Drowning Barbie (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

Dorothy Sutherlin owned her house outright. Thirty years before, when she married her husband, she declared she wanted a large family and room for all the kids. He did not have the money to purchase that kind of house, but managed to put a down payment on a modest bungalow outside the Picketsville town limits where prices were lower. As the youngest of a string of first-generation sons and daughters of Great Depression parents, he'd been encouraged to learn a variety of skills as part of his growing up. His parents, like others who managed to outlast the dark days of the nineteen thirties and early forties, insisted that anyone who could do many things, from manual labor to bookkeeping, could always find work even in the worst of times. He took up carpentry as one of those ancillary skills. Thus, as his family grew, so did the bungalow. Each successive child meant an addition to the house—another room, an enlarged kitchen, a second story and so on, all of which he built himself. In the end when his youngest, Henry, bawled his way into the world, the house had grown to be the largest in the area and, in appearance, the most architecturally challenging. The neighbors sometimes said it would be a dwelling more suitable for a Dr. Seuss story. Nevertheless, it served its purpose by providing a warm and safe haven for his family and that, after all, is the only reason to own a home in the first place.

Billy and Essie now lived across town in a starter home, but Dorothy's eldest, Frank, and youngest were still with her. The other boys, except the one KIA in the first Gulf War, were in the service—SEALs, Army, and so on. So, there was more than enough room for Essie and Billy and their new baby and Karl and Sam and theirs to move in temporarily. And Danny, on leave from Little Creek, rounded out what for Dorothy had evolved into a near perfect week.

It is an axiom that bad news will sometime bring good times. The several murders, old and recent, and the incomprehensible release of George LeBrun from prison had many worrisome aspects, but it had also created a reunion of sorts. And for that, Dorothy had a celebratory feast laid out for her guests.

“There's enough food here to feed the Eighty-second Airborne,” Billy said when he eyed the stacks of sliced thick homemade bread, sticks of real butter, a dark Smithfield ham, two whole rounds of cheese, slaw, a huge bowl of German potato salad, and four pies—one of which he could see was pumpkin, the others' contents hidden by golden crusts. There were four different vegetables and a whole turkey complete with stuffing.

“There's coffee and ice cream for later,” his mother said, obviously pleased with the display she'd been working at all afternoon. “Ya'll just dig in. We can just catch up, and later you can unpack.” New mothers and new babies will always divert the start of any other undertaking for at least twenty-four hours. After which there is at least a slim chance that more serious activities might be attempted.

“I have died and gone to heaven,” Karl said and sat in the chair nearest the pies.

“You eat too much of this meal and you won't be speaking in metaphors,” Sam said and moved the pies out of his reach.

“Good Lord, Ma,” Frank said. “What were you thinking?”

“Well, look here. We got friends we ain't seen in racketycoon's age and their little one, too. Billy and Essie and Junior are here for a few days and Danny's back from wherever they send them Navy SEALs all the time.

“Key West,” said Danny.

“Is that what they call Afghanistan now?”

Danny grinned but said nothing. His mother frowned. She knew her son spent time, too much time, in harm's way and one death in the line of duty was one too many.

“You're going to be here a while this time right, Danny?” she said.

“Yes, ma'am, long as Uncle Sam lets me.”

“Sit and eat your supper. Ya'll must be starving.”

***

Ruth settled into the most comfortable of the two recliners in her upstairs office. She was wrapped in the hotel robe that bore the emblem she insisted made her Mrs. Sheraton. She had another towel wrapped turban-like around her wet hair.

“Now, I'm hungry. Next time I press you for the gory details of your latest case before we eat, you remind me of this evening, Ike.”

“I could scramble us some eggs. That is, I could if you have any eggs to scramble.”

“I don't remember if I do or if I don't. Anyway, don't bother. I can make it 'til morning. Sit down and tell me something cheerful.”

“Well, let's see…great shower, by the way.”

“You do know that there is a risk in what we did?”

“Risk? Dare I ask?”

“Soap film under foot. If only one of us had slipped, the way we were…ah, positioned, both of us would have fallen in the tub, risked broken bones, and dislocations, not to mention the possibility of having to call 9-1-1 to be extricated. Picture the Picketsville Fire Department or some of your deputies appearing tubside to lift us out.”

“We would become part of the local folklore and our story passed on for generations to come.”

“We'd have to leave town.”

“There are days when that is a very attractive option. Okay, first, no more gore with dinner and, second, we install a no-slip shower.”

“What are we going to do, Ike?”

“Do? Well, after skirting ptomaine poisoning at Frank's and risking life and limb in the shower, I think it best if we hide under the covers until morning. We daren't to press our luck.”

“Very funny. I mean what are we going to do about us?”

“Us? I thought putting on a wholesale wedding charade with the mayor and your faculty guy was bad and so did you. I thought we dumped the idea. The last idea on the table was to just invite a bunch of locals to a big feed somewhere, confess our rash behavior, and move on.”

“The first plan was a stinker, as we decided, and this new one isn't much better.”

“It's honest.”

“But it ignores family and friends who deserve something after we have teased them for so long.

“I see. Maybe we need to open another bottle of very bad wine and try again.”

“We do need to rethink it.”

Ike sighed. This was not going to be an early night and he had already prepared himself mentally for a pleasant night ensconced under or flopped out on top of Ruth's new duvet. The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Ruth stood and went to the bookcase. She rummaged among them for a moment and returned to her chair with one in hand.

“It's in here somewhere, I'm sure of it. My mother and father did it on their twenty-fifth anniversary.”

“What is in where and do I really want to know what your parents did on their twenty-fifth anniversary?”

“Hush up while I look. Ah, here it is, the
Book of Common Prayer
.”

“You own a prayer book?”

“Every Episcopalian, practicing, lapsed, living, or dead owns a
Book of Common Prayer
. I grant that one or two of them may have disposed of their copy and more the pity for them, but more importantly, there's a lot of good stuff in here, including a service for the renewal of wedding vows. We could probably get Fisher to do that for us.”

“Renewal?”

“Right, you know, we stand up and reaffirm the vows. And to be honest, my memory of what we vowed is a little foggy. Crap, it's not in here. Now what?”

“Let me see that wondrous book.”

Ruth tossed the book to him and he scanned the index, flipped the book open, and read.

“This ought to do. It will require a touch of honesty and a tad of humility on our part but this will do it.”

“What will do what?”

“There is a service—is that what it's called down at the Rev's church? Listen, page 433, ‘The Blessing of a Civil Marriage.' We get Fisher to do this bit and if anyone should happen to notice that the service isn't the full monty, so to speak, we will admit our impulsive behavior, but only after the fact and only if necessary, and only to the observant few among the well-wishers who notice the difference. What do you think?”

“Let me see that.” Ruth scanned the pages. “Okay, Schwartz, skip calling the mayor, twist The Reverend Fisher's arm, and set this up. For the next twenty-four hours, you are officially a genius.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The office still lacked its expected ambience. This time, however, the change had nothing to do with the absent aroma of burnt coffee. Babies. Giggling babies.

“Hey, Ike,” Essie called from somewhere nearby, but not from the dispatcher's desk, “look at who's here.”

“Look where? And why are you here? I'm happy you are, by the way, but I thought you were holed up somewhere avoiding George LeBrun.”

“We're down here on the floor in your office.”

“Who's we?”

“Me and Sam. Her and Karl is down here for a visit.”

It was true enough. Essie and Sam Hedrick were seated on the floor. A blanket had been spread between them and their children were busy getting acquainted with the less complicated work of police procedure. Each had been given a book of unissued traffic citations which they were gumming into papier-mâché.

“Sam,” he said, “it's great to see you. Why didn't you call? And, not that it matters, but why are you here?”

“I sent you a text. Didn't you get it?”

“Oh, right. A text. I'm not up to speed on texting, Sam.”

“Okay, noted. We are here because someone in the agency lit a fire under Karl's rear end and he needs to talk to you, your medical examiner, and anyone else who can help stomp it out.”

“I see. You are here because of FBI business. Okay, I get that. Where's Karl?”

“He went for coffee.”

“We have coffee. We have a snappy K-Cup dispenser.”

“I know that now, but when we arrived we didn't smell asphalt in the making so he went to the Cross Roads for carryout. He's been gone for half an hour so I expect Flora's got him buttonholed. And you haven't met Martin, have you?”

“By Martin, I assume you mean the curly haired kid who's on page eight of that citation book?”

“That's him.”

“Family name?”

“Dr. King.”

“Right. So what's Karl's problem?”

“He'll have to tell you. I can't make sense out of it. It has something to do with a body you found in the woods last week, somebody named Barbie.”

“AKA Ethyl Smut?”

“I don't think so unless Ethyl is a mobbed up guy. Apparently he's been dead a decade or so and is supposed to be dead somewhere else besides in your woods.”

“I'll wait for Karl on that one. Say, while you're here, I want to introduce you to our intern. Maybe you can show him how to run some of the programs you loaded in that machine you used to drive that no one can figure out how to since you left.”

“Sure, which program?”

“For starters, we have an old photograph of a young girl. I want to run it through the process that ages the subject. We're looking for a girl, young woman now, maybe sixteen to eighteen, and I'd like to have an approximation of what she'd look like today. She's maybe twelve in the picture and I'd like to age it four or six or eight years. It would give us something to put into a BOLO.”

“I can do that.”

“Hey, Ike, you ain't said hi to Junior,” Essie said and struggled to her feet. “Woof. I must be getting old.”

“Not old, Essie. I know I am approaching the age when I need eyeglasses, but even I can see the bump. You're on your way to number two.”

“Well, shoot, Ike, I guess that's why you're such a good detective. Even Billy ain't noticed it and he's got a better view of the crime scene than you do.”

“Thank God for that.”

“What?”

“Speaking of Billy, where'd he get to?”

“Oh, I reckon he met up with Karl. They got stuff to talk about. Kids and houses and things.”

Karl pushed his way into the area carrying a flat of coffees. “Somebody come get these things. They're spilling and burning my hand.”

“We don't need them now, Karl. Ike bought a fancy dispenser and we're all good.”

“Well, what do I do with this mess?”

Ike lifted the coffees from Karl's outstretched hand and set them on an empty desk. “Who do we have in the cells?” he said.

Charley Picket looked up from the vintage CRT screen he'd been studying. “Two frat boys and a pair of bikers. They had separate parties and then exchanged words last night at Alex's Road House. Anyway, they were too drunk to send home so they're our guests until they are sober enough to stand before the magistrate or be sent on their way.”

“Well, somebody take these coffees down to them. Maybe it will speed up the process.”

“I'll do it,” Charley said. “I love it when those skinheads have to confront this ole black dude.”

“Karl, Sam says you have a problem with one of our bodies.”

“By one, I take it there are more than the one I am interested in.”

Ike described the scene when they unearthed two bodies and the difficulties they were having with sorting out both.

“The decades-old body may be mine now,” Karl, said. “You can likely let that one go. I'll need everything you have on it, though.”

“Yours? How will it be yours? I am always happy to work with the Bureau, as you know—”

Karl snorted.

“Well, I am always happy to work with you, Karl. But before I give up my dead guy, I need to know why.”

“It's a long story, Ike. Show me how to use that space-age coffee machine and we'll talk.”

Twenty minutes later Ike sat back and frowned. “So let me get this straight. If the dental records are correct, the guy we found in the woods is a New York hood named Barbarini who was killed ten years ago in that city and then supposedly dumped into the Atlantic.”

“Correct.”

“And now it appears that he wasn't done in as described and the men who are doing time in Sing Sing may be entitled to a new trial and, since the witness who put them there is dead, the case may never be retried and they could walk?”

“That's part A, yes.”

“And Part B is that there are agents in the Bureau whose reputations may be questioned if that were to happen, and subtle pressure has been applied on you to find out that our dead guy is not that dead guy.”

“In a nutshell, that's it. If it is Barbarini, then dominos will topple and who knows how many career plans will have to be adjusted.”

“Including yours?”

“Including mine.”

“Well, not to worry yet. The ME constructed the dental chart from a ten-year-old stiff. One filling or two on the wrong teeth and you are off the hook.”

“What are the chances of that?”

“Not too good. This new ME is from the big city and used to getting it right, but we can hope.”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Ike?”

“Sure, shoot.”

“If it turns out that your body is mine, so to speak, and you were in my place, would you say so or would you let it slide? I mean it's a pretty sure thing those two guys did snuff Barbarini, and even if they didn't, there's enough paper on them to justify the fact they belong in jail. Furthermore, the case is cold and probably could not be retried, especially if it turns out the evidence was tainted which, by the way, it seems it was. In all probability they'll walk. What purpose is served by starting a process that on the best of days can't end up good for anybody?”

“And it could cost you your career—at least slow it down?”

“Yeah, well, there's that too.”

“Karl, good or bad, inconvenient, or uncomfortable, in the end, speaking the truth is the only thing that keeps us civilized. It's not a virtue much in evidence in the public sector anymore, but it is still the standard. The system has to work, warts and all, or it's chaos—for ordinary people and for us who have to maintain some sort of order.”

“You're saying I should call it as it falls?”

“Exactly.”

Karl sighed and nodded. “I'll need to read the ME's report and find out if the body is your problem or mine.”

“As much as I'd like to help you out, I could do with one less murder to sort out. I'll get you the report. Let's hope one of the kids hasn't eaten it.”