The Lesson of Her Death (24 page)

Bill Corde drops his quarter on the table and scoops up his index cards, considering all these facts, and he tries to picture the killer. But he sees woefully little. Far, far less than the profile in the
Register
(which infuriated
him partly because he doubted he himself could ever create such a vivid image of a criminal). Corde’s own profiling technique, that of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, is charted on the yellowed sheet of paper pinned on the corkboard behind his desk. It is a lengthy process of inputting voluminous facts, arranging them into models, assessing the crime and finally creating then fine-tuning the criminal profile. (He knows that the NCAVC procedure includes an optimistic sixth and final step: apprehension of the killer—a stage that seems despairingly unattainable at this moment, eight long days after Jennie Gebben’s demure body was found in a bed of muddied hyacinths beside that gloomy, still pond.)

Corde knows many details about Jennie Gebben. He knows that Brian Okun has lied to him and that Professor Sayles might have. He knows that two boys were near the dam shortly before her death and one of them may have had a knife. The trail is cooling and there is so much more to learn. More interviews, more facts to unearth.… Though he secretly wonders: Is he merely stalling, hoping for a picture of the killer to flutter down from heaven, a picture as clear as the portrait of Jennie taped inside his briefcase?

Bill Corde riffles the index cards.

He believes much and he knows little. A mass of information is in his hands but the truth is somewhere between the facts themselves, in the gaps of his knowledge, like the shadows between the flipping cardboard. For now, Corde sees only darkness as dense as the water in Blackfoot Pond. He sees no deeper than the reflection of double moons in the facets of a dead girl’s necklace.

Corde hopes for startling illumination and yet he fears it will be a long, long time coming.

H
er trouble came with the first asymmetrical block.

Resa Parker flipped through the green booklet, its cover printed with the large black letters
VMI, Developmental Test of Visual-Motor Integration,
and noted the exact point where Sarah Corde’s abilities failed her: trying to copy a line drawing of an uneven rectangle.

Setting this aside the psychiatrist reviewed the
Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children—Revised
, examining the snaky plot of the verbal and performance tests in the WISC-R profile blocks. The
Revised Gray Oral Reading Test
, which was strictly timed, showed Sarah—a fourth grader—reading at a first-grade level. Without the stress of a clock she was slightly better.

The scores were worse than the doctor had expected.

Sarah now sat in front of her, struggling through the last of the diagnostic tests—the
Informal Test of Written
Language Expression
. Dr. Parker saw the anxious behavior, the darting eyes, the quivering knees, the frosting of sweat. The psychiatrist, who had at one time been in daily analysis for six years, continually confronted her own anger and insecurity and the coldness with which they were manifest; she struggled to instill serenity in the child. “Take your time, Sarah.” Big smile. “There’s no rush.”

She noted the process of internalizing. Sarah didn’t sound out unknown or difficult words. She stared at them without lip movement until she applied whatever phonetic skills she could muster and then wrote the words slowly in crude letters. Sarah leaned forward, an intense frown on her brow as she tried to conjure up the words. In her eyes the agony of repeatedly slamming into her limitations was clear.

Children of policemen have a higher incidence of learning disabilities than those of other parents and Dr. Parker noticed in herself a kernel of resentment toward Bill Corde. It was a rancor that she would never reveal but that he would have to go a long way in rebutting. Diane Corde refined much of what she said through a very complex series of filters and Dr. Parker wondered just how much the man actually helped his daughter, in contrast to how much Diane believed, or wished, he did.

The doctor also knew something else—how little the girl would ultimately improve and the immense effort and expense even that limited progress would require.

“I’m afraid your time’s up,” Dr. Parker said, and took the notebook from the girl, who was sweating and nearly breathless. She examined the girl’s sad attempt to write a story about a simple illustration in the test booklet—a boy with a baseball. Sarah had started:
His naem was Freddie. And he watnted to play bsebale, baseball, only
.… The handwriting was abysmal. The story continued for a half page; an average child could easily fill three or four pages in that time. “All right, Sarah, very good. That’s the last of our tests.”

Sarah looked mournfully as the written language test was slipped into the file. “Did I pass?”

“You don’t pass these tests. They’re just to tell me about you so I can help you do better in school.”

“I don’t want to go back to school.”

“I understand, Sarah, but it’s not a good idea for you to stay back another year. You don’t want all your classmates to advance a grade while you’re left behind, do you?”

“Yes,” Sarah answered without hesitation, “I’d like that.”

Dr. Parker laughed. “Well, how about if I call Mrs. Beiderson and have her agree that you can take your tests out loud? Would that be all right?”

“So I wouldn’t have to write out the answers?”

“Right.”

“Would she do that?”

“I’m sure she would.” The call had already been made.

“What about the spelling test? I’m ascared of spelling.” The voice grew meek. Manipulatively meek, the doctor noted. Sarah had tried this technique before, with success.

“I’d like you to take it. Would you do it for me?”

“I’ll be up in front of everybody. They’ll laugh at me.

“No, you can do it by yourself. You and Mrs. Beiderson. That’s all.”

The child’s instinctive sense of negotiation caught on that this was the best she could do. She looked at Dr. Parker and nodded uneasily. “I guess.”

“Good. Now—”

“Can I finish the story at home?”

“The story?”

“Freddie and the baseball.” She nodded at the booklet.

“I’m sorry, Sarah, that’s all we had time for.”

The girl’s face twisted with enormous disappointment. “But I didn’t get to write down the neat part!”

“No?” Dr. Parker asked. “What’s the neat part?”

Sarah looked up at the same diplomas the doctor had watched Diane Corde scrutinize so desperately the previous week. The girl turned back, looked into the doctor’s eyes and said, “What happens is Freddie hits the baseball into the street and it goes rolling down the sidewalk and into a drugstore. And there’s Mr. Pillsit …” Sarah’s eyes widened. “And he used to play for the Chicago Eagles. That was a ball team that had real eagles that would swoop down and grab the baseball and sail out over the grandstand and they won every game there was. And Mr. Pillsit says to Freddie—”

Dr. Parker held up her hand. “Sarah, did you read this story someplace?”

She shook her head. “No, I just made it up, like I was supposed to. I
thought
I was supposed to. I’m sorry …” The eyes lowered theatrically. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not at all. Keep going.”

“And Mr. Pillsit, he says to Freddie, ‘If you really want to play baseball, I can make you the best player that ever was, only you have to go find the tallest tree in the eagles’ forest and climb up to the top. Are you brave enough to do that?’”

Freddie was of course up to the job, and Sarah enthusiastically continued with his adventures, not noticing the psychiatrist’s braceletted hand reach forward and nonchalantly lift her gold pen, recording in rapid, oblique symbols of speed writing Freddie’s quest for the magic baseball—fighting Hugo the Claw, the worst eagle that ever was, building a new clubhouse for the team after their original one burned down, running away from home and living in a big nest with a family of beautiful golden eagles. Freddie never returned home though he did become a famous baseball player. By the time Sarah finished, Dr. Parker had filled ten pages of steno paper. “That is a very interesting story, Sarah.”

“No,” Sarah said, sounding like a TV film reviewer.
“But the picture was of Freddie and a baseball so I couldn’t think of anything else.”

The doctor flipped through her notebook slowly then said, “All right, I’ve got to look over all the work you’ve done for me and you’ve got to go study for your tests.”

“I want my daddy to help me.”

After a moment the doctor looked up. “I’m sorry, Sarah. What did you say?”

“I want Daddy to help me study. Is that okay?”

“That’ll be fine,” Resa Parker spoke absently. Her mind was wholly occupied by a boy and a baseball and a talking eagle.

“This is my federal firearm permit and this is my Missouri private investigator’s license.”

Sheriff Steve Ribbon studied the squares of laminated plastic in the man’s wallet. He’d never seen a federal firearm permit. Or a Missouri private eye’s license.

He said, “Looks in order.”

Charlie Mahoney put the wallet back in his pocket. He wore a businessman’s suit—in a fine, faint plaid that looked gray but up close was tiny lines of pink and blue. Ribbon liked that suit a whole lot. Ribbon nodded him toward a chair, observing that the man had two types of self-assurance: the institutional authority of a long-time cop. And the still confidence of a man who has killed another man.

Mahoney tossed an expensive, heavy tan raincoat onto an empty chair and sat down across the desk from Ribbon. He talked without condescension or interest about the beautiful spring weather, about the difficulty of getting to New Lebanon by air, about the ruralness of the town. He then fell silent and looked behind Ribbon, studying a huge topographical map of the county. During this moment Ribbon grew extremely uncomfortable. He said, “Now what exactly can I do for you?”

“I’m here as a consultant.”

“Consultant.”

“I’m representing the estate of Jennie Gebben. I was a homicide detective in Chicago and I have a lot of investigatory experience. And I’m offering my services to you. Free of charge.”

“The thing is—”

“I’ve apprehended or assisted in the apprehension of more than two hundred homicide suspects.”

“Well, what I was going to say was, the thing is, you’re a, you know, civilian.”

“True,” Mahoney conceded. “I’ll be frank. I can’t tell you how upset Mr. Gebben is that this has happened. This has nothing to do with your ability to collar the perpetrator, Sheriff. Sending me here was just something he felt he had to do. Jennie was his only child.”

Ribbon winced and felt genuine sorrow in his heart. “I appreciate what he must be going through. I’ve got kids myself. But you know how it is, regulations. You must’ve had those in Chicago.”

“Sure, plenty.” Mahoney studied the great blossom of Ribbon’s face and added some shitkick to his voice as he said, “Can’t hurt just to do a little talking. That can’t hurt nothing now, can it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You’re in charge of the case?”

“Well, ultimately,” Ribbon said. “But we got a senior detective here who’s doing most of the legwork. Bill Corde. Good man.”

“Bill Corde. Been doing this sort of thing for a few years?”

“Yessir, he has.”

“What approach is he taking?”

“Well, he’s thinking that it was somebody who knew her. Most likely somebody at the school.”

Mahoney was nodding in a way that said to Ribbon he was troubled. “Playing the odds.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“He’s taking the cautious approach. Statistically most people are killed by somebody—”

“—they know.”

“Exactly. But from what I’ve read about this case it’s a little stranger than most. Some twists and turns, you know what I’m saying?”

“I hear you.” Ribbon’s voice lowered. “I’ve got a load of trouble with what’s happening here. There are some, you know, cult overtones to the whole thing.”

“Cult.” Mahoney was nodding again, this time agreeably. “Like she was a sacrifice victim or whatever. Right. Those goats and that blood. The moon and everything. Whoever picked up on that idea was doing some good law enforcement work.”

Ribbon’s caution was on the ebb but he said, “I still have some trouble with you getting involved, Mr. Mahoney. I—”

“Charlie,” Mahoney chided. “Charlie.” He lifted his thick hands, with their yellow-stained index fingers, heavenward. “At least do yourself a favor and let me tell you about the reward.”

“Reward.”

“Mr. Gebben is a very wealthy man. He’s offering twenty-five thousand dollars for apprehension of the killer.”

Ribbon chewed on his cheek to keep the rampaging grin at bay. “Well, my, that’s generous.… Of course you can imagine that rewards like that generate a mess of bounty hunting. We got a lot of people in this county own guns and can carry them legally.”

Mahoney frowned as he corrected himself. “Should’ve said: the reward is for professionals only. For law enforcers. That way there’s no risk of people who don’t know what they’re doing getting hurt.”