by DB Gilles
“Since we hung up I made a list of the names of her friends that I remember. She's got quite a few.”
“A bunch showed up at the Funeral Home,” I said.
“The night we met?” said Gretchen sweetly.
“Yes. I've talked to one of them. Viper.”
“I already phoned him. No answer. These kids probably all have their own phones. Some are under their parent's names. Some are unlisted. With a little luck we might make contact with a few and through, them, the others.”
We reached the kitchen. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples was in the air. She gestured to the table. “Make yourself comfortable.” A freshly baked pie was in the center of the table. As I sat down I noticed that she had the telephone directory spread out on the table. Next to it was a yellow legal pad with several names scribbled in pencil.
“Do you want to call or look up numbers?” she asked.
“Do these kids know you?” She nodded yes. “Then you call. It might not be too productive when they learn the town Funeral Director is on the line.”
Gretchen smiled. “Alright,” she said. “Let's go.”
It took us about twenty-five minutes to find and dial the numbers that were available. Of the eleven names that Gretchen could remember, we managed to reach six and through them we got five more names, as well as the numbers we couldn't find. But not one of the kids we reached even knew that Quilla was missing. Two girls had seen her yesterday and both claimed to have talked to her briefly, each saying that Quilla told them she was investigating her Aunt's murder. After reaching the last of the names, we continued to dial Viper's number, still getting his Voicemail.
“When you talked to Quilla yesterday did she have anything specific to say?” I said.
“She had another hypothesis about the killer. It was difficult for her to tell me because she knows how strongly I feel that my mother is still alive. But in the interest of helping I was willing to suspend my disbelief. She brought up the notion that -- assuming someone murdered my mother -- is there any guarantee that she was his first victim?”
“I never thought of that.”
“Quilla's point is that who's to say my mother wasn't his third victim? Or tenth? And that your girlfriend and Brandy came later.”
That would mean he's an old man now.”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “If he started his killing at, for discussion sake, age twenty-one. If he killed my mother he would only be forty-six. If he started even younger, say when he was in high school, he'd be in his early forties. On the other hand, if he started at thirty, with my mother, he'd be fifty-four. And as for him being an old man, let's say an older man, if he started killing when he was thirty and the first victim was ten years before my mother, he'd only be in his mid-sixties. Everything hinges on when the killer began. If he was twenty-one and started fifty years ago, then we're talking an elderly man. But if my mother was the first and he was anywhere from twenty-one to, let's be generous and say forty, then it could be someone from his mid-forties to mid-sixties. The upshot of all this, Del, is that Perry Cobb needs to do some checking beyond my mother's disappearance and since Brandy's murder nine years ago. Despite the fact that I still believe my mother is alive, I'm willing to confront him and demand that he re-open her case solely for the purpose of bringing some peace of mind to Quilla and you.”
“If she gets it I'll be happy.”
“After all this time, you should too. It's only fair.”
I shrugged. She looked at me with an odd expression, almost one of disapproval. “Your ambivalence surprises me. I've been getting the impression that finding out what happened to Alyssa has been uppermost on your mind for years, like me with my mother. Now you shrug your shoulders?”
“You know how there are people who bury their emotions and hide their true feelings?” Gretchen nodded yes. “Well, I'm one of them. I don't like to get too hopeful or excited about things. Like the old saying: 'never complain, never explain.' I keep a comfortable balance.”
“I've found that impossible to do since I grew up,” she said sternly. “Life keeps hitting me in the face. It took me a long time to learn that hiding doesn't work. It only fends off the inevitable. Every time I decide to lock myself away from the world...the world comes and drags me back. Like now. The person I'm probably closest to in the world is missing and might be in trouble and, as much as I'd like to be tucked in bed reading a book, I have to do something to find her.” She ran her fingers through her hair and simultaneously took a deep breath. “Should we notify Perry Cobb about Quilla's idea?”
I shook my head no. “He's up to his ass in theories. He needs something tangible.”
“That's how it was with the detectives I hired to find my mother. 'Give me something to go on' they'd all say. Anything. I'd get so frustrated. They were the detectives, but they wanted me to do all the preliminary work.”
“What did you do?”
“Read every word I could find on her disappearance. Tried to talk to people who knew her, but it was next to impossible. I was so young when she disappeared and I didn't start to seriously take action until I was in my late teens. The police seemed disinterested. No one remembered. Not even my father.”
“You asked him about her disappearance?”
“Of course I did. Constantly. But when he was institutionalized they beat him. Whatever memories he had got knocked out of his brain. I hardly knew him as a little girl. I was fifteen when he got out. It was like talking to a stranger. He barely remembered me. He didn't even live with me until I finished college and I had a little money. When his time was up they put him in a halfway house in Youngstown for six months. Then he lived in a rooming house and got a job as a night clerk at a third-rate hotel. If I wouldn't have bought this house and brought him here to live with me he would either be dead or wandering the streets of Youngstown. As far as information about my mother or what happened to her he's pretty useless. I used to show him pictures of her to try and trigger his memory... but nothing worked. Sometimes I find him gazing at her picture. I wonder if he's doing it because a glint of memory has kicked in or if he's trying to force himself to remember. What he does say sometimes is how pretty she is. He'll be staring at her picture and just say, 'Very pretty' or 'So pretty' or variations on that. I keep pictures of her all over the house with the hope that it might spark his memory, but... it hasn't. Would you like to see her picture?”
“Yes. I'd enjoy that.”
Gretchen stepped into the hallway we had passed through earlier and returned a few seconds later carrying a framed photograph which she handed to me. It was an 8 x 10 color print of a gorgeous brunette who bore an amazing resemblance to a young Kathleen Turner.
“This is she,” said Gretchen. “This is my mother.”
“She's gorgeous. No. Beautiful.”
“It was taken on her thirtieth birthday.”
“Thirtieth?” I thought to myself. “She looks more like twenty.” To Gretchen, I said, “She looks much younger.”
“I know.” She smiled. “The handful of people I talked to who knew her all remarked about how young she looked. Everyone thought she was in high school. She was still getting carded at bars into her thirties.”
“This could be important,” I said. My heart began to pound. Gretchen looked at me, a confused look on her face. “This could be what Perry needs to dig deeper.”
“Why?”
“He and I were looking for similarities with Brandy, Alyssa and your mom. But the one thing that didn't fit was your mother's age. Brandy and Alyssa were both nineteen. Perry had your mother's age listed at thirty-two when she disappeared. We assumed that because Brandy and Alyssa were young, the killer wouldn't have gone after someone older.”
“Therefore no pattern.”
“Right. But since she appeared so youthful the killer must've assumed she was ten years younger.”
“Are you thinking he went after women who resembled each other? Because my mother and Brandy lo
oked nothing alike.”
“Alyssa didn't look like them either. It just seems that they all were young-looking and attractive. Red or brown hair. Shapely. Did your mom have a nice figure?”
“Yes.”
“So did Alyssa.”
“This area is filled with hundreds of young, attractive women with dark hair and nice bodies. Why would he single out these three? And there could be more victims. Before, during and after.”
“Let's not concern ourselves with that. I want to tell Perry about your mother's youthful appearance.”
As I reached for the phone Gretchen put her arms on the table and rested her head on them. She began to sob.
“Oh God,” she moaned. “If there's anything to this theory... I don't know if I can handle it.”
Chapter 21
I dialed the Dankworth Police Station. Lucy picked up immediately. “Dankworth Police. I need to talk to Perry. You know where he is?”
“Probably at home. I'll patch you in.”
Within seconds Perry was answering his phone.
“It's Del,” I said. “I just found out some key information about the case.”
“Glad somebody has.” He sounded depressed and tired.
“I'm at Gretchen Yearwoood's. We've pinpointed the pattern you've been looking for.”
“And what pattern is that?”
“The age of the victims. Brandy Parker and Alyssa were both nineteen. But Virginia Thistle was thirty-two.”
“Right. So?”
“But she looked nineteen.” There was a long pause on Perry's end. He was thinking and that was good. “If it was the same person killing these women he went after a certain age. And I want to add another wrinkle to the pattern.” I looked at Gretchen. “Imagine for a minute that Virginia Thistle wasn't the first victim.” I waited a few seconds to let this sink in. “And imagine that the same guy has killed after Brandy and before Alyssa.”
“Alright. I'm imagining all this crap, but what am I supposed to do about a cold, hard fact or two?”
“Perry, maybe you can find one or two facts by going over all the missing person reports of girls in their late teens or early twenties for the last thirty years.”
“If I do that and I find nothing...then what?”
“Then...Jesus, Perry, do you always have to be so negative? I don't know.”
“You're Goddamn right you don't know. But you think you know and it's real easy to keep dropping these little tidbits on me. I want to see the picture of Virginia Thistle. Get your buns to the station. I'm going there now.” He slammed down the phone.
As I hung up Gretchen's phone I said, “He wants to see the photograph of your mother. Can I borrow it?
“Sure.” She handed the framed photo to me. “What about Quilla? Should we be worried or not?”
“I don't know. For now, maybe you should call her friends back in case she contacted any of them. And keep on trying Viper.” She nodded yes. “I'd better go, Gretchen.”
“I'll walk you to your car.”
As we passed through the hallway that gave entranceway to the kitchen, I noticed the empty space on the wall where the picture I held in my right hand had hung. Despite the seriousness of what had transpired during the last few minutes, I felt an urge to connect with Gretchen on a different level. Something personal. It seemed obscene for me to ask her to go out, considering how Quilla's disappearing had brought us together, but I had to say something.
“This is so odd.”
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“We're surrounded by death and sadness and long term grief and...had we met under different circumstances I would've asked you out for dinner or a drink by now...but considering the forces that brought us together...even thinking about doing something normal seems tasteless.”
“I'd like to have dinner with you,” she said warmly as we stepped outside and walked to my car.
“Maybe once we know Quilla's safe we can pick a night?”
“Sounds good.” She opened the driver's side door of my car, then smiled awkwardly. “Since we met it seems that all we've done is talk about secrets--family and personal. Virtually everything's out in the open. And maybe that's good. There won't be any skeletons in our closets.” I nodded in agreement. “That's why I have to ask you this, Del: you were a kid when Alyssa vanished. Now you're a grown man. After all these years are you still in love with her?”
“Quilla asked me that too. And I've thought about it a lot the last couple days. I think I'm in love with the promise of what I lost. It's like my mother always loved James Dean. And he died so young...something like twenty-four. All that's left of him are three movies. You watch them and you wonder what he would've accomplished if he'd lived. When I think about Alyssa it's the same thing.”
“An incompleteness?”
“Yeah.”
“I don't think you're ever going to be complete until you find out what happened.” She sighed. “Me neither. Until then, we're damaged goods. Maybe we won't be all that good for each other.”
“We're all a package deal,” I said.
She smiled. “You better scoot on out of here.”
“Yeah.” I got into the car. She closed the door. “I should warn you that Funeral Directors' social lives are a lot like doctors. If I get a call during dinner...”
“I'm flexible,” she said. “Good-night, Del.”
“Good-night.”
I started the car and backed out, my headlights flashing on Gretchen for a fleeting moment. As I pulled away I beeped the horn. She waved back, a brilliant smile on her face. As I drove away, thinking of Gretchen, I realized that I hadn't felt this happy in years. As I thought about Quilla, I realized I hadn't felt this sad in years.
******
I had never been in the Dankworth Police Station at night. Oscar was sitting at the dispatcher's desk, reading a Field & Stream and listening to an oldies station. Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles was just ending. Oscar waved me over and quietly said, “What gives? Perry never comes in at night.”
“Why did he say he was here?”
“He didn't. He just snarled at me and went into his office. On the other hand, he snarls at me most of the time.” I laughed. ”Why are you here, Del?”
“I'm helping Perry out on something, Oscar.”
Oscar nodded and went back to his magazine as I walked to Perry's office. The door was closed. I knocked on it twice. From inside Perry snarled, “Come in.”
I opened the door. Perry was at the computer, typing. He was out of uniform, wearing a Cleveland Indians T-shirt. “Sit down. Want something? I have beer. Coke. Some other shit.”
“Nothing, thanks.” I sat down.
He didn't look up from the monitor for about thirty seconds. It was as if I weren't there. I was getting upset, so I said, “What are you doing?”
“What you asked me. Searching through thirty-plus years of missing person reports for young broads.”
I couldn't believe he was acting so fast.
“Hold on. I'm printing something out.” He sat back in his chair. His eyes fell to the framed photograph of Virginia Thistle on my lap. “Lemme see the picture.” I handed it to him. He stared at it for several seconds. “This was taken when she was thirty?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be damned. If you told me she was in tenth grade I'd believe you.” He set the frame on his desk, then removed a sheet of paper from the printer. He put it next to another sheet of paper on his desk. “Did a printout of all the missing person cases from ten years before Virginia Thistle disappeared until three months ago. Then I broke it down to females in their late teens and early twenties. And for what it's worth, besides your girlfriend and Brandy Parker, there were two other names who fit a pattern.” He picked up one of the sheets of paper on his desk and read from it. “Linda Helfer and Connie Birch.” One's twenty, the other's seventeen. Linda Helfer vanished two-and-a-half years ago and Connie Birch disappeared nineteen years ago.” He returned the piec
e of paper to his pocket. “Now, this isn't a pattern that's neat and clean, but if you look at the timetable starting with Virginia Thistle twenty-four years ago and ending with Connie Birch two-and-a-half years back...it seems that every four or five years a young--or in Virginia Thistle's case, young-looking--girl disappears.” He leaned back in the chair.
“But you don't know if these two other girls have been heard from since?”
“There's no record of their parents contacting us to say that they came home. I'm gonna be contacting the families... or at least trying to. Odds are the one from two-and-a-half years back will still have people here, but the one from nineteen years ago...I don't know. You know how people are around here. You either stay here awhile, then go...or you never leave...like us.”
“Things are finally starting to fall in place, Perry.”
“So? Where's it gonna get me? What started out as an almost impossible task trying to solve one murder, is turning into an even more impossible job trying to solve two, three, four and maybe even five additional murders. I've been thinking that if I failed at getting to the bottom of Brandy Parker's death people would be understanding, considering that so much time had passed since her death. But now...if word gets out that there's been some kind of serial killer around here all these years...I'll have to deal with something even bigger.”
“What?”
“I'd hate like hell to have it come out that all these other women were done in while my dad was Chief.”
“People aren't gonna blame anybody...whether you get results or not.”
“You're dreaming, Coffin Boy. If somebody doesn't get nailed for Brandy Parker, they could let it by. But if it gets out that all these other girls might've been killed by the same guy...they're gonna get on my tail. I'll never live it down and my father goes to his grave in disgrace. Shit!”
“Don't you think you're being a little premature in your doom? See what you can learn about the two new girls you found. Maybe they're both alive and well. And maybe Alyssa is too. And so might Virginia Thistle.”