A Measure of Blood (9 page)

“Like wouldn't a hidden diary be nice?” Coleson asks. He's one of the ones on surveillance tape duty.

“Certainly would. Yes.”

Christie has two trusted detectives, Hurwitz and Denman, checking dating services that were popular eight years ago and continuing to conduct interviews with people at the schools and the coffee shop where Maggie worked. They are an odd pair of partners but they get along well. Hurwitz, a small unkempt city boy, provides any necessary skepticism. Denman looks like the classic strapping country boy come to the big city. Together they make a kind of sense.

A picture has emerged of a sweet, well-liked woman who never overcame her uncertainties. She was that wistful, slightly bohemian type who never liked to take charge. Poor Matt.

Greer says, “I spent some time with the best friend, Sasha, making funeral arrangements.” She makes a face and everyone laughs because by now they all know she keeps getting funeral duty and she hates it. “Coroner won't release the body just yet because Sasha chose cremation and that's … well as final as we get. It's going to be closed casket anyway. There's to be a memorial gathering at this Sasha's house in Highland Park. She's thinking Thursday or Friday. She's started calling Maggie's friends to work it out. She's sure it's what Maggie would have wanted.”

Christie looks around at his people. He's ridiculous in a way, a soft, sentimental policeman, but he feels so much affection for these people. And he has favorites. His old partner, Artie Dolan, always well dressed, carries himself with dignity. Says what he says with that honey voice. Right now Artie doesn't have anybody to manipulate into a confession. That makes him restless. And Colleen—Greer he sometimes calls her—well, there she is, blonde, lively, and she does a pretty good job herself of winding people around her finger.

Christie writes new assignments for tomorrow on the board.

Re-examine checkbooks, bills, etc. Greer, Dolan

More hours on surveillance tapes. Coleson, McGranahan

Continued interviews with possible witnesses. Hurwitz, Denman

Databases for Dal and Dol. Potocki

Databases for registration of Maroon Corollas. Potocki

The last two assignments were needles in haystacks and Potocki always got those.

“Is this guy dangerous?” Hurwitz asks. “To the boy?”

Christie nods. “I'd say so. Two meetings and in both he's obsessed with the kid. Finally kills the mother. Yes.”

Christie dismisses the squad. They haven't joked as much as usual today. Colleen looks depressed. She and Potocki walk down the hall together. Potocki puts an arm around her briefly.

Dolan hangs around, follows Christie into his office. “This is a bad one. Nobody knows beans about who this guy is.”

“So far. What does it mean?”

“Secretive woman.”

“I'd say so.”

“Embarrassed she messed with him. Embarrassed is what I'd say.”

“Why? Talk to me.”

“If the witness on the street is right, he's young. So maybe the age difference. If he's crazy, too, well, that would explain why she didn't talk about it. People are messed up, they make mistakes, they don't want anybody to know how stupid they are. Were. You know what I mean?” He sits on the edge of Christie's desk.

“I do. I agree with you.”

“Put it out about the Corolla?”

“I'm thinking. See what Potocki finds.”

“I hear you're playing fairy godmother with the adoption thing.”

Christie grunts. “I'm in plenty of hot water about it.”

“What's happening?”

“Chief yelled a warning over the phone. Promising demotion and all that. ‘Interfering with procedure.' So … so what? Let him try. I'm picking up Matt from his friend's house. Then we're meeting the new parents at the airport. Then Family Court tomorrow.”

“Man, you are moving a few mountains.”

“Yep. Trying. Tomorrow is a big day for the fairy godmother. Go on and get some sleep. One of us ought to.”

MATT STANDS STIFFLY
BESIDE
Christie as passengers stream into baggage claim—on cell phones, pushy, tired; soon enough they are slamming carts into the legs of others. Christie has argued with himself this way and that. Where is the best place for Matt tonight? He has decided for sure to get him away from the apartment building where the police tape on the door is a reminder of trauma. He's considered Jade's house, Grady's house, Sasha's house—all those were possibilities. But they were also all fraught with the likely scenario of Matt asking if the arrangement could be permanent and then being told no and then being switched again. He considered seriously taking the boy to the Pocusset Safe House and he'd called Elizabeth Ross to ask about it.

She said, “Richard. I've been hearing your name. Or reading it on my computer. Jan Gabriel wrote me an email from the airport in Frankfurt I think it was.”

“Well, I'm trying to make this thing happen.”

“At least you didn't try to give them four kids at one time.”

“That would have worked, I'm telling you. Now that was a brilliant match. They never had a chance to find out.”

“Maybe. But this boy—is he coping?”

“Yes. Coping a little too much. I'm trying to figure out if I should bring him to you for the night—clean beds, chocolate cookies, the whole works your people do—or whether to introduce him to Jan and Robert right off.”

“It's traumatic either way.”

“Yes. They'll be rushed coming in. It'll be late. On the other hand, the kid told me he always stays up until midnight.”

“That'll change soon, I hope. Why don't I call the Safe House and make sure they have a place for him. And you introduce him to Jan and Arthur. And you all play it by ear—where he'll stay tonight.”

“It sure would go better in court tomorrow if they were used to each other, familiar. I can hope for that.”

“I'll hope with you. For everyone's sake.”

And soon Christie will know. There are two eager-looking people walking fast, fast toward them.

Christie takes Matt's hand. Stiff, tense. “Matt, here are the people I've been wanting you to meet. They sure want to meet you!” Earlier, he told Matt, “They have a big house right near your school and your friends and they have lots of room and they have a dog.”

Again Christie tells himself this is right. These people should have a kid. This kid needs parents.

Jan and Arthur don't leap on the boy. They let him look at them for a moment. Then Jan leans over to say, “Hi, Matt. Hi. I've been thinking about you this whole trip home.”

“Where were you?”

“In France.”

He nods.

Arthur has stooped down beside him. “Hi. We were so eager to get here. We'd like to show you our house.”

“Mr. Christie told me you have a dog.”

“Oh, we do. He's a good one. Big and affectionate. Do you … do you like dogs?”

“We weren't allowed to have one in our apartment.”

“That's the usual rule for apartments. Our dog is named Felix. We love the name.”

“Felix. Why?”

“The name means happy. Oh, back in Roman times, anyway, the name comes from the word for
happy
. So we thought that was a good idea. How about we take you to meet him?”

Jan's face shines with hope. She's a smart-looking woman, medium-length hair with a slight wave, brown eyes, and an open face, eager to please. “We still have to get our luggage.”

“We could meet you at the house,” Christie volunteers. “We could go get us a milkshake and meet you in an hour or so.”

Is he right? Is everyone relieved by the little break he has proposed?

TWO HOURS LATER,
Matt is ready for bed in his new pajamas, bought for him by Christie. The dog is at the side of the bed—as thrown off course as all the humans are. He has just come home from the sitter. He is dog-angry that he has been left alone for two weeks. He is also ecstatic that his family is home again. And he's curious about the new person—a usurper of his place? Still Felix likes the size of the usurper and he likes the way the boy keeps wanting to pet him. The dog is deciding to be happy. He is Felix, after all.

Arthur watches the dog and the boy and his wife, wanting to understand everything and to savor it all, too. He watches this new life unfolding before him—Jan climbing into the bed next to Matt and reading (books lent by Christie). How patient she is. How she's needed this, being a mother. She has energy to spare. Not to mention love. He listens, almost asleep himself, as he sits in the room's only chair, the
Post-Gazette
on his lap
.
He allows himself to imagine many evenings like this. And some at PNC Park in summer. And trips to the zoo. He's a
teacher
. He'll be a teacher father; he's definitely not a coach father, strict-disciplinarian father, or preacher father. To watch someone learn and grow, it's his thing and he's good at it.

What happened to this boy's mother is unthinkable and he must not expect the child to get past it any time soon.

By their body clocks, which are still on French time, it is five in the morning. He slept on the plane, but Jan hardly slept at all. She never can when something's up.

By the time Jan is on the fourth book, Matt's eyes are beginning to stay in the half-closed position.

When Matt is asleep, Arthur shows the newspaper to Jan. The murder is front-page news. She puts her glasses on, reads.

They go to their room, just next door, but she's afraid to leave Matt alone. He may wake frightened, she thinks. So she drags a futon from the floor of a third room she uses as a study to the floor of Matt's room.

“Just for tonight,” she says.

Arthur climbs down next to her. Sleep? Who needs it?

THE PHONE. HIS
MOTHER AGAIN
. “I keep thinking about that awful news—same last name as us …”

His heart starts pounding again. He stops at the bank and leans against the building to steady himself.

“What are those sounds?”

“Traffic. I'm on my way home.”

“You should be careful.”

Careful? “What's with you, Ma? You sound, like, restless.”

“I am. I am. I think sometimes I ought to just pick up and travel. You know, see something different.”

“You should. You should go. You took care of the old bastard forever.”

“Don't call him that.”

“You didn't find him foolish?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it.” He starts walking again.

She chatters on about plans she could make. He doesn't care that his mother is restless. He has bigger things on his mind now—what's going to happen to his son. He has tried to find out, but how to take the next step is not clear to him.

Earlier that day he drove down Morrowfield and looked toward the building where it happened but he did not see his son.

He parked way down on Murray where he couldn't be associated with his car and he walked back to the Golden Seal vitamin store. When he got inside, he pretended to browse the shelves for a long time.

“May I help you?”

“A general vitamin? My girlfriend wants a high-quality brand. ”

“We carry pharmaceutical grade.”

“Good, good. I mean we're moving up a couple of streets away. So this place is convenient. The only thing—we were wondering, is the neighborhood safe? I mean, isn't this where that woman was killed?”

“Just around the corner. Horrible.”

“My girlfriend just kept wanting to know about the little boy. She saw it on the news and she just felt so bad for him.”

“Everybody does.”

“What happens to a kid like that?”

“I don't know. Foster care. Whatever.”

“Foster care?”

“You know. People who make a few bucks taking on kids that need a home. It's a lousy life for the kid.”

He had to buy the vitamins, still didn't know anything.

“Are you still there?” his mother asks.

“Yeah, Ma, but I have to hang up now.”

He's made it through Monday, and when he arrives at his apartment, there are no police at the door and none inside the apartment, only the three Koreans drinking beers and talking, talking, talking.

“You wash car. It look new,” Shin says.

“Have to keep things looking good.”

“You hungry? We have vegetables, rice? Always make extra.”

“No thanks.”

Finally the Koreans go to bed. He's missed the news on TV, so he finds a video on his laptop. Is there anything? Yes. Yes.
Police say the perpetrator may be the owner of a maroon sedan, possibly a Corolla.

Better not drive by the house again. They have the make wrong, but the color right.

Late, it's late, but he finds the website for the
Pitt News
. He's going to lose money, but he knows what he has to do, before they start looking at makes other than Corollas.
Beautiful '09 Pontiac, perfect condition. $9,500 or best offer.

He'll take the loss.

His hands tremble as he types. On the upside, he'll have cash. His mother told him a new car was money very foolishly spent. She drove an old red VW Bug and it served her fine, she insisted.

He sleeps fitfully, with bad dreams.

Tuesday

TUESDAY MORNING AND
Nadal eats his cereal and strides to work at the computer lab in Lawrence Hall. The whole lab has been torn up (as it always is when there is a school break), with some computers replaced. There will be glitches. Now that students are back, it seems most of the inquiries are about how to use the official Pitt email—some kids are swift but a few of them get irritable trying to get used to the new setup.

He takes his place behind the table. For the first four hours he just needs to monitor the printers and answer questions from walk-ins. He gets phone duty for the second four hours. Sometimes he gets phone duty at night and that's great because he can sleep for stretches between calls.

Josh, the night worker who is logging out, gives him a high five. “Got good classes this term?” he asks.

Nadal has only the one class, but he answers, “They're looking okay. You?”

“Terrible,” Josh says cheerily. “I'm going to flunk three of them, I'm sure.”

Nadal sits and tinkers. He checks his email to see if there's anything about his
Pitt News
ad. Yep, it didn't bounce back. Hopefully it will be in the paper tomorrow, Wednesday.

He is looking up notaries in the area so that he can do the sale as quickly and painlessly as possible, when a woman approaches the desk. “Could you help me?” She dips her head a little. “My computer just froze on me. I don't know what I did.”

He guesses she is about forty. Her hair is long and straight, kept in place by a thin scarf tied at the back of the neck. She has a very Anglo face, not at all bad looking. Is she flirting? He can't tell.

He stands. “Show me what the problem is.”

They walk to one of the computers where he can take a look at her screen. It's frozen but it's not her fault. Beginning of the term—always always problems with the new setups. “Ah,” he says. “I'll have to work on this one later. Let's try another.”

They move to the next one over. It behaves much better, giving her a log-in screen that then gets her into some Internet choices. She logs on with
ALA21
. “There you go.”

“And if I, say, want to buy some of my books online, do you know the best sources? I'm sorry. I'm new to this. Just coming back to school.”

He instructs her how to choose search words that will get her to used textbooks. She works on this while he fiddles with the machine that won't unfreeze, eventually taking his own advice and restarting—which works. He looks like a genius.

“You're just starting college?” he asks.

“Well, more or less. I finished freshman year a while back. Then I ran off and got married.”

He tinkers for a while at the computer he got working, pretending to test various applications. When he looks up, she smiles at him.

“So that's romantic, to run away to get married.”

She looks amused. “It was for a while. Then it went stale. Then it was over. And now I'm trying to make up for lost time.” She shakes her head at her predicament. “I'm going to stick out in every class.”

“No, no, it's okay. There are others.”

“Like me?”

“Yes.”

“That's good news. I feel very awkward.”

“You'll see.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Me?”

“I hear a little bit of an accent.”

“Brazil.”

“How totally exciting. São Paulo or Rio or where?”

“Rio. But a long time ago.”

“Do you go back?”

“No. Not yet.”

“I love Rio.”

Well, now he can't talk to her until he researches Rio. There's always something to catch up on. But he needed this, her. She smiles at him as if he's somebody. “You're an undergrad?”

“Graduate school,” he says.

“In what?”

“Computer science.”

“Well, I certainly knew who to come to. Thanks.” Her smile is quite beautiful.

COLLEEN SITS WITH
ARTIE DOLAN
sorting through folders full of bills or other papers at a small table in Potocki's cubicle while Potocki works on the computer. This way they all have company today. Conversation. She didn't much like her stint with the surveillance tapes yesterday.

“Anything?” Potocki asks after thirty minutes.

“Not so far,” Dolan says. “Only thing is she kept decent records. So why would the records from the year she got pregnant not be here?”

“Exactly what I keep thinking,” Potocki says. He's now looking at domestic abuse cases involving a Dal or Dol.

Dolan continues to study Visa bills that Potocki has already been through once. Colleen recognizes the name of a pediatrician in some canceled checks. “I'm going to make a call. She may have told the boy's doctor something.”

“Medical records. Ha, good luck,” Dolan exclaims.

Colleen wrangles with the pediatrician's office for a good long time. The woman there tells her
with
court orders, they might release the boy's records, but definitely not without.

Colleen tries, “But don't you understand? We're investigating a homicide.” She hears papers rustling at the other end.

“I'm just going to say, simply, don't bother with the court order. There's nothing here. And I never said that.”

“Are you telling me—?”

“One word.
Unknown
.”

Colleen puts down the phone and starts searching for the name of the gynecologist Margaret Brown had used in more recent years. The day wears on. Computer keys tap. Messages ding. Papers rustle.

“How's Boss?” Dolan asks, his question directed at Colleen. But that's what they're all wondering, because today he's in court, trying to get the kid fixed up with those people he likes—the professors. And court is not good for him. They know that. He gets tense.

They all stop working for a second.

She says, “Frantic, I think. He hasn't called. Late yesterday afternoon he ran home and got books for the kid. Then he went out and bought him new pajamas with cartoon figures. And he's got—guess who? Worst luck. Judge Gorcelik.”

Judge Gorcelik already thinks Christie's a bit odd, his having tried so hard to place the four Philips kids with Jan Gabriel and Arthur Morris. What will she make of him today?

They sit for a minute, nobody wanting to criticize Christie further. Potocki finally turns back to his computer. About all they can do is clear the decks. They will have Maggie Brown's phone records for their commander by this afternoon, a treat for him when he's back from court.

GORCELIK IS AS
TIDY AS EVER,
molded hair. Christie knows that outside the courtroom, she's a chain smoker, one of those super-clean smoke-addicts who makes up for it with scrupulous attention to everything else. “Ah, Commander Christie,” she says. “We meet again.”

“We do.” His voice catches a little.

“This is the case of Matthew Brown,” she recites formally, looking at notes, “believed to be an orphan and a ward of the state. Have you engaged Child Services?”

“Yes, we have.”

She looks at him hard. “I thought perhaps you had—from the battalion you brought with you.”

They are a group, yes. Arthur and Jan, their lawyer, Blackman, Matthew, Oopale, and Ms. Aakil from Child Services.

“Matthew, I'm very much looking forward to talking to you. Would you wait outside for a moment? Can someone take him outside?”

Oopale raises a hand and everyone waits until she and Matt are outside the courtroom.

“My question is: Did you engage Child Services on Sunday when this child was orphaned?” Christie begins to speak. “Don't bother. I know the answer.”

“The woman who just went out with him had worked for Child Services and she knew the boy and had babysat for him since he was an infant.”

“I see. ‘Had worked for?' ”

“Yes. She had understanding.”

“Nonetheless he ran away.”

“Yes. It's not the first time. He has a bit of a habit. Wanting to be … free.”

She studies Christie. She studies her records. “He's going to need counseling.”

“We know that,” Arthur says.

Gorcelik scrutinizes him and his wife. “You're the two our commander wanted as parents for those four kids a while back.”

“Yes.”

“You're married? Two different names?”

“I already had a career under my own name,” Jan explains.

“No apologies necessary. I use my own name. I see you're on the approved list from Child Services. You have a stable marriage? Of course you're going to say yes, but I want you to be utterly honest. Did either of you ever start divorce proceedings?”

Jan is so taken aback, she starts to laugh. “Good God, no. We're normal enough. We bicker. But we're so together I think sometimes people envy us.”

“Too together isn't good either.”

“Oh.”

“It leaves no room for the child.”

“We understand,” Jan says hurriedly. “There is room.”

“Look, he's a beautiful boy, isn't he? He's going to be a heartbreaker for adults and peers. Did no one else come forward? Family friend or relative? The point is: I don't want to jerk this kid all over the place.”

Christie then tells Gorcelik how they have searched for a relative but have found no evidence of one, how none of Maggie's friends know of a relative, and then he explains that the boy was supposedly the product of an artificial insemination but that they haven't yet found the clinic.

“Someone may come forward,” she says soberly. “So here is the question: Should I place him somewhere he knows is temporary while this investigation proceeds or should I risk that he gets involved with these two friends of yours?”

Christie says, “We're working as fast as we can. I doubt we'll find any relatives or anyone else making a claim on him.”

“You aren't getting paid under the table by these folks, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“That was a joke. You clearly think highly of … Janet Gabriel and Arthur Morris.” Gorcelik pauses, looks at the ceiling, and then turns back to Christie. “What is the current state of affairs with those four Philips kids you were backing? You were as involved with them as you are here.”

“I think nothing has changed.”

“Have you been back to visit them?”

“At first. I haven't been lately.”

She considers him. “Lost interest?”

“No. Just busy. And I assume Child Services is keeping up.”

“So you do trust Child Services to make decisions?”

A trap. He doesn't immediately answer. She waits him out. He throws up his hands. “When I can't do it myself.”

She laughs. “Honesty at last.” She addresses Ms. Aakil. “Do you agree with this temporary placement?”

“I do. The reasoning is very good. These foster parents are interested, they have financial means, they live in the neighborhood the boy is familiar with—he could keep his school.”

“No other children?”

Regretful shakes of the head all around.

“Matthew could use some siblings. As he heals. Bring him in. Let's see what he has to say.”

Ms. Aakil goes to get Oopale and Matthew. Judge Gorcelik asks to have him brought up close to her. “The rest of you stand back,” she says.

When Matthew is beside her, she says quietly, “Matthew, I am very sorry for your loss. I want you to know I want the best thing for you. I want you to live a good, happy life. I understand you got to meet the two professors last night. Did they have a good room for you?”

“Yes …”

“But? What?”

“None of my things.”

“That's fixable. They'll get them as soon as they become available, right?”

“Yes, yes,” says the chorus from the corner. Gorcelik shoots them a look and goes back to her so-called private conversation with Matt.

“How was it, staying there?”

“Okay.”

“But … what?”

“I thought I could stay with my friends. I thought—”

Christie shakes his head.

“What?” Gorcelik asks him.

“We checked the boy's godmother and the mothers of the friends, and I promise you we were thorough. They … ” He looks at Matt while he searches for phrasing. “They felt their lives were extremely complicated and that they were unable to take on that new charge. They have all offered playtime, suppers, Saturdays. Whatever they can manage.”

“I see. Matthew. Tell me something nice about the place you stayed last night. And the people who are going to take you. Anything you liked.”

“The dog.”

“Ah. They have a dog!”

“Felix.” After a moment he adds, “His name means ‘happy.' ”

“It does indeed. Good, good.”

“And they're going to put me in a play.”

“Explain,” Gorcelik asks the group in the corner.

“I'm directing
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I would like to have him with me at rehearsals. So I've come up with a role for him. He likes the idea.”

“Late nights?”

“Not for him.”

“I can stay up,” Matthew says. “I always stay up late.”

Arthur shakes his head. “We'll work on that.”

“You are ultimately interested in adoption. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Arthur and Jan both answer.

After a long silence, the judge says, “The court orders that Matthew­ Brown be placed with Janet Gabriel and Arthur Morris until and unless a suitable relative comes forward. And in the event that does not happen, and if the arrangement suits all parties, the assignment is to move to a more permanent arrangement.”

Won one with Gorcelik. Christie can hardly believe it.

Jan and Arthur are holding each other and crying. Matt watches them curiously.