Tonight is our anniversary.
Since Laurie and I are not actually married, assigning an anniversary date can be tricky. Obvious possibilities were the date we met, or when we started going out, or when we moved in together.
We rejected all those, and chose as our anniversary the day she moved back from Wisconsin to be with me. That seemed to be the date that our commitment became explicit, at least as far as she was concerned. I was hooked long before that.
We’re not really the fancy-dinner, candlelight types, especially during a trial, when every minute counts. We also wouldn’t think of going out on a significant occasion like this without Tara, since she is an integral part of our family. And as the largest, albeit temporary, member of our family, Bailey’s company is welcome as well.
So we head to the Fireplace on Route 17. They’ve got terrific burgers, roast beef sandwiches, and the like, and their hot dogs are among Tara’s favorites. It is also one of the few places that takes me seriously when I say I want my french fries burned beyond recognition.
During the warmer months, we sit outside and eat, but that certainly is not an option tonight. They will let any human inside to eat, no matter how big a loser he or she might be, but dogs are not allowed in. Tara is cleaner than at least half the patrons, and probably smarter than ninety percent, but she and Bailey can’t come in, so we eat in the car.
I have to make two trips from the restaurant to the car, because if I try and carry all of Bailey’s food I could hurt myself. She’s actually a fairly dainty eater, doesn’t make a mess and licks her lips clean. She finishes four hot dogs before Tara has one, and eyes Tara’s remaining food hungrily. But she doesn’t go after it.
Laurie and I resolve not to talk about the case during dinner, but we break that particular resolution within five minutes. We have a lot to go over, and since we’d have to do it when we got home anyway, we decide to get a head start on it.
Laurie’s report is depressing. She has spent the last two days attempting to contact every person on our list of cell phone calls. She has been successful in reaching more than half of them, but unsuccessful in getting anyone to reveal anything of consequence.
“It feels like they’re all reading from the same script,” she says. “They all say they don’t know what I’m talking about, and that while they’d like to help, they really need more information about what we’re looking for.”
“No unusual reactions at all?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. One of them actually laughed at me. A D.C. political consultant named Brett Fowler. He sometimes goes on those cable news shows. He had seen you on TV… thought it was a riot that he was on your list.”
It’s not an unexpected development, but nonetheless disappointing. The truth is that my threat to publicly expose anyone who didn’t cooperate was basically an empty one. We know far too little to do any damage; we don’t even know what it is we don’t know.
I describe what happened in court today, as accurately as I can, and Laurie says, “It sounds like you did very well.”
I launch into my “debating points” versus “verdict points” theory, but she’s heard it maybe a thousand times, so she cuts me short. “The key thing is you’re not getting steamrolled,” she says. “You’ll have time to make your verdict points when you present your case.”
There’s no sense mentioning that we don’t have a case, so I don’t. But I’m also not about to fake being upbeat about our chances. “The emotional side of this is always going to be against us,” I say.
“You mean the way the people died?”
“Yes. Every person on that jury has got an image in their mind of what it was like for the victims, and that’s only going to get stronger. Dylan is going to sift through every human ash in the building.”
“I wonder why they did it that way,” she says. “I mean, regardless of who the target was, why not just come in and shoot them in the head?”
I nod. “I know; that’s bothered me from the beginning. This was so much more difficult to pull off, and not as sure a thing. One person got out; others could have. Maybe even the targets.”
It’s weird how certain things happen, and how they can trigger thoughts. I wouldn’t leave a Fireplace french fry uneaten if there was a tsunami bearing down on me, I’m almost finished with these, and the last few are just burned ash; if you saw one in a different context you would never know it was once a proud french fry.
But looking at it somehow gives me an insight. “The purpose was the obliteration,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“They didn’t shoot their targets because killing them wasn’t the only goal. They were trying to remove all traces of something.”
“Any idea what that could be?”
I shake my head. “Not really. It could have been anything.”
“Maybe it was identity,” Laurie says. “There were people in there that have still not been identified, and never will be. The fire could have been set to hide who was in there.”
“And even who wasn’t,” I say. “There was no real way to identify most of those people; it was based on secondhand reports. People believed their friends and family were in there, and that was confirmed by the fact that they were missing afterward. We could think somebody died that night who wasn’t even there. That’s why they used napalm; they wanted it to burn so hot that there’d be nothing left. Gasoline and a match wouldn’t have accomplished it.”
“They could have used the napalm to help point the finger at Noah,” Laurie says. “Because of his background.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. We haven’t even come up with a reason why anybody would want to do this to Noah. I think he may have just come in handy, as someone to blame it on.”
“Which they waited six years to do?” she asks.
“That’s been the key question all along, and I finally think I may know how to get to the answer. But it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Why?”
I look at my watch. “Two reasons. One, if I call Pete this late, he’ll kill me. And two, it’s time to go home to celebrate our anniversary.”
“You mean sex?” she asks.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Laurie feigns a yawn; at least I hope she’s feigning. Feign detection has never been one of my strengths, and females have been yawning at my advances since high school. “Been there, done that,” she says.
“Good,” I say. “Then you’ll know exactly what to do. I’m tired of having to teach you.”
“Or we could not celebrate at all,” she says.
“A night without sex?” I ask, and then shake my head. “Nope… been there, done that.”
I call Pete at eight-thirty in the morning, on my way to court.
“What took you so long?” is the way he starts the conversation, dispensing with “hello.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“You’re calling because you’ve got some questions, and you think I have the answers.”
“You got that right.”
“So what took you so long?” he asks. “I was going to call you if I had to.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Not my style,” he says. “What are you doing now?”
“Going to court.”
“Can you meet me at Stiff City at seven o’clock? I’ll try and get Nancy to hang around.”
“You want to give me a preview?” I ask.
“No.”
The conversation with Pete has been intriguing, which is more than I can say for what is going to happen in court today. Dylan is planning a parade of witnesses who are going to say that Noah was a frequent presence in the area near the fire, and that he was known to be purchasing drugs from the “businessmen” on the first floor.
The first witness is Lawrence Cahill, known to residents of the neighborhood as Larry, showing if nothing else he believes in really clever nicknames. Laurie’s investigation of Larry shows a person of less than the highest character, but he is dressed up today like he’s heading straight for the senior prom after court.
