He read aloud some entries.
“Number four. 11 y. Thin, but developing. Long loins. Number 16. 14 y. Fine breast plate, firm loins and buttocks. Soft mouth. Number eight...”
“Stop, Frank,” Lauren said and covered her mouth, breathing hard. “Those are people, Frank, not animals.” She pushed the chair back and ran to the sink, eyes closed as she dry heaved and coughed. “Oh, my God!”
Nagler turned a few more pages. Dollar signs appeared at the ends of some listings. Two listings said “MARKET.”
Dollar signs? Did they sell children? Market? When an animal goes to market, he thought, it does not come back. Those have to be the children killed by the family.
“No wonder Garrettson was searching for this book,” Nagler said softly.
Lauren, at the sink, turned to face Nagler. “Have you ever seen anything so evil, Frank?”
He glanced down to the floor and then at her. “No,” he whispered and shook his head slowly.
After she left the kitchen he fingered the second packet, not really wanting to open it. He tore open the paper wrapper and sighed. More photos. These guys documented everything. He examined the back of several of the photos for any information and on some saw what appeared to be dates and other notations. He opened the ledger. They match. Notations on the back of some photos matched the items in the ledger. “Son of a bitch!” He flipped over more photos and matched the notations. “Son-of-a-bitch!” He said slowly.
Lauren, from the other room, yelled, “What?”
“We have photos to match the ledger items. We can put names and faces to these kids,” he yelled.
She appeared at the door. “You kidding?”
“No, look.”
He pulled out a photo — “1999. 3y.” — and opened a ledger page that had to same listing. “Maybe we can match this to the Census data you have or birth records, and begin to identify these children.” He reached to Lauren and pulled her close. “Got him.”
She smiled briefly, and then turned away. “You need to find Calista, fast. Once he knows we have this, he’ll hunt her down.”
“I know.”
She left and he began to collect the photos for storage. He flipped through a few. Was that one Alton Garrett? Hard to say? Calista? Could be. Then he saw Tank, in several photos; the eyes hard and hateful, burning through the paper. Then a few more. He stopped and pulled out one of the photos. I know that face. Jesus. Right in front of us.
****
“Frank, Miss Ramirez.”
Mulligan, the medical examiner, greeted them at the end of the now-cleared field at the compound. Behind them, the charred walls of the house and barn leaned sharply. They stood in front of a chart Mulligan’s staff created to mark the location of all the structures on the site. Each set of remains was indicated by a red square, with notes.
“Four sets of remains, all skeletal,” Mulligan said. He pointed at the red squares. “An adult male in the far corner, quite old, a young adult female in the other far corner, and two adolescents, one male, one female, buried together. There are several more depressions.”
“Tough site?” Nagler asked. Mulligan, never a humorous man, seemed weighted down by his findings.
“Troubling, Frank.” He held up one hand. “I know the general history of this place, and the myriad myths and rumors. But we’ve now found seven sets of remains here. The loss of life and the carelessness is astounding.”
They were joined by Captain Jim Mangan, and the former school principal Dennis Wilson, who as the local historian had been given permission to document the site once the medical staff had cleared it.
“Doctor, Frank, Ramirez. The fire marshal has cleared the buildings, so if you are done there, doctor, I’ll schedule demolition. The house walls are not safe and the barn roof could give out at any time.”
“I’m quite done,” Mulligan said. “We found some records, a few items that could be used as weapons, and an interesting set of photographs. So yes, please, let’s make the site safe because there is much work to be done. I’ll leave you to it.”
As he left, Mulligan offered Nagler the slightest nod of his head. “Captain. Miss Ramirez.”
“Sorry you lost what chance you had to explore the house, Dr. Wilson,” Mangan said. “But that left side is about ready to give out. A couple rafters and loose boards fell while the fire marshal was examining the damage. Couldn’t have you in there.”
“Oh, I understand, Captain. I’m grateful you asked me to come and record what I could,” Wilson said. “This site will add to our knowledge of the mining activity in the township, and put some bones on a family that has always been a ghost” — he held up his hands and wiggled his fingers while raising his eyebrows a couple times — “in our town. I was sorry to hear about the fire. I’m sure treasures were lost in the blaze.”
“Definitely arson,” Mangan said after Wilson walked away. “Fire marshal found two broken glass bottles with traces of gasoline. The burn pattern indicates they were used to start the fire. An old dry wooden place like this would have gone up pretty fast.”
“Sure enough,” Ramirez said.
“Suspects?” Nagler asked.
“Aliens. Fell from the sky,” Mangan said, chuckling, but his eyes were wrinkled in worry. “Middle of the night in one of the more remote spots in town. Who knows? Maybe the person who shot at you, Frank. Or maybe the redhead that old Dickinson was telling people about. But no one has seen her since, I understand.”
“You looking for her?” Ramirez asked.
“No,” Mangan said with a quick shake of his head. “Strangers stick out up here. The lake community is pretty tight and Dottie at the diner knows everyone because it’s the only place to get coffee.” He shrugged. “Probably just a hiker.”
“You know the landscape better than I do,” Nagler said. “But why would the guy who shot at me burn the place down? It was pretty clear he was shooting at me. Otherwise he could have nailed those hikers.”
“I don’t know, Frank,” Mangan said, irritated. “Sorry. No sleep for three days.”
“Hey, I understand.”
“Why are you guys here?” Mangan asked.
“We just wanted to check in with Mulligan,” Ramirez said. “Especially after he told us about the number of remains they had found, and the photos.”
“What about those photos?”
“We haven’t seen them,” Nagler said. “Mulligan sent them back to his office so they can start examining them. He said they found a cubbyhole in a cellar wall behind some loose bricks.”
Mangan rubbed his neck and bit his lower lip. “Sounds like someone was hiding them. Huh.” He rubbed his neck. “Strange shit, man.”
****
“The trace on, Maria?”
“Since we got the judge’s okay this morning,” she said as she stared at a computer on her lap. She looked out the side window of Nagler’s car as they drove back into Ironton. “All these trees, Frank. Don’t they have any towers out here?”
“Out of your element, Ramirez?” Nagler laughed.
“Hey, I’m a city girl. I want my nature in parks with sidewalks and manmade ponds and work crews to wash away the pigeon shit. Oh, wait. He made call. Um. What? He called a phone located at the old iron rolling mill south of the train yard. Where you found the SUV. I’ll get a couple of patrols over there.”
Nagler slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “We never cleared that place, did we?”
Almost together, Nagler: “Because it’s an active business... “Ramirez: “Because it’s not an empty ...”
Nagler slid her a sour glance, then focused on the road. “Yeah,” he said softly.
“So who’s gonna try to get the photos?” Ramirez asked. “McCann? Garrett?”
“Doubt that. We have their photos plastered on every public door at city hall,” Nagler said. “I’m thinking someone from Jefferson. Technically, it’s their case. But oddly, they have not claimed it.”
“That
is odd.”
Nagler said, “I’d send some secretary who knows nothing about any of this, with a form signed by some higher-up. The secretary can claim they were just following orders.”
“Why not just try to steal them, like they did the books?”
“Because it didn’t work,” Nagler said nodding. “The morgue and Mulligan’s office have more security than a bank and all the codes have been changed.” He smiled. “They might suspect it’s a trap.”
Ramirez agreed. “Yeah. What do we know about him?” Ramirez asked.
Nagler thought a second. “Divorced, eight years ago. Wife moved out of state, now apparently in Texas. Had one daughter, should be twelve, thirteen.”
“Had?”
“That’s where it gets weird. We haven’t gone into the field on this, but his employment records haven’t listed her as a dependent in six years. And neither he nor his ex-wife claim a tax deduction for her. We don’t yet know who had custody. Looks like him, but...” Nagler glanced at Ramirez and rolled his eyes.
“Dead?”
“Not that we have found so far.”
They rode in silence as they entered Ironton.
“What are you going to do with that video?” Ramirez asked.
A wisp of a smile. “Save it. Use it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Number fourteen
Frank Nagler arranged the two lists in front of him on the table.
One had fourteen names. That was a copy of “Page 4” in Bruno Hapworth’s documents.
The list had thirteen cross-outs.
Number fourteen sat scowling across the table from Nagler.
The second list was a spread sheet created by Dan Yang using Census data provided by Lauren, dates from the ledger found in the wall, and the brief notations on the backs of photos found with the ledger.
Nagler took a second to marvel at the work. Mad skills, Rafe would say.
The entire history of the Garrettson family in all its versions laid out in a readable form.
What was even more impressive was the trail that led to the man sitting across from Nagler. Box by box, line by line across the page.
“This is you, isn’t it?” Nagler asked, pointing to a green box next to the year 1964.
“And this is you, too,” he said, as he pulled out a plastic bag holding a Polaroid photo of two teenage boys. It had been among the photos in the packet in the compound wall.
Then in rapid succession: “This is you, this is you, and this is you,” as he slapped three more photos of the two boys shown in the original photo, but aging. The last two also included a young girl in the photo.
A gasp from number fourteen.
“I’ve never ... “
“Don’t say anything,” his companion, his attorney, advised.
“Never saw them?” Nagler said, taunting. “You’re in them,” he said slapping the table. “You and your brother.”
Nagler let the sound of his shout fade.
Then softly, “And you’re in this one, too,” as he pulled out a color snapshot. It was included in the packet of photos John Guidrey from Atlanta had overnighted. “And I’ve got a dozen more. You and the guy, and a girl we have not identified, but you know who she is.” Nagler said. “You and Tank... sorry, Randolph Garrettson. Alton Garrett’s uncle. The family member you so conveniently failed to mention to me when I asked you about this weeks ago.”
School principal Dennis Wilson reached for one of the photos, but Nagler jerked it back.
“No, these are mine.” Nagler pulled back the photos and stacked them, and then pulled out a manila envelope that was under the flow chart.
“So tell me, how did you keep this history from the school board when they hired you? You don’t have to answer that. We know the records had been changed.”
“Look, that’s not what happened,” Wilson said, staring at the table with a side glance at his lawyer. “I gave you the information that I could, to, well, protect the school.”
Nagler leaned and softly, nearly hissing, said, “Mr. Wilson, I don’t like being lied to, and you have been lying to me from the first time I spoke with you.” Then he leaned back. “Look, you don’t have to explain a lot about your history. We pretty much have it. Let’s see, you changed your name in the sixties. You were Rudolph Garrettson until then. What’s with all the first names beginning with ‘R’? Dropped the ‘son’ and became a Garrett.” Nagler nodded, “Cute. Then dropped the Garrett altogether and became Dennis Wilson. What, you liked the Beach Boys? Really, Dennis Wilson?”
Wilson sighed heavily. “Do we have to...”
“Yes!” Nagler shouted. I am so goddamn sick of your family. “Yes. Because of this.”
Nagler slowly opened the manila envelope and slid out four photographs of Wilson holding a young girl. Only now could Nagler look at them without feeling the angry nausea that had hit him when he first viewed them.
“This is your daughter. We found her in a garbage can on Blackwell Street. Thought you’d like to know.”
Nagler watched the shame fall from Wilson’s face, replaced by a quizzical stare of someone with no way out of the corner they had been backed into.
“Do you remember the day you sold her to Randolph, huh, Rudolph, ol’ Rudy? Do you?” Nagler asked. “Let me remind you.” He pulled out the ledger with a page earmarked, a photo, and Dan Yang’s chart. “That would be here. Let’s see, you called her, ‘Lamb, thin chops, will learn, 10y’ Here is the sale: ‘Transfer to R. Payment in time.’” He slapped out another photo of Wilson holding the girl. “That would be her on the day you sold her. And this is how we found her,” and Nagler laid out the photo of the girl when she had first been found: Filthy, bedraggled, dead-eyed.
Nagler kicked away from the table, and the chair tipped to the floor with a metallic crash. He turned his back to the pair at the table and closed his eyes to calm down.
He turned back, kicking the chair aside, and leaned over the table, silent.
“What do you want?” Wilson asked.
Nagler leaned in close.
“Tank.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Give Leonard his day
The slow, deep thump of a solo bass drum echoed mournfully off the brick faces of the buildings that enclosed the square, the player carrying the disappointment that had descended on all the drum line members after the arrest of Mayor Rashad Jackson.
How hollow hope sounds in the face of betrayal.
A single note, a boom, then a soft echo, then another, harder boom; then two — boom, boom — and then a syncopation as the snare notes exploded like firecrackers, a rapping flurry, then a stop to let the notes escape and return; another flurry rolling above a thumpa, thumpa, thump-thump; then hand claps as the tempo shifted, clap, clap, pause, clap; clap, clap, pause, clap; faster, faster, a wall of sound finding itself, notes wrapped in and around themselves, layers of rhythm, silence and sound traded; beat down despair, beat down despair; a roll, a roll, a roll, climbing the dull walls, cracking open the gray sky to find the sun.
“Ain’t despair day. Ain’t sorrow day,” a smiling Dominique yelled to his fellow drummers. “Ain’t time for misery; ain’t time for shame and blame. We the name! We the game! Pick up that weight. Be our time!”
Soon groups of drummers patrolled the farmers’ market grounds followed by dancers and revelers, who reached into lines at food booths to drag people into a makeshift New Orleans-style second line; we’ve been buried, the players and dancers shouted, now we’re living again.
Lauren Fox checked in with the restaurant staffs, farmers, jewelers, hot dog sellers and all the other vendors to see how they were doing. From time to time one of the drummers would grab her elbow and take her for a twirl.
Frank Nagler sat at one of the shaded tables in front of Leonard’s bookstore, where a small stage had been erected for the award ceremony. A black cloth was taped to the side of the store where the commemorative plaque would be unveiled, and another
cloth was draped over the street sign that would declare the site “Leonard Hampton Square.” A rope was strung from the cloth to the stage, which at the right time, Leonard would pull to reveal the street sign.
Del, Rafe, and Bobby all sat with Leonard inside the store calming him before his speech.
“I don’t want to give it,” Leonard had argued. “You give it for me, Frank. You did as much as I did.”
“Hardly,” Nagler had replied. “I put up a few dollars years ago. You did the work, Leonard, provided the inspiration.”
Most of all Nagler wanted Calista Knox to show up, but since she was now a suspect in the arson fire at the compound, that seemed unlikely.
Dawson stopped by the tables and watched live coverage of the event on his website. He had hired a high school video crew to supply the feed.
“How many times are we going to start over, Frank?”
“As many times as we have to, Jimmy. We don’t have any choice.”
Lauren emerged from the crowd and hugged Nagler and whacked Dawson, sitting with his left ankle across his right knee, on the bottom of his shoe. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there, you know, reporting?” she teased.
“Hey, I’m a boss now,” Dawson said. “I got lackeys. Beside I’m gonna report on the ceremony.”
“Speaking of which,” Lauren said. “Need to start. Thanks for filling in as MC, Frank.”
“You know I’m not a public speaker,” he said.
“But you are Leonard’s best friend, and today, he needs you to show it.”
He nodded, acknowledging her point, and said, “Yeah? No sign out there?”
Lauren frowned. “None.” She looked at her watch. “Two minutes.”
As Nagler walked to the store to get Leonard and the others — his army, Rafe declared one day — his radio buzzed with a message. “Tall dude, tweed hat.”
His heart sank. Give Leonard his day. “Eyes on,” he replied.
With a cheerful, “Big Day, Leonard,” Nagler led the group onto the stage.
He scanned the crowd, looking for a tweed hat and a red-haired woman.
The Weight of Living Page 26
