“I think she’s run away. Her clothes are gone, cleared out. And she took a substantial amount of money out of the bank on Friday afternoon.”
“I see,” Powder said, making notes.
Behind him Fleetwood opened the back door and, bumping the frame twice, made her way into the office.
Powder took William Weaver to the separated counter area and continued his questions.
“You were saying that your wife . . . that Annie took money out of the bank on Friday afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“When did you learn about this?”
“This morning.”
“How?”
“I asked the bank.”
“You suspected she might have taken money?”
“She was gone. She would need money.”
“A joint account?”
“Yes.”
“How much did she take?”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“How much is left in the account?”
“Two hundred and thirty-eight.”
“Why didn’t she take that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was she unhappy about?”
“Excuse me?”
“What was she unhappy about? Why did she leave?”
Expressionlessly, Weaver said, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. She didn’t leave a note?”
“A suicide wouldn’t pack clothes and take money.”
Powder frowned and scolded the man. “You don’t have to have your hand on a bottle of pills to write a note. Did she leave you anything at all giving you some idea where or why she went, or how long she would be gone for?”
“Nothing,” Weaver said.
“What special or unusual happened recently?”
“Nothing at all. We lived a very settled, regular life.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Does your wife have any close friends?”
Weaver hesitated. “Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“She has a few people she goes out with. Women. I don’t know how close they are.”
“And she was at home every day, or just Saturdays?”
“She worked in the store three days a week—Monday,Wednesday, and Friday. Unless I was away on a business trip.”
“How often do you go away on a business trip?”
“Now, perhaps every month or so. Generally for the weekend, but sometimes for a couple of days during the week.”
“Was there anything that your wife might have found out about these trips which could have upset her?”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
“And while you were away, she was in the store full-time?”
“Yes.”
“How did she spend her time on the other days?”
“Primarily in housekeeping.”
“And you have no idea why she should go away?”
“None at all.”
“How long have you been married, Mr. Weaver?”
“Since May thirtieth, 1971.”
“And have there been any little hiccups or big hiccups in that time?”
“No.”
“No problems? Neither of you left home for a time?”
“No.”
“Neither of you sought consolation elsewhere for some reason or another or for no reason at all?”
“You mean affairs?”
“That sort of thing.”
“No. I mean, I can’t speak for my wife—”
“Annie.”
“Yes. I can’t speak for her with the same authority I can for myself, but no, not as far as I know.”
“She is a good deal younger than yourself.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve sensed no restlessness in her?”
“None at all.”
“And there has been nothing unusual that happened recently.”
“No.”
“What about in the near future? Did you expect anything unusual to be happening soon?”
“No.” Weaver hesitated. “Well . . .”
“What?”
“We were planning to go camping at the end of this week. We had never done that before.”
“Was Annie looking forward to that?”
“Yes,” Weaver said, but his tone conveyed doubt.
“You’re not sure?”
“It was my idea. That we do something a bit different. She said she was happy to give it a try.”
“You’re not suggesting that she ran out on your marriage to keep from going camping?”
“No,” Weaver said stiffly. “But you asked about things out of the ordinary.”
“So,” Powder said, “she’s never left home before?”
“Never.”
“I suppose you have checked with her parents and other relatives?”
“Her parents are dead. I checked with everyone else I could think of.”
“Mr. Weaver, do you suspect foul play?”
“Foul play? You mean—”
“Murder. Kidnap.”
“Well,” he said, “no.”
“Nothing really to indicate it, eh?”
“That’s right. Nothing.”
“In fact, all that is indicated is that she left home because she felt like a change.”
“She is not impulsive. She likes things just so.”
“Like yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you can’t suggest anything else.”
“No.”
“Mr. Weaver, I would like to ask you another question.”
“What is that?”
“Why are you here?”
“Here?”
“In the Missing Persons office of the Indianapolis Police Department. What exactly is it that you expect us to do for you here?”
“I’m not certain what you can do.”
“All right. Why did you come here?”
“To report my wife as missing.”
“As a fact? Like registering a birth or a death?”
“It is a fact. Is it not something that one is obliged to do?”
“Is there something about your wife’s disappearance you thought we should be interested in, from the police side of things?”
“I felt it should be on record.”
“I see.”
“She is missing,” he said.
Powder asked, “Do you miss her?”
“Well, she’s not there.”
Powder leaned back and looked at the man’s expressionless face. Then he bent to draw a long form from beneath counter level. “OK,” he said. “I am going to want a photograph, all the personal records she left behind, like checkbook, address book, letters. And if you have anything which is likely to have her fingerprints on it, I am going to want that too.”
“I brought a photograph with me,” Weaver said.
It was five-thirty when William Weaver left the office. Powder locked the door behind him and turned to Fleetwood, who was at her desk.
He passed through the counter gap and approached her from behind. Suddenly genial, Powder said, “Your first day in Missing Persons. Was it as much fun as you expected it to be?”
She backed her chair away from the desk and faced him. He saw how utterly exhausted she was. She said, “Lovely.”
Powder turned hard. “What do you make of your Mr. Burrus?”
“His girlfriend has cut out,” Fleetwood said slowly. She tossed the hair from her cheek. “He can’t conceive why she would do that.”
“Why would she?”
“From what he says, she is unpredictable at the best of times.”
“Spell it out for me. Sergeant.”
“He’s known her for less than a year and until three months ago she wouldn’t stay over with him even on occasional nights. Then one day she moved in, though she kept her own place. No explanation why she decided to stay. She isn’t much of an explainer and from what I gather
he was afraid to ask too many questions. She’s moody and what he calls high-strung.”
“What is his stringing?”
“He seems a natural plodder who tries hard to pretend he’s instinctive.”
Powder said, “That a big strong on the judgment and perception, isn’t it?”
Fleetwood shrugged.
“If you’re so strong on your own instincts, then tell me why the girlfriend left.”
“Who knows?”
“Make me a guess. Sergeant.”
“OK,” Fleetwood said. “I say she’s left because he was trying to lock her into the housewife bit.”
“So what’s happened to her?”
“She’s lying in a bathtub somewhere, holding her crotch, and breathing sighs of relief like a machine gun.”
Powder rubbed his face. Then he said, “I got one who doesn’t know why the wife left him too.”
“That accountant type?”
“You seem a little hard on quiet men,” Powder said.
Fleetwood said nothing.
“I’d like you to have a look at the file I’ve opened on him.” He dropped the folder on the desk beside her.
“Any special reason?”
“It’ll give us something to talk about tomorrow morning.”
Fleetwood looked at the file. “I’ve got an hour of physio now.”
Powder asked slowly, “Are you on those sticks at all yet?”
“Sure.”
“Physio after work,” Powder said. “So the therapist is a friend, maybe.And stretches the point on progress reports, maybe,”Powder shook his head and cleared his throat. “Dynamite, kid. That’s really terrific.”
Fleetwood said nothing.
Chapter Seven
Powder went up to the Forensic Lab.
It was closed.
In the detective dayroom, he had a pigeonhole, and when he went and looked in it he found the preliminary forensic report. Also, separately, the fingerprint inquiry result on his unidentified male.
The unidentified male was not on file with the IPD. Powder overwrote on the memo that the prints should be checked with the FBI and put the notice into another pigeonhole.
The forensic report showed that the would-be amnesiac’s partially burned clothes had mixed potential for providing identification information.
The underwear was chain bought and “not the cheapest.”
Skirt and blouse were homemade, from heavy, high-quality cloth. The sewing had been done by hand, and the garments were well worn.
Summer sandals were cheap and fight, probably bought recently.
And there was a belt, an elasticized-cloth souvenir type designed in blue and white with a name repeated over its length. The name was Aurora.
Powder arrived at County Hospital at mealtime. He found his Jane Doe faced with a bed tray bearing two large glasses, each of which had a straw. Her mouth seemed less puffy than it had in the morning, but the face more gray, as if the darkness around the eyes were spreading.
“Hello, Aurora,” Powder said cheerfully.
The woman coughed.
“Had a good day? Hey, don’t let me interrupt your meal, Aurora. You’ve got to eat to get healthy and big and strong again. Right, Aurora?”
She frowned at him and exercised her jaw a few times before saying, “Why do you call me that?” Her voice was still blurry.
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
She was silent in the face of this question, but Powder gave her little chance to seem not to remember.
He sat down heavily in the chair by her bed. “Dear, dear. I’ve had a long day, Aurora. Quite a strain.”
He rubbed his face.
“Hey, what do you know, Aurora? I’ve got a new sergeant in my department who can’t walk. But she’s told the higher-ups that she can. What do you think of that? The book says that I ought to go to the brass and sort it out. I’ve been a book cop all my life, but problem is, the bastards’ll replace her with a dummy. What do you think?”
The woman stared.
“See, there are maybe twenty-five guys in the force already who are too fat to run faster than this gal can wheel herself, so who am I to say that in a department the size of the one in Indianapolis there is no place for one officer in a wheelchair? Is that for me to decide? What would you say? Nothing? You think I should do nothing? Probably good advice. Except it may put me at risk, just when I am trying to build my section’s importance up. Does that matter, you think?”
Nothing.
“On the other hand,” Powder said easily as he shifted position in the chair, “I find I don’t have quite the same drive to sort the world out that I used to. Maybe I’m getting old, eh? I do know that I sit and wonder at the energy of my part-time secretary. Girl called Agnes Shorter. You know her? No, of course you wouldn’t. But she gets through more secretarial work than I can dream up for her and then has time to develop the computer side of the job too. She doesn’t seem to have any other interests, but that’s not my problem. Hey, don’t let me put you off your food. Drink up. Couple of teeth out makes good room for the straws, eh?”
Powder stopped talking for a moment. He leaned forward and pushed the tray a little closer to the woman. She took one of the glasses and began to drink.
“Hungry, huh? Good sign. And you know,” Powder said, “on top of all that, I’ve got troubles with my son. I’m divorced, see, and ever since the breakup, my time with the kid has been real strained. Sides with his mother, though he’s shifty enough I wouldn’t be surprised if he sides with me when he’s with her. Thinks the world owes him a living, as far as I can tell. Not that he’s sponging off us. Kid’s got a job, but miles below his potential. What he hasn’t got is a sense of responsibility, you know. Responsibility, you know what I mean?
The woman remained silent.
“Do you know what I mean, Aurora?”
She said nothing.
“Aurora, you’re not pulling your weight here. I’m doing all the talking and when I ask you a civil question, even then you don’t say anything. I’m beginning to think that you’re not interested in my problems or in why I’ve had such a tiring day.”
Nothing.
“Silent treatment, eh? Well, let me tell you about one more problem I’ve got, Aurora. Aurora. Hard name to make a nickname from, eh? But on top of all these other problems and on top of my basic job itself—which is heart-breaking stuff, kids leaving home, telling their parents they can’t stand them anymore, running out. Even sometimes murder and kidnap. And the adults, leaving home and hurting just as much as kids, only we don’t have time to work on finding them. On top of all that, I’ve also got a goddanm self-indulgent woman in the hospital playing dumb-ass games about not knowing who she is and wasting my time and everybody’s money that could be spent on better things. What do you think about that?”
The woman did not respond.
“Agree with me that it shows no sense of responsibility, do you?”
The woman shifted her position in the bed for the first time.
Powder exhaled heavily, and leaned forward. In a slower, more formal voice he said, “I told you this morning that I don’t believe you have amnesia.”
“I don’t remember anything,” she said suddenly, as if slapping his face.
“You stuck a gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger. To me that means you know only too well who you are.”
“Who I am is nobody’s business.”
Powder spread his hands to encompass the whole of the problem. “But it is, Aurora,” he said. “In the whole of the goddamn, unjust, and cruel world, I am the one person whose business it literally is.”
Her eyes dropped to her drinks.
“I don’t mean to minimize such anguish as inclined you to chew on a gun barrel, but you give me no chance to help or even sympathize. And I am not just going to go away. Put yourself in my boots. Hypothetical situation. What do you do if you are me and you as you continue to play hard to identify?”
<
br /> “I don’t know. What do I do?”
“You take your fingerprints and add them to the stuff the ID people are already working on, which includes your burned clothes. Then in a day or two your picture gets spread all over the newspapers and TV. And then impressions of the teeth you’ve got left get sent to all the dentists. And it doesn’t rest, my dear Aurora, until you have been identified. Because, believe me, I will identify you,Aurora.”
The woman was distinctly uneasy.
“So the question is, what is the point of all this work and time and trouble? I’d be a lot happier putting in the same time and effort trying to sort out your difficulties. Maybe I can help and maybe not. But no way does it make sense for you to do anything but tell me who you are.”
Powder spread his hands again, and put an expression on his face that he felt, inside, to be an irresistibly supportive and trustworthy one. Faced with the expression he felt was on his face, he would confide his middle name.
The woman looked at him and thought. But did not speak. Then she turned away to bury her face in her pillow.
The tray across her body bounced. The two glasses tipped over.
Powder sat and watched for a moment. In a wave he felt the great tiredness, the great pointlessness that he had claimed for himself at the beginning of the confrontation.
He rose and left.
In the corridor he met the slightly built nurse with the large eyes and commanding manner he had spoken to on his way out in the morning.
“How’s your bedside manner this evening?” she asked him.
“In truly peak form.”
“Have you got her name yet?”
“Yeah. Jane Doe. Look, how strong is she? Physically.”
“She’s all right. Why?”
“I’ve upset her and threatened her.”
“You’re saying she might skip out in the night?”
“I guess so.”
“You better put someone on her door.”
“If I did that, I’d have to book her. I’d rather pass that until I know it’s the right way to go.”
“All I can do is make it hard for her to get access to outdoor clothes and tell my nurses to keep an eye out.”
Powder nodded slowly.
“Thanks,” he said, eventually. Then, “How come you don’t look as tired as I feel?”
“Because I love my job.”
“I just wondered,” Powder said. He walked to the elevator.
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