Jan Burke - Dear Irene

Although I had expected a lot of questions about E.J. and Rosie once we were outside, Steven was quiet as we walked. When we reached the Wrigley Building, he stopped and said, “I guess I’d better be going. I promised Dr. Ferguson – he’s the department chair – that I would have all of E.J.’s things out of her office today.”

“What?”

“Well, the police have taken what they need. The dean asked the campus police to keep it sealed, but I guess they finally convinced him that it… it wouldn’t serve any purpose. The department wants to use her office.”

“But why you?”

“She doesn’t have any relatives. And even though Dr. Ferguson was upset by the articles in the Express, he’s quite sympathetic. He knew about my relationship with E.J. I guess he doesn’t know who else to ask to take care of it.”

“Steven, do me a favor. Let me go with you when you go over to Dr. Blaylock’s office-”

“It isn’t necessary-”

“Give me the benefit of a doubt, okay? Give me time to write up my story. Just hang loose for a couple of hours and I’ll help you. It won’t hurt to have someone with you – I don’t know if you’ve thought much about it, but it isn’t going to be easy on you.”

“I know that gathering her things together will be painful but-”

“Have you been in her office since she died?”

“No.”

“Have you seen it at all since then?”

“No.”

I sighed. “Well, let’s just say the cops don’t get into janitorial work.”

He caught my meaning. “Oh.”

“So you’ll wait for me to go with you?”

He nodded. “I’ll wait at home until I hear from you.”

He left and I ran upstairs. I had a lot of writing to do. I also needed to call Frank and pick up the photo of Rosie Thayer. And to start rebuilding a bridge I had damaged that morning.

I WAS ABLE TO WRITE up the piece on Rosie Thayer fairly quickly. My adrenaline was flowing and it felt good to move at the fast pace that afternoon demanded. I found I wasn’t feeling as moody as I had that morning. Maybe thinking about Thayer being starved to death somewhere changed my outlook on my own troubles.

I discussed my progress with John Walters, then called the Las Piernas Police Department and asked for Robbery-Homicide. Frank was on another line, so I left a message that I was on my way over.

When I got there, he was talking to Pete about something. Pete saw me and gave me a pleading look, but then excused himself. Frank didn’t look overjoyed to see me. I couldn’t blame him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. You would think I had walked into a shoe store.

“Unless you’d rather wait and read about it in tomorrow’s Express, I have some information that might interest you.”

He motioned for me to sit down, then sat up straighter in his own chair. His desk was neat and clutter-free. Next to it, Pete’s desk was covered with an Everest of paper, coffee cups, and file folders. Frank pulled out his notebook and looked over at me. “Go ahead.”

He ruffled my feathers a little with his show of detachment, but I figured he was still smarting from this morning. I shrugged and started to tell him about my conversations with Steven Kincaid. He listened attentively and made notes, and gradually his interest in what I was telling him started to lower the tension level.

“You were over at Rosie’s Bar and Grill this morning, right?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Well, there are lots of photos from Mercury Aircraft. Turns out both Rosie Thayer and Edna Blaylock were daughters of ‘Rosie the Riveters.’ Their mothers both worked for Mercury. I’m not sure that’s the only connection, since a hell of a lot of women worked there in the 1940s. But it’s hard to come up with much of anything else. Have you had any luck trying to find out what might have become of Thayer?”

“No, but we haven’t been at it for very long, just a few hours.”

“Missing Persons didn’t have anything on her?”

“No, but they have a heavy case load. They’ve asked a few people a few questions, but there wasn’t any sign of a struggle at her apartment, nor were there any other indications that she had been abducted.” He paused a moment then added, “Your story will probably help. Maybe someone saw her taken somewhere.”

“I hope so. Johnny Smith said you had a photo of her?”

“You’ve saved me having to drop this by the paper,” he said, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a file folder. He removed a 4 x 5 print from a small stack of photos, and handed it over to me. I was relieved to see that whoever had taken the picture had known how to focus a camera; sometimes the paper is asked to run a photo that is so blurred, studying it for hours will allow you to conclude only that the missing person is basically shaped like a human being.

In this photo, Rosie Thayer was smiling. The years hadn’t been as kind to her as they were to Edna Blaylock, but there was a sparkle in Rosie Thayer’s eyes that gave her image a warmth that hadn’t come through in any photos I had seen of the professor.

Pete walked back in the room and came over to his desk. He searched through the chaos on it for a moment, then turned to Frank.

“Call me.”

Frank smiled. “You’ve lost it again, haven’t you?”

Pete looked exasperated. “Just call me, damn it.”

Frank picked up his phone and punched a few buttons. We heard a muffled ringing sound. Pete went toward it, and suddenly it stopped. He turned to give Frank a dark scowl, causing Frank to start laughing.

Frank moved his thumb off the cradle and punched in the numbers once again. The odd ringing returned. Papers were flying everywhere as Pete tried to track it down. Suddenly he yanked the bottom desk drawer open, then threw some file folders onto the floor. He reached in and held up the phone in triumph.

“I forgot I put it in there for safekeeping,” he said.

Much to Pete’s dismay, I lost my struggle not to laugh. I looked over and saw that Frank was grinning. It was one of those moments when I felt so attracted to him I stopped breathing for a while. I exhaled and decided that I wasn’t going to wait to make amends. “Could we go somewhere to talk for a minute?”

He lost the grin, but said, “Sure.”

I followed him into a small interview room. “There aren’t any hidden mirrors or cameras in here, are there?” I asked.

“Not in this one,” he said.

“No recording devices?”

“Not at the moment.”

What the hell? I thought. I pushed him up against the door and then reached up and pulled his head down toward me for a kiss. He was surprised for about one-tenth of a second, then reached around me and kept it going. You’d think one of us had been overseas for six months.

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asked, keeping his arms around me. “Or do we need to make up now that we’ve kissed?”

“Sorry about this morning. I just felt hemmed in. I thought you were being a little overprotective.”

“I guess I’m not quite over being afraid for you. I don’t ever want to have to go through another night of not knowing where you are or worrying about what someone may have done to you.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I’ll never walk around believing ‘it will never happen to me’ – those days are over. But I can’t just crawl into a cocoon with you, Frank, and you know it. You would grow tired of it. You’d resent my helplessness.”

I felt him shaking beneath me. He was laughing. I couldn’t believe it.

“Irene, if there is one word I’ll never use to describe you, it’s ‘helpless.’”

Well, that made me feel better. “Thanks. But do you understand why I was upset this morning?”