A matter of time

There seemed to have been no animosity toward Miss Groloch during the Great War, either because no one knew of her origins or because St. Louis's vast German community had remained completely, demonstratively loyal despite countless family ties in Europe. There had been little trouble.

Cash closed the folder little wiser. Just with more questions. Always there were more questions.

And don't lose the forest for the trees, he cautioned himself.

Jack O'Brien had a crafty way about him. He kept trying to disappear among the distractions. And he, or whomever the dead man might be, was what this case was all about.

He opened Mrs. Caldwell’s report to the page where he had made notes and added, Any other mysterious corpses on record?

Digging into that ought to keep John busy for a while.

Harald poked him. Everyone was rising. Court was recessing without their having been called to testify.

'Damn,' John complained as they departed. 'There's tomorrow shot all to hell. Christ, it's hot out here. Hope Carrie bought some beer.'

Cash told him of his evening plans.

John was furious. But he didn't say a thing.

Cash brought him up to date on the morning's work. John began to get that hungry hunter look again.

'Maybe it is starting to go. Maybe. You'd better let Gardner know about those four hoods. If we could just jam her into the damned lie detector…'

Cash had a sudden thought. 'John. That mailman… let's find out if her mail has changed since we've been pushing her. Also, you might ask your friend if there's any chance of tracking down classifieds from the time when she was having trouble with Carstairs.'

The look of the hunter faded. 'Norm, this's getting to be a pain in the ass.'

'You don't like it, get out and drum up some alternate business. Me, I'm determined to nail this one shut.'

'That's what Carstairs was going to do, remember? For eight years.'

'Yeah. I remember.' And he thought about it all the way back to the office.

XVIII. On the Z Axis;

1973-77;

Homecomings

The most striking thing, Thorkelsen scribbled on his notepad, as the former prisoners descended from the transport- and it is the same every time I come out here-is not their gauntness, nor their confusion about the changes that have taken place in their absence, nor even the mechanical way they greet their families and respond to our questions. It is something I cannot quite put my finger on.

He wrote all his notes longhand, laboriously. His handwriting was so bad even he had trouble reading it if he hurried.

He turned to Cameron, who had been sent down by the Sacramento Union. 'They're all the same. You see it?'

The second reporter grunted. 'Hunh? Nope. What do you mean?' But he wasn't listening when Thorkelsen tried to explain. He was wondering if he would have time to slip into Frisco and catch a hooker before he had to go home to a wife he detested. The girl named Fay knew exactly how to get the damned thing up, and had the patience to do it right.

'Big ones, little ones, black, white, commissioned or enlisted, they all look like the same guy designed them.'

Thorkelsen knew only the air was listening. But he persisted. He could order his thoughts by talking, and might get through just enough to stimulate some sort of insight.

This was his fourth planeload met. He was now certain he lingered on the edge of a story. But the damned puzzle pieces wouldn't fall into place.

'It's not looks, though. They look pretty much alike because they've got to meet the same physical requirements and go through the same training. The pilots, anyway. No, it's something else. Something inside.'

There were enlisted men on this flight. Just a handful, but only the second group he had seen.

They were the same too.

'Hey, Bob, I'll catch you later.' He had noticed a tech sergeant who didn 't have the nameless air.

'Yeah. Sure.' Cameron resumed pursuit of his interrupted fantasy. What Fay could do with her dark little hands smothered in soap lather was a certifiable miracle. She ought to be canonized.

The sergeant's nametag read cantrell, A.O.

'Excuse me, Sergeant Cantrell. Nils Thorkelsen, Fresno Bee. Got a minutel'

The man stopped, but did not reply. He stared through Thorkelsen, did not bother dropping his travel bag.

Thorkelsen tried to explain the feeling he had gotten about the returning prisoners of war, and that he had sensed something unique about Cantrell. 'Could you tell me why that is?'

'I'm uneducable.'

'Eh? Could you try again?'