Randy White - Dead Silence

I asked, “He doesn’t remember at all?”

“That’s what he says and I believe him. Said he had dreams-a spacey and free sort of feeling that could describe a sensation similar to floating, couldn’t it?”

There was one problem, I reminded him. “You were on Long Island. You remember the backhoe driver saying he used pipe to vent water pressure. If water flooded the graves, the excess would have exited up the piping instead of lifting what was buried.”

When agents opened the coffin’s lid, though, we saw that Sudderram and I were both right. Sort of.

Inside the box was a skull. The skull was volcanic gray and had the look of centuries. A section of the parietal bone was missing as well as several teeth.

“Jesus Christ, the kid never mentioned this,” Sudderram said, kneeling, then stepping back to get out of the way of the camera.

I noticed that Tomlinson was hurrying toward us as if we had waved him over. We hadn’t. On the drive to Falcon Landing, he’d awakened in time for me to tell him a little of what had happened, but I hadn’t mentioned Myles implying that he’d stolen fraternity artifacts.

Even so, I expected Tomlinson to take one look inside the coffin and make the association instantly. Which he did. But it wasn’t just because the skull was there. Nor was it because we discovered several other bones-ribs and segments of finger bones-when agents removed a sodden blanket.

What convinced Tomlinson was the way the skull was positioned. It was wedged into a corner of the box, between two braces, with the back of the skull angled perfectly so that it covered the airhole.

The skull had served as an effective stopper. If it hadn’t been there, the box would have partially flooded but wouldn’t have floated.

The agents were wearing rubber gloves. I wasn’t, so I kept my hands at my sides as I leaned close to inspect. The skull couldn’t possibly have formed a watertight seal, but it might have sealed the vent enough to allow the box to drift upward, freeing the boy.

“Geronimo saved Will,” Tomlinson insisted as we trailered my boat back to Sanibel. “I can think of only one other explanation.”

“Let’s share that information telepathically, too,” I suggested. “It worked so well on the way here.” Traffic was heavy on I-75, lots of Ohio and Michigan license plates and oversized Winnebagos. I was too tired not to concentrate on my driving.

“Be as sarcastic as you want, I’m going to tell you anyway. William J. Chaser…” Tomlinson repeated the name twice before asking, “Do you know what the J stands for?”

I could see he was disappointed when I answered, “Yes. Middle name, Joseph. So what? If you’re going biblical on me, keep it brief. And please don’t rehash the whole Judas thing, okay?”

“Doc, have you ever taken a close look at Will’s face?” Tomlinson asked. “A really close look, I mean. Cheekbones and eyes especially.”

“Once,” I told him, “and that was enough. The kid still blames me for ordering him back into the limo. He didn’t say it, but I can tell. The way he glared at me, I think he wants to put an arrow through me, too.”

Tomlinson thought that was hilarious. “Birds of a feather!” he kept repeating until we got back to Dinkin’s Bay and he sobered up enough to say he wanted to place the boy’s photo next to an old photo Tomlinson had of a man we’d both known and admired. A good man I’d been close to as a boy. His name was Joseph Egret.

Tomlinson said, “I think there’s something there. Will and Joseph. They might be related. Seriously.”

I groaned, trying to tune the man out.

“Doc,” he argued, “a lot of Seminoles were sent to reservations in Oklahoma. And you’ve heard the rumors about how many children Joe fathered. The women loved him! I know, I know, he wasn’t a Seminole, but still…”

“Tomlinson,” I said, shaking my head, “I don’t know what planet you’re from, but it’s short one lunatic. Save it until we get back to the lab. I need to open a beer first, okay?”

On the last day of January, a Saturday, I flew to Pittsburgh and attended Detective Shelly Palmer’s funeral, accompanied by Sir James Montbard.

Montbard had spent recent days in the Caribbean, judging from his tan, presumably stationed somewhere near Cuba waiting to nail whoever showed up to collect the ransom.

“By coincidence,” he told me, “I have business in the Northeast. Happy to tag along.”

It was no coincidence. Montbard was still working on some kind of assignment related to the kidnapping-that was my guess. I wasn’t certain who was behind the kidnapping, and Hooker might have useful information. As the Brit had said, socializing is a key part of our craft. That’s why I suggested we travel together.

Shelly Palmer was buried east of Pittsburgh in Allegheny Cemetery, a park of rolling hills and trees overlooking the Allegheny River. A hundred friends, uniformed cops and family members were there, along with several dozen film crews.

During the service, I noticed a man who was too broad-shouldered for the suit he wore. Instead of joining the others around the woman’s grave, he watched alone from the perimeter.

I nudged Hooker Montbard, then drifted close enough to confirm that the man wore a wedding ring. For an instant, he and I locked eyes. He stared until I looked away, unsettled by the absurd notion that the man might perceive the truth of my guilt, a truth his former lover had carried to her grave.

I decided to speak to him anyway. I believed that Shelly might want the man to know how it was the night she died. That he had been strong in her thoughts. But the man froze me with a warning look, then ambled away.

Cops.

The next day, Sunday, February first, Roxanne Sofvia behaved similarly at Nelson Myles’s funeral, or so she told me on the phone. Stood off by herself, faithful to the code of the unfaithful, maintaining a fictional distance from the man she had hoped to marry, still playing her role as mistress even though their affair had irrevocably ended.

I chose not to attend the funeral. I could have.

The night before, Hooker and I had flown from Pittsburgh International to JFK. He went to the Explorers Club, while I took a bus to the Hamptons. I hadn’t returned to a New York winter to socialize, but that’s not why I didn’t attend the funeral.

Loyalty can be demonstrated in a garden variety of ways. I admired Nelson Myles for the courage he’d summoned during his last hour, but I felt a more compelling loyalty to a family which had suffered fifteen years of his silence.

Ironic, as Virgil Sylvester had observed, that his daughter’s body was found at Shelter Point Stables on the same day the man who had buried her was being lowered into his grave.

It was ironic beyond the fisherman’s knowledge, I now believed.

Had Nelson Myles decided the worth of Annie Sylvester’s life was equal to his own, he, too, might have benefited, not only from the kindness he would have provided but because the girl’s remains would have finally received forensic attention.

It was one of the reasons I had returned to the Hamptons. While confessing to the girl’s murder, Myles had unknowingly caused me to doubt that either of us knew the truth.

The details of the girl’s death were gruesome to contemplate, but details solve murder cases. Myles had told me he was certain he had used a seven iron. I had double-checked the golf bag in Norvin Tomlinson’s room and was equally certain that it was the nine iron that a worried Mrs. Tomlinson had replaced.

Around seven p.m., after speaking to Virgil Sylvester and talking with Agent Sudderram several times, I checked into a hotel not far from the Tomlinson estate.