by Laini Giles
“Mother couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t have gotten in touch when he left. She cried a lot. But my father tried to comfort her. Dad was convinced that whatever happened had been an accident. They knew Tom, and they knew he wasn’t capable of hurting anyone. So, if something had happened, it hadn’t been intentional. No one knew, since they never found the girl. Dad, being a hopeless romantic, was convinced they had eloped, that rich girl and Tom. He was convinced they had run away to get married and had changed their names when they moved away. He figured they just wanted to get lost in the big city somewhere. And he tried to tell Mom that they were both all right; they just didn’t want to be found. I guess Dad was a bit too optimistic.”
“Did anything clue your dad into a possible name change?”
“Well, yeah. The postcard.”
“The what?” Frank leaned forward, his pulse picking up an extra beat.
“Mother got a postcard a few months after his disappearance. It might still be in with all this stuff.” Frances reached into the back of the album again and pulled out a card, which she handed to Frank.
It was a pastel-tinted card from the turn of the century. On the front was the image of a pink brick hotel with flat top, turrets on either end of the facade, and an elaborate sign in some sort of Germanic-looking font high above the street. The label said, “Great Northern Hotel, Jackson Blvd and Dearborn St, Chicago.”
Frank flipped the postcard over and read the note.
“D—
Miss you and the girls more than I can say. Can’t tell you much more, I’m afraid. But I love you and miss you all. Please don’t worry, as I’m fine. I’ve found a new life, and I hope everyone can forgive me for just disappearing.
T.”
The return postmark was also from Chicago. Tom must have been depending on his sister’s loyalty because if the police had known to search in Chicago for him, they might have been able to unearth something years before.
“I wonder why no one at the post office picked up on the addressee,” Frank wondered out loud. “There weren’t many others residing at ‘Beardsley Farm, Newfield.’ Anyone paying attention would have been able to bring the information to the authorities.”
“Not sure. But Mother never said a word. Guess she figured Uncle Tom had been through enough and it was her way of thumbing her nose at the police. They couldn’t afford it, but Dad hired a private eye to check on him in Chicago. He never found a thing. That was why Dad was convinced he’d changed his name.”
“Chicago,” Frank mused. It explained a lot.
Chapter Thirty
Ithaca, New York
October 1986
After speaking to Frances a bit more about her uncle, Frank headed home, picking up some pasta from Joe’s on the way so he and Linda could brainstorm after some nourishment.
“One of these days, I’m going to cook you a real dinner,” she joked.
After stuffing themselves on take-out spaghetti and meatballs and a couple of sodas, they read over parts of the diary again as it sat amongst the detritus of Libbie Morgan’s life. Propping his feet up on the coffee table, Frank sat lost in thought as Linda read over his shoulder. He had to be overlooking something. Thomas Estabrook must have missed something in covering his tracks. Upon his return home, Frank had let Linda know that Estabrook had ended up in Chicago. He might not have stayed there, and he might have begun living under an assumed name. But Frank felt in his gut that Chicago was the key. Everything else had been a dead end.
“So at some point, he took the train there from Erie,” Linda said.
Frank nodded. Months ago, he had begun filling out the standard paperwork to discover the possible last whereabouts of Estabrook, and he was beginning to get responses from the various agencies he had contacted. First, he had written to the Social Security Administration to find out if they had any records of Estabrook under that name. Yesterday, he had received a form letter back stating there had never been any application for social security filed for Thomas Estabrook.
Likewise, the State of New York had no death certificate filed for him. There were no local death records because Estabrook had not remained here. Frank had a feeling that if he requested anything now from the State of Illinois, he would also obtain a negative response. He was sure of it. The man was guilty, and he had fled seventy years before. He was probably dead and had been for years. But still, the case gnawed at Frank. What was he missing? With no records under his birth name, Thomas had to have changed his moniker to something else. His reference to “a new life” in Frances Dayheart’s postcard lent that theory special credence. Plenty of men back then deserted wives and children and popped up miles away with new families. In 1916, anyone who wanted to disappear could do it for good. A new identity would explain everything. Now if they could just figure out what the new name might have been.
Reaching into the box again, Frank fingered the old photo of Estabrook. He studied the background for anything he could use. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. On impulse, he removed the portrait from its card surround and saw something he never expected on the back.
“Linda look! The very respectable Mr. D. H. Lawrence,” he read out loud. “I’ll be damned. I wonder if it was supposed to be a joke.”
“Well, you said you saw the guy in the other picture Olive had and it was Estabrook. He signed this photo to Libbie, and it matches the one she showed you. Since Libbie was, in effect, tutoring him, having him read literature, it must have been some sort of private joke between them.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
Calling the library’s information line, he got Helen Ross, the main librarian, on the line.
“Hi, Helen. This is Frank Conley.”
“Hello, Frank. What can I do for you?” she asked.
“You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I need this for a case. Can you tell me what the writer D.H. Lawrence’s full first name was?”
“You’re right. I think you’re crazy,” she said, chuckling. “I’ll have you know that’s one of the first things they teach you in librarian school,” she said. “His first name was David.”
“Helen, you’re a gem.”
“Does this mean I get credit in the paper when you solve the case and everything?” she joked.
“You know what? I think it does!” he said and bid her a hasty goodbye. Turning to Linda, he began to make plans. “Linda, do me a favor. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up.
“More information. I won’t be a minute. Keep the couch warm for me.”
He leaned down for a kiss. Then, checking his notes from Russ, he found Estabrook’s birth date and stuffed the slip of paper in his pocket, in case he needed it. Hurrying toward the door, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the local social security office on State Street.
There was nothing like a federal office building to provoke mid-week doldrums in just about anyone. The pale green cast to the walls, bad fluorescent lighting, and industrial office furniture were depressing in the extreme. Was it any wonder that everyone brought loads of plants and doo-dads for their desks? They had to liven it up a little. Elaine Kennedy kept a small collection of stuffed animals on a shelf above her desk and a glass dish of Hershey’s kisses on her credenza. She was contemplating her Swanson Salisbury Steak TV dinner from the work fridge when Frank Conley from the police station came running toward her desk, breathless.
“Elaine, I need your help.”
“What is it, Frank?”
“I need a couple of searches. Right now.”
“I was just getting ready to go grab some dinner…”
“Elaine, please. It won’t take a minute, and this is huge. The biggest case of my career.”
“Seriously? Wow. I suppose my dinner can wait.
Hold on.” She stuffed her pencil behind her ear, a look of grim determination on her face as she logged into her CRT. The green cursor blinked against the black background, waiting for input. “Okay, hit me.”
“I need to see what you might have on a David Lawrence, birth date February eighteenth, 1898 in New York.”
Her bright red nails clackety-clacked over the keys in a staccato rhythm.
“That gives me one-hundred results. Anything to narrow it down?”
“Any deaths in Illinois?”
Clackety-clackety-clack.
“No.” She looked up expectantly.
“Try David H. Lawrence, same birth date.”
Her fingers clicked speedily over the keys once again. “Twenty this time.”
Frank thought a moment. “Okay, now subtract any you have with a last residence in New York.”
“Four still alive. That’s a little better. Here’s what I got.” She printed off a dot matrix copy of her find and handed it to him to study:
DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Harvard, McHenry, IL)
DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Lonaconing, Garrett, MD)
DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Weslaco, Hidalgo, TX)
DAVID H. LAWRENCE 18 Feb 1898 (last residence Kissimmee, Orange, FL)
“So whaddya think?” she asked.
“Elaine, I think I love you,” Frank said, hugging her then stuffing his paper in his top pocket and running for the door.
“You owe me dinner!” she called after him as he rounded the corner.
Back at his place, Frank showed the page to Linda. They had no sooner begun conferring when his phone rang.
“Conley.”
“Hey, Frank. It’s Doc. They told me at the office that you’d already taken off for the day.”
“Doc, good to hear from you, man. Sorry I’ve been a little distant. Busy trying to figure out the finer points of nineteen-sixteen Ithaca news stories. What’s up?”
“I told you I’d let you know about the results of the poison checking I did on your…aunt. I checked for arsenic, strychnine, and thallium, which would have been the biggies back then. No poisons evident at all. But I did find something else that could help you.”
“Right now, I can use whatever you’ve got.”
“There are nicks in a couple of the pelvic bones. Mostly around the coccyx and sacrum.” At Frank’s silence, Doc continued, “That’d be around the tailbone area for you un-medically initiated folk.”
“Aah. Got it. So does that tell you anything helpful?”
“The interesting part is where I found the nicks. They were on the inside of the skeleton. Now, I haven’t encountered much of this type of injury, but I’m thinking she may have had an abortion, Frank.” He paused, knowing it had to be difficult to hear. “A really bad one.”
Equipped with the new information he had received from the Social Security office and from Doc, Frank and Linda made calls to directory assistance, and in a few hours, they had found what he was looking for. And he had also booked a flight into O’Hare, leaving the next day.
Harvard, Illinois
October 1986
Willowbrook Manor had such a pretty name. But it was such an ugly place—an old cinderblock building north of Harvard in the far reaches of Illinois near the Wisconsin state line.
Painted a stomach-churning mint green, it was a “senior care facility” in the way that prisons were “convict care facilities.” Dozens of miserable old people were crammed in side by side, eating inedible food, rarely visited by their loved ones, with their needs barely seen to by the dregs of the nursing community. The cheap furniture was thirty years old, and the place reeked of Pine-Sol, unchanged bedpans, and despair. The only thing worse than living there would have been sleeping on the street.
Resident David Lawrence was an emaciated shell of a man. Age, emphysema, and diabetes had made a mockery of his long-ago virility and good looks. These days, he was unable to leave his wheelchair, and he longed for the outdoors. He could almost smell the fresh air as he looked out the window, watching the robins and red-winged blackbirds play near the pond outside. But the keepers never took them outside. He’d do just about anything to see his home again—a place full of steep hills, deep valleys, and majestic waterfalls. Though he hadn’t experienced the real outdoors in years, he had always found Illinois too flat for his tastes. The prairies were dead boring compared to the beauty he had once known.
He had come to Chicago in nineteen sixteen, finding work right away. After being drafted in nineteen seventeen like all the other able-bodied men around, he was lucky to return from the war with just a bayonet wound to the shoulder.
But life had not been kind to him. His wife Ethel had died with their newborn son in nineteen twenty-four. He considered it payback for his transgressions and had never cursed God for it. Somehow, he figured his creator was teaching him a lesson, so he called it even.
After Ethel, he’d never found another woman with whom he wanted to settle down. Truth be told, he was afraid he’d be a jinx to any wife. And he didn’t think his heart could stand to be broken like that again. The Depression had hit him hard. His father-in-law had been forced to close the factory, and he’d had to resort to odd jobs and selling apples to keep his cheap room on Halsted Street. His finances had picked up a bit after the war when he got a job as a die sinker at International Harvester, but it had been a struggle. The money he inherited from his father-in-law’s death in nineteen forty-six had at least kept him eating with a roof over his head.
And now, he was here in this geriatric hell on Earth. Waiting to die like some pathetic sap. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t feel his feet. When he could, it was either like they were on fire or he was walking on a bed of nails. He hated the thought of dying. The only thing he hated more was continuing to live.
So imagine his surprise to hear the nurse announce that crisp fall day that he had a visitor. He had no relatives left and no friends who visited. At least, he didn’t think he did. He assumed his sister and brother-in-law were both gone, but he wasn’t sure about his nieces. He wondered how they were and what they were doing now. He’d thought many times about contacting them, but fear had taken over and he’d decided not to. He hoped they could all forgive him.
He looked up, intrigued, to see a tall fellow with snapping blue eyes and silvering hair approaching him with confidence. The man wore a brown tweed jacket over a white T-shirt and pressed jeans over black boots.
“Mr. Lawrence? Mr. David Lawrence?”
“That’s what it says on that plaque outside my room,” he said, irritated. He didn’t know the man, and it was obvious the guy didn’t know him, either. Probably trying to sell him some insurance. As if anyone would stand to benefit anything from his death. Let the state worry about it and bury him in a pauper’s grave. He’d go to it laughing, his whole life a big, dark secret.
“My name is Senior Investigator Frank Conley. I’m from Ithaca, New York.”
Lawrence lasered his eyes onto Frank’s.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice wavering. “I think you’re lost. Ithaca’s that way.” He pointed out the east-facing window.
“Aaaaah, I see you know it,” Frank countered, pulling up his pant legs a bit as he helped himself to a seat across from the old man.
“Well,” the geezer backtracked, “I know where New York is, for goodness’ sake.”
“Good. Because I have every reason to believe I’ll be extraditing you there very soon,” Frank said, smiling.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Extradite?” Lawrence wheezed. “For what?”
“For the murder of Miss Elizabeth Morgan in September of nineteen sixteen.” Frank leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms so he could see the reaction.
&
nbsp; The papery face in front of him seemed to collapse on itself. Tiny wrinkles became massive chasms in the face as it fell, the eyes lost any life they had, and the old man wept piteously. Frank had been prepared for anger, protestations, or regret, but not the utter despair he saw before him. Frank couldn’t remember seeing a man cry before unless it was a father he’d just had to inform about a child’s death. And this wasn’t just crying. These were great keening sobs that looked like they could kill him before Frank even got him home to stand trial.
Panting and bawling, the old man gained some composure at last, but not before a nurse approached and checked his oxygen, exhorting him to please calm down and giving Frank the stink-eye for causing her patient such medical distress.
Frank sat, trying to be patient as she got the situation under control. She fetched the old man some tissues and helped him wipe his face and blow his nose. Turning, she cautioned Frank against upsetting him again. Then she retreated to the front desk and her conversation with another nurse.
“It’s not what you think…” Lawrence whispered, wheezing.
“It never is,” Frank said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened…Tom?”
“We were in love, I thought. We were going to run away together.”
Ithaca, New York
September 16, 1916
He gazed at Libbie in wonder when he picked her up in front of Platt & Colt’s that evening. She looked beautiful as usual. Her dress was a black silk, which seemed unusual for a wedding day choice, but sometimes, there was no following Libbie’s reasoning. He figured she was going for drama.
What had begun as a perfect day had now clouded over. However, nothing could get his spirits down. The sun was receding behind the hills to the west, streaking the sky with watercolor swaths of flaming gold and peach. Massing thunderheads loomed, and the wind whipped about in abrupt chilly gusts that shook the car.