Stephen White - Cold Case

Lauren had been concerned about my late arrival home. She expressed her concern verbally when I walked in the door, yet the whole time her eyes were darting between my hands and my face. Her expression clearly communicated her disappointment that I'd apparently forgotten to bring home the spinach pizza I'd promised her for dinner.

I looked down at my hands, too. As though it were their fault. I said, "I'm so sorry." She said, "That's all right." She didn't mean it.

"I'll take you out, okay? We'll go someplace nearby."

"There's no place good that's nearby." She was coming perilously close to pouting.

"Then I'll go back out. I'll get the pizza you want. The one I promised. You were really looking forward to it."

"That's silly. You'd have to go back downtown. I don't know, maybe

I'll just fix something here. Open a can of soup." Even a dolt would know that she didn't really want to eat canned soup.

"I'll make you an omelette. Tarragon? You like those."

"I don't know if I want an omelette." She didn't.

It appeared that she wasn't predisposed to let me off the hook easily. I tried a different tack.

"Satoshi's in town."

"No!"

Despite a horrendous serve, the point was mine.

I made her an omelette with spinach and tarragon and gave her a foot massage for dessert.

Lauren complained of fatigue shortly after eating and carried a book with her to bed. I plugged her laptop into an outlet near the couch in the living room so I could review all my notes about the two dead girls. I had a nagging feeling that I was missing something important about the case.

Whatever it was that I might be missing wasn't apparent after forty-five minutes of looking. I could find only one item that had remained unaccomplished: I'd promised myself that I would make contact with the high school teachers whose names I had culled from the TV news stories that had been broadcast after the girls disappeared.

I checked the time: 9:15. Not too late to make a phone call-especially to a graduate student. I punched in Kevin Sample's number in Fort Collins. He sounded pleased to hear from me.

"I was going to call you tomorrow or the next day," he said.

"About that thing with my uncle Larry."

I drew a blank. What thing with his uncle Larry? Oh yeah, the release so that Kevin could talk to Raymond Welle about Brian Sample's psychotherapy. I had hoped Kevin had forgotten about it.

I stammered, "So your uncle agreed to write the letter?"

"Not exactly. He's still protective of me. He said he'd do it but he wants someone else to screen the information first-you know, he didn't want me to be the one to hear things about my dad directly from Dr. Welle. So he wrote a letter that authorizes you to talk to Dr. Welle about my dad. And he wrote you a letter saying it's okay for you to talk to me about whatever you think is relevant. I hope that covers everything and that it's all right with you."

If I agreed, I would have to schedule yet another meeting with Ray

Welle to talk about one of his patients. This particular patient happened to be the one who had executed Welle's wife. I thought I'd rather schedule a sigmoidoscopy. I said, "Sure, I guessum Kevin. I'll do that. I mean, I'll consult with Dr. Welle. When he and I can fit it in."

"Thanks. I told my uncle I thought you would. He's already sent the letter to Dr. Welle. I'll have him send you copies. But you called me. Now what can I do for you after I've monopolized the whole darn conversation?" I explained that I wanted to talk with some faculty at the high school who might have known Tami and Miko and ran the names I'd gleaned from the video footage by him. Did he remember any of them? After tossing the names back and forth for a minute, he suggested I start with two: Stuart Bird, the former principal, and Ellen Left, who had taught English at the high school. Before I hung up, I nonchalantly inquired whether Kevin knew Mariko's little sister, Satoshi.

If it was possible to blush over the phone, Kevin managed. He said, "Yes, yes.

She was… around some. She was a couple of years younger than us, I think.

Maybe-what?-three? I'm not sure. She liked to run. I did, too."

"Have you stayed in touch with her over the years? Know what happened to her after…?"

"Her family left Steamboat right around the same time we did, which was 1990 or so. I tried to… you know, help her… after her sister was… killed, because… I'd been through kind of the same thing. But… she wasn't that interested."

I prodded, but couldn't get him to say anything more.

"You must have been able to be a support for Joey Franklin as well. I mean for the same reason." "No," he said.

"I wasn't much help to Joey."

I couldn't track down a number for Stuart Bird through directory assistance, but Ellen Left answered her phone on the first ring.

As obtusely as I could, I explained my role in the investigation of Tami and Mariko's murder and asked if I might pose a few questions.

Ellen seemed thrilled at the prospect. She said, "Let me turn down the tube.

I'm ready and waiting."

Ellen liked to chat. It took me almost thirty minutes to confirm that she wasn't going to tell me anything that might shake my existing portrait of Tami Franklin. She acknowledged that she didn't know Mariko well. Her apology about that ran for well over a minute.

I thanked her for her time.

She said, "Oh, you don't have to thank me. I still pray for those two girls every Sunday. Worst thing I ever saw in this town. We had those murders and then we had what happened to Gloria Welle-Lord, Lord. And then there was that skiing accident with Doak Walker? Such a nice, nice man. Awful! But Tami and Mariko.

That was the worst. Absolutely.

"And still you know it's funny-ironic funny-how things turned out. I mean how crucial those two Franklin kids have been to this town. Tami's murderer is still running loose out there-and I swear her death is like a wound that won't heal for anybody. And now the whole world seems to be in love with our little Joey. I would have guessed it was going to be the other way around. That Tami would be Steamboat's angel. And Joey would be the one causing us to pull out our hair.

And it's not just me who'd think that way, everybody would have guessed it wrong."

I woke up. I sat up.

"Really, Ellen?" I didn't have to put any effort into sounding surprised.

"What do you mean?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why would you have expected that Joey would have everyone pulling out their hair?"

"My good friend, Jackie Crandall? She taught Joey history in junior high.

Always thought he was a dark one. In fact, she's the one whose idea it was to send him to Dr. Welle for professional help. And now look what Joey's accomplished. I swear that Ray Welle worked miracles with him. He truly did. I was sure that Franklin boy was heading for serious trouble."

"What did your friend mean by that? By calling Joey 'dark'? Why did she refer him for therapy?"

She tsked me.

"Are we just gossiping now. Dr. Gregory? I don't mind talking during recess, but I don't want to-"

"Believe me, Ellen, this is important. I have no reason to gossip with you. I'm trying to know Tami's whole… family."

She lowered her voice to a whisper. I had to strain to hear her.

"For

Tackie, that incident in the girls' bathroom did it. That was the last straw."

I waited for her to go on. She didn't. I said, "The one where, uh-"

"He and the Lopes boy drilled that hole in the wall so they could watch the girls doing their business. That one, mmm-hmm. Doesn't get much sicker than that, does it?"

Her question was rhetorical. I didn't contradict her.

I hit myself so hard on the forehead with the heel of my hand that I startled myself into yelling, "Ouch!"