J. Margos - Shattered Image

Sincerely,

Gladys Wells

I forgot about frustration and self-pity. I sat and felt ashamed of myself for about five minutes, and then I got my rear in gear and got to work on the CILHI bust. It was near to being finished and I had a responsibility to other people. It was time to do as Reverend Iordani had repeatedly advised me. It was time to focus on someone other than myself. It was time to think about Irini and her family.

I worked all night, and as I laid the clay between every tissue-depth marker, the reality of the face of this man began to be obvious. Before I went further, constructing the nose or doing anything that required intuition or judgment of my own, I wanted Chris Nakis to look at the photographs of the skull and the work I had done so far. I wanted a trained forensic anthropologist, who had never seen Ted Nikolaides, to give me her expert opinion. About seven o’clock in the morning, I stopped where I was and made the call. Chris would leave work early and come by. I told her I would make dinner for both of us.

When Chris arrived I showed her into the studio, gave her all of my photographs and notes and left her there to work while I cooked our dinner.

I had decided to make a spicy eggplant dish that I loved, and serve it with a Greek spinach and rice dish that I knew Chris loved. We would have rosemary bread and peppered olive oil.

When dinner was finally ready and on the table, I called for Chris. In a few minutes, she came out of my studio and handed me a rough drawing.

“That’s what I’d do, if it were mine,” she said.

She had reviewed the photos and all my notes and had checked the tissue depths I had calculated and looked at the bust where it was now. The drawing she made was of the face totally reconstructed with nose and eyes. Her work was rough, but good enough for me to get the idea. I looked at her sketch and sat down at the table. My hand was shaking.

“What is it?” Chris asked.

“This is Teddy,” I said.

My eyes welled up with tears and I bit my lip and shook it off. I handed the sketch back to her and got up and walked to look out the back window. I stood there with my hands on my hips and tried to remember how to breathe.

“Well,” Chris said softly, “I guess I haven’t lost my skills.”

We were both silent for a while. Finally, I turned around from the windows and came to the table to sit down.

“Let’s eat,” I said.

We said our thanksgiving over the food and dug in.

“What’s next?” Chris asked.

“I’ll finish it tomorrow,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, my friend, anytime.”

In one of the older neighborhoods in Austin, not far from my favorite cypress grove on the river trail, is an old house turned restaurant. It’s called Maddie’s Breakfast. Maddie’s is open 24/7. She serves up eggs just about any way you can imagine them, bacon and sausage for all the carnivores, toast, waffles, pancakes, French toast, fruit dishes-and the list goes on.

Austin’s own brand of music plays over the sound system-music that includes country-western, progressive country, blues and some “Austin” music that simply defies categorization. The decor is eclectic for kicked-backed comfort.

Jack and I used to take Mike there from the time he was about twelve. Now, over fifteen years later, Mike and I still met there for an early-morning breakfast sometimes. This time we included Tommy Lucero.

I had slipped into my jeans, a cotton purple short-sleeve sweater and my brown snakeskin boots. I had made a copy of Chris’s sketch with my computer printer, folded it and stuck it in my jeans pocket. I locked everything up and jumped into the Jeep to head for my breakfast appointment with my two favorite cops.

I had finished the carburetor overhaul on the Jeep and a couple of other things I was doing to it, so I had decided to take it out for my breakfast jaunt instead of the Mustang. It ran like a top. Sometimes, my mechanical abilities amazed even me. It was raining again that morning, so it was a good morning to give the Mustang a rest. The rain pounded down on the soft top of the Jeep, but my mud tires held the road well.

The boys were already there when I arrived and Tommy was “champing at the bit,” as we say down here in Texas. He would have to “champ” awhile longer, because there was a twenty-minute wait and Mike and Tommy only had us on the list for five minutes when I got there. Drew had talked to both of them, but we chatted about nonsense while we waited-we didn’t want anyone to overhear any of our conversation about the investigation. In ten minutes’ time, they had managed to come up with a booth and they seated us.

I had already decided I was having the whole-grain French toast with fresh berries and all-natural maple syrup. I was also having an extralarge glass of their mango-tangerine juice and their awesome bottomless cup of coffee. The boys were loading up on cheesy omelettes with lots of pig meat on the side. We were all going to need an extra hour in the gym that day.

I pulled the copy of the sketch out of my jeans pocket and handed it across the table to Mike.

“That’s the sketch Chris did last night of the CILHI project I’m working on. She used my notes and photos and the partially completed bust. She added the nose and eyes and finishing touches herself.”

I saw the expression on Mike’s face, and so did Tommy.

“What?” Tommy asked.

“I’ve seen pictures of Uncle Teddy my whole life. He was shot down before Mom and Dad even married. But I’d know this face anywhere. Chris has never seen Uncle Teddy, has she?”

I shook my head.

Mike looked at Tommy. “This is my Uncle Ted.” Mike looked back at me. “You finished with the bust yet?”

“I’ll finish it after breakfast. I could see where it was going, but I wanted Chris to work blind and show me what she thought it should look like.”

“Wow,” Mike said under his breath. “Mom, they really found him this time, didn’t they?”

“Yes, son, they really, finally found him.”

Tommy was looking at the sketch and shaking his head.

“Toni, how long has he been missing?”

“Since June 30, 1968.”

“That’s over thirty years ago.”

“Yes.”

Mike handed me the sketch and I put it back in my jeans pocket. Our food arrived and we all dug in.

“So, Toni, give us your take on the trip to Houston and Hempstead,” Tommy said. “Drew talked to us yesterday, but I want to hear all the details.”

I was about halfway through my French toast, but I began to tell Mike and Tommy about my conversation with Nadine. First I told them about seeing Lori Webster on Mrs. Ferguson’s street. I told them I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but I was pretty sure it was her.

“Mike and I will go back up to Georgetown and talk to her again.”

Then I told them about Nadine and the Hempstead group.

“Nadine didn’t know any spots where her son bird-watched, or if she did, she couldn’t remember. She gave me the names of three of his friends in Hempstead. Two you had already talked to.”

“Julie and Frances?” Tommy asked.

“Right.”

“And?” Mike said expectantly.

“And a guy named Bud Wolfram. He was Brian’s boss. Before I got down to all my questions, the local police chief came in and joined us.”

“Chief Grant,” Tommy said.

“Right. He asked me some questions.”

“Okay,” Tommy said. “So what did Julie and Frances tell you exactly?”

“Well, Julie started by telling me that she knew several places, but couldn’t be sure about the exact one. Then she and Frances exchanged a look, and Frances told me they knew exactly where he had been that day.”