Wilks had to admit it. “Let’s hope he uses the name Campbell,” he said.
“And meanwhile, you and I can keep busy. Now that we know who Joan’s parents are, I guess it’s time to let them know about her. You can see what you can learn at the Fizz-Rite main company in Bridgeport, and I’ll talk to her folks. I guess it’s about time somebody told them what happened to their daughter.”
CHAPTER XX
Wednesday, 1:00-2:30 P.M.
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Simpson lived on Eastview Avenue in Bridgeport, a lower-class suburban street whose houses were old, but whose trees were older, consisting of full-grown maples and elms, their naked branches jigsawing the sky. The Simpson place was a two-story, one-family house in need of paint. There was a postage stamp lawn crusted with the remains of Monday’s snow and an icy driveway to a tumbledown garage in the rear.
Fellows looked the house over and took a deep breath when he got out of the car. This was the second time in the case he had approached a house prepared to explain to anguished parents that their daughter was dead and he relished it even less this time.
A man in a T shirt and house slippers answered the door and allowed that he was Mr. Simpson. Fellows introduced himself and the man let him in, his stern face, under a shock of iron-gray hair, showing perplexity and a little disquiet. Mr. Simpson didn’t think he had broken any laws, but he couldn’t imagine why else a policeman should be at the door.
Mrs. Simpson entered the living room wiping her hands on an apron and was equally uneasy upon learning the identity of the caller. Where her husband was a big man, as tall as Fellows himself, rock-ribbed and solid, she was short and had once been petite, though now she was running to fat. The two of them perched on chairs, leaning forward and waiting for whatever axe was to fall, and the chief, dangling his hat between his legs in an opposite chair, stared down at the floor. “You have a daughter Joan?”
The father exhaled, and his tension relaxed a little. He hadn’t broken any laws after all. His wife sat a little farther forward, as if the tension he lost had been added to hers. “Yes,” she said in a quiet, strained voice.
“I want to talk to you about her,” Fellows said, trying in his mind to phrase his sentences.
It was Mr. Simpson who spoke then. “She got herself into trouble, didn’t she?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’m not surprised,” the man snapped. “She’s a tramp.”
“She’s a good girl,” his wife said defensively.
“It was with a man, wasn’t it?” Simpson said.
“Yes.”
“That’s what I thought. She’s a no-good tramp. That’s what I told her and that’s what I told you. Whatever she done she deserves what she gets.”
Fellows changed his approach a little. “Why do you say that?”
“She don’t live how we bring her up. Men! She’s always playing around with a man.”
His wife said, “Now, Robert, you don’t know that.”
“What do you mean I don’t know it?” he said back. “I do know it. How about that guy in the toy company? You think she got those presents because she took shorthand good?”
“What man was that?” the chief asked.
Mrs. Simpson said, with hot tears in her eyes, “That’s no way to talk about your daughter. Especially to strangers. Joan was a good girl.” She turned to Fellows. “She was always good to us. She was nice to have around. Never an unkind word, never any fights—”
“We had fights,” Simpson said. “Her and I.”
“It was you who did it. Hitting at her because she wanted a good time. What’s being young for, but to have a good time?”
“She didn’t have to go shacking up with her boss. That’s not the way a girl should behave. I told her and told her she’d have to pay the price.”
“She was a good girl. The only thing wrong was you not talking to her, except when you had wine and you wanted to fight.”
“She didn’t deserve I should talk with her. Would she go to church? Would she act decent like I wanted her to? No.”
Mrs. Simpson turned her attention to the chief. “What kind of trouble is she in?”
Fellows would have stalled, but the question was direct and there was no way to avoid an answer. “We think she’s been killed,” he said quietly.
Both parents said, “No!” together, and Mrs. Simpson leaned still farther forward. “That can’t be.”
“We found a body,” the chief said, “which has been tentatively identified as being a Joan Simpson, who worked for the Fizz-Rite Company in Townsend. We’ve been told you are her parents.”
Mr. Simpson’s heavily lined face crinkled up. A choking sob came out of his mouth and tears started from the creases that hid his eyes. “My baby,” he cried. “My Joan.” He began to sob and stumbled blindly out of the room, his cries echoing back through the house until a door slammed.
Mrs. Simpson sat perfectly still for a long time, staring vacantly into space, her only movements being a gentle rocking and the twisting of her fingers in her lap. Then she looked painfully at Fellows. “Is there—any chance of a mistake?”
Fellows said, “Of course, until your husband or you view the remains it’s not positive, but I’m afraid there isn’t much question.” She nodded and stared emptily once more. “You—said—someone killed her?”
“We believe so.”
“Did—you—catch him?”
“No, ma’am. We’re trying to. I’m hoping you can help us.”
“Of course we’ll help.” She was silent a moment and then said, “Please excuse my husband. He really loved her very much.”
“I never doubted that.” Fellows made a move to get up. “If you’d rather I came back later—”
“No,” she said. “It’s—I don’t mind talking about her. I’d like to talk about her.”
“Maybe you could tell me something about her life, particularly from high school on.”
Mrs. Simpson nodded and
