“It’s a nice treat,” he said.
“Where would I order them?” On those rare instances when I’d needed them, I’d asked my mother for advice, and she’d done it for me. Damien didn’t need to know that.
He named a shop. “Tell them it’s for your boyfriend when you order.”
“Wait. Why? They don’t need to know that.”
“A bit public, remember? You need to start getting over your anxiety. You realize everyone in this state knows you’re gay, right?” There had been news coverage, though I denied interviews, both on and off camera. Gay chief of police? I still got calls from hungry reporters.
“Yeah. It just feels like there is a difference between that and … everyone seeing it.”
“Do you really care that much about whether the citizens of Idyll like you?” He sipped a drink. I could hear the clink of ice cubes against glass.
“Yes?”
“God, Thomas, for a big bear of a man, you’ve got a squishy marshmallow center.”
“There is no marshmallow in these abs.” I patted them, as if he could see.
“Right. I’m sure there isn’t.” He cleared his throat. “Well, good luck, Thomas.”
“Thanks, Damien. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Mmm-hmmm. Good night.” He hung up.
It was too late to call the florist shop, and I wasn’t ready to do it anyway.
“Hi, I’m calling to order flowers for my boyfriend. He’s mad at me.” I said it aloud, a practice run.
The florist didn’t need to know why I was sending them.
“Hi, I need some flowers for my boyfriend, a bouquet, like on the commercials for Valentine’s Day, but not roses. Do I have to get roses?”
Jesus, I sounded crazy.
“Hi, I need to order a bouquet of flowers, for my boyfriend.”
I could do this. Of course I could.
CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH
MONDAY, MAY 17, 1999
1400 HOURS
The physical-fitness memo sat on my desk, marked up with red-ink comments. Next to my suggested 1.5 mile run times, Mrs. Dunsmore had written “faster than the Cooper Standards.” Beside push-ups, she’d written, “They’re men, not superheroes.” I picked up the memo and went to give her some feedback. Her office was empty. Damn.
“Chief!” someone yelled. “You got a call on line two. Some flower shop.”
I picked up Mrs. Dunsmore’s phone, hit line two, and said, “Thomas Lynch.”
“I’m calling from the Blossom Shop. You placed an order earlier? We ran your credit card, and it seems to be having trouble. Is it possible there was a mistake, maybe with the zip code?”
I recited my Idyll zip code. He said, “Ah! That’s the problem. You gave a different one.”
“Which one?”
He read it off. It was my old New York zip code. “Wait. What street address did I give?” He told me. It was correct. “Sorry about that. Must’ve had my mind on other things.”
The door swung inward. Mrs. Dunsmore stepped inside and said, “This is unexpected.”
“No problem,” the man said. “Have a good afternoon.”
I hung up the phone and said, “Sorry. I got a call.”
“And you were in my office …”
“Chief!” Hugh called. The new dispatcher had pipes on him.
“What?” she and I yelled at the same time.
“I think you need to hear this.”
Mrs. Dunsmore accompanied me to the dispatch booth where Hugh Bascomb sat at the board. He said, “We just got a call from some folks who think they found human remains.”
“Pardon?” Mrs. Dunsmore said.
“Two people passing through town. They say they found bones in the woods off of Route 30. They’re probably animals. I could send Hopkins. He’s closest.”
“No,” I said. Hopkins had as much experience identifying remains as I did wooing women. “Wait. I’ll get you someone.”
I stalked to Wright’s desk. Mrs. Dunsmore didn’t follow. Wright sat, reviewing statements. The clamshell case; it couldn’t be anything else. “Hey, someone reported finding human remains in the woods off Route 30. Talk to Hugh for the exact location, and bring Billy.”
“Billy?” Wright wrinkled his nose.
“His Boy Scout group got badges in learning the difference between animal bones and human bones.”
He didn’t ask questions; he grabbed his stuff and yelled, “Billy! Come with me.” He didn’t look behind to make sure Billy heard or complied. Billy hustled to catch up.
“Hey, Chief,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. I turned. She had followed me. “You know where that road backs up onto, right?” she asked. I didn’t. “It’s the same woods where Detective Finnegan found Colleen’s bone.”
“In 1983,” I said. “And they didn’t find anything else.”
She pursed her lips.
“It could be a deer carcass. We don’t know that it’s human.”
“And if it is?” she asked.
“Then I’m sure Detective Wright can handle it.”
She said, “I’m sure he can … but if these bones have anything to do with the Colleen case, wouldn’t it make sense to involve Detective Finnegan?”
“He’s off today, working his second job.” Finnegan worked at a security firm, the kind that installed home alarms. He called it his “alimony job.” He had three ex-wives. I’d once pointed out to him that heterosexuality seemed awfully expensive, and he’d laughed and said I might be onto something.
The mountain of crap on Finnegan’s desk distracted me. Discarded bags of chips and dog-eared magazines and broken pencils. Wright’s desk was pristine. Surprised they never came to blows over it. Cops had, over lesser things. Only it wasn’t the small things they fought over. It was the bigger stuff at home, and the work stuff was just the valve that released the steam. I uncrossed my arms, clapped my hands together, and said, “Tell you what. If it has anything to do with that bone, I will apprise Detective Finnegan when he returns to work.”
She crooked her finger at me, so I’d come nearer. I did, reluctantly. Her voice was low, pitched so no one but me could hear. “Michael hasn’t been able to find his missing sister. He went so far as to have that bone tested for familial DNA. If he can help find whoever it belonged to, it would mean a lot to him. But he will never tell you that.”
Damn it. How was I to argue that point? The Colleen case had bothered him for years. And it wasn’t as though he was busy pursuing other investigations.
“Fine,” I said. Why was it that when she and I tangled, I never won?
I stalked off to my office to lick my wounds and caught sight of a note. John, NYU Award. Shoot. I needed to tell him whether or not I was coming. Well, no time like the present. He answered the home line, surprised by the sound of my voice. Shocked when I said I’d come.
“That’s great.” I heard him shout to his wife, Marie, that I’d be coming. Her “Really?” made it to the phone too. Anyone placing bets on my attendance could’ve made a mint.
We chitchatted about the Yankees’ season, and then I said, “See you soon. Oh, wait. Is it, um, okay, if I bring someone?”
“Bring someone? Like a date?”
I was spreading surprise all over the place today.
“Well, I mean, sort of, I guess.”
“Of course you can. Sorry. I was just, surprised. You’ve never brought anyone to a family event.”
“What about Helen Mayes? She came to dinner several times.”
He groaned. “Poor Helen. I wonder if she’s stopped dating gay men. Last I knew, she still lived in the city, so maybe not. Anyway, we’d be delighted to have you with or without a date.”
John hadn’t expected me to accept. He had had good reason. I always felt awkward at academic affairs where I stood out for not having multiple degrees, where scholarly names I didn’t recognize were lobbed about, and I’d nod and hope not to embarrass myself or my family. If another attendee found out I was
a cop, I became the target of an interview I hadn’t signed on for. What was it like? What did I think about decriminalizing drugs? Had I ever shot someone? John told me once to ask how their tenure process was coming along. It worked well. Those who were on the cusp got scared, and those who had it were offended by the question and walked away within seconds.
Finnegan’s missing sister had reminded me of the fragility of family. They’re easy to take for granted or resent. But our time with them is limited. Susan’s disappearance drove that home. She’d been sixteen when she went missing. No one, including Finny, had thought that the last time they saw her would be just that, the last time. Did I want to make small talk with uptight liberal academics who looked down on me? No. But I would, for John and for the rest of my family.
Would I ask Matthew to come?
Guess it depended on how the flowers went over.
DETECTIVE MICHAEL FINNEGAN
MONDAY, MAY 17, 1999
1505 HOURS
By pushing my shitty car to its limit, I arrived at the site just fifteen minutes after Dix called. He knew I’d be interested in more bones found not far from where I’d discovered Colleen’s humerus all those years ago, so he called me when Wright and Billy left the station. I’d left my security job, claiming a sudden stomach bug. No one had questioned me. A stiff breeze smacked me when I exited the car. Billy said, “Hi, Detective. Why are you here?”
“You got bones?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries. My eyes went up, off the road, into the trees.
He nodded. “We haven’t looked at ’em yet. Detective Wright is taking the couple’s statement. He’s in there with them now.”
Ahead of the patrol car was a Land Rover with muddy tires. “Why were they in the woods?” I asked. There were no public hiking trails in the area. Nothing to attract tourists.
Billy ducked his head and said, “Lady needed a pee break. They’d been hiking the Mattatuck Trail and were headed home. She needed to stop, urgently.”
“I see.”
“She went back a ways to do her business, and she saw the bones. She ran back to the car. Her husband took a look and agreed they seemed human, so he called 911, and here we are.”
“Up there?” I asked, pointing.
“Yes, but Detective Wright said not to let anyone through because—”
I climbed the shallow incline, ignoring his warning. I’m sure Lewis didn’t want patrol mucking about, but he didn’t mean to ban me from the scene. About twenty feet inside the woods, past the budded trees, to a spot where you could hardly see the road, stood three people. Lewis and the couple. They were in their midthirties. She wore her hair in a ponytail and had skin tanner than was typical of May. His Ray-Bans were tucked into the vee of his shirt. They leaned against each other.
Lewis stood at a point on the ground that was littered with twigs where a few dead daffodils stood guard. The soil was sunken lower than the surrounding ground, and protruding from it were small bones. She had good eyes. The bones weren’t obvious. They could be mistaken, at first glance, for bare twigs and limbs.
Lewis looked up, saw me and said nothing, though his brows were raised. “Did you touch any of this?” he asked the woman.
She shook her head violently. “No, no, I couldn’t. I went back to the car, right away.”
“Detective Finnegan, would you fetch Officer Thompson? He has expertise in identifying bones.”
Billy must’ve been a Boy Scout with Mr. Mulaney as his troop leader. I tromped down the hill and whistled to Billy. “Time to make Mr. Mulaney proud,” I said.
“Too bad he’s not here.” Billy hitched his shoulders. Mr. Mulaney had died of a brain aneurysm at the too-young age of fifty-six.
We walked back toward the depressed soil. I held back, though it was clear this wasn’t a fresh grave. Still, best not to muddy the soil with my prints. Especially since I wasn’t on duty.
Billy approached the site carefully, gloves on. The wind scattered dried leaves. “Go ahead,” Lewis told him. Billy squatted to look at the bones. “This big one looks like a femur. Can I pick it up?”
Lewis hesitated. If this was human, it’d be best not to disturb the scene. But, if not, he’d be the butt of jokes for years to come. Pride won out. He said, “Yeah. Get it out of there.”
Billy had to dig with his hands and wrestle the bone to free it from the soil. He rotated it. “Long enough to be human, but let’s see. Same thickness you’d expect for a person.” He pulled it close to his face and squinted. “Single. Not double.”
“Single what?” I asked.
“Linea something.” He tapped the top of the bone. Not the rounded knob, but the sharper end. “In other mammals, it’s double. Man, Mr. Mulaney would be disappointed if he knew I forgot this.”
“You’re doing fine. What about that?” Lewis pointed to two small, gray-white bones.
“Looks like finger bones,” Billy said. “Bears look similar, but the grooves on the end of the phalanges don’t look notched enough for a bear.”
The couple shuddered. The woman turned and put her face in her husband’s neck.
Lewis said, “Okay. Billy, you radio for the techs. I’ll stay here.”
A low rumble came from far off. We looked up. The sun had disappeared behind clouds.
The woman piped up. “Can we go now?” She hugged herself; her teeth chattered.
Lewis said, “Leave your contact information with Detective Finnegan.” He jerked his chin my way. “And then, yes, you may leave.”
I walked them to their car and took down their address and telephone numbers. “Thank you,” I told her, touching her right arm.
“For what?” she asked, surprised.
“For calling it in. Whoever is buried back there, someone is missing them. This may end a long search.”
She seemed caught off guard by the idea and said, “I suppose.” Her husband took her hand and tucked her in the passenger seat. He pulled the car out the way people do when they’re near a cop. Checking mirrors three times and barely using the gas.
Billy was on the radio. I looked down the road. Nothing but trees and flowers and birds. Good place to hide a corpse. It wasn’t picturesque. No walking trails ran through here. It was a spot on the way to other places. I tromped back into the woods. Lewis scanned the ground. “I found something.” He pointed. Four feet from the bones was a gallon-size plastic bag. It was filthy, covered with dirt and leaf matter.
“The techs should photograph it before we look inside,” I said.
“I know that.”
I said, “I wasn’t talking to you; I was telling myself because I really want to look inside.”
He gazed at me, his dark eyes full of questions. But the only one he asked was, “Where’s the old Graham place?”
“That way.” I nodded, away from the road. “If you walk straight through, you come up onto the backyard. Take you maybe ten minutes, tops.” I looked through the trees, their buds unfurled to small leaves. Soon the leaves would grow, making it impossible to see a foot ahead.
“How far away did you find Colleen’s bone?” he asked.
“From here? Probably three minutes. It was closer to this end of the woods than to Mr. Graham’s land.” The woods had grown dark. No more sun. The wind had picked up. Ominous.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I pulled out my cigarettes, shook one loose from the pack. I didn’t light it. “I think we found the rest of her.”
“Colleen?”
“I always thought it odd that we only found the one bone.”
He pursed his lips. “Think the rain will hold off until the techs get here?”
A low rumble of thunder came. Ten seconds later, lightning lit up the sky. Everything appeared hyper bright for one instant, as if a strobe light had flashed. “No.”
The techs came as the first drops hit the ground. They got to work snapping photos and erecting a tent to preserve the grave from the storm. I watched as the water fell hard
er, turning the ground to mud. My hair got damp, then wet, and then rivulets washed down my neck. Lewis stood under an umbrella, picking up his feet every so often and shifting to drier ground. “You can head back,” he called to me. “Don’t think we’ll have anything concrete for a while.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. The techs took more photos and shifted soil. They dug. Their feet made squelchy sounds in the mud. I didn’t want to leave.
“Hey, Detective!” Billy called. He’d come from the road where Lewis had parked him to keep any rubberneckers from approaching our scene.
“What?” Lewis shouted. He refused to budge from the mini-hill he’d found to keep his loafers out of the mud.
“Sorry, I meant Detective Finnegan,” Billy said. “Chief wants you.”
Hell. He knew I was here. Not good. I wasn’t on duty, not even at work today. He was probably less than delighted with me right now.
“Yeah?” The techs were discussing the grave. I wasn’t going to budge until I knew what they knew. Besides, I was in no hurry to be scolded.
Billy waited for more. Then he said, “He’s waiting.”
“I’ll come back to the station soon,” I called. Not true, but it would buy me time.
“No. He’s waiting down there.” Billy jerked his thumb toward the road behind him.
“Fuck.” So much for staying to see what they found.
“Trouble in paradise?” Lewis asked. This was the first time he’d seen me mixing it up with the chief. Usually it was him and Chief Lynch barking at each other, the two so similar they couldn’t see it.
I didn’t answer. Just watched the techs for a few seconds more. Had they found her? Would we at last know who she was and how she got here? I wiped the water from my face and half-walked, half-slid my way to the road. The chief’s car was pulled over to the side. He lowered the passenger window and said, “Get in.”
I opened the passenger door and sat. Rainwater dripped from me onto his car mats, and seat, and I felt a child’s pleasure in defiling his car. Payback for dragging me from the site.
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