"U" is for Undertow (43 page)

I heard Sutton’s MG approaching long before I saw him pull into the small parking lot. He had the top down and his hair had been whipped into an untidy thatch that he smoothed as he stepped out of the car. He wore a sweatshirt and shorts, and the sight of his knobby knees nearly broke my heart. As before, I was struck by his youthfulness. When he was fifty instead of twenty-six, he’d look the same. I couldn’t picture him portly or bald. I couldn’t picture him with heavy jowls or a double chin. As he aged, his face would shrink away from his skull, but it would otherwise retain its boyish cast.

On the phone I hadn’t specified the reason for the meeting. I felt badly about it now because he suspected nothing, which made him all the more vulnerable. Though I didn’t understand the psychological dynamic, I sensed that after the destruction he’d brought down on his family, he’d moved from villainy to victimhood. By rights, the family should have been the ones to lay claim to all the suffering. Instead the burden was his.

There was a bench situated at the halfway point between us. As he approached from the narrow parking strip, I crossed the grass and sat down, placing the folder beside me, saying, “Hi, Michael. I appreciate your meeting me.”

He sat down. “I was going into town anyway, so it was easy enough to swing by. How are you?”

“Not bad,” I said. “How’s Madaline?”

“Good. I’m on my way to pick her up, as a matter of fact.”

“Good? I heard she was arrested for public drunkenness.”

“She was, but the judge said he’d give her probation if she promised to straighten up her act.”

“I see. And what does that consist of?”

“AA meetings twice a week. She doesn’t have a car so I take her over and pick her up afterward.”

“Has it occurred to you she’s taking advantage of you?”

“This is just until she gets back on her feet. She’s trying to find a job, but there’s not a lot available here in her field.”

“Which is what?”

“She’s a model.”

“And in the meantime, you provide meals, housing, transportation, bail money, and Goldie’s dog food, right?”

“She’d do the same for me.”

“I’m not convinced of that, but let’s hope.”

His smile faded. “You don’t seem happy with me. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” I said. I blew out a big breath, marshaling my thoughts. Try as I might, I couldn’t find a nice way of putting it. “Yesterday Ryan and Diana came to the office. She brought in a scrapbook that included memorabilia from your sixth-birthday party.”

“Memorabilia?”

“Yeah. You know, snapshots, ticket stubs, stuff like that.”

“Ticket stubs. What are you talking about?”

“July 21, you were all at Disneyland. Your mom and dad, Ryan, David, Diana, and you.”

I watched the animation draining out of his face. “That can’t be right.”

“That was my first response.”

“She’s making things up, trying to get me in trouble.”

I indicated the folder on the bench. “She made copies of the photographs. You can see for yourself.”

“She’s wrong. She has to be.”

“I don’t think so. She’s a reporter. She may be irritating, but she knows how to write a story and she knows she better get her facts straight. Take a look.”

“I don’t need to look. I was at Billie’s house. My mother dropped me off.”

“The Kirkendalls were gone by then. Billie’s dad stole a shitload of money. You said so yourself. He knew the police were closing in on him so he took his family and fled. The house was empty.”

“You think I lied?”

“I think you made a mistake.”

“I saw the pirates that day. The two of them were digging a hole. It could have happened before we left for Disneyland.”

“The timing is off. Whatever you saw, it must have been the week before. And as Diana so aptly pointed out, if you saw the guys on July 14 instead of July 21, it couldn’t have been Mary Claire’s body wrapped for burial. She wasn’t kidnapped until five days later.”

He stared off at the sky, rocking his body on the bench. It was the self-comforting motion of a kid whose mother’s an hour late picking him up from nursery school. He was almost beyond hope.

“Look, Michael. No one’s faulting you,” I said.

When dealing with someone else’s emotional distress, it’s best to gloss over the enormity of the disaster. It doesn’t change reality, but it makes the moment easier . . . for the onlooker, at any rate.

“Are you kidding? She must have had a good laugh at my expense. Ryan, too. They were always in cahoots.”

Shit. Now he’d turned it into a conspiracy. I kept my mouth shut. I’d already offered as much comfort as I could muster.

“What about Lieutenant Phillips? Does he know?”

I glanced away from him, which told him what he’d already guessed.

“She told him,
too?”

“Michael, don’t do this. Yes, she told him. She had to. He was in on the story from the first. She gave him the same file folder she gave me, and so what?”

He blinked and put his right hand to his face, pulling down until his hand covered his mouth. “I saw the pirates. They knew I’d caught them in the act.”

“Okay, fine, but not when you thought you did. July 21, 1967, you and your family were a hundred miles away.”

“They were burying a bundle . . .”

“I believe you saw
something,
but it wasn’t Mary Claire.”

He shook his head. “No. They took the body somewhere else and put a dog in the hole. It was right where I showed you.”

“Let’s quit with the arguing and deal with what’s true instead of what you dreamed up.”

He lifted a hand. “Never mind. You’re right. I wasted your time and I misled the police. Now all parties concerned are fully aware of it. So much for me and anything I might say.”

“Would you stop that shit? I can’t sit here and sympathize when you’re wallowing in self-pity. I understand your embarrassment, but take your licks and move on.”

He got up abruptly and walked away.

Watching him, I could see how he wanted the scene to play out. My role was to hurry after him, offering reassurances. I was supposed to fling myself into the conflict to help him save face. I couldn’t do it. The bottom had dropped out. The search for Mary Claire was over and he knew it as well as I did. She might be buried somewhere, but it had nothing to do with him. While I understood his humiliation, his behavior was calculated to generate a response. He was the vacuum. I was meant to be the air rushing in to fill the space. Stubbornly, I stayed where I was.

I heard the car door slam. The engine roared to life. I looked over and watched him back out in a wide arc before he threw the car in first and drove off with a chirp of his tires.

To no one in particular, I said, “Sorry about that. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

I picked up the folder and returned to my car. I slid under the wheel and sat for a moment, watching pigeons pecking in the grass. I was only five blocks from home and my instinct was to run for cover. What I was facing wasn’t new. Past investigations had occasionally come apart in my hands and I hadn’t felt the need to fall on my sword. I’m an optimist. I operate on the assumption that if a question is legitimate, there’s an answer out there, which is no guarantee I’ll be the one to find it. While the current failing wasn’t mine, I couldn’t shake the sense that I’d messed up somehow.

It was midafternoon and I probably could have talked myself into quitting for the day, but one can only do that so often before it becomes habitual and, therefore, unprofessional. Playing hooky wasn’t the antidote to disappointment. Work was. I had a business to run and I needed to get back to it. Easier said than done.

 

 

 

When I reached the office I set up a pot of coffee and then I sat at my desk and did nothing. I’d chastised Sutton for feeling sorry for himself, but it wasn’t such a bad idea. When you’ve been dealt a blow, self-pity, like rationalization, is just another way of coping with the pain.

A sound penetrated my consciousness and I realized someone was tapping on one of the panes in my outer office door. I glanced at my calendar. I wasn’t expecting anyone and there was no note of an appointment. For a moment I had the bizarre sense of skipping back in time. I pictured myself getting up to look around the corner at the front door. Through the glass, I’d catch my first sight of Michael Sutton. It would be April 6 again and I’d be forced to relive the same series of events.

I left my desk and crossed to the inner-office door, where I peered into the reception area. There was a woman on my doorstep, pointing at the knob. For the second time in two weeks I’d locked up automatically after letting myself in. I turned the deadbolt and opened the door. “Sorry about that. Can I help you?”

“I wondered if I might talk to you.”

“Sure. I’m Kinsey Millhone. Have we met?”

“Not really. I’m Joanne Fitzhugh. Mary Claire’s mother. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

I stepped aside as though admitting an apparition. She was probably in her mid-fifties, with one of those lovely mild faces assigned to dead saints on Catholic calendars. She was half a head shorter than I, with shoulder-length blond hair worn in the sort of flip I’d longed for in high school. She wore a dark skirt and a matching cropped jacket with a green silk blouse under it. For having thought about her so often, I was unprepared for an encounter. What was I going to say to her? I’d come up against a blank wall. How could I explain where I’d started and where I’d ended up?

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

She sat down in one of the guest chairs and pulled the other one closer, giving the seat a quick pat as a way of encouraging me to sit near her instead of on the other side the desk. She was clearly in charge. When I settled in the chair, the two of us were almost knee to knee.

Her features were finely drawn: small blue eyes, light brows and lashes, a straight nose, and lips thinned by age. Usually, I think of beautiful women in terms of the overblown—high cheekbones, big eyes, plump lips. Hers was a beauty of a different kind—soft, subdued. Her cologne smelled like fresh soap, and if she wore makeup at all, it was discreetly applied. I can’t make small talk with someone whose only child has been kidnapped and killed, so I left it up to her.

“I spoke to Lieutenant Dolan this morning. He’s been gracious about keeping in touch with me since he retired. He called, saying your name had come up with regard to Mary Claire’s disappearance. He tells me a young man named Michael Sutton has come forward with information that looks promising.”

“I don’t know what to say. May I call you Joanne?”

“Of course.”

“Michael was wrong about the date. This came to light yesterday and I’m still adjusting to the disappointment. He was a kid at the time, six years old, and the incident he remembered actually happened a week earlier, if at all.”

“I don’t understand. Lieutenant Dolan said he came across two men digging what appeared to be a grave two days after Mary Claire was kidnapped. You’re saying his report was false?”

“He made a mistake. There was no malice intended. He read a newspaper article and Mary Claire’s name triggered a vivid recollection. His story sounded reasonable. Detective Phillips thought it was worth pursuing and so did I.

“Yesterday, Michael’s sister came in with evidence showing he wasn’t anywhere near Santa Teresa on the date he claimed, so it looks like he conjured the memory out of whole cloth. Whatever he saw, it had nothing to do with Mary Claire. I wish we had more, but it’s not there.”

“Well.” She stared down at her hands.

“I know all of this is hard on you, and I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. I should be used to it by now. I should have detached years ago, but I’ve never found a way to do it. Something like this comes up . . . a scrap of information surfaces and even against my better judgment, I feel a flutter of hope. I can’t tell you how many people have come up with ‘clues’ in the last twenty years. They write, they call, they stop me on the street, all of them claiming to know Mary Claire’s whereabouts. Any reference in the paper and the ‘tips’ come pouring out. Some ask for money and some just want to feel important, I suppose.”

“Believe me, Michael wasn’t doing this for gain. He was hesitant about going to the police and uneasy when they sent him over to me. As odd as his story was, it seemed to hold an element of truth. In the end, it just didn’t hang together.”

“I’m not blaming anyone. It’s all just so endless.”

“Look, I know this is none of my business, but can you tell me what happened afterward? I can’t imagine what it must have done to your personal life.”

“It’s simple enough. My husband and I divorced. It might have been unfair to fault Barry for the way he handled the situation, but watching him those three days taught me things I hadn’t fully understood. He took over. He called all the shots. I was relegated to the sidelines while he dealt with the police and the FBI. My opinions and my reactions meant nothing to him. For the first time, I saw the sort of man I was married to.”

“What would you have done if it had been up to you?”

“Exactly what they asked. I’d have kept the matter quiet instead of bringing in the police. I’d have paid the ransom without a second thought. That’s what the Unruhs did and their daughter survived. I’m sure the FBI would have deemed it the worst possible tactic, but what did they have at stake? Twenty-five thousand was nothing to us. I found out later Barry had twice that much in a secret account—money he used to establish his new life after we separated. For all I know, that was always his intention, saving up so he could leave. I reached a point where I didn’t care one way or the other. I suppose if Mary Claire had been saved . . . if she’d come back to us alive . . . we might have smoothed things over and gone on as we had before.”