tight pattern of houses between Cassie Bertram's duplex and the old Pryce house. Ninety percent of the time she is off the clock.
For weeks she gets nothing but attitude and indifference. Deciding to switch to where the crime ended rather than where it started, she starts knocking on doors immediately around the dump-site. A wino and five kids have moved into the house where the woman with the chicken lived. An elderly Salvadoran couple owns the house behind the dumpsite. Two of their children and three of their grandchildren share the three-bedroom bungalow. They lived there when the Pryce kids were discovered and tsk-tsk about the tragedy that was. So many tragedies. Of course things were different when they were younger. They remember nothing Frank doesn't already know. By the time she leaves them the sun has been down for an hour. She consults her watch. Just one more.
Frank checks her notes. Yolanda Miron lives on the west side of the dumpsite. Frank sees lights on in the house and presses her luck. A gray-haired Hispanic woman opens warily at her knock. Holding up her badge and ID, Frank inquires, 'Mrs. Miron?'
The woman nods with concern but as Frank explains the reason for her visit she relaxes and invites Frank in. A stout man-child with the obvious characteristics of Down's syndrome looks up at Frank as she enters the living room. Mrs. Miron says, 'Izzy, it's almost bedtime. Pick up your things.'
Izzy nods, complying with quick, curious looks at Frank. Frank begins by rote and Mrs. Miron echoes what everyone else has said— it's been such a long time. She's afraid she has nothing new to add. Like a few other people, she remembers Noah and asks why he's not working the case.
Frank usually answers this inquiry by saying he's been reassigned. Maybe because it's been a long day, maybe because she's frustrated, maybe because Mrs. Miron is nice and her house smells like cookies, Frank tells her Noah was killed in a car accident. Izzy overhears this and interjects, 'My Papi was killed in a car.'
Mrs. Miron nods. 'A month before those children were found. It was such a crazy time. What with Christmas coming and my daughter getting married. She got married the weekend they found them, the children. We were all so sad without Papi. It didn't seem right without him but it seemed wrong to stop living. My husband was a very strong man, very proud. We talked about it a long time and decided Papi would want the wedding to go.' Her hands flap in her lap like little birds trying to take off. She apologizes. 'That's why I remember so little. It seems silly, we were right next door, but we had so much happening with ourselves.'
Frank nods encouragement, watching Izzy arrange a collection of action dolls in a large laundry basket. He's laid them side by side and is covering them with a worn hand towel. He rearranges some of the figures so that eventually they are all covered, with only their heads exposed. The little hairs all along Frank's body rise in a delicious frisson. She has a wild idea. A ridiculous long shot, but she asks anyway. 'Where was Izzy that weekend?'
'Oh, he was here with me. In fact, he got sick that weekend. It was one more crazy thing.' Mrs. Miron's smile for Izzy turns the comment from a complaint into a statement.
'Did Detective Jantzen ever talk to Izzy about the children?'
'Oh, no.' Mrs. Miron is adamant. 'He was sick that weekend. I remember he was in bed. We were worried about him because a cold with him can sometimes turn into pneumonia. He's not so active and they settle in his lungs, so what with my husband's funeral and the wedding, then Izzy getting sick—'
'Detective Jantzen never talked to him later?'
'Not that I remember. Izzy's usually in school during the day. He goes to special school.'
Frank watches Izzy fussing with the blanket, making sure each doll is tucked in just so. She asks, 'Would you mind if I ask him a few questions? I promise I won't upset him.'
'Of course,' the woman says, 'but I don't know how he can help. Izzy,' Mrs. Miron says to claim her son's attention. 'This lady would like to talk to you.'
Izzy grins at Frank, and she smiles back.
'Hi, Izzy. What are you playing with?'
'These are my dolls,' he answers thickly.
Frank waits while he names each one. When he's done, she says admiringly, 'They're very pretty. What are you doing with them?'
'I'm putting them to bed.'
'Do you do that every night?'
He nods and tugs at the hand towel. Mrs. Miron adds, 'He started doing that right after his father died. We explained how dying is like a long sleep and when Izzy saw his Papi in the coffin he insisted we give him a blanket. He wouldn't stop pestering us until my son brought a blanket in from his car and let Izzy tuck it around him. Since then he tucks all his toys in, every night. Don't you?'
Izzy's nod is happy and Frank asks if Izzy was in bed the entire weekend of the Pryce killings.
Mrs. Miron answers for him. 'The wedding was on Sunday and Izzy was tugging at me all day Saturday. I felt bad, what with him just losing his Papi, but we were so busy getting ready for the wedding. And then he got sick Sunday—I had to leave before they cut the cake—and I felt so bad I'd been neglecting him but there was just so much craziness.'
'So he was okay Saturday?'
'Yes, he seemed fine then. I noticed his nose was runny and I gave him some yerba tea that night but it wasn't until the next day that he got the fever.'
Frank pulls two pictures from her notebook. 'Izzy?' She gets his full attention before saying, 'I'm going to show you a picture of a boy and a girl and I want you to tell me if you've ever seen them before. Okay?'
'Okay.'
Frank hands him the pictures of Ladeenia and Trevor. Even before they have left her hands, Izzy is beaming.
'I put them to bed,' he announces. Jabbing a finger toward the window, he added, 'I put them to bed outside. They were outside and I put them to bed.'
'You put them to bed,' Frank repeats slowly.
'I put them to bed outside,' Izzy repeats, nodding.
Mrs. Miron is alarmed and Frank puts a hand on her arm.
'When did you do that?'
'When they were sleeping out there. In the
'Isador!' his mother cries. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
The boy the size of a man looks like he's about to cry and Frank answers, 'It's okay, Izzy. Maybe that's what you were trying to tell your mother the day of the wedding.'
Izzy just looks scared and confused, but Mrs. Miron sags. She throws a troubled glance toward Frank while reassuring her son. She cradles him with one arm while the hand of the other flies to her mouth.
Frank asks gently, 'Do you remember putting the children to bed, Izzy?'
He lifts his big head up and down.
'What do you remember?'
'They were sleeping, but they weren't put to bed right. I had to put them to bed.'
'Can you show me with your dolls how they were when you found them?'
Izzy glances at his mother and she nods approval.
'They were like this,' he says, taking two of the dolls and wrapping them together one atop the other in the towel.
'What did you do with them?'
'I put them like this.'
He puts the dolls side by side again, covering them to their chins. 'I put them to bed.'
'One more question,' Frank says more for his mother's benefit than for Izzy's. It's the holdback question. The one only someone who has seen the bodies can answer.
'Was there anything on their faces? Anything that maybe shouldn't have been there?'
Izzy fades for a moment then pumps his big head furiously. 'They had tapes on their mouths. Gray tapes. It was on their mouths. Like this.'
