Daughters and Sons

by Tom Fowler

  “C.T., how are you?” he said.

  “I’m OK, all things considered,” I said. “I’m calling to say thank you, Leon.”

  “Thank me for what?”

  “Someone arranged for me to be able to temporarily keep a cold case file in my possession.”

  “Sounds very nice of someone.”

  “It was,” I said, “which is why I’m calling to say thanks.”

  “You assume I’m the someone.”

  “Rich was my first suspect, but I don’t think he could do something like this. Letting a shady PI like me leave with BPD property takes a phone call from upstairs.”

  “I know you got the short end of the stick with the cop killer case,” Sharpe said. “Rich told me late last night what happened. He said you’d be coming. I figured there was no harm in letting you borrow it.”

  “I’ll make a copy of everything and bring it back.”

  “Keep it as long as you need to,” he said. “Return it when you arrest the son of a bitch who killed your sister.”

  I cleared my throat. “Sounds good. Thanks, Leon.”

  “C.T., don’t go off and kill this guy. I know you want to find him and make him pay. I don’t want to hear about you being a murderer.”

  “You might need to close your ears, then,” I said.

  Sharpe sighed into the phone. “I’m a good judge of character. You’re not a killer, C.T. Don’t make a liar out of me.” He hung up.

  Leon Sharpe would have to be wrong.

  Chapter 6

  I took the file box to my office at the house. This reminded me that I’d been neglecting my regular office. A couple of incidents near the house compelled me to rent an office in the CareFirst building in the Highlandtown section of Baltimore. It allowed me to keep my personal and professional lives separate, something I should have been smart enough to do from the jump. This case, however, erased lines I’d spent time and money drawing.

  The carton held three folders: a slender one containing the ME’s report, a thicker one holding all the photos taken for the case, and one threatening to burst with all the archived notes. It would take time to pore over. The ME’s report would be a quick read, and I could run anything I didn’t understand past Dr. Hunt. The pictures folder called to me. I knew I wouldn’t want to see what was inside, yet I had to look.

  I took a deep breath and opened it. The photo on top showed Samantha lying face-down in the grass, presumably in Patterson Park, with blood pooled all around her. It drove the air from my lungs. I sat in the chair with my mouth open, unable to breathe as I stared. Finally, I gasped and breathed again. I closed my eyes, turned the initial picture upside down on the other side of the folder, and readied myself to look at the next one.

  I wasn’t ready.

  This one showed Samantha lying face-up. Blood still pooled around her, and it covered her clothes. I could see a few areas where the knife tore holes in her body. Her blonde hair, caked with gore, lay scattered around her face. Her eyes, still open, bored into mine, looking right through me. I needed to turn away.

  After a moment and a few deep breaths, I looked back at the picture, avoiding my sister’s face. Her upper body was covered in blood. It had run down to her shorts and onto her legs. Her clothes looked intact. The Movado watch she always wore on her left wrist was gone. Did this make robbery a motive? Samantha would have surrendered the watch if someone threatened her for it. Why then kill her?

  I flipped this picture over and looked at the next one. It was a close-up of Samantha’s torso. I couldn’t discern an area of her once-white polo shirt—I remembered it because of her high school logo on it—which dark crimson stains didn’t ruin. The zoom allowed me to see the stab wounds. Darker areas where the blood tried to clot after being rent by a blade dotted her body. I shook my head as I looked at the picture.

  Robbery didn’t look like a motive. A random crime would prove tough to solve. I needed to operate from the presumption Samantha knew her attacker. How well she knew him—I presumed the attacker to be a man—I would probably never know. I hoped the first wound had been enough to kill her. Enduring eleven more would be agony I would only wish upon the man who murdered my sister.

  I wiped my eyes and turned to the next photo, a wide-angle shot of Samantha’s body as it lay at the crime scene. I looked for landmarks when I heard Gloria behind me. “I know you need to do this,” she said, “but it’s obviously torture for you.”

  “Like you say, I need to do it.” I wiped my eyes again. My voice sounded unsteady to my ears; I knew Gloria would pick up on it.

  “You don’t have to do it now.” Gloria put her hands on my shoulders. “Why don’t you look at something else?”

  I felt a tear slide down my cheek. “All this time, I thought she died of some heart defect. I thought she died in peace.” I shook my head. “Now I look at these pictures.” My voice cracked more. Tears started to flow. “She died in pain. Worse, she died alone, probably begging for her life and hoping her family would make it before . . . before she couldn’t hold on anymore.” I stopped talking. I don’t think I could have said another word.

  Gloria crouched beside me. I put my head on her shoulder and cried. I cried like I did when I first heard my sister was dead, and I sobbed harder because I now knew the terrible depths of the lie.

  * * *

  After I’d composed myself and imbibed a good stiff drink—for all her kitchen ineptitude, Gloria made a rum and Coke capable of holding the straw up on its own—I went back to the file. Pictures would wait. I couldn’t look at them right now. The fact my sister’s murder file sat on my desk hammered home the lie my parents fed me all these years. Seeing gross photos made it even more acute.

  I looked at the medical examiner’s report. They conducted an autopsy as if the cause of death were a mystery. Not surprisingly, the ME concluded Samantha died of multiple stab wounds. Two pierced her heart, five shredded her lungs, and the remaining five ripped other internal organs. Many of the wounds by themselves would have been fatal. The doctor did not speculate on how much Samantha might have suffered or how long it took her to die. I could only hope the two piercing her heart came first. I rued the fact I needed to root for such a grisly thing to be a blessing.

  I finished looking over the report. The ME, a Dr. Willett, included diagrams, showing the various wounds on Samantha’s body. The unreality of inked marks on a generic drawing of a female body made those hurt a lot less than the pictures. I closed my eyes and took in a few calming breaths. If only I’d gotten the hang of meditation during my years in Hong Kong. Maybe then I could drive the thoughts of killing Samantha’s murderer out of my head. Rich’s and Leon Sharpe’s wishes be damned: I would find the bastard and kill him. I could afford a good lawyer who could paint a very sympathetic portrait of me to a jury he would help select. My PI career would be over, but I could sleep well at night knowing the man who murdered Samantha finally paid for it.

  Next, I opened the police file. The folder was packed with notes, findings, interview transcripts, a list of suspects, and anything the detectives thought relevant. Rich said their best men couldn’t discern who killed Samantha, and they worked the case for four months. A quick glance at the pages showed eight men and women contributed something to the file. I needed to be better than they were. The trail would be older and colder, but I harbored a reason for wanting to solve the case other than the simple pursuit of justice.

  I jotted down the lead detectives’ names: Frank Beatty and Ted Pembroke. They didn’t sound familiar. I conducted a quick search through the BPD’s personnel roster and found neither man currently employed. Pembroke retired five years ago, and Beatty transferred to parts unknown a few months after.

  Someone called 9-1-1 to report a girl’s body in Patterson Park. Pembroke and Beatty took the call. Their notes said they sent some uniforms to canvass the area, but no one reported seeing anything unusual, hearing someone screaming, or anything else indicating my sister got murdered nearb
y. A forensics team worked on the scene and found no traces of the killer. In thirteen years, forensic science took great leaps forward. I wondered if any of the evidence collected still existed somewhere

  There wasn’t much to the scientific report. They found no weapon at the scene, no blood other than Samantha’s, no fingerprints, no skin under her fingernails, and the only loose hairs belonged to a collie. The team concluded Samantha’s killer had faced her and stabbed her in the torso. Then, he either let her fall and stabbed her eleven more times or held her up for another eleven blows and let her slump. Either way, her blood got on him. I went back to the detectives’ findings; no one noticed seeing a man in bloody clothes in the area. Even if the same people still lived there, they wouldn’t suddenly remember anything simply because I went to their doors with a PI badge and a sob story.

  I spent another two hours scouring the file. My stomach rumbled for most of it, but I didn’t stop. Other detectives hunted potential witnesses and chased down the scant leads they could uncover. Their most promising clues turned out to be Samantha’s chat room conversations. She’d joined several progressive groups in college and took part in email and chat room discussions. A few weeks before she died, she often talked to someone with the handle “Rondel.” He painted himself as a major pacifist and said he’d organized a group in Baltimore. Samantha went to see the group on a long weekend from school. Then Rondel (or someone else) murdered her.

  Considering how little was known of computers at the time, the BPD did a creditable job investigating everything. They learned Rondel’s email address, rondel@erols.com. I remembered Blockbuster Video but not Erol’s. I knew Erol’s went online, where they reinvented themselves as an Internet service provider. Once high-speed internet caught on, companies like Erol’s got bought out or swept aside.

  At least I knew a place to start.

  Chapter 7

  Greg Elliot left the newspaper business to create a technology consulting firm in Silver Spring. He agreed to meet me at 3:00, which allowed me time for lunch before heading south and enduring a trek around the Capital Beltway. To my surprise, I encountered normal traffic instead of the gridlock I expected. I maintained sixty-five as I got off at Georgia Avenue and headed toward downtown Silver Spring.

  Elliot Technology Associates maintained an office in a bustling downtown environment. It would never be downtown Baltimore—it lacked the character—but Silver Spring’s central area was easy to navigate, featured plenty of shops, an abundance of eateries, and a giant movie theater to bring hordes of teenagers in on the weekends. Maybe the last one wasn’t such a big selling point.

  Elliot’s business office wasn’t much bigger than mine. His receptionist spent more time looking at her nails and her Facebook page than anything work-related. A small conference area took up the back part of the suite. Elliot’s section sat off to the right. All I could see to the left of the conference area was a closed door. Maybe they kept the technology the company name advertised in there.

  Greg Elliot was short, no more than five-seven, with a round face and an easy smile. His salt-and-pepper hair thinned on top. He tried to compensate with a goatee, but gray dominated any black. He possessed the physique of a man who grew used to sitting behind a desk instead of working the streets. Still, his quick smile and easy demeanor would have served him well as a reporter and may have wooed a few clients to his side in this life as well.

  I showed Elliot my ID as I sat in an uncomfortable guest chair. “You said this was about a story I wrote?” he said.

  “Yes. Thirteen years ago, a girl was murdered in Patterson Park. You wrote the story for The Sun.” The office’s small size was its best feature. Whoever chose the furniture and carpeting should retire. If I were Eliot, I would telework as often as possible.

  “Thirteen years ago . . .” His voice trailed off. “She was a blond, right? Pretty young, maybe nineteen?” I nodded. “I remember. Why do you want to know?”

  “She was my sister.”

  “Oh.” Elliot’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry. Did you . . . only recently find out what happened?”

  “Let’s say I won’t be sending my parents a Christmas card for about three hundred years.”

  “Man, that’s gotta be tough.”

  “Do you remember anything about the case?” I said, refocusing the conversation away from my plight. “Any details not making it into the story?”

  Elliot’s cheeks puffed out as he sighed and contemplated my question. “They found her face-down. The police weren’t sure if she died that way or if the killer turned her over . . . or even moved her from somewhere else. I didn’t put that in the story because the cops asked me not to.”

  “It was in their report.”

  “You’ve read the police report?” he said. “They share those with civilians?”

  “I think they know the futility of trying to hide it from me under the circumstances.”

  “I don’t see how I can tell you anything you wouldn’t be able to find in there.”

  “How long were you a reporter?”

  “Fifteen years.” Elliot showed the easy smile again. He liked talking. This company didn’t suit him. “I spent the last six of them at The Sun, doing a few different beats around the city. I miss Baltimore.”

  “I’m sure they’d take you back. The paper could use the help.”

  “This is my life now,” he said, smile vanishing.

  “If you say so,” I said. “My point is you spent a long time as a reporter. You probably have a good nose for the truth and a good bullshit detector when you’re talking to someone.”

  “It helps out in this business.”

  “Did you talk to anyone who set off your alarms? A potential witness, someone in the neighborhood . . . anybody?”

  Elliot frowned in thought. “No. No one seemed out of sorts to me. It was weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “How did no one see or hear a young, pretty girl get killed in Patterson Park?”

  “It happened late at night,” I offered.

  “There are always people around. Someone’s walking a dog, or a homeless guy is working the streets for handouts. No one saw anything.”

  “It was a weeknight and late.”

  “And unseasonably cool,” Eliot said. “I remember that.” Despite the years gone by, I recalled it too. “But nothing sticks out in my mind,” he continued. “Everyone I talked to seemed unaware anything happened. Not surprised, of course . . . just unaware.”

  “It was a bad area back then,” I said.

  “It’s gotten better over the years, from what I’ve heard. Different neighborhood demographics, the BPD does more in the area and all. Back then, though, you’re right—Patterson Park wasn’t the nicest place to be at night.”

  “Especially,” I said, “if you’re a young and pretty college freshman.”

  “I wish I knew more. When I paid attention to the case, the cops never came close to an arrest. I followed up a few times, then they sent it off to the archives. The BPD ran a cold case squad for a while. I guess they never looked at it.”

  “Maybe there were chillier ones out there.”

  “Maybe. Good luck, though. I hope you find the person who did this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I wish I could tell you more.”

  “I’m not expecting to get a wealth of information this late . . . but thanks.”

  We shook hands. I left. The Capital Beltway exacted its revenge on me on the drive back.

  * * *

  I discovered Ted Pembroke lived in Cecil County near the Mason-Dixon line. He told me over the phone he didn’t think he’d be able to add much to my case but agreed to meet me, anyway. When I told him I would be coming from Federal Hill, he made my drive easier by traveling to Aberdeen. It would cost me dinner at a place called the Olive Tree, but I hoped it would be worth it.

  When I arrived, I saw no olive trees nor any living trees of any variety. I guess it made sense: O
live Garden didn’t actually have its namesake planted outside the front door. It might have made their food better if they did. A sixtyish man in a loose windbreaker sat on a cushioned bench, watching everyone walking past. He eyed me up as I approached. “Mr. Pembroke?”

  “You’re Ferguson?” he said, standing with the cautious pace of a man who doesn’t want to get a blood rush to his head.

  “I am.” We exchanged a quick handshake and got a table. Despite the crowd, our waitress appeared quickly, took our drink orders, and walked off to tend to her other tables.

  “This is about the dead girl thirteen years ago,” Pembroke said, not intoning his voice to make it a question. He kept his voice low like I expected.

  “It is.” I matched his quiet tone.

  “You say she was your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t you looked into this before now?”

  “A disinformation campaign,” I said. “I was lied to until a couple nights ago. Now I know a little of the truth.”

  “And you want to know everything,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “Shit, so do I. Never could learn it all, no matter what I did. Why do you think I retired?”

  The waitress returned with our drinks and brought a large bowl of salad and a container of breadsticks. The salad popped with greens and reds. Maybe all “Olive” restaurants are required to dispense these appetizers. Pembroke ordered the soup du jour and something called chicken Amelia. I hadn’t looked at the menu and opted for chicken parmigiana. A restaurant which can’t do the dish justice should forever shutter its doors.

  “You a detective?” Pembroke said. He hadn’t asked me yet. Maybe he just wanted the chance to talk shop with someone again.