by Caleb Carr
But Lucas just turned to Ambyr and took hold of her arm. “You okay, sis?”
Ambyr nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Lucas, don’t worry. I’m assuming we almost got our heads blown off, just now?” She took a deep breath and steadied herself by letting it out. “Great. Well, there’s no point in lying, guys—we did sneak down. We wanted to hear what you thought of the note. We only heard the tail end of it, but from that—”
“From that,” Lucas interrupted, “before you went all Butch and Sundance on our asses, you guys made it pretty clear that you think that bullshit note was actually written by Derek.”
“I’m afraid that’s right, Lucas,” I said. “You might as well know.”
“Really? Well, here, geniuses—” He was holding another piece of lined paper, which he now shoved in our faces. “This is from one of Derek’s notebooks. I was using it for comparison before you got here. You try it. There are obvious differences.”
“Lucas,” Mike said. “Come on—even you should know that handwriting analysis is about two steps above voodoo, especially when one sample, like Derek’s note, has been drafted over and over to make sure of the wording. Remember, whatever you see people doing or saying on television—”
“I ain’t talkin’ about television!” Lucas cut in, dashing back into the living room and returning with a large yellow paperback book. “There’s a whole chapter on it, in here: and right on the first page, it says, ‘Handwriting analysis can be used in forensic science to establish whether or not forgery has been committed.’ And forgery is a fucking crime, Mike, in case you forgot!”
“What the hell have you got there, Lucas?” I said, moving over to him. Closing the book, I read out its title: “Crime Scene Investigations: Real-Life Science Labs for Grades 6–12. Hmm. This looks more up your alley, Mike. It even has cartoon illustrations.”
I tossed him the book, and Mike studied the cover. “Ho-lee shit,” he said. “And they give you a science credit for this stuff? Despite the fact that they’re openly saying that the level of the material is the same, whether you’re an eleven-year-old or a seventeen-year-old?” He flipped to the section on handwriting analysis that Lucas had quoted while he waited for the kid to answer.
“Well, yeah,” Lucas conceded, in a much more uncertain voice.
“Unh-hunh,” Mike answered, skimming the first few pages of the chapter. “Okay…Well.” He glanced around the kitchen, looking for and finding a trash can. “We’ll just put this where it belongs…” And with a little more force than was required, Mike did not so much lob as hurl the book into the trash, bringing a brief exclamation of objection from Lucas—who did not, however, attempt to retrieve the book. “And then I’ll tell you the single guiding scientific truth about handwriting analysis, at this point in history: it’s only considered, even by saps like the FBI, to have anything close to a shot at accuracy or value when it’s been determined that the sample in question, the one being matched against an original like that random notebook page you’ve got there, was written without any attempt to forge or deceive.”
“Whaaat?” Lucas droned. “But that would mean—”
“Right. It means only when the crime being investigated is not forgery. You can maybe use it as an adjunct to some other investigation, in other words, although I wouldn’t recommend it, but forgery cannot be the primary target.”
“But that—” Lucas was struggling. “But that would mean it’s basically useless.”
“Basically,” Mike said. “Although most of the time it’s used by law enforcement as a tool in forgery cases, because juries buy it. And why do they buy it? Because prosecutors, like the authors of your textbook, there, tell them it’s ‘forensic science,’ just like they see on CSI. Which, to the average modern jury, means it’s God’s revealed word. Still—it’s nice to know that your science textbook, if you want to call it that, is just as useless as everything else in that so-called school of yours.” Mike started running his hands through his hair in frustration, creating the brushlike effect. “Aw, hell, Lucas, look—we don’t even know how damned reliable fingerprints are, anymore. I mean…” At this point, having ignored both Ambyr and me during his tirade, Mike glanced at each of us in turn, and, finding that we were both listening rather uncomfortably, rose and grabbed Lucas by the collar of his T-shirt. “Come on, kid—I’ll explain it to you upstairs, and you can show me what other bullshit books you have while I try to answer your pissed-off questions about the note…”
They departed, the sound of Lucas’ vain protests soon fading as Michael told him to keep his voice down. That left Ambyr steadying herself on the doorway and me standing by the kitchen table, neither of us saying much for a minute or so until she asked quietly:
“You do think it’s real, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid so, Ambyr,” I answered. “I don’t know how much you heard, but—”
“We heard—almost all of it.” The violet eyes moistened, and she began to mumble, “I already knew it, though. I knew it was real. It’s just that…” Her lips began to tremble and her arms lifted in a manner that I couldn’t read precisely; all I could do was approach, not yet certain whether she felt helpless or intended to take a swing at me.
But swing she did not. Sensing I was within arm’s reach, or perhaps judging the distance from the sound of my footsteps, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around me, sobbing. It was another very delicate and confusing moment; and all I could do was put my arms lightly about her and let her sob her pain out into my chest. Soon enough, however, she began to blurt the same things that Mike and I had been discussing—primarily Derek’s complete failure to address her in the note—and then went on to wonder if in fact she had done as well by him as she could have, interspersing such talk with declarations of how little she had wanted to take charge of the boys in the first place. I knew what I was hearing: the adult she had only recently succeeded in becoming was straining against the confines of the arrangement they had all been left in by the disappearance of their respective parents, and she was decrying the injustice—heaped upon the other injustices of her younger life—of losing years during which she should have been allowed to enjoy that same new womanhood. Holding her slightly tighter, I tried to tell her that I knew only too well about stolen years of youth, and the irreparable hole they could leave in one’s soul; and as I spoke, her sobbing subsided, and she began to nestle into our embrace more out of comfort than desperation.
“You do know, you do know,” she repeated several times over; and before long, after drying her eyes on her sleeve, she moved her arms up, encircled my neck with them, and gave me another long, very passionate kiss, one that had none of the tentative quality that she had exhibited the night before. And such being the case, I could find no strength to restrain myself: I returned the kiss, wondering as I did where this eternally perplexing girl might be leading my confused and ungovernable heart.
“I’m sorry, Trajan,” she said, after a few long moments. “About before—I don’t mean to be a bitch, I never do, I know you were confused by Kevin being here, and that I should have told you first thing that he was. I didn’t mean to put you in the position I did—”
“Don’t worry,” I answered, leaning down to her face, which was made somehow lovelier by her sorrow and regret. “We’re here, now.” And then another a kiss, as I grew more certain of what I was doing. It’s one thing to receive the affections of such a young woman when one is confused; but to return them, when one thinks one has achieved clarity—then you are, just as Michael had said, truly dead.
And it was Mike who found us in that same position, and more quickly than I had expected. He burst through the kitchen doorway—without, fortunately, Lucas in tow—and, immediately upon seeing us, shielded his eyes. “Oh, whoa!” he quietly reacted, smiling beneath the visor formed by his left hand. “I’m sorry, guys—could not be more embarrassed. I should have announced myself. Although I have to say, Ambyr, that I also could not be more
delighted.” Finally he looked up, observing that we had disentangled ourselves from our embrace. “But I’m afraid I have to ruin the moment even more. There’s what looks like cop lights out on Route 7.”
In short order I hustled to get Ambyr back to her seat, pen in hand. All that was required was for the three of us to sign the authorization, and my partner and I would, at long last, be given a legal and official standing in the case, by way of Derek’s disappearance.
“Lucas!” I called, bringing the kid at a run. “During your little festival of phone calls earlier this morning, did you happen to call any other family members, along with your cousin?”
“No!” he declared. “Of course not! Although…when I called Caitlin, she did happen to mention that maybe she was gonna call one or two of them. Why, am I in ultra-deep shit for it? I mean, come on, Ambyr woulda called somebody, anyway—”
“Lucas!” Ambyr scolded, turning, lifting her cane, and making the kid jump back; but she soon relented. “Oh, hell, Trajan, he’s probably right. I would’ve had to.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “This is one situation where I want you to have as much adult backup as you can—assuming, that is, that everyone your cousin called will understand the arrangement in that document.”
“Oh, they will,” Ambyr said. “Just let me handle them.”
“Okay,” I said, taking the printed sheet; and as I did, Ambyr very swiftly and deftly brought my hand to her mouth and let her lips linger on the back of my own wrist for an instant. But the spell of this startling feeling was broken by the wail of sirens outside, which very quickly grew louder, indicating that the column—and I had no doubt that it would, once again, be a column—of vehicles had turned onto County Route 34. I took Ambyr by her hands and began to give her something of a pep talk about the shitstorm that was headed our way, and my belief that she and Lucas could handle it; but in the time it took me to deliver it, the cruisers had screamed into the Kurtzes’ driveway and up onto the lawn, flooding the house with their halogen high beams, while still more cars crowded Route 34, making it necessary for some of the state uniforms to set up one-lane traffic with flares.
As the cars before me disgorged their passengers and I saw just who they were, I could not help but smile wide. This moment was going to be, I suddenly realized, even more satisfying than I had hoped.
{iii.}
At the front of the phalanx coming my way were two people I had expected to see—Frank Mangold and Mitch McCarron—along with a few that I had not thought to run into quite so soon: Cathy Donovan, Nancy Grimes, and, more sadly, Curtis Kolmback, whose presence, now, at all five deaths and/or disappearances, fully confirmed that he was in on the effort to obscure any true solution to the case. The why of this was plain, as plain as when we had stated it to Gracie: better to allow a serial killer case to erupt than to permit a child-neglect scandal to break out, in the minds of official higher-ups, perhaps much higher-ups, as our encounter in Hoosick Falls had indicated. Nonetheless, I was sorry to see that Curtis’ personal ambition was so much more mercenary than I had previously believed. The group came at me in something of a wedge, Mangold in front, but I simply held up one hand, trying to see clearly in the glare of the rapidly pulsing lights.
“I thought I was clear with you in Albany.” Mangold tried to wave me off. “You’ve got no standing in this case, profiler, and we’ve got a warrant. So move, and let the professionals take over.”
I ignored him, for the moment, and turned to Mitch McCarron. “Major,” I said, ribbing him. “Glad to see you brought the full three-ring circus, although one really would have been enough.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Trajan,” Mitch replied, moving his Stetson back on his head. “Just couldn’t convince anybody that this would be better handled quietly.”
“Can’t say that surprises me too much, Mitch,” I said, “given the company you’re running with.” I looked Mangold’s way again. “Where’s your MRAP, Frank? Forget to bring it?” Seeing that Mangold was simply too steamed to speak, I turned toward the two women, who were approaching quickly. “Ms. Donovan. Director Grimes.” As they each nodded acknowledgment, the first with a knowing smile, the second rather sourly, I looked past them to the ever-harried, ever-shuffling “CSI” Kolmback. “And Curtis. I can’t say I’m happy to see you in this company.”
Curtis lowered his eyes, and was about to speak; but a look from Grimes shut him up.
“As Frank says, Doctor,” Donovan announced coolly, “you have no authority, here, and this is the scene of a child’s disappearance. So I have to wonder why you’re risking a charge of obstruction.”
I held up my hand again. “Yes, I know you’re dying to toss the house and start your…investigation. But, Mitch, if you’ll take a look at this”—I produced Ambyr’s agreement from my inner pocket—“I think you’ll find that it entitles Dr. Li and myself to be present during all the proceedings, and at just about anything involving the Kurtzes and the search for the Franco boy that we damn well choose to be involved in…”
Glancing over the document, Mitch began first to nod and then to smile. “Well—I’m afraid he’s got you, Frank. You too, Cathy. They’ve got full authority from the family, and it’s been witnessed. If I were you, I’d swallow my pride and just let them be…”
This caused a heated council among the officials present, while their foot soldiers stood behind them, pressing forward to hear what was being said. But the end result was fairly predictable, though no less satisfying: Mangold ranted, Nancy Grimes complained about infringement upon her authority, and Cathy Donovan just stared inscrutably at me. Finally, I stepped out of the doorway and allowed the flood tide in, reminding the officers as they passed that they had an obligation to be especially careful during their search, since the sole occupants of the house were a teenage boy and a young woman who had been literally blinded by the state’s incompetence. Then I turned the management of the search over to Lucas, urging him to instruct the officers rather than respond to them, and to be brief and forthright, but nothing more, in answering questions. Delighted with this authority, Lucas took to it like the young terror that he was, handling the sometimes-rude troopers with impressive aplomb and dispatch. Then I advised Ambyr to lock herself in her bedroom until her relatives arrived; and this several of them soon did, led by Cousin Caitlin and her father, Bass Hagen, a towering man who was almost a dead ringer for Otto von Bismarck, so Germanic were his features. He pushed through the cops—“Get your God damned asses outta my way, I was in Desert Storm, and you little shits don’t stack up to nothing against the ragheads!”—until he locked eyes with Mike and me; and then, Lucas in tow, we withdrew into the kitchen to straighten things out.
“The way the kids tell it, Doctors,” Bass said, with what looked like one of Caitlin’s brothers, along with that impressively uniformed trooper herself, flanking him, “you been a real help to them. So thanks for that. But now I’m wondering if maybe you’re not the cause of this whole mess.”
“Not the cause, Mr. Hagen,” I answered. “But, if I can suggest something, we may be the solution, or as close as Ambyr and Lucas can come to one, for now.”
“And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” By now Lucas had fetched Ambyr, and Bass put a huge arm around her, which she plainly found immensely comforting.
“This situation is only going to get worse,” I told him. “There’ll be more cops, soon, but that’s not the worst of it. If I know the media, and Dr. Li and I know them well, they’re going to descend on this place at any minute. You don’t want your niece and nephew exposed to that, trust me.”
“Hmm,” Bass grunted. “You’re right, there. Maybe I should just take ’em to our place.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “That’ll be the first place they’ll look. These crime reporters—and a lot of them will be national media—are first-class shits, but they know their shitty business. No, I was thinking that maybe Ambyr and Lucas could come and stay at
Shiloh for a while.”
Ambyr’s expression eased with sudden relief, though I could feel Mike’s eyes boring a look of shock into the back of my skull; but Lucas, to my relief, immediately declared, “Oh, hells-to-the-yeah, we can! I’m packing, Uncle Bass.” Then he started out the kitchen doorway.
“Hold on, hold on,” Bass said, grabbing the writhing kid with his free arm. “That’s a generous offer, Doc—maybe a little too generous. What’s in it for you guys, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Does something have to be in it for us?” I asked stupidly.
“Yeah—it does,” he answered. “I know your great-aunt some, from farm business. She’s a good woman, so I’m not worried about anything shady. But she’d be the first to ask the same question: what’s in it for you?”
“Okay,” I conceded. “The fact is that Ambyr and especially Lucas have been great helps to our own investigation. I don’t want to see these idiot cops screw that up. Plain and simple.”
Bass Hagen considered that for a minute or two, scrutinizing first Mike and then me with eyes the color of the slate that made up so much of the Taconic Mountains. “Plain and simple,” he said at length. “And right, I guess.”
“Yes!” Lucas declared, unwisely choosing that moment to offer his middle finger to several passing state troopers, who, mercifully, failed to notice him. “Come on, sis—let’s get ready!”
“Hang the hell on, Lucas,” Bass said, keeping ahold of the kid. “When would you figure to go?”
“We’ve got work to do here, yet,” I said. “I’d like to handle the first wave of reporters, who should be here any minute, and try to take the spotlight off your niece and nephew. Then we need to talk to one or two of these people about just what is going on; after that, we’ll sneak away. Mitch McCarron will tape off the house, and we’ll head up the hollow to let it all settle down. Right, Mike?”