Shattered Image

by J. F. Margos

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I’ve been visiting with Nadine Ferguson to try to find out where some of Brian’s favorite bird-watching spots were, but she couldn’t remember. She thought that Bud, Julie and Frances could help me with that.”

  “Why do you think that would help?” Julie asked.

  “Well, if he went bird-watching right before he disappeared—and I had heard that is what he was doing—then maybe we could narrow down some spots where he might have been killed. There might be something in that location that would give us more clues to go on. Actually, anything might help at this point.”

  “You know, he went to a lot of places around here, and I’m afraid my memory of exact locations wouldn’t be real good,” Bud said.

  Julie and Frances looked at each other. The chief caught the look, as did I.

  “If you two ladies have anything to say, I’d say it now. You never know what might help this lady. If you help her, you’re helping Brian,” Chief Grant said.

  “Brian had two or three favorite places, but I think he went to the Gunther place that weekend,” Julie said. “Out at Angler’s Point.”

  She and Frances exchanged glances.

  “We know that’s where he went,” Frances said. “The bird he was looking for was there in abundance, and he liked the place anyway.”

  “The Gunther place? That’s over three hundred acres,” the chief said. “Toni, we could never search that whole place.”

  “I know the places Brian went when he went there,” Julie said.

  “Still, we can’t just walk on,” Chief Grant said. “The man who owns that place now is a crotchety old guy. He would never let us on there just to look. He’s got No Trespassing signs everywhere, and rumor has it that he shoots at anybody he catches on his property.”

  “It’s true,” Bud said. “He does shoot at people. He shot at the Stone boy once when he snuck on. His parents almost killed him when they found out.”

  “We’d have to get a warrant,” the chief said. “Do you think you have enough probable cause for a warrant, Toni?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But probably not.”

  I ran my hand through my hair. I knew we didn’t have enough for a warrant. I was already thinking about talking to Drew about all of this.

  “Well, that’s just the pits,” Bud said. “How much do you need to convince a judge?”

  “Probably a lot more than they’ve got,” Chief Grant said.

  “Well, let me get back to Austin, and talk to the detectives working this case,” I said. “Maybe there’s something we can do.”

  Julie and Frances exchanged looks again, but this time I wasn’t sure I understood those looks. Those two were close, I could tell, and they had their own language.

  “Do you have a card, Toni?” the chief asked.

  “Sure.”

  “If anything comes up on my end, I could give you a shout. I’ve already got your son’s number, but if I can’t reach him, I could probably reach him through you, I bet.” He smiled.

  “That’s for sure. If nothing else, he comes over to raid the cookie jar on a regular basis.”

  The group chuckled. I gave the chief my card and said my goodbyes to them all. As I drove back to Austin that afternoon, I wondered about Julie and Frances and that last look.

  I was grumpy when I got back to Austin. I was frustrated about knowing where we could search and not being able to go search it now. I thought there would probably be something at the original burial site that would help us, if we could just find it. I tried to reach Drew and Mike and Tommy. None of them were in, or answering their cell phones. That just made me grumpier.

  The CILHI sculpture stared at me with partial clay on it and beckoned for me to get on with it, but I was stalling. And I didn’t know why I was stalling. Normally, working on something like this would take my mind off the frustration of the Red Bud and Waller Creek cases. I might even have a breakthrough on them, while working on another bust, but I couldn’t get into anything. I was about to give up on the whole rest of the day and just go drink hot tea in the living room and stare out the window, when the phone rang.

  Drew Smith was returning my call.

  “So, you’re back from Houston,” he said.

  “Houston and Hempstead. I made a side trip based on info I got from Nadine Ferguson.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Found two women who were good friends of Brian’s. They claim to know where he went to bird-watch that last day.”

  “That could be helpful.”

  “It would be except the old coot who owns the place now apparently lets no one on his property for any reason, and shoots at people who violate his No Trespassing signs.”

  “Maybe I could talk him into it,” Drew said. “Otherwise, we’d need a search warrant, which I don’t think we could get right now.”

  “Right.”

  “The woman’s information isn’t concrete. He could have said he was going there, and gone somewhere else. Do Mike and Tommy have any other evidence leading to that area, or indicating a specific location?”

  “None.”

  “I could try to finesse it out of the old man,” Drew said, “and if I strike out, I could see if I can get a warrant out of a judge I know down there, but I’d have to really work it. I’m going to talk to Mike and Tommy about this now. I think there’s enough reason for me to become involved. It’s more than one murder, probably both committed outside of Austin, with linking crimes in Austin.”

  “I can’t get hold of either one of them, so you’ll have to brief them on my trip.”

  “I can handle that. Meanwhile, I have something for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lisa Wells’s mother was so grateful for your work on our cottonwood case that she wrote you a letter and posted it to me for delivery to you. Want me to fax it over? I can give you the original next time I see you.”

  “Yes, definitely fax it on.”

  “Okay, it’ll be coming across in just a minute. I’ll try to get in touch with Tommy and Mike. We’ll let you know what we decide to do.”

  “Thanks, Drew.”

  Within a minute or so, my fax machine came to life and hummed and beeped as the page came through. I pulled it off the machine and read:

  Dear Dr. Sullivan,

  Words could never express what you have done for me and for my family with your artwork. The bust you did of my Lisa was so beautiful and done with such care, it was as if you knew her in life. The resemblance was perfect. You had even caught that little gleam of joy that used to be hers before she got caught up with the wrong man. Truly, you and she must have made a spiritual connection for you to see in her bones so much of what was really Lisa. Lieutenant Smith says that you are a Christian woman and that you pray often. I can only say that I was not surprised, for to see your work and have the benefit of it in this way was to share in the grace of God’s gifts and comfort. May He always bless you.

  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.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  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.”

  “So, it was this place Drew told us about,” Mike said. “Some cranky old guy owns it and won’t let us on.”

  “Well, that’s what Chief Grant says. Bud Wolfram said the old guy shot at some kid who trespassed. Apparently the whole place is marked No Trespassing and he shoots on sight, no questions asked.”

  “Drew said he called Chief Grant yesterday after the two of you talked,” Mike said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, the chief went out there yesterday and the old guy told him no one was coming on to his property for any reason. It would be a cold day in July before he let the police search there for anything. Then he started raving about knowing his rights.”

  “Great.”

  “So, we are definitely going to need a warrant, and it’ll need to be airtight or we’re hosed,” Tommy said.

  “What else did you talk about with Mrs. Ferguson? Was that it?” Mike asked.

  “No, son. We had a mothers’ and widows’ conversation that I thought was more appropriate. She showed me Brian’s sketches and a book he wrote. He had a doctorate in ornithology.”

  “Whoa! I didn’t know that,” Tommy said.

  “Yes, so that’s what all the bird watching was abou
t. All his friends talk about what a nice guy he was.”

  Tommy continued. “Yeah, we got the same impression of him. Mrs. Ferguson had talked to him on the phone the day before he disappeared. He was good about calling her regularly. They were apparently a pretty close family and kept in touch. He would go to Houston about once a month, even though he really didn’t like it there.”

  “Does anyone like Houston?” Mike asked.

  “Mike…”

  “Well, Mom…”

  “Tommy, go on.”

  Tommy was smiling as he swallowed a bite of his omelette. “She said he had called her the night before. Said he was going out the next day—his day off—to do some bird watching in the surrounding countryside. He was really excited about it because he’d been working a lot and was looking forward to being outside and relaxing.”

  “So, he went alone? I wonder why the girls didn’t go?”

  “Actually, Mrs. Ferguson said he was looking forward to going alone and having some time to himself.”

  “Did anyone check with the two girls when he didn’t come back—I mean, at the time?”

  “Yeah. There was a search for him and he was never found. The two girls had totally solid alibis and were not suspects. In fact, from the way she tells it, they were devastated by his disappearance.”

  “Yes, Nadine Ferguson told me that part. She said Julie was interested in him.”

  “Apparently he was interested in her, too, Mom. She never really got over him.”

  We finished our breakfasts and then the boys and I fought over the check, but Tommy won. It would be the Sullivans’ turn next time.

  It was still raining steadily, but not heavily. I was frustrated by these two cases in Austin and troubled by the CILHI case, and the weather was not improving my mood. I drove off through the damp and gloom thinking about Addie Waldrep, Brian Ferguson and Doug Hughes, and wondering if we would ever know the truth.

  On my way home I had turned off the beaten path and headed toward the cemetery without even giving it much thought. I arrived at the stoplight outside the front gates, wondering if I were going to go on in or not. The light turned green and I proceeded through the gates. I drove slowly along the narrow road inside, winding my way through various sections until I came to the section where Jack was buried. There was a grove of trees nearby, and their foliage spread shade over the grave site—at least they did on a sunny day. I parked the car along the roadside and got out.