such things need not be done so politely and proper, had produced nothing. He had not found a doily out of place, let alone bloodstains or evidence of violence. For weaponry the woman had possessed nothing more dangerous than a few kitchen knives.
Carstairs had made his final entry in 1929, on the eighth anniversary of the case, and the eve of his assignment to the Board of Police Commissioners. He had left best wishes for anyone who became interested in his hobby case.
He had finally surrendered.
Pasted to the last page was a snapshot of a man and a woman, in the style of the early twenties. Penned on the yellowed sheet was 'Guess who?' in John's hand, with an arrow indicating the man.
The resemblance was remarkable. Even to the suit. And the woman was undeniably Fiala Groloch.
'John!' Cash thundered. 'Get in here!'
He appeared quickly, wearing a foolish grin. 'Saw the picture, eh?'
'Yeah. You didn't fake something up, did you?' John and Michael, as teenagers, had loved practical jokes. John had once gone through a camera stage. He and Michael had made some phony prints showing Cash and a neighbor woman leaving a motel. There had been virtual war with Annie before the boys had confessed. Cash had never forgiven them.
Because he really had been guilty, his feet of clay had been innocently, accidentally exposed, his darkest secret had been hauled, bones rattling, from its casket by children who knew not what they did. The experience had made him suspect there might be something to the law of karma after all.
John's smile faded. 'Not this time. You want to run tests?'
'No.' Cash believed him. He didn't want to, though. 'Wait. Maybe. This's impossible, you know. It can't be him.'
'I know.' Harald seemed proud of his little coup, but frightened. As was Cash, who felt like a wise Pandora about to open the box anyway.
'There're no prints in the file,' Cash observed. 'Did they use them then?'
'Got me. I don't even know how to find out.'
'They started in the eighteen hundreds, I think. Didn't Sherlock Holmes use them?'
'Shee-it, I don't know. Never made any difference to me.'
'Okay. Okay. We got a problem. How to prove our corpse isn't Jack O'Brien. We need something concrete. Dental records?'
'No way. You saw the coroner's report. No dentist ever saw the inside of that mouth. Perfect teeth.'
'Yeah. Wouldn't find anything medical, either. It'd be here in the file. Scars and things. Carstairs doesn't mention a one. You'd think a guy with O'Brien's street record would've gotten cut up a little. Must've been a lucky bastard. Bet you couldn't even find a birth record… Wait! O'Brien. Catholic…'
'Got you.' John started to leave.
'Hold on here. Let's have a plan. All we can do is find out if he was born here, maybe if any relatives are still alive… Yeah, that'd help. Find somebody who really knew him besides Miss Groloch. Wouldn't be conclusive, though.'
Cash paused, thought for nearly a minute. 'We need to get ahold of something with his prints. You think any would still be around?'
John spread his hands, shrugged. 'They found pterodon bones in Texas a couple months ago.'
'Okay. Anything's possible. Slide out when Railsback isn't looking and start checking parish records. I'll cover for you.'
'But Railsback is looking,' the lieutenant said from behind Harald. 'What're you up to now?'
'Not much. A little hobby case, you might say.'
'Yeah,' said John. 'Just a check on a birth certificate. It'll only take half an hour.'
Railsback spotted the file. And picture. 'Hey, the John Doe. Where'd you get this? Who is he?'
Harald and Cash exchanged looks.
'Well?'
'Name's Jack O'Brien,' said Cash. 'That man disappeared in 1921. This is the file on the investigation.'
'Eh?' Railsback frowned. 'What the hell? You're shitting me.'
'Nope.' Improvising, Cash added, 'We thought the John Doe might be a relative.'
'Really?' Railsback gave them both the fisheye. 'You got the Donalson thing straight?'
'He's in the can, ain't he?'
'Sure. But for how long? Judge'll probably release him on his own recognizance.'
They had brought Donalson in for a double murder. He was an enforcer for one of the drug gangs, had been on bond awaiting trial on two previous murder charges when they had grabbed him. One case had gone more than a year without disposition. It was the sort of thing that made them wonder why they bothered.
'The paperwork's current,' said Cash. 'Won't be anything more till the prosecuting attorney asks for it.'
'Okay, you want to chase some crackpot time machine notion, go to it. Just keep in touch, huh?'
