Memory of Murder

The woman, who is suffering from a head injury as well as exposure, was taken to a hospital in Richmond where she is reported to be in serious but stable condition. Anyone with information regarding this woman is urged to contact authorities immediately.

Chapter 8

The night was especially fine. The air was soft and warm-I recall thinking it was a night for lovers. The moon hadn’t yet risen-I had planned for that-and the stars were brilliant. I had lived in the city for so long I had forgotten about stars. Then, just before dawn, the fog came. It seemed like an omen. I knew the time had come.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

“Sure sounds right,” Carl said. “Even to the head injury. Just wish the picture was better.”

“I’ll contact Richmond PD, see if they can send us a better one.” Alan shoved back from the computer and swiveled to face his partner. “Then I’ll have to see if Lindsey can ID the woman-her memories of her mother go back a lot further than mine do. But even if this is Susan Merrill, all it tells us is how she survived. Doesn’t tell us how she got into the Chesapeake, or whether the man calling himself Richard Merrill had anything to do with putting her there.”

Carl didn’t reply. He was staring at his computer screen, eyes squinted in concentration. Alan knew that look. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

After another two beats of silence, Carl flicked him a glance along one shoulder. “What am I thinking? Looking at the map…seems to me the Chesapeake is right handy to a whole lot of the northeast, including some major population centers. Like Baltimore…D.C.-” he tapped the screen “-your old stomping grounds-Philadelphia, right? Some of these might even be snowsuit territory, you know?”

Alan heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I guess it does narrow the search area. Should make it a little easier. Maybe.”

“It’d make it even easier if we had help.” Carl’s eyes glittered, giving him a crafty look.

“What are you suggesting?” Alan asked, warily this time.

Carl spun around and held up a hand. “Look, I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out, okay? I know you and your old man-”

“Stop right there.”

“No-wait a minute. Like I said-hear me out. I know you and your dad don’t see eye to eye-”

“Don’t see eye to eye? How’s about, we haven’t spoken in twenty years.”

“-and that you blame him for your mom’s suicide-”

Alan grunted, but didn’t voice the thought that popped into his mind: Better than blaming myself. That was the trouble with long, boring stakeouts with his partner, he thought. Entirely too much opportunity for soul-baring conversation.

“-and I get that you don’t want to call on the man now when you need help. But he was on the job back then when this happened, and he’s got buddies-fellow cops-who were, too. They’d all be retired now, obviously, but the ones that’re still alive, I’ll bet you anything they stay in touch. Housewives and back fences got nothing on retired cops when it comes to spreading gossip and inside information. This was an unsolved case, and I’ll bet you anything there’s at least one retired cop out there who still remembers it. Probably wakes him up at night every now and then, gnawing at him, because maybe it’s the one case he couldn’t close.” Carl paused, and Alan gazed back at him and didn’t comment, because half-forgotten names and faces were scrolling through his mind. After a moment, Carl gave him a little smile and said, “And I’ll bet you’ve got somebody in mind, right now. Am I right?”

Walter “Buck” Busczkowski. His dad’s old partner and Alan’s unofficial godfather, the closest thing he’d had, back then, to a functioning parent. A tough ex-marine and Vietnam vet, who’d showed him the escape route from the dead-end road his own life had seemed to be taking…

Alan snorted and reached for his phone. Then put it back and picked up the computer mouse instead. Twenty years was too long to trust his memory of the return address from an old Christmas card.

The call blindsided him. It came on Tuesday morning, through the department switchboard. He’d given Buck Busczkowski his private cell number, so when he picked up and answered with his standard, “Cameron, Homicide,” the last thing he expected to hear coming back at him was the ruined bullfrog croak even twenty years worth of booze and cigarettes hadn’t changed all that much. “Hello, son.”

Cold shot through him. His scalp prickled. Something-an unrecognizable sound-came out of his mouth, so he cleared his throat and tried again. This time managed to produce a flat, “Dad.”

His father’s chuckle sounded more nervous than amused. “I know, I’m the last person you probably expected to hear from.”

“That’s about right,” Alan drawled, and heard an exhalation on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, well…Bucky called me, you know. Did you think he wouldn’t?” Alan didn’t reply, and after a moment came another exhalation. “I’m just sorry you didn’t feel like you could come to me, is all. Anyhow, I’ve got a name for you. If you want it. Considering where it came from.”

“Not a problem,” Alan said. His heart was racing a mile a minute and his jaws felt like they were wired together. “If it’ll help close this case, I’m sure as hell not going to turn it down.”

This time the chuckle sounded genuinely amused. “Spoken like a cop, son. Guess the apple didn’t fall all that far from the tree. So-” he cleared his throat loudly “-anyway, the guy’s name is Faulkner-Bob Faulkner. He was a homicide detective down in Baltimore-retired, a’course-getting on in years, though. Met him a while back-I forget now what the occasion was-and we got to talking about old times, old cases. You know how it goes. Anyways, he was telling us, Bucky and me, about this case he had, way way back, but it stuck with him because, he said, the kids were just so doggone nice, squeaky-clean, and the case never did make any sense. Anyways, when Bucky told me you’d called, it was the first thing we thought of, both of us. Went ahead and looked him up-turns out he still lives in Bal’more. He’s expecting your call, if you want to talk to him.”

It was a moment or two before Alan could reply, and he had to clear his throat first. “Okay, I’ll do that,” he said. He listened to the number, jotted it down, then added, “Thanks.”

“No problem. Glad I could help.” There was a long silence, and then a gruff and raspy, “Think you could maybe give your old man a call sometime, when you’re not so busy?”

The knot in Alan’s chest became a fist, squeezing the breath out of him. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll do that.”

After he’d hung up, he sat for a few minutes, clammy and sweaty, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. When he looked up, he found Carl watching him.

His partner’s somber expression brightened into a smile. “Hoo boy, for a minute there you looked like you were talking to a ghost.”

Alan laughed without humor. “You could say that. That…was my dad.”

“Seriously?” Alan nodded. Carl tilted his head thoughtfully. “Interesting…”

“Yeah,” Alan said sourly. Glowering, he picked up the phone again, consulted the number he’d written down on a notepad and dialed it.

It was answered after four rings, by a voice that sounded out of breath. Alan was picturing a frail old geezer on oxygen, until, after he’d identified himself, he heard a robust cackle.

“Caught me a little ahead of myself,” Bob Faulkner said. “I was just lugging the file box up out of the damn basement. Gimme a minute…lemme catch my breath.”

“Sure,” Alan said, “take your time.”

“Whoo-been a few years since I looked at those files. Used to haul ’em out every now and then, go through everything all over again…kept thinking I’d see something I’d missed. You know how it is. Or if you don’t, you will. Every homicide cop, if he’s on the job long enough, has one-the case that won’t let him alone, you know? So… Lieutenant Cameron-that’d be your dad, I guess?”

“Right.”