.

  “Malcolm is missing. His mother just called.” Erica held up her smartphone as evidence. “She’s calling everyone he knows. She said Mal left a party last night and no one has seen him since. McKenzie, she’s really upset.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s missing.”

  “He hasn’t been home. He doesn’t answer his phone. What do you call it?”

  “I call it—I really don’t want to know the answer to this question, Erica, but have you ever gone missing overnight, not telling anyone where you were, not answering your phone?”

  She was looking directly into Nina’s eyes when she answered, “Why no, McKenzie, I haven’t, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I know those who have.”

  “When did Malcolm leave the party?” I asked.

  “His mom said around eleven o’clock. She didn’t see him leave, so she wasn’t sure.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “She … she didn’t say.”

  “Did he get a call or a text right before he left?”

  “Do you think he went on a booty call? He’s not like that.”

  “Are you sure?” Nina asked.

  Erica didn’t like that question coming from her mother.

  “Are you telling me I don’t know my friends?” she asked.

  “Sometimes people can surprise us.”

  “Surprise you, maybe.”

  “Erica,” I said. “We’re just saying there are possibilities that Malcolm’s mother might not have considered.”

  Erica kept staring at her own mother.

  “He’s not like that,” she repeated.

  “What time did you wake up?” I asked.

  Erica glanced at the phone in her hand.

  “Just now,” she said. “Why?”

  “Probably your friend had a few too many and he’s still curled up on somebody’s couch,” I said. “It was New Year’s Eve, after all. Give him a few hours.”

  Erica responded by retreating back to her room.

  “I love her more than my life,” Nina said. “But sometimes I want to strangle that girl.”

  “I’m sure she feels the same way.”

  “What do you know about it, McKenzie?”

  I crawled back beneath the Steinway.

  *   *   *

  Nina was playing something by the Everly Brothers, giving it a five/four time signature.

  “So many of these golden oldies have seeped into the American Songbook,” she said, sitting next to Porter and Gershwin. Remember that time Sophia Shorai came to the club, did that cover of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” the Hank Williams standard? Just her and the piano? I’ve always liked that.”

  To prove it, she started playing the song herself. Only I wasn’t paying much attention. I was thinking of Malcolm Harris. His mother called everyone she knew when he went missing. Would she call them back once he was found? Probably not.

  After an hour passed, I was tempted to knock on Erica’s door and ask her to call Jayne and find out if the situation had changed. I don’t know why I was so anxious about it. I didn’t even like the kid. Before I could act, though, Erica came out of her bedroom and moved to the Steinway. Once again, all I could see was her sweats, her slippers, and the cell phone she carried in her hand.

  “McKenzie?” she asked. Nina stopped playing. “It’s Mrs. Harris.”

  I crawled out from beneath the piano. Erica gave me her phone.

  “Jayne?” I said.

  “McKenzie? I’m calling—I didn’t know what else to do. I knew you were friends with Rickie, so I asked her if she could—McKenzie, Malcolm is missing…”

  “I heard.”

  “I don’t know who else to turn to. We don’t think the police will help, and you’re the only one I know who does—you do this, don’t you, being a detective? You find people?”

  “Sometimes.” I tried not to sound unconcerned even though I was. “I’d hold off if I were you, though. Like I told Erica, your son is probably just curled up on someone’s sofa sleeping it off—you don’t want to embarrass him. I know you’re anxious because of, well, your family history, but it’s a little early to start worrying. Malcolm’s a big boy now, and…”

  “I know, McKenzie. I know all that but, but—his car, the car he was driving…”

  “What about it?”

  “They found it in the Long Lake Regional Park two blocks away.”

  *   *   *

  I told Jayne I would be right over and hung up. I returned Erica’s cell phone to her. She asked if there was anything she could do.

  “Make a list of everyone that you know that Malcolm knows, especially the girls,” I said.

  This time she didn’t even pretend to argue for her friend’s virtue.

  While I went to the closet for my coat and gloves, Nina rose from the piano bench and put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. Erica curled until her head was resting between her mother’s chin and chest.

  “This is probably nothing,” I said.

  “I don’t believe you,” Erica replied.

  A moment later I was out the door and heading toward the elevator.

  *   *   *

  There were several cars parked in front of the Harris house, so I was forced to find a spot down the street. I knocked on the door, was let inside, and immediately found all the owners in the living room. Katie Meyer, Diane Dauria, and a woman who was introduced to me as Annette Geddings had gathered to offer support. They began talking at once, and I flashed on what Annabelle Ridlon had told me the night before, about how part of her job was making people feel calm and relaxed. I should have asked for a few pointers.

  “This is probably nothing,” I said.

  The four women didn’t believe me any more than Erica had.

  “When did you decide Malcolm was missing?” I asked.

  “This morning,” Jayne said. She was sitting on the sofa. Annette was sitting beside her and holding her hand. Katie sat on a chair near the fireplace. Her face was devoid of all the effervescent charm I had seen there the day before, although her eyes were wide and shiny behind her black-rimmed glasses. Diane hovered near the doorway that led from the living room to the kitchen. She looked even more serious than usual.

  “I went to his room to see if he wanted breakfast,” Jayne said. “His bed was neatly made. He didn’t sleep in his bed, McKenzie.”

  “Tell me about last night.”

  “We went to the party at the same time, only we drove separately.”

  “Why? Did he tell you he planned to duck out early, perhaps meet someone, go to a different party?”

  “No. It was me. I thought I might want to leave early.”

  That raised a few questions, only I didn’t give them voice. Concentrate on Malcolm for now, I told myself.

  “He wasn’t here when I got home,” Jayne said. “That was about twelve thirty. I thought I might wait up for him, but I was too tired. I went to bed at one.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “What can they do?” Diane asked. “Issue an Amber Alert? It’s not like he was taken. He left the party of his own free will.”
/>   “Are you sure of that? Did you see him leave?”

  “I wasn’t there,” she said. “I was in Edina.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said—and immediately regretted it. Knowledge was power, and I had just squandered some needlessly. Diane knew it, too. She understood in that instant that I must have followed her, and she was furious, yet determined not to show it. I spun away from her.

  “What about the rest of you?” I had settled my gaze on Katie. She was next to the fireplace; the mantel came to her chin. She was examining the photographs arrayed there. “Did anyone actually see him leave?”

  There was no verbal answer, just a lot of head shaking.

  “Did he tell any of you that he was leaving? Mrs. Harris?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody knows if he received a call or a text, someone asking to meet him?”

  “I thought he might have gone to see that girl. The one he’s always talking about, who’s been teasing him since he was a freshman?”

  “What girl?”

  “Rickie Truhler.”

  She spoke the name like an accusation. I resisted speaking out loud—“You mean the girl who asked me to help him, that Rickie Truhler?” I refrained from saying a few other things as well. Your kid goes missing, I cut you some slack. But only so much. I told myself that if she said something disparaging about Erica again I’d explain it to her.

  “Is there anyone else he might have left the party to see?” I asked.

  No one could think of a name.

  “What about the other Hotdishers?” I said. “The kids he played ball with?” I returned to Diane. “Your daughter?”

  “Sloane never made it to the party,” she said. “She told me that halfway there she decided to meet up with some of her friends from St. Kate’s instead, stay closer to home.”

  Katie said, “I asked the other boys. They said they didn’t notice when Malcolm left. Critter said he was pretty sure Malcolm was still there, though, when he took off to go to a party thrown by some college friends across town. That was about ten forty-five.”

  I did the math in my head while regarding Diane. New Brighton to Edina, arriving there at eleven thirty. Yeah, that worked. Diane didn’t like me watching her and stepped into the kitchen. She returned a few beats later with a coffeepot and asked the other women if they wanted refills. No one did.

  “I understand, McKenzie, what you’re saying,” Jayne said. “Malcolm probably left the party to meet someone. That’s what I thought when I couldn’t find him at midnight to give him a kiss. Except he’s been gone for so long now, and he doesn’t answer his phone; and his car…”

  “Tell me about his car.”

  Annette Geddings spoke for the first time.

  “My son found it,” she said. “Steven. He went for a run in the park and there it was. He knew Jayne was anxious about Malcolm, so he called me on his cell, and I called Jayne.”

  “McKenzie, the same park,” Jayne said. “It’s the same park where…”

  She couldn’t get the rest of the words out. Katie crossed the room and rested a hand on Jayne’s shoulder. Jayne covered the hand with her own hand. Her entire body shuddered.

  “Where is Steven now?” I asked.

  “Probably at home,” Annette told me. “Although he wasn’t there when I left to come over here.”

  “I’ll want to talk to him later.”

  “Why? He doesn’t know where Malcolm went.”

  “Where exactly is Malcolm’s car?” I asked.

  *   *   *

  It wasn’t Malcolm’s car. It was actually Jayne’s car that her son drove when he was home. She had an extra key that she gave to me. I put it in my pocket and walked the two blocks to the Long Lake Regional Park. I found the vehicle in the lot near the pavilion where Steven Geddings told his mother it was parked. Asphalt sidewalks surrounded the lot. I presumed Geddings had been running on one of them when he saw the car, but I would ask him later to be sure.

  There was nothing odd about how the car was parked; it could have been there last night, it could have been left an hour ago. Nor, while slowly circling it, did I detect any bullet holes or smashed windows. The doors were locked, and I needed the key to open it. The interior was remarkably clean. I say remarkably because I knew that Erica used her car like a backpack. I took a deep breath before popping the trunk and exhaled slowly when I saw that it was empty.

  I slid behind the steering wheel. I was wearing my winter gloves, yet was careful anyway when I checked the glove compartment and armrest for fear of smudging fingerprints. Nothing screamed at me “This is important.” I riffled through Malcolm’s CDs. There were nine; I didn’t recognize a single artist.

  You need to get out more, my inner voice told me.

  I slipped the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. The car started immediately and ran smoothly. I turned it off and returned the key to my pocket, trading it for my smartphone. I tapped the icon next to the contact information for Detective Downing. He must have had caller ID because he answered with my name.

  “McKenzie, dammit, what?” he said. “It’s my day off.”

  “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”

  “Define important.”

  “Malcolm Harris is missing.”

  “The son of our murder victim?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now define missing.”

  “He left a party thrown by the New Brighton Hotdish sometime after ten forty-five last night. No one has seen him since, and he doesn’t answer his phone. Something else. They found his car in the parking lot of the Long Lake Regional Park. I’m guessing it’s been here all night.”

  “Jesus, not again.”

  *   *   *

  Long Lake Regional Park was tucked between Long Lake and Rush Lake and had a pavilion, a picnic shelter, thirty-two picnic tables, two playgrounds, two volleyball courts, a boat launch, a fishing pier, and in the summer a beach with a lifeguard. It also had three miles of paved trails that I began walking as soon as Downing hung up. God help me, I was looking for Malcolm’s body, thinking he might have ended up in a ditch like his old man.

  The light dusting of snow a couple of days earlier allowed me to detect those places where someone had left the trail. I followed footprints into the woods and marshlands and found nothing—thank you, Lord. ’Course, all that meant was that Malcolm’s body hadn’t been dumped in plain sight. If Downing and his superiors could think of a good enough reason to justify the expense, they would send in an army of cops, volunteers, and cadaver dogs to give the place a more thorough search.

  Along the way, I met a surprising number of folks wandering about—at least I was surprised. It was twenty-eight degrees on the first day of January. If I had my way, I’d still be resting under Nina’s Steinway in our toasty-warm condo.

  I didn’t have a pic of Malcolm to show, so I was forced to provide a vague description when I asked if anyone had seen him; I didn’t even know what he was wearing.

  Careless, my inner voice kept telling me. You should have asked.

  Because of the incomplete description, half the people I met were sure they saw the kid just a few minutes ago walking over there or jogging along the lake or sitting near the shelter. The other half shrugged with confusion, occasionally tossing in a “nope” or “uh-uh.” An older man out walking a golden retriever gave me a long, hard stare.

  He said, “The last time anyone asked me a question like that, it was about this time a year ago. The police wanted to know if I saw anything suspicious. Is this the same deal? Has someone else been killed in the park?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “That would make three people, you know. Three people killed in the park and another fella over to the ball fields.”

  “You keep track?”

  He squatted down to give his dog a pet.

  “What a world,” he said.

  “It does have its moments.”

  “The
man who was killed last year, he was a neighbor of mine.”

  “Did you know him—Frank Harris?”

  “No, but”—he threw a thumb in the general direction of the north side of the park—“He lived a block away from me. Something like this happens, you wonder—could it have been you?”

  “Very few murders are committed at random.”

  “Did they ever catch the guy who killed Harris?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So you don’t know for sure, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Ain’t none of us safe. What a world.”

  *   *   *

  Detective Downing was in the parking lot when I returned. His hands were cupped against the glass of the driver’s side window, and he was peering into Malcolm’s car.

  “I have the key,” I told him.

  “Were you inside? Did you find anything?”

  “There isn’t a pool of blood on the seat if that’s what you’re asking. Your forensics people will be able to take a closer look.”

  “We don’t have those kinds of facilities. Probably we’d hand it over to Ramsey County or the BCA, except—McKenzie, I don’t even have a good enough reason to impound the damn car, much less search it.”

  “It’s parked illegally. At least it will be by ten tonight. If you can convince Mrs. Harris to file a missing persons—”

  “Who did you say found the car?”

  I explained it all again, this time in greater detail than I had over the phone. He nodded a lot but didn’t take any notes.

  “I’ll need to interview all these people myself,” Downing said.

  “Can I watch?”

  “You want to see how a skilled investigator elicits information from a witness that the witness might not even know he has?”

  “There’s a trick to it, then?”

  “The trick is the badge, McKenzie, and you know it. Most people are afraid to lie to the police. So, yeah, why don’t you tag along? We’ll see if anyone tells me a story different from the ones they told you.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  *   *   *

  Annette Geddings opened the door to her house; it was also on the north side of the Long Lake Regional Park, near the border with Mounds View. Downing stood directly in front of her, holding his badge and ID up for her to see, yet she was looking at me.