by Shawna Seed
“You talk to anyone there about that? Your boss?”
“My dad’s the boss. We don’t really talk…” Brian stopped, worried again that he was making his dad look bad. “I mean, we talk. But mostly about sports and…”
Brian tried hard to think of something else he and his dad talked about.
“…educational opportunities?”
Brian looked up at the PO blankly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“This will go faster if you stay with me, Brian. I asked, are you pursuing any educational opportunities? It says here you worked with a dyslexia specialist before your sentencing and went from a fourth-grade reading level to ninth-grade level.”
“I had a bad concussion,” Brian said. “I have trouble concentrating. Sorry.” He realized that he was jiggling his leg again and used both hands to stop it.
“That’s in the file,” the PO said. He didn’t look up, but just the way he said it made Brian sick. A black hole was opening inside him, and he desperately wanted to crawl into it and disappear.
“So, are you taking classes?”
“The thing is, my eye…” Brian’s panic flared. Was he supposed to be going to class? His dad had read all the parole paperwork and gone over it with him – how could he have missed that?
“Brian?”
Brian knew the PO had handcuffs – they were right there on his belt. He could be sent straight to the Harris County jail for reassignment to prison.
“Brian.” The PO put down his pen. “These are not trick questions.”
“Sorry. No, I haven’t gone back to the tutor. I’m not in class. Just working.”
“What’s the story with your eye?”
“The retina detached. There really isn’t anything to be done. I wear glasses, but...”
The PO opened a desk drawer and rummaged through it. He found what he was looking for – a brochure – and handed it to Brian.
“There are some support groups that might help you with your adjustment.” He nodded toward the brochure. “Give that some thought.”
Brian didn’t need to look over the brochure to know he wasn’t interested. He shook his head. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”
“It can help to talk to people who have been there,” the PO said.
“I don’t want to be in some support group with ex-cons.”
Rocking back in his chair, the PO made a steeple of his fingers and stared at Brian.
“It’s not like I think I’m too good or anything,” Brian added, hurriedly.
“No?”
“I don’t want…” Brian paused, trying to think how to explain himself. “I don’t want to talk about all that.”
Brian took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d slept poorly the night before, dreading the Lowry Marine Christmas party.
“I just want to forget all that.”
It was dark by the time Brian turned onto the street where he lived. He’d been stuck in traffic by the mall and then got lost trying to find a way around it.
Disoriented and furious with himself, he’d pulled into a parking lot and then sat for 10 minutes to calm down. He hated getting upset. It made him feel weak and out of control.
The Lowry house was easy to pick out, even from the end of the block, because everyone else in the neighborhood had Christmas decorations. The only lights at his house were the dim porch bulb and the soft blue glow of the TV through the curtains.
As Brian pulled into the driveway and hit the remote for the garage door, he noticed an unfamiliar sedan at the curb.
His dad hadn’t mentioned anything about company, and Brian hoped it wasn’t somebody there to talk about his dad’s group for prisoners’ families. Brian appreciated what his dad was trying to do, but meeting those people made him uncomfortable.
Brian knew they’d all heard his dad’s story – how his son had been beaten in the prison laundry, how it was two days before he got word, how unhappy he was with the care in the infirmary. Brian hated the way people looked at him when they heard his father tell it. There was pity, but also, he thought, disgust, because none of it would have happened if he hadn’t landed in prison in the first place, right?
Brian’s incarceration had turned Mitch Lowry into an activist. Lately, he always seemed to be meeting with other relatives, talking about lobbying Austin for something.
As soon as he walked into the kitchen, though, Brian could tell this was no meeting with a sympathizer – his dad’s body language was all wrong. Mitch Lowry was leaning back against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin thrust forward.
“Is that the way we do things in America? Drive a load of drugs and you deserve to get beat within an inch of your life? We’re not any better than those countries where they cut the thief’s hand off, if you ask me.”
The driver of the sedan was standing on the other side of the breakfast bar, a briefcase propped on the stool next to him. He did not strike Brian as somebody with a relative in the prison system. His sandy hair was cut unfashionably short, and if he hadn’t been in a suit, Brian would have guessed he was military.
“Oh, hey son,” Mitch said, turning to Brian. “Everything go OK?”
“Fine,” Brian said.
He looked from his father to the visitor, trying to figure out the standoff.
“Brian, this is Detective Zuk from the police,” Mitch said. “He says he’s got some questions for you. He didn’t want to tell me what about.”
He was a cop – of course. Although Brian’s heart had begun to thud at the word “detective,” he crossed the kitchen and stuck out his hand.
“We’ve met before,” Zuk said as they shook.
“I don’t remember,” Brian said.
“I worked patrol then,” Zuk said. He rested one hand on his briefcase. “I wasn’t trying to be mysterious about why I’m here; I just thought I ought to wait until you got home.”
“Well, he’s here now, so let’s have it,” Mitch said.
Brian shot his father a puzzled glance. His dad had often been short-tempered with him and Kevin growing up, but Brian had never seen him act this way toward a stranger.
Of course, he hadn’t seen his father interact with the police much. When Brian was growing up, Mitch Lowry was a law-and-order guy. Now he’d scraped the “Back the Blue” bumper sticker off his truck, and Brian kept expecting one that said “Question Authority” to replace it any day.
The detective seemed flummoxed, too. He kept fiddling with the strap on his briefcase.
“I’m here to talk about the Webb case,” he said.
Brian’s pulse quickened. There was news of Sharlah? Before he could open his mouth to ask what it was, though, his father spoke up.
“Four years ago I couldn’t hardly get you people to take a missing persons report.”
Zuk gave a weary nod. “I know you weren’t especially happy with how things were handled back then, but I’ve been taking another look, and…”
“Little late,” Mitch said.
“Dad…” Brian tried to break in.
“I just made detective earlier this year,” Zuk said. “I got the file out for review, because I’ve never been comfortable with where we left it.”
“Where did you leave it? Been awhile since we heard anything,” Mitch said.
Zuk shifted his weight uncomfortably. “It’s still officially open. The original detective liked Scott Moreno as a suspect, but…”
“Oh, here we go,” Mitch said. “Scott Moreno again.”
“Dad, if there’s something about Sharlah…”
“Convenient how that all worked out,” Mitch said, talking over Brian. “Wasn’t but one guy in the whole police department mixed up with drugs, and he went and got himself murdered before anyone could talk to him.”
“Mr. Lowry, if we could…” Zuk tried to break in, but Mitch wouldn’t be shut down.
“Scott Moreno’s the one who killed Cliff, and Scott Moreno’s the one who killed Missy. So
now you’re just going to blame him for Sharlah and that’s that, huh? He was a regular one-man crime wave, wasn’t he?”
It seemed to Brian that Zuk was irritated but trying hard not to show it. “Moreno had the gun that killed Cliff Knorr,” Zuk said evenly. “There’s solid ballistics on that. And there are witnesses who saw him talking to Missy Burke at the bar where she worked.”
“And Sharlah?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Zuk said. “I have something I need to show you.”
The dining room was still unfurnished and it was awkward for all three men to sit at the breakfast bar, so they moved to the living room.
Brian and his father sat side by side on the couch. Mitch picked up the remote and muted the TV.
Zuk took the lone chair and put his briefcase next to the coffee table.
Watching him, Brian had a flash of recognition.
“I met you the day Sharlah found Missy,” he said. “You were walking Sharlah down the hall at the station. You uncuffed me so I could hug her.”
“Yes,” Zuk said.
“Thank you for that,” Brian said, ignoring his father’s scowl. That one minute in the police station was the last time he ever held Sharlah, and he was grateful for it.
Zuk opened his briefcase and took out a file folder, which he held on his lap. He fussed with some papers inside it, clearly nervous.
“When I pulled the case file, I thought I would try looking at it just like it was strictly a missing persons case, because if you strip everything away, basically what you’ve got is a 19-year-old girl stranded with car trouble,” Zuk said.
“One of the new tools we have for missing persons is a nationwide thing called a database, where you can enter a description of a person and the circumstances of the disappearance, and law enforcement all over the country can see it.”
“You did that for Sharlah, and someone recognized her?” Brian glanced over at his father, excited by this news. But his dad was pressed back against the cushions, looking like a man expecting a blow.
Zuk took a long time answering. “Not exactly, no. After I entered Sharlah’s information in the database, a Texas Ranger called another case to my attention.” Zuk pulled a photo out of the folder in his lap and put it on the coffee table. In the photo was a blonde woman in a blue sweater kneeling on a lawn, her arm thrown around a dog.
“Her name is Sabrina Martz. Seven months before Sharlah disappeared, she stopped at a convenience store in Fort Stockton. Her friend went in to buy cigarettes. Sabrina went around the side to use the pay phone. When the friend came back, Sabrina was gone.”
Zuk put a second photo on the coffee table – another woman with long blonde hair. She was wearing a purple LSU T-shirt and holding a can of Dixie beer.
“Fort Stockton told me about this one. This is Delia Fontenot, a student in Baton Rouge. Three months after Sharlah disappeared, Delia left her apartment to pick up some things at the grocery store. That’s the last anyone’s seen of her,” Zuk said.
“There’s another case over in Port Arthur, about two years ago, that might be related,” Zuk said. “She’s older – in her 30s – but blonde like these two. All these towns are right on I-10 or just a little jog off the interstate.”
Mitch sat forward, his expression grim. “You think there’s some Ted Bundy type snatching blonde girls?”
Brian knew this had to be wrong. “Sharlah wouldn’t go anywhere with some man she didn’t know,” he said.
“She had car trouble and the weather was bad,” Zuk said. “She might have accepted an offer of help.”
“She knows better than to get in a car with somebody,” Brian said.
“There could have been a weapon or some type of coercion,” Zuk said.
“Sharlah would raise hell. Somebody would have seen something,” Brian said. “She’s little, but she’s strong – stronger than she looks. She wouldn’t give up without a fight.”
“I know. I saw her handle those heavy trays at the diner,” Zuk said. “But even if she resisted with everything she had…” He stopped, searching for the right words before giving up. “I realize this is difficult.”
“No, it’s easy,” Brian said, his voice rising. “Sharlah wouldn’t get in some guy’s car.”
“Brian,” Mitch said quietly, putting his hand on Brian’s arm.
Brian shook him off. “What? She wouldn’t get in some guy’s car, Dad. Trust me.”
Zuk sat with the folder in his lap, waiting.
Then it occurred to Brian that Zuk had not driven here to tell him about missing women from Fort Stockton and Baton Rouge. How could he be so stupid?
A sick feeling descended on Brian, washing through his veins. He’d had it before – when the cop pulled him over that first morning, when he stood in front of the judge waiting to hear how long his sentence would be. Something bad was coming, and he was powerless to stop it.
Be a man, Brian thought. Whatever it is, take it like a man.
He drew a deep breath. “I guess you’d better tell me what else is in the folder.”
“I got a call from the sheriff in Luna County, New Mexico. That’s west of Las Cruces, along I-10.” Zuk spoke slowly and deliberately. “Hikers found a body that matches the general description.”
Brian folded his hands in his lap, praying that they wouldn’t shake. “Maybe it’s one of those other women.”
“You described Sharlah as wearing a pink T-shirt the day she left. There’s a pink T-shirt with these remains,” Zuk said. “I wanted to see whether you could identify it.”
He slid a photo across the coffee table to Brian. It showed a stained pink T-shirt stretched out on a white background, a ruler in the foreground.
Brian picked up the photo and held it close to his face. He moved the photo farther away, squinting at it.
He closed his eyes and thought about Sharlah that last day in the jail. He couldn’t picture her shirt. Mostly what he remembered was that she had been scared and mad.
“I can’t tell,” he said, finally. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK,” Zuk said. “It was a long shot.”
“Show me the rest. I might do better with the shoes or something.”
“That’s all we have,” Zuk said.
“She didn’t have any other clothes?”
“Just a T-shirt.”
Mitch inhaled sharply. Brian closed his eyes and tried to think about something pleasant, something peaceful.
Nothing came to him.
He picked up the photo again and ran his finger over it, tracing a stain on the shirt. “Is that blood?”
“Dirt,” Zuk said. “It’s been out in the elements awhile.”
“Why is it like that? It almost looks tie-dyed,” Brian said.
“The shirt was twisted,” Zuk said.
Brian looked up at him.
Zuk cleared his throat. “Around the victim’s neck.”
“For God’s sake,” Mitch burst out. “It’s two days to Christmas! Is this really necessary?”
“I’m very sorry,” Zuk said. “There’s no good way to do this, I’m afraid.”
Brian stared at the wall above Zuk’s head, trying to empty his mind, trying to resist the image forming there.
He exhaled slowly. “It’s OK, Dad.” Then, to Zuk, he said, “Do you have pictures of the body you want me to look at?”
“It’s skeletal remains,” Zuk said. “You can’t tell anything. But there are things we can use to make an ID, like dental records. Do you know who Sharlah’s dentist was?”
“She didn’t go once a year like you’re supposed to,” Brian said. “She’s real self-conscious about her teeth. Her folks never took her to the dentist when she was little. I made her go one time, though, because she had a tooth that was hurting her so bad.”
Zuk took a notepad from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Do you remember where she went? I’ve struck out so far.”
“Shar called one place, and the lady on the phone
wasn’t nice when she asked how much it would cost,” Brian said. “We came up here, someplace where poor people went. I tried to get her to go to my folks’ dentist, but she wouldn’t.”
“Do you remember the doctor’s name, or where the office was?”
“I drove her. I should remember.” Brian massaged his forehead. “I think it was… No, I’m getting it confused with something else. Sorry. I do that sometimes.”
“Do you remember anything about the doctor or the office? Any detail could help.”
Mitch had been quiet since his outburst, but now he spoke up again. “Brian has memory problems,” he said, “on account of the beating he took while the guards were looking the other way.”
Brian knew his father was just trying to help, but he hated being talked about like he wasn’t there.
“Dad, it’s OK.”
Brian closed his eyes, trying to conjure up that day. He remembered Sharlah leaning her head on his shoulder as they waited. “The doctor’s name was Indian or Iranian or something. I know that sounds terrible, but it was… not like Smith, you know?”
“Do you know if she wrote a check?”
“We paid cash,” Brian said.
“Can you narrow down the date at all?”
Brian concentrated, trying hard to remember. What had they talked about in the waiting room? Did Sharlah have a coat?
Then something came to him.
“I borrowed money from Kevin so we wouldn’t come up short for the rent,” Brian said. “It was just after Kevin got married, like maybe a month. He owed me a favor, because I didn’t raise hell when Mom didn’t want Sharlah at the wedding. They got married…” Brian turned to his father. “What year was that?”
Mitch Lowry provided Kevin and Lynn’s wedding date. His voice was shaking.
“That’s good,” Zuk said. “That could really be helpful. I’ll see if I can’t track down this dentist and then we’ll get the records sent to New Mexico, see if they match.”
“It could be some other girl,” Brian said.
“It could,” Zuk agreed, nodding.
“So you know, I’m not going to believe anything bad until you can prove it to me,” Brian said. “I’m going to keep thinking she’s out there somewhere, having a good life.”
