Death by the Bay

by Patricia Skalka

  “I thought you’d done that already, many times.”

  “I did in the first part of the book, but it gets harder on every page and now I’m stuck.”

  “Why is it so difficult?”

  Joey looked at his father as if the answer were obvious. “Because there’s lots more people in each picture, and he’s dressed in different stuff on every page. Sometimes he’s even wearing a hat, or a big scarf. He just looks different.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “Okay.”

  While Joey settled at the table, Cubiak went in for more coffee and a glass of chocolate milk.

  When he got back, he lifted his son’s cold feet to his lap and bent over the book. Joey flipped back to the beginning of the book and pointed to the first photo. “See, he’s here in this picture and then here in this one. And here, here, and here,” he said, moving his finger from one page to another. “Then it gets hard. In the next picture he’s wearing a green jacket instead of a striped sweater. And in the next one he’s got on a cowboy hat. That one fooled me for a long time,” Joey said and scrunched up his mouth.

  “But you found him.”

  “Yeah, but first I had to figure out the clue. It’s different in every picture but once you know what it is then you know what to look for. See? In the last picture it was gloves.”

  “But almost everyone is wearing gloves.”

  “I know! But his are yellow.”

  “Ah, and no one else has yellow gloves?”

  “Right, only Robert the Robot. Gosh, Dad, now do you get it?”

  Cubiak smiled. “I think so.”

  Joey moved on. “This is the one I can’t figure out. There are lots of people in hats and gloves and lots of people with scarves. And there are pairs that match for all of those things. So the clue has to be something else.”

  “What else is there?”

  The boy frowned and studied the picture. “Glasses! Lots of people are wearing glasses. But they’re all the same color, so that can’t be the clue.”

  “Unless there’s something different about his glasses.”

  Joey leaned in closer, furrowing his brow in concentration. Suddenly his face brightened. “I got it! There he is! Robert the Robot’s glasses have an X in the middle, right between his eyes.” The boy planted a finger on the figure in the upper right-hand corner. “That’s Robert the Robot. He was there all the time. He’s always there. You just have to pay attention and keep looking until you find him.”

  Cubiak laughed and shut the book with a thwack.

  “Joey, you’re a genius!”

  The child glanced from his father to the closed book. His face was a mixture of alarm and delight. “I am? How come?”

  Cubiak tousled his son’s hair. “I promised a lady that I would help her find her brother, but I wasn’t sure where to look for him. You just gave me an idea.”

  “I did?” The boy grinned. “Do you think my idea will work?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.”

  The two went back into the house, where Cubiak called Francisca and invited her to go with him to Green Bay.

  “I need your help with something,” he said.

  “You have found Miguel?”

  “Not yet, but I think I know one place where we can look. At least it’s a start.”

  Half an hour later the sheriff pulled up in front of her house. She was pacing on the small front porch and ran to the curb, flushed with excitement. Without a word, she climbed in the jeep and fumbled with the seat belt. Finally, it clicked and he drove off.

  On the drive, Francisca alternately clasped her hands together and then flexed them nervously and stared out the windshield. At one point, he saw her counting on her fingers and wondered if she was praying, perhaps saying the rosary. At times she glanced out the side window, as if tracking their progress by the occasional glimpses of the bay that came into view. If she guessed where they were headed, she didn’t say. She had put her faith in him, and with every mile they covered, Cubiak felt the weight of that trust grow heavier.

  It wasn’t until he turned in by the large IPM sign that Francisca spoke. “This place?” she said, her voice full of alarm. “My brother is here? He is sick?” She crossed her arms across her stomach and hunched forward.

  “I don’t know for certain, but I think he’s here and I hope he’s okay.”

  Francisca bit her lip and slumped into the seat as if trying to put distance between herself and the institute grounds.

  IPM hadn’t opened for the day, and the lot was empty. Cubiak parked where he could see everyone who drove in.

  “We wait,” he said.

  He uncapped the thermos of coffee that he had brought from home and offered her the first cup.

  “No, gracias. I cannot. I am too . . .” She waggled her hand and slid down farther.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen your brother?” he said, cradling the cup in his hand.

  “Not since he was four, but he has a scar on his arm. I will know the mark.”

  “Sometimes a scar will heal and get so faint it nearly disappears. You must be prepared for that possibility.”

  “I know. I must be ready to be disappointed, but I must also never lose hope. When I find him, I will recognize him, and in my heart, I will be satisfied.” She pivoted toward the side window. “But it is not enough, is it?” she said, as if she were talking to herself. “The world will not believe that because I say a man is my brother, that it is true. I must have proof so others will believe too.”

  “There are ways of finding proof.” Cubiak lowered the window and tossed the dregs of the coffee on the ground. “Do you know what DNA is?”

  Francisca turned toward him.

  “I’ve heard of it on the news. It’s something inside us. I know we all have it, but I don’t know how it works.”

  Cubiak laughed. “Most people don’t. Today if you see someone that you think is your brother, we can do a test to see if his DNA matches yours. If it does, it will mean that you have found Miguel.”

  She inhaled sharply. “I know it probably will not happen, but it would be so wonderful if it did. If he is not here, then I must continue to search for him.” She paused and tried to smile. “It helps to believe in miracles, Sheriff. A man like you probably does not, but I do. It is a miracle that I am sitting here with you today, that there is even a small possibility of finding Miguel, and here so close to where I live.” She stopped again. “I must not be too greedy. Perhaps that is my only miracle for today. But God willing, it is not. Perhaps today is a day of many miracles.”

  Francisca fell silent again. She’s praying, Cubiak thought. He was relieved that she hadn’t asked how he felt about miracles. There was a time not that many years ago when he would have scoffed at the notion. Miracles were for the gullible and the weak, not for the rational and the strong. Still, he had come to realize that some things defied explanation. How to account for his life with Cate and Joey, the second chance he had been given for love and happiness? He had done nothing to deserve that opportunity. Was it a gift or a miracle?

  Cubiak was about to pour more coffee when a dark blue van rattled into the lot. A line of rust ran along the bottom edge of the vehicle, and the left front fender was crumpled. There were no windows in the back and no insignia on the sides. Even from where he sat, Cubiak could see that both rear tires needed air.

  The van drove through the lot and circled around toward the back of the building. As soon as it was out of sight, the sheriff opened his door.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Francisca pulled her jacket tight against the morning chill and rushed to keep up with Cubiak. As they proceeded through the lot, they heard the drone of voices on a call-in talk show. They rounded the corner of the building just as the van’s radio went silent and the driver’s door opened. A slim, tall man decked out in cowboy boots and jeans and a chambray shirt slipped out. As he came around the rear of the van, he scratched th
e back of his head with one hand and studied the clipboard that he carried in the other hand. The driver paused, still focused on the clipboard.

  “The boss,” Francisca said.

  The supervisor kicked the bumper, and she jumped.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  “Come on, I ain’t got all day,” he said.

  The side door jerked open and a short, stocky man slowly emerged. Slipping out sideways, he put one foot on the ground and then the other. His work pants and shirt were the same dark color as the van. A matching cap was pulled low over his face. As soon as he was out the door, another man started to back out of the van. One by one, eight men emerged. They were all about the same height and build, and all moved with a clumsy but practiced intensity. The last one out pulled the door shut and joined the line with the others. So similar in appearance and demeanor were they that they could have been statues poured from the same mold.

  Cubiak touched Francisca’s arm and signaled that it was time for them to move forward.

  The driver faced the van and didn’t see them approach, but the men in the line noticed. As the two neared, the workers grew more agitated and began whispering to one another.

  “Shut up.”

  The man with the clipboard scowled at the ragtag group, and the men fell silent. He spoke sharply in Spanish, and slowly they dropped their gaze to the ground.

  But in the few moments when they had been looking up, Cubiak had seen enough of their features to know that the men were Hispanic and all had Down syndrome. Even if Miguel was not among them, the sheriff sensed that he was on the right trail.

  Ten yards from the van, he stepped ahead of Francisca and put his hand out, motioning her to stop. Then he moved ahead several more feet.

  “Morning,” he said loudly.

  The man with the clipboard twitched and wheeled around. Annoyance showed on his face.

  “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Helping a friend.”

  Cubiak moved closer and pulled back his jacket so the man could see the badge on his belt.

  The supervisor snorted. “They’re all legal. What the hell is this all about?”

  “Like I said, I’m helping a friend. I don’t even have jurisdiction here, but my friend”—he turned and indicated Francisca—“is looking for her brother who’s been missing for years. I have reason to believe he’s somehow connected to the institute. He may even be one of the men on your crew.”

  “You’re going to have to take that up with my boss,” the man said and started to turn away.

  Cubiak grabbed his arm.

  “This will just take a minute.”

  The man pulled away.

  “My brother’s name is Miguel.” Francisca stepped forward and stood alongside the sheriff, her head held high. There was no trace of fear in her voice.

  “There ain’t nobody by that name here.”

  “Names get changed,” Cubiak said.

  Francisca moved closer to the man with the clipboard. “Miguel has an old scar on the inside of his left arm below the elbow. It is like the number seven.” She made the mark in the air. “Do you mind asking your workers to roll up their sleeves so I can look?”

  “Now why the hell should I do that?”

  “It will only take a few minutes,” she said, ignoring the question.

  The supervisor glanced from Francisca to the sheriff, and then he shrugged. “Whatever. As long as we get our work done, no skin off my teeth.”

  As the three were talking, the workers had broken out of their line and clustered together in a loose circle. Heads bowed, they murmured to each other. A few glanced at the trio and then looked away quickly. They seemed both curious and fearful.

  “Line up,” the super said. Then he added something in Spanish.

  The men remained huddled together.

  The boss laughed. “They like their routines. Anything different they can’t understand. It scares ’em.” He talked more to the ground than to either Cubiak or Francisca. “They don’t know a whole lot. They’re just a bunch of—” Whatever he was going to say next, he swallowed and instead looked at his watch.

  “I ain’t got all day.” He turned to Francisca. “You tell ’em what you want them to do. Maybe they’ll listen to you.”

  Speaking softly in Spanish, Francisca approached the men. Her tone was lilting and nonthreatening, and as she talked she rolled up the left sleeve of her jacket to show what she wanted them to do.

  “¿Porqué?” said one of the men.

  Cubiak didn’t understand what she said in response, but the man immediately began to bare his left arm. The others followed his lead. And as if by habit or unspoken consent, they reassembled in a straight line.

  By now several cars had pulled into the lot. We must be a strange sight, Cubiak thought. He watched the people exit their vehicles and look their way at the row of men with their bare arms extended. Were they worried that the workers were being checked for needle marks or gang tattoos?

  Oblivious to the onlookers, Francisca went up to the first man. Whether or not he understood what she wanted, he looked at her with an eagerness that betrayed his willingness to please. He wanted to be the one for whom she was searching, no matter what that meant.

  Francisca took his outstretched arm and ran her fingers up to his elbow. She said something to him and leaned over for a close-up look. A moment passed and she shook her head and began to slowly unroll his shirtsleeve.

  “Gracias,” she said before she moved on.

  She repeated the routine with the second man. No, again. And then the third and the fourth.

  With only four men remaining, Francisca turned toward Cubiak. Her shoulders drooped, and she seemed ready to cry. Why did you bring me here? she seemed to be asking. Cubiak didn’t know what to say or do. He had promised to help but wondered if he had acted prematurely, prompted by little more than Linda Kiel’s comment that Miguel wasn’t very far away and his own hunch. In the past, he had relied on his instincts to point the way in his investigations. Maybe he was losing his touch?

  Then he remembered what Francisca had said earlier.

  “Perhaps today is a day of many miracles,” he said.

  She gave him a small smile and wiped at her eyes. Slowly she turned back to the waiting men.

  No, to the fifth man. No, to the sixth.

  The seventh man looked younger than the others. As Francisca approached, he bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet. When she stopped, he stuck out his arm and cheerfully pointed toward his elbow.

  “Aquí,” he said with an innocent grin.

  Francisca’s hand flew to her mouth. She tottered as if she might faint. Then she grabbed hold of the young man’s wrists.

  “Miguel?” she said.

  He looked at her without comprehension.

  “¿Cómo te llamas?”

  “Carlos.”

  “Hola, Carlos,” she said. “Sheriff, please,” she called to Cubiak.

  A thin scar was clearly visible on the man’s left arm. The raised bump was about two inches across. It was no longer the vivid red that Francisca’s mother had described in her letter, but the shape was just as she had said: a clear and distinct representation of the number seven.

  Carlos said something in Spanish.

  “He wants to know if he is the person I am looking for,” Francisca told Cubiak.

  “You must ask him to come with us. Tell him that you must check further.”

  It took a bit of convincing on Francisca’s part before the man she had ID’d as her brother allowed her to swab the inside of his cheek for the DNA test. Cubiak sent one specimen from each of them to the state lab for processing but cautioned her that it could take up to three months to get the results. On her own, Francisca submitted additional samples to a company that advertised on television and promised results in as little as six weeks.

  One Saturday afternoon in midsummer, Joey sat at the kitchen table reading one
of his books when the doorbell rang.

  He peeked out at the man and woman who stood outside on the deck. He had never seen either of them before. They seemed old to him but not as old as his parents. They held hands, which meant they liked each other, but she looked as if she were about to cry. Joey wondered if something was wrong. He wasn’t allowed to answer the door to anyone he didn’t recognize. His mother was setting up a show at a gallery, so he went to the back room, his father’s office, where his dad was working on the computer.

  “There’s someone here,” he said.

  What happened next mystified the boy.

  Cubiak opened the door and the woman thrust a sheet of paper at him.

  “Carlos es Miguel. He is my brother,” she said.

  Then she flung her arms around Cubiak’s neck and started to sob.

  All the while, the man she had called Carlos and Miguel was smiling.

  “Son, take your book to the living room,” Cubiak said.

  Joey picked up the book, but he went only as far as the doorway. Standing where he couldn’t be seen, he watched the three adults sit down at the table.

  The woman and his father took turns talking while the other man listened. He looked puzzled but happy.

  After a while, the woman used the word miracle and kissed the sheriff’s hand. A few minutes later, she and her companion stood. She had started crying again, and she was still crying when they walked out the door.

  When they were gone, Joey came into the kitchen.

  “Who are those people?”

  “The woman is Francisca. She’s a friend, and the man is her brother Miguel. She was looking for him for many years, and I helped her find him, thanks to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Finding Miguel was like trying to find the robot in your book. I had to figure out the clue.”

  “What was it?”

  “I finally realized that I had a pretty good idea about where he worked. All I had to do was go there and wait for him to show up.”

  The boy nodded and then he fixed an accusatory look on his father. “I don’t think Francisca wanted to find her brother.”

  “Why do you say that?”