by Gayle Wilson
“I have a picture,” Susan offered, opening her purse to remove the photograph she had shown everyone she’d talked to. “It’s a newspaper photo, taken to announce Richard’s promotion at the accounting firm he worked for, but it’s a good likeness.”
She handed it over, watching as the old man studied her husband’s features.
“And this is Emma,” she said after a moment, handing him the second picture. “She was a year old there. At that age they seem to change from month to month, but…it’s the last good one I had.” She realized she was talking too much, and none of that was relevant. “If Richard did bring her here—”
“Would you have treated someone under those circumstances, Doc?” Jeb asked.
“Of course. I’ve gotten a few patients that way. Folks that were passing through or were involved in an accident. Seven years ago. Let me think,” the old man said, still looking from photograph to photograph. “Better yet, let me check.”
“Check?” The doctor had swung his legs off the chaise in preparation for getting up, when Jeb’s question stopped him.
“If I’m going to treat people out of my home, then I’m gonna keep records of it. They may not be as detailed as the hospital’s, but it’s something. Come on, and I’ll show you.”
As she followed the old man down the hall, behind her she could hear Jeb’s uneven footsteps on the polished wooden floors. Dr. Callaway opened a door at the end, stepping aside to usher her into what was essentially an examination room, complete with a table and a rolling light. Around the walls were glass-fronted cabinets full of instruments and medical supplies.
“This was my father’s office,” he explained. “Despite my age, I never practiced this kind of medicine. In his day he saw to the needs of the whole town. Made house calls, too.”
Susan wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that, but luckily the old man didn’t seem to expect an answer. He opened one of the cabinets, running his finger over the spines of a set of leather-bound books.
“Seven years, you say?”
“Seven years ago this past August.”
She would never forget the heat and the unnatural stillness of the house when she’d arrived home from the airport. Richard had turned the air off before he left. It was something they did when they were going to be away because money was so tight. She had walked from room to room, looking for a note. Searching for some kind of explanation. An explanation she’d never found.
Dr. Callaway pulled one of the books off the shelf, laying it down on the counter. He opened it, flipping pages until he found the place he was looking for. Then, just as he’d done with the spines, he ran his finger slowly down the entries.
Neither she nor Jeb said a word, waiting through the process as the long, silent minutes ticked off. It was so quiet she could hear the grandfather clock in the front hall.
After what seemed an eternity, Callaway turned. His lips pursed as he looked at her face. Again his eyes jumped to Jeb’s before they came back to hers. From the compassion in them, she knew what his answer would be before he gave it.
“At my age, I have trouble remembering what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I never forget a patient. I had hoped I was wrong, but…I didn’t treat your husband or your daughter, Mrs. Chandler. I’m sorry. I wish I had. I wish I could tell you something that would help.”
She didn’t know why the sense of disappointment was so strong. She should be used to coming to another dead end. It had been that way for seven long years.
“Are you sure, Doc?” Jeb asked.
Maybe that was why she had expected this to be different. Because someone else now seemed confident there had to be answers out there. Answers to how a baby could just disappear and no one know what had happened to her.
“Believe me, I wish I could tell you something else. Even back then I didn’t treat many people here. I looked at everything from the date you gave me until three years later. None of the patients I saw fit the information.”
“Maybe he had someone with him. Another woman.”
Susan had lived with that idea long enough that she had no hesitation in giving voice to it. Although she’d had no indication anything was wrong with their marriage, Richard’s leaving seemed pretty undeniable proof that there had been.
“That possibility had occurred to me,” Dr. Callaway said gently, smiling at her. “I can’t say for sure about your husband, of course, but I didn’t treat a child of the right age during any of those years. Not one I didn’t know, that is.”
“What about those you do know?”
The old man turned toward Jeb. “What does that mean?”
“If Susan’s daughter is in Linton, she’ll be eight years old now?” He turned to Susan for confirmation. “You know any girl here of that age whose origins might be questionable?”
For some reason, Jeb’s questions brought home to Susan the reality of the situation. Despite the number of times she had tried to imagine what Emma might look like, despite the computer-generated pictures of her daughter at a variety of ages that had been posted on the Web site, for the first time Susan thought about actually encountering Emma as she was now.
“A child’s origins are something I learned a long time ago never to speculate about,” Dr. Callaway said. “If you’re asking whether there are adopted children in town, then I’ll tell you there are. And I’ve no reason to believe any of them are Mrs. Chandler’s daughter. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
From the coolness of Callaway’s tone, it was obvious Jeb’s question had made him uncomfortable. Susan wasn’t sure why it would have, unless he felt it was an attempt to circumvent doctor-patient confidentiality.
“Maybe,” Jeb said. “Susan’s still waiting for the results of the autopsy. I’m not sure it will tell us anything we haven’t already assumed, but it’s possible it might offer some additional information about why her husband was in Linton.”
“And you think I might have connections with the medical examiner.” With the change of subject, the teasing gleam she’d noticed when he had opened the door was back in Callaway’s eyes.
“I think you know just about everybody in this part of the state who has anything to do with medicine.”
“Actually, the M.E. happens to be a old fishing buddy of mine. He’s been angling for a trip to the Keys, and I’m about ready to give in and make one. Give me a couple of days, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I thought maybe you might ask some of those questions this morning,” Jeb suggested with a smile.
“You forgetting you ain’t in command here, boy? You got too used to the weight of those oak leaves on your shoulder.”
“I just think Susan has waited long enough for answers to what happened to her little girl.”
The old man’s lips pursed again, before he nodded. “You all wait here. I don’t like anybody watching over my shoulder while I’m trying to bribe a public official.”
“Good luck,” Jeb said.
As soon as the doctor closed the door to his father’s office behind him, Jeb turned to look at her. “If the autopsy’s complete, he’ll get the information.”
“Thank you for asking. I don’t want to impose, but…maybe there will be something in the autopsy results that can help us. I hadn’t thought about that.”
Jeb nodded, walking over to the examination table to prop his hip on its paper-covered surface. His eyes briefly examined the framed diplomas on the wall next to it before he warned, “Don’t get your hopes up. After all this time, I doubt they’ll be able to tell us anything very enlightening.”
She nodded. In the silence after the exchange, she realized she could hear Dr. Callaway talking. She was unable to distinguish the words, but the sound of his voice, teasing again, came clearly from down the hallway.
As she waited, her eyes considered the man half sitting on the examination table. Jeb was wearing a pair of worn jeans and a black polo shirt, its short sleeves emphasizing the co
rded muscles in his arms.
She pulled her gaze away, concentrating on a framed copy of the Hippocratic oath that had been hung beside one of the glass-fronted cabinets. She had read probably half of it, when the door opened again.
The laughter that had been in the old man’s face when he’d talked about the fishing trip was no longer there. Jeb looked up, meeting his eyes, his own questioning.
“Was it complete?” he asked, when Callaway didn’t speak.
“They haven’t written up the formal report. That’ll probably take a couple of days, but…”
“What’s going on, Doc?” Jeb asked when the old man paused.
“According to the preliminary findings, Mrs. Chandler, your husband died of a particular type of occipital condylar fracture.”
For a moment neither of them responded. That hardly seemed the kind of shocking news Callaway’s demeanor had led them to expect. After all, Richard had been involved in an automobile accident in which his car had ended up at the bottom of a river.
“So?” Jeb said carefully.
“To put it into layman’s terms, the type of skull fracture he suffered isn’t consistent with a frontal blow.”
“Like…if his head struck the windshield.”
Callaway nodded.
“What does that mean?”
“That the injury doesn’t match the description of the accident given to the medical examiner,” Callaway said.
“I don’t understand,” Susan said.
She didn’t. She felt exactly as she had when they’d told her about Richard’s visit to the bank. As if they must be talking about someone else. Something else. Something that bore no relation to the people she had loved.
Again it was Callaway who answered. “In the M.E.’s opinion, the fracture is of a type that would indicate your husband was struck with a blunt object at the base of his skull. Maybe before the car went into the water.”
…struck with a blunt object…before the car went into the water…
“You’re saying…” She licked her lips, trying to decide before she asked the question if there was any other possible interpretation. “Are you saying someone killed him?”
“I’m saying that as of right now, that’s the opinion of the medical examiner.”
CHAPTER NINE
“YOU THINK WE SHOULD check in with Adams?”
Jeb had begun to wonder if Susan could be in shock. She hadn’t said two words since they’d left Doc’s house.
Of course, the information he’d given them had certainly challenged the prevailing theory of what had happened to Richard Kaiser. Instead of a tragic accident at a notoriously dangerous bridge entrance, the autopsy finding seemed to point to murder, something virtually unheard of in Linton.
“After we talk to the Caffreys,” Susan said.
She had insisted that they still make the trip out to the Caffrey place. He’d been surprised at her determination after what Callaway had told them, but her entire focus seemed to be on finding her daughter.
He supposed he couldn’t blame her. After all, no matter what had happened to her husband, he was definitely dead. And that was something they couldn’t definitively know about Emma.
She had told Doc that her husband had cleaned out their accounts, but she hadn’t been specific about how much that amounted to. If someone had found out he was carrying a lot of cash when he came through town—and that was assuming he still had been—that would be a motive for murder almost anywhere in this country. He just hated that it had been in Linton.
“Was that the turn that leads to the river?”
He was surprised she recognized the road they’d just passed, having been there only once. “That’s right.”
She glanced at her watch and then turned to look at him. “Do you think we could go down there? To the bridge, I mean.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
“Sheriff Adams thought the men who found Richard’s car might be back out there today. I’d like to talk to them.”
It was a reasonable request, considering what was involved. Jeb glanced in his rearview mirror and then swung the Avalanche around in the middle of the highway.
“Do you ever get caught doing that?”
“Too few troopers and too much road,” he said, glancing over at her again. She seemed composed, but he was conscious of the strain she must be under. “You sure you’re up to this?”
“I need to know exactly how the car was when they found it. According to the sheriff, when he saw it, the driver’s-side door was open. He hadn’t asked if it had been that way when they pulled it out, but he said he would.”
As he topped the rise before the road dipped toward the bridge and the river, he could see the equipment the railroad company had sent out to clear the debris. The crew was back, and the county cruiser parked alongside the trailer the men had set up down there indicated Adams had kept his promise.
Jeb maneuvered the pickup off the road and parked beside the sheriff’s car. Susan was out of the vehicle before he could shut off the engine.
He watched through the windshield as she walked over to where Adams and a deputy were talking to one of the men in hard hats. The worker was gesturing downriver.
The three turned as Susan approached. They waited until she reached them, and then it appeared that the sheriff was making introductions.
Jeb opened his door, swinging down from the cab. The noise of the crane, which was still bringing up twisted pieces of the derailed train cars, drowned out the conversation taking place below. He arrived in time to hear the guy in the hard hat, who must be the foreman, tell Susan what she’d come here to learn.
“One of my men opened that door. I thought afterward that he probably shouldn’t have, but when you see something like that you don’t think things through. You just react. When he saw that skeleton inside…” He shrugged.
“And the windows? Were they up?” Susan asked.
“Everything closed up tight. Most of the water drained out as we dragged it onto the bank. A lot of mud. After that long on the bottom you’d expect that, but nothing was open.”
“What kind of damage did it have?” Jeb asked.
Despite the M.E.’s opinion, the argument was bound to be made that the skull fracture had occurred at some point during the car’s descent to the bottom of the river. If there was evidence of a collision with something, Jeb would be more apt to buy into that possibility. And if not…
“Sheriff can maybe tell you more about that, but just from looking at it…” The foreman shook his head. “I didn’t see much. Looked like it just slid off the road and got caught in the current.”
“You think when something like that happens folks would have plenty of time to get out,” Adams said, “but they tend to panic. They start trying to open doors before the pressure equalizes. The water shorts out the automatic windows, so they don’t work. When they can’t get out by the normal means, they panic and start beating at the door until the air’s all gone.”
Even the foreman seemed to realize that graphic description was inappropriate. He looked down at his muddy boots rather than at the wife of the man whose possible death throes Adams had just detailed.
“I take it then you haven’t talked to the medical examiner this morning,” Jeb said.
“Are you saying you have?”
“Richard Kaiser died from a fractured skull.”
“So it’s possible he was unconscious before he went into the water.” The name badge of the deputy who made that comment read Buck Jemison.
Jeb didn’t remember Jemison from the summers he’d spent here, but then he looked to be several years younger than his crowd. And given the guy’s size—maybe six-five or six-six—Jeb thought he would have remembered if Jemison had been a teenager back then.
“Seems like a much better way to go to me,” the foreman offered. “At least you know he didn’t suffer, ma’am.”
“That would be comforting,” Susan said, “but accord
ing to the autopsy, this particular type of injury isn’t consistent with what supposedly happened to the SUV.”
“I don’t understand,” Adams said.
“The blow was to the back of his head,” Jeb explained. “Literally at the base of his skull.”
“Your husband wasn’t wearing a seat belt, Ms. Chandler,” Adams reminded her, “and his car didn’t have air bags. The force of the collision could have thrown him around. All kinds of freak things happen in wrecks.”
“Except Mr. Evans just indicated he didn’t see any evidence of a violent collision,” Susan reminded him.
“I don’t claim to be an expert,” the foreman hurried to add. “I’m just saying that to the layman’s eyes, that car didn’t appear to be heavily damaged.”
“Even if it were,” Susan said, “the medical examiner doesn’t believe the injury is consistent with the description of the accident.”
“I’ll talk to the M.E.,” Adams said, as if that should make her feel better about the information she’d received.
“I’d like to have my insurance company examine the car and provide an accident report. If you’ll tell me where you’ve taken it…”
Apparently while Jeb had been wondering if she were in shock, Susan had been thinking about what she needed to do. Bringing in her insurance company’s experts to assess the damage and provide an analysis of how the accident might have happened was an excellent idea. One he could tell the sheriff hadn’t been prepared for her to make.
“That’ll have to wait until the department releases the vehicle,” he said brusquely.
“And when will that be?”
“When we’re finished with it.” Although the sheriff’s answer had held a scintilla of anger, he couldn’t be expected to have a firm timetable since he’d just received new information. “If you’re right about the M.E.’s report—and mind you, I haven’t heard anything official—then your husband’s car could be considered a crime scene.”
“Could be?” Jeb questioned the wording.
“Like I said, I gotta have something official before I make that determination.”