by Marti Green
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Maybe she didn’t know anything. Or maybe she knew that Sunshine Harrington wasn’t the Calhouns’ daughter. That would be fine. Then she’d mosey on home from her adventure vacation and he’d go back to his wife. But if not, well, he’d had to clean up problems before. He wouldn’t shy away from it now.
Although he’d been away from home for five days now, he wasn’t cut off from what was happening back home. The hotel had a computer for guests, and each night he logged on to The News Dispatch, Michigan City’s daily newspaper. And last night he’d seen it: George Calhoun’s execution had been stayed for seven days. He knew what that meant. They were waiting for Nancy to get back from her trip, waiting for her to lead them to Sunshine Harrington, waiting to determine if she was George Calhoun’s daughter. If that happened, if it turned out to be true, they’d start wondering whose body was in that grave. He couldn’t let that occur.
He sat in the hotel lobby at a seat near the front desk, a local newspaper held up to his face, waiting for Nancy’s arrival. The police badge was tucked into his jacket pocket and his nerves were in check. Shortly after three o’clock a bedraggled group of twelve arrived and began checking in. There were a family of four, three couples, and two single women. One woman looked to be in her twenties, the other considerably older. The older one must be Nancy, he thought. His guess was confirmed when she took her turn at the desk. “Nancy Ferguson,” she told the clerk, and he handed her a room-access card.
He carefully folded his newspaper and followed her group into the elevator. When she got off on the third floor, he followed, watching which room she entered, and continued down the corridor. He didn’t want to be seen talking to her. There couldn’t be anyone who might identify him later, when her body was found—if it came to that. After the corridor had cleared, he walked back to her room and knocked on the door.
“Ms. Ferguson?” He showed her his badge. “I’m a detective and I have a few questions about an ongoing investigation. May I come in?”
Nancy stood there in the open doorway, with her arms folded. “What investigation?”
“I’d prefer not to talk in the hallway.”
“Then I guess you’d better tell me what this is about.”
“It’s a murder investigation and it concerns Sunshine Harrington.”
Nancy’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! Has she been killed! Please tell me that’s not so.”
“No, no, she’s fine. But she may have information that will be helpful in connection with an old unsolved murder.”
Visibly relieved, Nancy invited him in. He closed the door behind him.
“How could Sunshine know anything about an old murder? She’s too young.”
He cleared his throat. “I understand you were close friends with her mother.”
Nancy nodded.
“Did Mrs. Harrington ever tell you how she came to raise Sunshine as her daughter?”
Nancy looked at the floor. “She was her brother’s daughter. He and his wife were killed in a car accident.”
“We know that’s not true. A man’s life is at stake now.” He raised his voice. “This isn’t a time to preserve secrets. If I learn that you’re lying to me, you’re guilty of obstruction of justice. That’s a felony. You’d be looking at serious jail time.”
After some hesitation, Nancy said, “She found Sunshine sitting in a chair at the Mayo Clinic. She was a very sick child, abandoned by her parents. Trudy couldn’t bear the thought of this little girl being shuffled through the foster-care system, so she took her home. She saved Sunshine’s life.”
“And where is Sunshine now?”
Nancy gave him Sunshine’s address. It was the last thing she ever did.
CHAPTER
30
The Final Week
The phone rang in Tommy’s office and he picked it up immediately. Everyone was on edge this week, waiting—no, praying—for one of the various lines they had floating out there to pop up with the missing answers. “Tommy Noorland here.”
“Tommy, this is Dr. Jeffreys, from the Mayo Clinic.”
“Doc, please tell me you found something.”
“Yes, finally. Sorry it took so long, but it was buried in our closed-files room. I hope it’s not too late.”
“We got a reprieve. Just for one week. So tell me, is it the same girl?”
“There’s no way I could tell you that definitively without DNA testing, but I can tell you this: Their medical records are identical. Same type of leukemia, and the medical history entered into the charts is exactly what’s in the medical history you got from Angelina Calhoun’s doctor.”
If they’d been in the same room, Tommy would have gotten down on his hands and knees and kissed the doctor’s feet. “Doc, I owe you big time. You ever need anything from me, just call and it’s yours.”
“Just let me know how it turns out, okay?
“You got it, Doc.”
Tommy walked to Dani’s office.
“You’re smiling like a Cheshire cat, Tommy.”
“I just got word from Dr. Jeffreys. The medical histories match. They’ve got to be the same girl.”
Dani leaned back in her chair and frowned.
“I thought you’d be ecstatic.”
“I am. I just don’t think it’ll be enough for the governor. They need the girl. Or woman, now, I guess.”
“The mother’s friend, Nancy—she’ll be back from her trip soon. She’s got to know where the daughter is living. After all, somebody had to contact Sunshine when her mother died, and it was probably Nancy.”
“When is she due back?’
“Tomorrow.”
“And you left a message on her voicemail to call? In case the neighbor forgets?”
“All done.”
“Then we just have to wait.”
“We’ll find her, Dani,” Tommy said,
“I hope so.”
By Friday, Tommy still hadn’t heard from Nancy. Everyone in the office was on edge. Each ring of the phone on his desk felt like a jolt of electricity to his nerves. He fumed each time it turned out to be someone other than Nancy. He was of no use to anyone, including himself, and decided to get out of the office. He’d left his cell-phone number on the message to Nancy. She could reach him wherever he went.
Before he left, he made one more call, a call he’d made every day that week. When Cannon picked up the phone, Tommy said, “Hey, it’s me again. Any news?”
“Yeah, he got back late last night. I’m going over there today to speak to him.”
“Hank, I know I sound like a broken record, but what’s the harm in getting a judge to sign a court order? If it’s not done today, then it’ll be Monday before anything happens, and that’s too late to get DNA testing done.”
“The harm is what it’ll do to that family. They’ve suffered enough without having suspicion turned on them for their daughter’s disappearance. Before that happens, I want to make damn sure there’s good reason.”
“Isn’t the fingerprint enough of a reason?”
“Look, I’ve been working with that family for eighteen years. I’m the one who cleared them as suspects. I need to look Mickey in the face and ask him about it. I’ll know whether he’s lying to me. And in my book, a partial fingerprint showing up on a piece of paper could be something or nothing at all.”
Tommy knew he wouldn’t convince him otherwise. All week he’d tried, to no avail. “Just do me a favor and call me after you speak to him, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll do you that favor. One cop to another.”
Tommy let Bruce know he’d be out for the rest of the day and took the subway up to Central Park. He entered at 59th Street and began walking north. Joggers, bicyclists, and roller skaters of all sizes and ages scooted past him. The smell of summer was in the air, even though
it wouldn’t officially arrive for another month. The fragrance of the spring flowers mixed with the warm air. Despite the hordes of people in the park, it was a place Tommy could go to ease the tension. And he was filled with tension.
He headed along the east side of the park to The Dene, an area with rolling hills and valleys. Carolina silverbell, a white flower shaped like a bell, was in bloom. The flower always reminded him of weddings. At 76th Street he started walking to the west side, stopping first at the Azalea Pond. The bird-watchers were out in full force, and so were the azaleas and barberry bush. He stopped to smell the California wild rose, with its delicate pink coloring. Friends were always surprised when they learned of his interest in flowers and gardening. Apparently, it didn’t match his image as a tough guy. “Tough guys can be tender too,” he’d tell them. Gardening relaxed him—digging up the dirt to plant the flowers, pulling the weeds so they didn’t crowd the plants. It satisfied him to work with his hands to bring something to life.
When he reached the area of the park known as the Shakespeare Garden, at West 79th Street, he climbed up the hill, found a bench, and sat down. The other spring flowers were in bloom: the yellow daffodils, day lilies, and crown imperial, the purple crocuses and irises, purple and yellow primrose, pink and red tulips, and the exotic-looking hellebore and knapweed. His wife had given him a book on flowers and plants one Father’s Day, and over time he’d learned to identify them.
He’d needed to get out of the office, get away from the pall that hung over everyone. The death penalty had always made sense to him. An eye for an eye—that’s what the Bible said. But bureaucracy seemed to get in the way of that simple principle. It wasn’t an eye for an eye when the person being executed was innocent. He’d never had to face this before at HIPP. Many clients were exonerated based on DNA evidence. Some were freed or got new trials for other reasons. And for some, HIPP’s involvement made no difference at all; the prisoner remained incarcerated or went on to be executed if it was a capital offense. In those cases, though, guilt or innocence hadn’t been so certain. People viewed things differently, and who was he to argue with that? But he had to agree with Dani on this: The little girl’s body found in the woods was not Angelina Calhoun, and that meant George did not murder his daughter. And unless Nancy Ferguson returned his call soon, it looked like an innocent man would die.
It was after six o’clock when Tommy returned to his home in Flatbush. He’d stopped at his favorite tavern for a few drinks first. The scotch had helped, as had the banter with Nick, his bartender and friend. The kids were already scattered, the two youngest playing Nintendo Wii on the television, the older ones out with friends.
“Job getting to you?” Patty, his wife, asked as she warmed up his dinner.
“This is a tough one.”
“You can’t take it personally.”
“No? Then who should take it personally? The governor? The judges? Don’t they all go to sleep at night saying they can’t take it personally? Maybe if I’d pushed harder I could have gotten Cannon to move on it. Maybe if I camped out at Nancy Ferguson’s doorstep I’d get an answer from her. So, yeah, I take it personally.”
Patty came over to Tommy and began massaging his neck. “You’re so tight,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“Go ahead. I’ll bounce back.”
“Everyone feels so goddamn helpless. And you know what the funny thing is? The calmest one is Calhoun. He’s okay with what’s going to happen.”
“He’s been in prison a long time. Maybe he’s just ready for it to be over.”
“It’s not that. He believes his daughter is alive. Hell, we all believe she’s alive. But for him, it’s some sort of redemption. He’s totally at peace now.”
The oven timer pinged. As Patty placed the food on the table, Tommy’s cell phone rang.
“Mr. Noorland, this is May Oliver, Nancy’s neighbor.”
“Have you heard from Nancy?”
“Oh, it’s the most awful thing,” she said, her voice choked. “Her daughter just left. She’s dead.”
Tommy didn’t follow. “Who’s dead?”
“Nancy. She must have slipped on the rocks and fallen into the cavern. Out in Arizona. They said her neck was broken. Some hikers found her yesterday. I didn’t know if I should call you, but you made it sound so urgent. I can’t believe it. She was so young for this to happen.”
Tommy thanked her for calling and sunk into his chair.
“What’s wrong?” Patty asked. “You look awful.”
“It’s over,” Tommy said. “We’re out of options.”
He knew he had to tell Dani but dreaded making the call. “Do me a favor, doll, put the food back in the oven. I’m gonna take a shower.”
Feeling no more refreshed after the shower, he dried himself off and dialed Dani’s number.
“That’s it,” Dani said after he’d told her. “The ties to Sunshine Harrington have all been cut. As far as anyone in authority is concerned, it’s as though she doesn’t exist.”
Tommy couldn’t get Sunshine Harrington out of his thoughts. Everyone at HIPP believed she was George and Sallie’s daughter, including him. The medical records didn’t lie. Even though Dr. Jeffreys wouldn’t say with absolute certainty that the two girls were one and the same, it was too coincidental to be otherwise. No, it all pointed to one conclusion: Sunshine Harrington was Angelina Calhoun.
But how could they find her? It was his job to investigate, to look for clues, put them together and get results. He pushed the food around on his plate, unable to eat. Patty talked to him, but her words were a blur. Suddenly, he had one more idea, a long shot but worth a try.
Trudy Harrington’s neighbor Laura Devine had told Tommy that Sunshine was married. Somewhere there had to be a record of a marriage license. “Patty, I can’t eat now. Maybe later. I’m just not hungry.”
Patty nodded as he headed down the hall to his den. He sat in front of the computer and typed “marriage licenses” into the Google search bar. A string of websites appeared, all offering access to marriage records. He chose one and typed in the name “Sunshine Harrington.” He clicked the box for all states and then clicked on “Search.” Nothing. That’s what the screen said. “There are no results for this name. Please try another name.” Damn!
Sunshine Harrington had grown up in Minnesota. Chances are that’s where she’d have married. It was one hour earlier in Minnesota. There was still time. He placed a call to the Minnesota Department of Health, Section of Vital Statistics. “What do I need to do to check a marriage record?” he asked when a female voice answered.
“Where was the party married?” she asked.
“Not sure, but maybe Olmsted County.”
“Then you need to call the local registrar in Olmsted County. They’ll send you a form to fill out and you send it back with an eight-dollar fee. You’ll have to provide a form of proof of your kinship to the married couple. It can be a driver’s license or birth certificate. A few other things, but it’s all spelled out on the application. Do you need the phone number for the registrar’s office?”
“No thanks, I’m set.” Tommy knew it would be fruitless to start dealing with a new bureaucrat at this stage. Instead, he dialed Helen at the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Rochester. She’d gone out of her way for him before and he hoped she would again.
He caught her in the office. “I need a big favor,” Tommy said after they’d exchanged greetings. He filled her in on everything he’d learned since she’d tried to help him. “So now that we know what happened to Angelina Calhoun, we’re stuck trying to find her. I thought maybe if I knew her married name, I could do an Internet search for her.”
Helen remained silent awhile. “I’m not supposed to do this,” she finally said, “but if ever there was a reason to bend the rules, this is it. Hold on and I’ll chec
k our computer records.”
Tommy waited nervously for Helen to get back on the phone. Even if she found the name of Sunshine’s husband, would that be enough? Despite the astounding amount of information on the web, there were gaps. And even if he had the name, was there enough time to track her down?
“Tommy, you still there?”
“Tell me you have a name for me.” Tommy wondered if she could hear the desperation in his voice.
“I’m sorry. If she’s married, it wasn’t in Olmsted County. There’s no marriage license for her in our records.”
He had failed. It had happened on occasion before, both with the FBI and at HIPP. There were times when he did everything right, when he explored every avenue, and still came up empty. He knew it wasn’t his fault that Sunshine couldn’t be found. And he knew an innocent man would die.
CHAPTER
31
Mickey Conklin had expected Detective Cannon’s visit. Janine had asked him whether he’d ever had Stacy’s fingerprints taken. He’d forgotten all about it. They’d been walking through the mall and saw a sign that read, “Help Us Help Your Child.” He went to the booth to see what it was about. A registry of children’s fingerprints, in case anything happened to them. A surefire way to identify your child. He’d thought it was a good idea at the time.
“I’m really embarrassed to be asking you about this,” Cannon said. He was sitting on a couch in Mickey’s living room, a cup of coffee in his hand. “That investigator from New York keeps pushing me, and, well, I’m just here to get him off my back.”