chill of air conditioning inside. “Out of the frying pan, into the freezer,” mumbled Pete.
It was a small station that also served as a part of the court system and as a detention center. We went up to a window and pressed an intercom button. A woman detention officer came to the window. Pete showed his ID and asked her if she would please let a deputy sheriff know we were there. A few minutes later, a door to our left was opened, and a tall man in a tan uniform came out to greet us. There was a warm smile on his rugged features. “You must be the folks from California. I’m Enrique Ramos,” he said. He was a big man, but he moved with ease and grace. I guessed him to be about fifty.
Pete extended a hand. “Pete Baird. I think I talked to you on the phone. This is the friend of Mr. O’Connor’s I told you about, Irene Kelly.”
Ramos gave me a firm handshake. “Sorry to hear about Mr. O’Connor. I got a kick out of talking to him on the phone. I was looking forward to meeting him in person. Come on back.”
He motioned us to follow him through the door to a small back office.
“You know, as slow as it is around here sometimes, I don’t think anybody but your friend could have talked me into going through our old missing-persons files from the 1950s. But he kind of got my interest going with all his talk about teeth and so on. Besides, I figured him to be the kind of person who would bug the hell out of me if I didn’t respond to his request.”
“You figured right,” I said. “He always tried the friendly approach first, but he could make a royal pain out of himself if need be.”
Ramos smiled. “I thought so.” He gestured to a couple of straightback wooden chairs and we sat. He pulled a folder out of a filing cabinet and sat behind his desk.
“Had to go into the old archives to find stuff like this — all on microfiche now. Well, anyway, when you’ve only got a few hundred people in town, you don’t have many go missing in a year. In 1955, we weren’t the great metropolis we are now. I know it’s hard for people from a big city to imagine this place being any smaller than it is now, but it was.” He opened the folder and looked over some notes.
“In 1955, we had three missing persons. One was an old woman who probably had what we now call Alzheimer’s, and she wandered off along the fence of the damned gunnery range — it’s just across the road — the MPs found her, but it was winter and she never really recovered from her time outdoors.
“You might say we also found a young boy who ran off from home, but really he came back on his own; according to the notes here, no worse for the adventure.
“There was one more we didn’t find: a young woman, about twenty, who worked in the feed store. She was still living with her folks at the time. Her mother reported her missing on June 16, 1955, but there was evidence that she left on her own; she had purchased a bus ticket to San Diego the previous evening. Couldn’t trace her from there. Guy at the Greyhound depot here said she gave him just about every last cent she had to go to California, and San Diego was as far as it would take her. So we figured she might have just got tired of life in Gila Bend. We checked around and a girl she worked with said she had talked a lot about how she was going to marry a rich kid from Phoenix. Well, we couldn’t figure out why she’d go to California if the rich kid was in Phoenix, but maybe he was going to meet her there.”
“Had she ever mentioned this kid to her parents?” I asked.
“No, but it was pretty clear she hadn’t been abducted, and she was over eighteen, so there wasn’t much we could do about it. Her folks never made much out of it once we told them about the bus ticket.
“Now along comes your friend Mr. O’Connor, thirty-five years later, with his story. I did a little more digging around and found this. A picture from her high school graduation, in 1953.” He pushed a small black and white photo across the desk, and Pete and I both rose from our chairs to look at it.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” said Pete.
Except for small differences in her looks, a little something about her nose and lips, there was no mistaking the resemblance to MacPherson’s computer composites.
“It’s Hannah,” I said.
“Who?” asked Ramos.
I handed the computer drawing over to Ramos. “Hannah’s sort of a nickname we’ve used for her over the years.” I didn’t want to tell him why. “What was her real name?” I asked.
“Assuming this is the same woman — and I agree, it looks a lot like her — her real name was Jennifer. Jennifer Owens.”
“Jennifer Owens,” I said aloud, then repeated it in my mind. Suddenly, I felt tears well up in my eyes. O’Connor should have been the first one to hear her name. She had been his obsession for thirty-five years. It was his work that had led us this far. He had come so very close to learning who she was. God, how proud he would have been. It might have eased a little of that pain he carried around for his sister.
Ramos was looking at me. “You okay, Miss Kelly?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Just thinking of how pleased O’Connor would have been. He was… especially concerned about Hannah — Jennifer. Had been from the start. It’s hard to explain.”
“He told me about his sister,” Ramos said.
I was surprised, and didn’t hide it. Ramos met my look with an understanding smile. “I think he was afraid I wouldn’t take this seriously.”
Pete was looking between us, but neither of us offered him an explanation. “So,” he asked Ramos, “are her parents still around?”
“Yeah, her mother is still living,” Ramos said. “Old man’s been dead some years now. But her mother lives out in a trailer off Highway 85. You probably passed it on the way here. She doesn’t have a phone. I’ll take you out there if you want to go.”
Pete stood up. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never get used to this part of the job.”
We climbed into the front seat of a large green-and-white Jeep Cherokee that had the sheriff’s logo on its
