Carol O’Connell: Find Me

“Well, he had another name,” said Charles. “The reporters think the killer was posing as one of the caravan parents. And what about Agent Cadwaller? The last time I-”

“Oh, yeah,” said Riker. “That guy sent me a get-well card and a witness subpoena. You were right about him. He wasn’t a profiler. Cadwaller’s a forensic accountant from another agency. He’s building a case against Dale for padding overtime and falsifying government documents. And New Mexico has a charge for endangering the welfare of a child. Did I tell you Dale’s wife left him? Oh, and his lawyers-they own his house, they’re driving his car.” The detective lightly punched Charles on the arm, grinning, saying, “Hey, is this a great country or what?”

The elevator doors opened, and upon exiting, Riker limped at a faster pace, following the exit signs to freedom and his first smoke of the day.

“All right,” said Charles, “so the killer was posing as someone on the caravan.”

“Hey, works for me.”

“Well, one of those people is dead. Doesn’t t hat help you narrow it down a bit?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The front door was in sight; the cigarette and lighter were in hand. “You’d have to start with a picture to find a match. Between the parents and the news crews, it’s not like we got a tight list of everybody in that caravan.” Riker pushed through the doors, and now he stood outside at last. “I saw the autopsy pictures. Mallory really did a number on the perp’s face. Damn she’s good.” The air was clean and unpolluted, but he had a remedy for that; he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“What about a forensic reconstruction of the skull? They might be able to-”

“Nobody’s gonna spend that kind of money on a dead cockroach, Charles. There was no ID found on the body. No picture-no match. Sorry, pal.”

Charles set the duffel bag on the ground and raised one hand to alert a teenager standing near the door, and the boy ran off to fetch the Mercedes. Apparently, the concept of valet parking had been recently introduced to Kingman, Arizona. When the car pulled to curb, Charles tipped the youngster and turned back to the detective, saying, “There must be some clue to the man’s identity- something. … W ell, surely you at least know the color of his eyes?”

“Naw, ” s aid Riker, as he opened the trunk of the Mercedes. “The eyeballs probably went out the back of his head in a stew of brains and blood. Or they could be in the glop that was jammed up inside the pipe when it-”

“A simple no would’ve sufficed.” Charles tossed the duffel bag into the trunk.

“But you didn’t ask me a simple question, did you?” Riker dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel. “You wanted to know if a serial killer had Mallory’s green eyes. You just asked me if the kid killed her own father that night.” The detective smiled. “But, hey, we never had this conversation, okay? Who cares what the freak looked like?”

Obviously, Charles cared, but the man was looking at his shoes, a sure sign of guilt, and he asked no more questions.

Riker stared at the open trunk. Almost time to say good-bye. “Mallory killed the right man that night. That’s a fact. But she can never be sure who he was. Nobody can, and maybe it’s better that way. Less… personal.”

Charles only nodded in agreement, and both men knew they would never talk about this again.

The detective looked down at the keys in his hand. “You’re sure about this?”

“Oh, yes. Please take the car. The last thing I need is another road trip.” And Mallory’s d riving had not produced a cure for Riker’s fear of flying.

“When she’s discharged,” said Charles. “I’ll take her back on a plane.” “Ray Adler’s busting his butt to get her car fixed in time.” Charles shrugged. “I’ll have him ship it directly to New York.” “No,” said Riker. “I got a better idea.” He reached into the trunk and pulled out a black plastic bag. “Here, a present, a souvenir. You’ll remember this.” He opened the bag and pulled out a coffee-stained canvas tote that bulged with maps.

“Horace Kayhill’s collection?”

“Yeah.” Riker slammed the trunk. “But the state line is a straight shot from Kingman, so all you need is the map for California. Ta k e her down Route 66 all the way to the coast. Mallory deserves to finish this trip. God knows she’s paid enough for the privilege.” The detective climbed in behind the wheel of the Mercedes and rolled down the window to say, “So take her to the end of the road, and then see the lady home.”

Ray Adler had made good on his promise, delivering Mallory’s car, dent-free, on the day of her discharge in the month of June. “Good as new,” said the man from Kansas, “and maybe a little better.”

Charles Butler went up to Mallory’s hospital room to fetch down the bags. The door was ajar, and he hung back in the hallway to watch, or, more accurately and clinically, to observe. She was packing clothes, moving slowly, as if she did this chore underwater. The bruises, casts and bandages were gone. The curls of her hair hid the savage scalp wound that had cost her so much blood, and her other suture scars were covered with a T-shirt and jeans. By outward appearances, she was healed, or nearly so-or so it seemed.

She was not wearing her weapon. It lay wrapped in the straps of her shoulder holster on the bedside table, and this worried Charles. Some people kept their identities in their wallets; hers was in the gun. One by one, she was losing every quality that defined her. And he was also changed. Now he was the one who kept up her ledger for all the cheats of her young life, everything lost or stolen from her. She was numbed to all of these injuries. Charles felt the pain for her; he was reeling with it.

He stepped into the room. “Did Kronewald call? Are you going to testify at Dale Berman’s trial?”

She shook her head as she opened a drawer in the bedside table. “Riker won the coin toss.”

Bad news. This could only mean that she no longer cared about revenge, and he might applaud that as a sign of growth in anyone else of his acquaintance-but not in her unique case. He sat down on the bed to watch her fold T-shirts. “Kathy,” he said. And she did not shoot him. “I know why you hated Dale Berman so much. It’s all about Louis’s wife, isn’t it? Helen… and the way she died.”

The young detective idly perused the contents of a nightstand drawer. “Helen Markowitz died of cancer.”

“Yes, right after a high-profile case was solved.” Charles had anesthetized Riker with contraband beer while the man was still on his sickbed in order to extract a few painful facts. “The police in New York had just found a kidnapped boy.”

“The old man found the boy,” she said, crediting her foster father in a listless monotone.

“And his wife died the next day,” said Charles. “Louis was supposed to be on family leave that week. But when that child was kidnapped, all the leaves were canceled.”

Mallory nodded as she collected small items from the drawer, filling her hand with a toothbrush, a comb, a pen, saying, “I walked off the job.”

“ To be with Helen-but Louis couldn’t do that, could he?”

“No.” She slammed the bedside drawer. “He had to stay and find that kid. There were feds in the house. He thought they might get the boy killed.”

“I remember the day of Helen’s funeral,” said Charles. “Louis ran into me on the street-literally. He ran his car into mine. That’s how we met. Well, of course, he apologized profusely. Said he couldn’t see the traffic for the tears. ‘I put my wife in the ground this morning,’ he said. ‘My kid’s locked in her room. And me? I’m driving around in circles. Everybody’s gotta be somewhere, right?’ And then he smiled.”