“Okay, tell me you’d have paid any attention to the woman’s story if she’d been old or ugly.”
Alan snorted again but didn’t bother to reply.
“Hey,” Carl said with a shrug as he turned in his seat to face front again, “doesn’t matter. I’m your partner, you know I’ll help any way I can. We get this shooting wrapped up, run it all by me. Maybe we can come up with something.”
Alan shot him a look. He felt genuinely grateful, and was thinking how glad he was to have Carl back riding shotgun again. But it wasn’t the kind of thing he was inclined to voice out loud, so he didn’t.
After a long pause, Carl said, “Speaking of hotties, you given any thought to…you know. Getting back on the horse?”
Jolted, Alan flashed Carl another look and tried to make light of it. “So, what is this, you take the plunge, now you want to pull everybody into the pool along with you? Misery loves company, is that it?”
“More like happiness does.” Carl sounded dead serious. “No, I mean it, man. There’s no better way to live than a good marriage.”
“And no worse way than a bad one,” Alan said dryly. “Been there…done that.”
Carl shrugged. “So, you’ve learned a thing or two, you’ll get it right next time.”
“You know the odds are against that, right? For cops, especially? You and Alicia-at least she’s on the job, too, so she knows what she’s getting into.”
“True, that helps, sure it does. But it’s not a requirement. There are others…”
His voice trailed off, and Alan didn’t bother to fill in the blanks. They both knew from personal experience the truth of the statistics involving marriages among members of law enforcement.
After a moment, though, Carl said, “So, the hottie-what does she do?”
Alan let out an exasperated breath. Taketa was a bulldog once he got his teeth into something, so there wasn’t much hope of getting him off the subject. “Sells insurance,” he said shortly. “Has her own agency.”
Carl was nodding. “Good…good. Financially independent is always good. Has a life of her own-means she probably wouldn’t be emotionally dependent on you, the way your ex was.”
“Once again…irrelevant.” Alan made sure his tone was firm…unequivocal-not that it would make any difference to Carl. “No way I’m pursuing this, the woman is part of an ongoing investigation.”
“True,” Carl said, nodding, “but after?”
Alan gave the windshield a wry and humorless grin. “Yeah, I’m sure she’s going to feel all warm and fuzzy towards the cop who put her beloved daddy away for murder.”
After a thoughtful silence, Carl said, “You really feel that’s the way it’s gonna go down?”
It was Alan’s turn to shrug. “Gut feeling, that’s all I’ve got. And I mean, all. There’s something off about this guy, Merrill, but I can’t put my finger on it. And, I’ve got nothing to go on except the memories of an Alzheimer’s patient about something that supposedly happened over forty years ago, God only knows where. What does that make me-crazy, right?”
He could hear the grin in his partner’s reply. “Told you-it’s hormones, that’s all. Can’t be denied.” There was a pause, and then: “Does she know about Chelsea?”
“Who?” Alan said, although he knew very well who.
“The hottie.”
Resigned, he said noncommittally, “She’s met her.”
“And?”
Alan exhaled and muttered glumly, “She gave her a dollhouse. Her dollhouse.”
Carl let out a hoot of laughter, just as they pulled up in front of the convenience store. Then, as Alan rolled the sedan to a stop, they both sat for a moment in silence, gazing at the small Asian gentleman sitting slumped and lost-looking in the open doorway of a patrol car.
Carl sighed. “Please tell me we aren’t going to have to arrest this poor guy for defending his business against some scumbag that tried to rob him?”
Alan looked at him and opened his car door. “We just follow the facts,” he said.
“I think we’re going at this all wrong,” Carl said. He leaned his chair back, propped one foot on Alan’s desktop and laced his fingers together behind his head-for a moment, until Alan gave him a look. Then he quickly shoved himself upright and leaned forward. “I mean, we’ve been looking at it from the perspective of a homicide case.”
“Which, if we assume Susan Merrill’s memories are accurate, it is,” Alan said with a half-stifled yawn. “Taking her recollections as facts-which is already a stretch-we have a couple, husband and wife, probably in their mid-to-late twenties. Both shot, most likely on board a boat of some kind. Problem is, we don’t know where, what kind of boat, what body of water. Could have been just about anything, anywhere.”
It was late Friday evening, long past the time when a newly married man should have been home with his bride, but Alicia was enjoying a night out with her mom and sister-dinner and a chick movie, Carl had told him-so Alan’s conscience was clear. Alan had spent most of Thursday and Friday in court, testifying, and this was the first chance he’d had to get together with his partner and brainstorm the Merrill case-if he could call it that.
He picked up his mug, drained the last mouthful of cold coffee and made a face as he set the mug back down. “Truth is, I don’t know where to start. Rather-I did start, with the Chicago area, which is where Merrill supposedly went to college. Where do I go from here-that’s the question.”
“Uh-uh.” Carl was shaking his head. “That’s what I mean. You’ve been looking at this like a homicide case. But this woman-Susan Merrill-she survived.”
“Her husband didn’t. If what she says is true.”
“Yeah-if. That’s speculation. But we know for sure Susan survived something. Right? You’ve gotta figure her memories are real, or we wouldn’t even be talking about it. So, she gets shot-or injured in some way-didn’t you say she’s got a scar on the side of her head?”
“According to her daughter.”
“Okay, so, say she’s shot, the bullet grazes her, she goes into the water. She remembers floating, right?”
“Right…” Alan said, frowning. He was getting a prickly sensation under his skin, because he was beginning to see what his partner was getting at. He sat up straighter.
“Seems to me,” Carl went on, “it would have taken some kind of miracle for this woman, gunshot wound to the head, in the water-”
“At night,” Alan interjected.
Carl nodded agreement. “To have somehow survived. For one thing, that water couldn’t have been too cold, or hypothermia would have finished her for sure. Which lets out the Great Lakes, and probably the North Atlantic coast, and for sure the whole Pacific coast, which is cold as a-”
“Which leaves the Gulf of Mexico or the Southeast coast.” Alan shook his head irritably. “But the snowsuit-”
“Forget the snowsuit. All that means is the woman lived somewhere cold when her kid was little. Doesn’t mean that’s where the crime took place.”
“Okay,” Alan said. He took a breath and let it out. “Okay.” He was tingling all over, now. He swiveled toward his computer screen. “So, somebody must have picked this woman up-fishing boat, maybe. Somebody’s yacht. Point is, whoever found her, it would have been a pretty big deal…”
“Newsworthy,” Carl said, grinning. “Film at eleven.” He spun his chair around and pulled out his keyboard. “What year did you say this was?”
Two days later. Early Sunday afternoon. Alan and Carl sat hunched in front of their respective computer monitors, staring at the image on both screens.
“So,” Carl said, “what do you think? Is it her, or not?”
For a moment Alan didn’t answer. The image-a small, murky, black-and-white newspaper photo of a woman’s face-reminded him too acutely of the digital photos of homicide victims they often snapped at the crime scene and then thrust in front of potential suspects or witnesses along with the words, “Do you know this woman?”
The face was puffy, the eyes half-open, and a bandage obscured the left side of her head, including part of her face. It could be anybody, he thought.
“I dunno,” he muttered. “Maybe.” He switched back to the article from the Richmond Times-Dispatch, dated the fifth of September, 1969. It hadn’t made the front page; Ho Chi Minh had died a few days previously, and William Calley had just been charged in the My Lai Massacre, so the woman rescued from the Chesapeake Bay by two blue crab fishermen only made page two. The photo bore the inevitable caption: Do You Know This Woman? The article alongside the photo was headlined MYSTERY WOMAN PULLED FROM BAY IN MIRACLE RESCUE.
An unidentified woman, believed to be in her late twenties or early thirties, was found barely alive and floating in the Chesapeake Bay early Wednesday afternoon, rescued by two sharp-eyed fishermen, Ed and Patrick Paulsen. The brothers from Reedville, Virginia, were heading home after a day of fishing for blue crab when they spotted the woman, who was partially tangled in some floating debris. It is believed the debris, probably washed into the Bay by last week’s heavy rains, remnants of Hurricane Camille, may have helped save the woman’s life.
“It was just a miracle we even seen her,” said Ed Paulsen. “We thought first it was just a pile of reeds and driftwood and stuff. Then I seen something move.”
The Paulsen brothers are being hailed as heroes today, but according to Patrick, “I guess we was just in the right place at the right time.”
The woman, who is suffering from a head injury as well as exposure, was taken to a hospital in Richmond where she is reported to be in serious but stable condition. Anyone with information regarding this woman is urged to contact authorities immediately.
Chapter 8
The night was especially fine. The air was soft and warm-I recall thinking it was a night for lovers. The moon hadn’t yet risen-I had planned for that-and the stars were brilliant. I had lived in the city for so long I had forgotten about stars. Then, just before dawn, the fog came. It seemed like an omen. I knew the time had come.
Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.
FBI Files, Restricted Access,
Declassified 2010
“Sure sounds right,” Carl said. “Even to the head injury. Just wish the picture was better.”
“I’ll contact Richmond PD, see if they can send us a better one.” Alan shoved back from the computer and swiveled to face his partner. “Then I’ll have to see if Lindsey can ID the woman-her memories of her mother go back a lot further than mine do. But even if this is Susan Merrill, all it tells us is how she survived. Doesn’t tell us how she got into the Chesapeake, or whether the man calling himself Richard Merrill had anything to do with putting her there.”
Carl didn’t reply. He was staring at his computer screen, eyes squinted in concentration. Alan knew that look. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
After another two beats of silence, Carl flicked him a glance along one shoulder. “What am I thinking? Looking at the map…seems to me the Chesapeake is right handy to a whole lot of the northeast, including some major population centers. Like Baltimore…D.C.-” he tapped the screen “-your old stomping grounds-Philadelphia, right? Some of these might even be snowsuit territory, you know?”
Alan heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I guess it does narrow the search area. Should make it a little easier. Maybe.”
“It’d make it even easier if we had help.” Carl’s eyes glittered, giving him a crafty look.
“What are you suggesting?” Alan asked, warily this time.
Carl spun around and held up a hand. “Look, I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out, okay? I know you and your old man-”
“Stop right there.”
“No-wait a minute. Like I said-hear me out. I know you and your dad don’t see eye to eye-”
“Don’t see eye to eye? How’s about, we haven’t spoken in twenty years.”
“-and that you blame him for your mom’s suicide-”
Alan grunted, but didn’t voice the thought that popped into his mind: Better than blaming myself. That was the trouble with long, boring stakeouts with his partner, he thought. Entirely too much opportunity for soul-baring conversation.
“-and I get that you don’t want to call on the man now when you need help. But he was on the job back then when this happened, and he’s got buddies-fellow cops-who were, too. They’d all be retired now, obviously, but the ones that’re still alive, I’ll bet you anything they stay in touch. Housewives and back fences got nothing on retired cops when it comes to spreading gossip and inside information. This was an unsolved case, and I’ll bet you anything there’s at least one retired cop out there who still remembers it. Probably wakes him up at night every now and then, gnawing at him, because maybe it’s the one case he couldn’t close.” Carl paused, and Alan gazed back at him and didn’t comment, because half-forgotten names and faces were scrolling through his mind. After a moment, Carl gave him a little smile and said, “And I’ll bet you’ve got somebody in mind, right now. Am I right?”
Walter “Buck” Busczkowski. His dad’s old partner and Alan’s unofficial godfather, the closest thing he’d had, back then, to a functioning parent. A tough ex-marine and Vietnam vet, who’d showed him the escape route from the dead-end road his own life had seemed to be taking…
Alan snorted and reached for his phone. Then put it back and picked up the computer mouse instead. Twenty years was too long to trust his memory of the return address from an old Christmas card.
The call blindsided him. It came on Tuesday morning, through the department switchboard. He’d given Buck Busczkowski his private cell number, so when he picked up and answered with his standard, “Cameron, Homicide,” the last thing he expected to hear coming back at him was the ruined bullfrog croak even twenty years worth of booze and cigarettes hadn’t changed all that much. “Hello, son.”
Cold shot through him. His scalp prickled. Something-an unrecognizable sound-came out of his mouth, so he cleared his throat and tried again. This time managed to produce a flat, “Dad.”
His father’s chuckle sounded more nervous than amused. “I know, I’m the last person you probably expected to hear from.”
“That’s about right,” Alan drawled, and heard an exhalation on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, well…Bucky called me, you know. Did you think he wouldn’t?” Alan didn’t reply, and after a moment came another exhalation. “I’m just sorry you didn’t feel like you could come to me, is all. Anyhow, I’ve got a name for you. If you want it. Considering where it came from.”
“Not a problem,” Alan said. His heart was racing a mile a minute and his jaws felt like they were wired together. “If it’ll help close this case, I’m sure as hell not going to turn it down.”
This time the chuckle sounded genuinely amused. “Spoken like a cop, son. Guess the apple didn’t fall all that far from the tree. So-” he cleared his throat loudly “-anyway, the guy’s name is Faulkner-Bob Faulkner. He was a homicide detective down in Baltimore-retired, a’course-getting on in years, though. Met him a while back-I forget now what the occasion was-and we got to talking about old times, old cases. You know how it goes. Anyways, he was telling us, Bucky and me, about this case he had, way way back, but it stuck with him because, he said, the kids were just so doggone nice, squeaky-clean, and the case never did make any sense. Anyways, when Bucky told me you’d called, it was the first thing we thought of, both of us. Went ahead and looked him up-turns out he still lives in Bal’more. He’s expecting your call, if you want to talk to him.”
It was a moment or two before Alan could reply, and he had to clear his throat first. “Okay, I’ll do that,” he said. He listened to the number, jotted it down, then added, “Thanks.”
“No problem. Glad I could help.” There was a long silence, and then a gruff and raspy, “Think you could maybe give your old man a call sometime, when you’re not so busy?”
The knot in Alan’s chest became a fist, squeezi
ng the breath out of him. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll do that.”
After he’d hung up, he sat for a few minutes, clammy and sweaty, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. When he looked up, he found Carl watching him.
His partner’s somber expression brightened into a smile. “Hoo boy, for a minute there you looked like you were talking to a ghost.”
Alan laughed without humor. “You could say that. That…was my dad.”
“Seriously?” Alan nodded. Carl tilted his head thoughtfully. “Interesting…”
“Yeah,” Alan said sourly. Glowering, he picked up the phone again, consulted the number he’d written down on a notepad and dialed it.
It was answered after four rings, by a voice that sounded out of breath. Alan was picturing a frail old geezer on oxygen, until, after he’d identified himself, he heard a robust cackle.
“Caught me a little ahead of myself,” Bob Faulkner said. “I was just lugging the file box up out of the damn basement. Gimme a minute…lemme catch my breath.”
“Sure,” Alan said, “take your time.”
“Whoo-been a few years since I looked at those files. Used to haul ’em out every now and then, go through everything all over again…kept thinking I’d see something I’d missed. You know how it is. Or if you don’t, you will. Every homicide cop, if he’s on the job long enough, has one-the case that won’t let him alone, you know? So…Lieutenant Cameron-that’d be your dad, I guess?”
“Right.”
“Good man-good cop. He tells me you’ve got a case you think might be connected with this one?” The suppressed excitement in the old detective’s voice came over the line, loud and clear.
“Maybe,” Alan said cautiously. “Uh…you have any objections to my recording this call? Make it easier to go back over things.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Alan poked buttons, put the call on speaker, then said, “Okay, we’re on. I’m looking for-” What could he say? A double homicide? But it hadn’t been that, had it? “Might have been missing persons, probable homicide-young couple, maybe mid-twenties, early thirties at the most. Would have happened around the first of September, 1969.”
Memory of Murder Page 11
