Kevin O'Brien - One Last Scream

Karen eagerly followed him into the study. She remembered some of those fragmented memories Amelia had shared with her about her early childhood: a woman screaming in the woods while young Amelia sat alone in a car; the Native American neighbor she liked; a person or place called Unca-dween; and her mother standing over her in the bathroom, asking, “Did he touch you down there?”

If they could track down more information about Amelia’s biological parents, they might discover what those fragments meant. Maybe they’d find the key to Amelia’s problems.

George put on his glasses and sifted through a stack of papers on his computer desk. “Here’s the file,” he said, handing her a folder. “I’m afraid there isn’t a lot of information here-no mention of the biological parents or even where Amelia was born, just her first name and the birthday, May 21, 1988.”

Karen glanced at the records: sixteen pages of legal documents, most of it boilerplate stuff. But the adoption date was there: April 5, 1993; and so was the name of the agency: Jamison Group Adoption Services, Spokane, Washington.

Karen nodded at his computer screen. “Could I get online for a minute?”

“Sure, I’ll start it up for you.” Sitting down, he switched on the monitor, then worked the keyboards for a minute until he connected to the Internet. He quickly vacated the chair for her. “What are you looking up?”

“This adoption agency. I want to read about the fire. Maybe they’ll say something about where all their records went, besides up in smoke.” She sat down, and did a Google search for Jamison Group Adoption Services, Spokane, WA.

The first four listings were for other adoption agencies in Spokane, and three more, picking up the key words, were for Jamison Auto Services in Spokane . And there was a Jim Jamison offering group rates for his limousine services in Spokane.

Frowning, Karen went to the next page, and then she found something halfway down the list:

FOUR DIE IN SHOOTING…Gunman Sets Adoption Agency on Fire… Duane Lee Savitt, 33, walked into the Jamison Group Adoption Agencyon East Sprague Street at 1:35 P.M. Within minutes, he had shot and killed office manager Donna…

www.spokesmanreview.com/news/shooting/042993-14k.

“My God,” George murmured, peering over her shoulder. “All this time, I thought the fire was accidental.”

Karen clicked on the link, and pulled up an article in the Spokesman Review archives, dated April 28, 1993:

FOUR DIE INSHOOTING RAMPAGE

Gunman Sets Adoption Agency on

Fire After Shooting Spree

SPOKANE: Police investigators are still trying to determine the motive for a Pasco man’s shooting spree at an adoption agency, which left three employees dead on Monday afternoon. Before it was over, the gunman set ablaze the small, two-story Tudor house which served as the adoption agency’s office. He was shot and killed as he opened fire on police and firefighters arriving at the scene.

Armed with two handguns, several clips of ammunition, and an incendiary device, Duane Lee Savitt, 33, walked into the Jamison Group Adoption Agency on East Sprague Street at 1:35 P.M. Within minutes, he had shot and killed office manager Donna Houston, 51, and Scott Larabee, 40, an attorney for the agency. Anita Jamison, 44, vice president and part owner, was also shot.

“I heard screams, and several loud pops next door,” said Margarita Brady, a receptionist at a neighboring architecture firm, D. Renner amp; Company. Brady immediately called 911. “There were still screams coming from inside the house when I saw the smoke start to pour out the windows…”

Karen glanced at the adoption documents again. Both Scott Larabee and Anita Jamison had signed the contracts.

According to the article, Anita Jamison was still alive when the police finally gunned down Duane Lee Savitt. But she’d been badly burned in the fire and died in the ambulance on the way to Sacred Heart Medical Center.

The article also mentioned that the fire had destroyed volumes of records on file at the agency.

“It probably doesn’t have anything to do with my niece,” George said, still standing behind her. “But we should Google this Duane Savitt.”

“Duane,” Karen repeated, staring at the killer’s name in the news article. She could almost hear a four-year-old girl trying to pronounce it. “Dween.”

“What?” George asked. “What is it?”

“My God,” Karen whispered, her eyes still riveted to that name on the screen. “I think we might have just found Amelia’s other uncle.”

“None of the women I met last week through that Internet service were worth a second date. Four women, and not one could hold a candle to you.”

Karen managed a patient, placid smile for the man seated across from her on the sofa in her study. He was a skinny 42-year-old divorce with receding strawberry-blond hair, fishlike eyes, and a huge Adam’s apple.

“Now, Laird, we’ve been over this before,” she said. “It’s called transference, and it’s perfectly normal to get a little crush on your therapist. But you need to move on from that. Now, tell me about these women, and why they didn’t measure up to your standards.”

“Well, for starters, none of them liked Star Trek .”

“That’s not a good reason. Your ex-wife was a huge Star Trek fan, and the two of you fought like cats. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Laird started listing the faults of date number one. She just wasn’t pretty enough for him-this from a guy who looked like a blond Don Knotts. Of course, she was in no position to criticize people for their fickle romantic notions, not when she had feelings for a man whose wife had just been murdered a week ago.

She and George McMillan had spent over an hour last night in front of his computer screen, checking search engine listings for Duane Lee Savitt. George had pulled up a chair and sat beside her. They hadn’t found much about the man who might have been Amelia’s Unca Dween. Apparently, the police never determined a motive behind his killing spree. There were no records of him ever working at Jamison Group, and as far as anyone could tell, he hadn’t known any of his victims. One article suggested Savitt might have been the birth father to a child adopted through the agency. But it was difficult to determine that, since he’d destroyed all their files. A thorough search of county and state records yielded nothing for investigators.

Karen was getting frustrated by what looked more and more like a dead end. But she had George at her side, occasionally touching her arm or shoulder as they found each new potential lead, even if it didn’t pan out. She wasn’t alone in her concern about Amelia; she had an ally.

She understood why he was a history professor. He seemed obsessed over getting every single fact about this tragedy from nearly fifteen years ago. He was doing it for Amelia, of course. But Karen liked to think he was doing it partly for her, too.

Before she left his house, he gave her a photo of Amelia, so she could post it at the nurses’ station at the convalescent home. He walked her to her car, and assured her that he’d keep digging for more information about Duane Lee Savitt.

Karen hesitated before climbing into the car. She couldn’t leave there without resolving something, though a sixth sense told her to leave it the hell alone. “Listen, I still feel bad about upsetting you last week. If I was out of line, I’m sorry-”

“What are you talking about?” George asked.

“When I told Amelia about her father and-and your wife,” Karen explained. “I meant well. But you’re right, it wasn’t my place to-”