“From the Dane County Land Information Office. It’s part of their GIS system.”
“Gee eye ess?” Down the rabbit hole, once again.
“Geographic Information System. It captures, manages, analyzes, and displays geographically referenced information.”
“I see.”
She noticed the glazed look on my face and switched to the lay explanation. “Through a GIS you can see where utilities run, see population density, and”—she tapped the computer monitor at her elbow—“you can use online maps of Rynwood to figure out who owns what property.”
“I see.” And this time, I did.
“Have you ever used a program like this? No? Then you’re going to run into a learning curve. Come on in and I’ll show you the basics.” Kristen tipped her head sideways, indicating a metal door with a sign, AUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE ONLY.
Faster than the White Rabbit on his way to that important date, I found myself seated in a castered chair facing a computer screen full of mysterious things to click.
“This here?” Kristen pointed. “That starts the informational query. Just zoom into the area you’re interested in, click on that button there, and the basic parcel info will pop up over here.” More pointing. “If you want to see more detail, click this button here.”
Information overload. I squinched my eyes shut and reopened them, hoping to see something that made sense. “This one will show me the owner?”
“No. That opens the infrastructure palette. You can turn on and off the water main, gas lines, sanitary sewer, storm sewer. Electrical, if you’re lucky. Sometimes cable, but I’m not sure I’d trust that layer. You know how cable guys are.”
I was afraid to ask any more questions. If I asked, she’d tell me, and my brain was already too full. I thanked her for her time.
“No problem,” she said cheerfully. “I love this program. Intuitive, really. Let me know if you have any trouble.”
Half an hour later, I’d had enough of the easy, intuitive, best-thing-since-sliced-bread program. After the third time I’d locked up the computer, Kristen had given me blanket permission to reboot as necessary and shut her door firmly.
“Stupid computers,” I said. “Why didn’t we stick to paper and pencil? Is this really so much better?” I clicked the mouse on a property next to the school. Nothing. Whacked at the keyboard. Still nothing. “You stink.”
“Hey, I showered this morning.”
I whirled around. Pete Peterson was leaning against a filing cabinet, the label on his shirt pocket telling the world he was CLEANER THAN PETE.
“What are you doing here?” It came out snippy, but for once I didn’t apologize. I hated being watched.
“Trolling for work. City clerks know everyone.” He grinned, and I smiled back. I couldn’t help it; the man’s cheerful mien was infectious.
“Having problems?” He waved at the computer.
I glared at the hateful thing. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” I told myself to straighten my shoulders, square my jaw, and focus. Instead, I sighed.
“Tell you what.” Pete grabbed a nearby chair. “I’ll sit over here and study the latest update from OSHA.” The stack of paper in his hand was thicker than Jenna’s math book. “If you have any questions, just holler.” He sat guy- style, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“‘OSHA Regional News Release,’” Pete said in a monotone. “‘Region five. The U.S. Department of Labor’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) has cited MHJ Packaging with alleged serious, repeat, and willful failure to abate citations of federal workplace safety and health standards. Proposed fines . . .’”
I turned my attention back to the computer and started concentrating.
“You looking for ownership?” Pete had inched closer. I nodded. “Fastest way,” he said, “is to double-click on the parcel number.”
I tried it, and lo and behold, up came the ownership information without any need to decipher the meaning of mysterious hieroglyphics. “Hey, that’s slick. Thanks!”
“No problem.” He went back to his boring news release.
A nice man, that was what Pete Peterson was. He wasn’t drop-dead handsome, he wasn’t a man to set your pulse racing, and he wasn’t the stuff of which dreams were made, but he was nice. Not a bad way to be.
I clicked on things and wrote down things, and soon the blank paper I’d brought with me was filled up with a rough sketch of property lines and the names of who owned what around Tarver Elementary.
Most were people’s names; a few of the properties were held by banks, a few by businesses. All the business properties were on a small industrial park directly behind the school. Rynwood Auto Parts, Lakeside Dry Cleaning, Glass Enterprises, and Otto’s Heating and Cooling all had properties that abutted Tarver’s. But so did thirty-two residences.
My fence-sitting stroke of brilliance had persuaded me that when I saw this list, my brain would make an electric leap. I’d suddenly know—just
“This was a dumb idea,” I muttered.
“Sorry?” Pete asked.
“And a complete waste of time.” I pushed the mouse around. Where was the GET OUT OF HERE button? I started clicking anything that looked remotely appropriate. Why did they make these things so complicated, anyway?
“Hey, slow down,” Pete said. “That’s a good way to lock it up.”
Locking up was good. Then I’d reboot and go away. Click. The dark gray background turned to an aerial image. Click. Thin curvy lines appeared everywhere. Click. Another menu popped up. Click. Red lines appeared.
“Water main.” Pete indicated a red line. “Is this what you wanted?”
I stared. A thick red line cut across the school property, close to the school itself, and went into the industrial park. My brain started making little leaps. “Is there a way to find out when this was put in?” I asked slowly.
“Sure.” Pete reached for the mouse, made a long series of clicks, and a list popped up on the screen. “Here we go. Twelve-inch cast iron . . .”
A memory niggled at me, and I tugged around until it pulled loose. The kids and I had been standing in Oliver’s favorite part of the playground, back before Agnes had been killed, looking at stakes that had “12” WM” scrawled on them in thick black marker.
Pete was still talking. “Blah, blah, blah, inspected by whoever, here it is. That main went in three years ago. Laid in August.”
Three years ago in August . . . I sat up straight, my brain jumping in great leaps and bounds. Three years ago we’d taken a summer trip to Colorado. No wonder I didn’t remember. No wonder I hadn’t made the connection before. Dot to dot to dot and none of the dots involved Erica.
Open utility trenches deep enough to bury small children. Or, more pertinent in this case, a full-sized adult.
A disappearing wife.
Interval of a few years.
A surprise construction project.
Certain exposure and imprisonment.
Another murder.
Dot to dot to dot. The clues had been there all along, I just hadn’t seen them clearly. But now I knew who had killed Agnes. And I knew why.
“Thanks a million, Pete.” I jumped up and gathered my purse and papers.
“Hey, no problem. Glad to help.”
He really was a nice guy. I bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “I owe you one.” I walked out and, out of the corner of my eye, saw his hand go up to his face.
My cell phone rang as I hurried outside. “Hello?”
