Stephen White - Cold Case

In my daily work I resented the days or, more frequently, the nights that would come around when I wasn't able to shove intrusive thoughts about one of my patient's lives from my consciousness. But I discovered that I actually welcomed uninvited visits from the ghosts of Tami and Mariko and often allowed myself to lapse into reverie about the two girls and their lives. Sitting on the bedroom deck watching the sun set, walking the prairie trails with Emily, pedaling repetitively during long rides on my road bike, I encouraged the events and the people and the interviews and the history to tumble together in my mind as though they were gems requiring polish.

The events of 1988-the disappearance of the girls, their murder-felt distant to me, like history, even at times like fiction. The atrocity I was examining felt sanitized, safe. It was long ago that they died, and as much as I was trying to know them, I hadn't yet approached a spot where I could know them enough to grieve their deaths with any emotional honesty. The few tears I had shed for Tami and Miko were tears that sprang from the same small reservoir that supplies the almost artificial tears that are tugged by a movie or a novel that digs unabashedly for pathos.

But this was a story I was living and it was different from a book or a movie in that it was interactive and seductive. Each day I found that I could leave the pages and step into the story and find pieces unavailable to others. I could talk to the characters. I could follow Flynn Coe and Russ Claven to Steamboat. I could walk out my door and find Kevin Sample eating hamburgers on the lane. I could get off a plane in California and find Satoshi Hamamoto strolling the shady paths of the Stanford campus, looking over her shoulder. I could drive to Steamboat and get an audience with a hot young golfer who just happened to also be a rapist.

Even Dorothy Levin's disappearance hadn't impeded my enthusiasm for this quest I was on.

Each day as I awoke, I could hardly wait to turn the next page.

That all began to change with Satoshi's phone call.

"I got a telephone call today," she said without prelude.

"At my apartment."

"Yes?" I was aware that I was trying to act as though getting mysterious calls from Satoshi happened all the time. I wasn't aware why I was trying to act that way.

"The person asked for me. I identified myself. Then… the person said that some things are best left forgotten."

"That's all?"

"That was it. The voice was soft but I think it was a man. After he said that, he hung up."

"You didn't recognize the voice?"

"No."

"And he didn't make an overt threat?" "No, just said that some things are best left forgotten."

"Are you frightened?"

"Terrified."

"I can understand that. How can I be of help, Satoshi?"

She didn't hesitate.

"I haven't decided that yet, but I don't think I can stay here right now.

Things feel too creepy. There are plenty of places I could go. I have lots of friends. Family. I could even go to Japan and see my mother." She paused.

I wondered about school, but all I said was, "Yes?"

"But I've decided that I want to try to help with your… investigation. It's what Mariko would have done. So I'm thinking of coming to Colorado… to talk some more… maybe even go back to Steamboat to see if it helps me remember more about what happened. What do you think?"

"I think your help would be welcome by everyone at Locard."

"But you don't think I should come to Colorado?" She'd read the subtext in my words perfectly.

I chose my response with care.

"This is the epicenter right now, Satoshi. Given the phone call you just described, I can't imagine its the safest place for you to be."

She paused, too, but not for as long as I had.

"But if my goal is to study aftershocks it's the only place to be. Right?"

I didn't know how to respond. I should have known better than to use an earthquake metaphor with a transplanted Californian.

"If I come," she asked, "will you help me?" Maybe it was a mistake, but I asked, "How?"

Satoshi had two requests. They were both mundane. If she came, she would want a place to stay. I offered our guest room, but she declined.

"What if they're watching you, too?" she argued.

I thought next of Sam and told her that I thought I had a friend she could stay with.

Her other request was for enough cash for a one-way ticket to Japan, just in case she felt so unsafe she wanted to leave the U.S. She would pay me back, of course, but she didn't want to use her credit card and didn't want to involve her father, for obvious reasons.

I said that the money wouldn't be a problem.

She thanked me, said she'd let me know when she'd made a decision about coming to Colorado, and hung up.

The next day was Saturday. Sam called around three o'clock in the afternoon and invited me to join him and his son, Simon, for a couple of hours of fun at the indoor climbing wall at the Boulder Rock Club on Mapleton. Although I didn't really enjoy rock climbing, I was tempted to meet them there purely for the distraction value. Watching Sam get all harnessed up while trying to prove Newton wrong about the laws of gravity sounded to me like the essence of entertainment.

But I declined, reminding myself I had responsibilities to attend to first. I wanted to consult with A. J. about my meetings with Satoshi and Joey. A. J."s machine picked up my call and her recorded greeting referred all Locard business to Kimber. I left a cryptic message asking that she call me as soon as possible.

Next I called Kimber at his elegant loft in D.C.

"Kimber? It's Alan Gregory in Colorado."

"Alan? I'm afraid you caught me in the theater looking at rushes from the second Star Wars prequel. George sent them over by messenger. Fascinating work, truly evolutionary. I don't know how he ever manages to decide to leave some of this footage on the floor." I thought Kimber sounded surprised to hear from me.

Not exactly pleased. Not particularly displeased. I decided that what I was hearing in his voice was a slight swell of curiosity.

George Lucas? Kimber certainly had an interesting roster of friends.

"What a treat to be able to see those."

"A privilege, actually. George has his secretive side, to be certain.

But with friends who like movies, love movies… it's often like Christmas or… well, Halloween."

"Well, I'm sorry to bother you on a weekend, Kimber, but there've been some troublesome developments regarding the case, and A. J."s answering machine refers calls to you. Is she okay?"

His reply came after a slight pause.

"The purpose of your call to her was…?

"Lauren and I just met with Joey Franklin and I thought I should let someone on the committee know what was happening."

"Yes?" He made the solitary word feel like a meal. His voice was that rich and full.

"I assume that A. J. has kept you up-to-date on my recent interview with Satoshi Hamamoto? Mariko's sister?"

"We haven't spoken about it, but yes, I have a copy of your report."

"You're aware of the rape accusation she made against Joey Franklin?"

"Yes. Proceed, please. Go on."

We did go on this way for almost ten minutes as I reiterated the details of my trip to California and the frustrations of meeting with Joey Franklin. Kimber's manner encouraged me to do almost all the talking. I ended up feeling as though I had been a patient in an initial psychotherapy session. By the conclusion of our conversation I'd learned virtually nothing that was helpful and certainly didn't feel any better.

His last line wasn't, "I'll see you next week." It was, "Please keep me informed as things progress on your end. And Alan?"

"Yes?"

"A. J. is… not well. In fact, she is in the hospital. Please don't trouble her with any of this. I will take responsibility for communicating with her and I will be your contact at Locard for the time being."