The Bone Box

It was signed with a signature that was half printed and half cursive, and dated. It was her signature, at least as she’d used to write it. Yet something didn’t seem quite right. Birdy remembered how a kind lady with short blond hair had sat in the small room while then-detective Derby urged her to “get it all down” and “don’t worry about the mistakes because Patricia can fix them later.”

Patricia. The name played in her head, but she couldn’t come up with any more. Who was Patricia?

When she walked into Derby’s office, she was instantly reminded of the days leading up to Tommy’s trial. It was strange. The sense of familiarity didn’t come from seeing him in person, or even hearing his voice on the phone. It was the odor that lingered in the air of the office. Birdy caught the distinct whiff of witch hazel, a scent that always led her back to the days she’d spent waiting to testify, being questioned, all of what came with being an eyewitness. At fourteen it had been almost too much to take in. All the adults telling her what to do, pretending they weren’t telling her what to say. The smell reminded her of all of that. Jim Derby used witch hazel as a skin bracer or aftershave. Apparently some things hadn’t changed so much after all.

A secretary led her inside the bobbleheaded office and the pair exchanged a few remarks about the congressional race, the reservation, and the time that had passed. She told him that she’d seen Tommy and she’d promised to look into his case.

“Not officially, of course, but as a family member.”

“A little late to dig into that one,” he said. “It has been a long time.”

“Not really,” Birdy said. “Not if he’s innocent.”

Sheriff Derby motioned to his coffee cup and Birdy shook her head at the offer.

“We got him dead to rights as I quite vividly recall,” he said, folding his big hands atop his pristine desk. “One of my first big investigations. Who says he’s innocent?”

Birdy didn’t like his tone. Not at all. She’d come there to learn more about the case from the lead investigator. She hadn’t come with the intention of defending Tommy. It wasn’t about that. It was about finding out the truth for someone who really needed it. At that moment, she wasn’t sure if it was she or Tommy who needed the truth more.

“He does,” she said. “Always has. That’s kind of the point. He has always said he was innocent, but once he was convicted, he just kind of stopped. He disappeared. There was no appeal.”

Jim gave a knowing sigh; it was exaggerated like everything he did. “Maybe once he was convicted, he knew we had him and there was no point to fighting it anymore. Didn’t testify at trial either, as I recall.”

“No, he didn’t,” Birdy said. “But you interviewed him.”

“It wasn’t much of an interview.”

“So I gathered,” she said, pulling out a slim manila folder. “I have a reference for it. Somewhere …” She shuffled through the documents she’d brought from the Bone Box. She’d flagged one page with an incongruent rainbow Post-it note.

“What’s all that?” he asked, as she rotated the file and set the page on his desk.

“Material I collected,” she said, watching his every nuance and facial tic. Was there anything to be learned from his folded hands? His sigh? In the morgue the dead say nothing, but their stories were part of their bodies.

“You probably have cases that haunt you too, don’t you, Sheriff?”

He signed again. Impatient? Annoyed?

“I can assure you, Freeland’s isn’t one of them,” he said, “but yes.”

Birdy finished sifting through the folder. “Here it is,” she said, pointing her forefinger at a line in an old police interview report. She started to read:

“… subject was polite, but evasive. Didn’t admit guilt, but attempted to deflect responsibility during the recorded session.”

She pushed the paper at him, but he didn’t reach for it. His fingers still threaded his hands together. “Yes, for a killer, I guess he was polite. Is there a point here?”

“The report makes mention of a recording, and yet as far as I can tell the recording was never played at trial. I’ve looked everywhere for a reference of it, but none.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Maybe there wasn’t much on it worth playing. Not like he confessed or anything. Sure I can’t get you anything? Pop?”

“I’m good. No thanks. Back to the report here-it is your report, right?”

He nodded, his smile still in place, but his eyes no longer generating any kind of genuine warmth. He wasn’t irritated, maybe a little impatient. Birdy tried to avoid reading anything into his demeanor just then. She was after something very specific.

“Says right here.” She tapped her fingertip on the page and glanced at him. “Says ‘suspect deflected blame.’ What does that mean? If you remember, that is. I know it has been a very long time.”

“It has been, I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. I can see you have a lot of passion in your eyes for this matter. I understand the family connection, and the importance of family on the reservation.”

Again, he said all the right words. At least mostly. He had the badge of a law enforcement officer, but no doubt politics had been Derby’s true calling. The last word was meant as kind of zinger, Birdy was sure, though she didn’t let on. Law enforcement who worked the reservation never did so because it was a plum assignment. It was a stepping-stone. The people who lived there were never seen as they should have been-as mothers, fathers, and children. Just as big, messy family units, a mass of souls coiled together tightly in troubles that never ceased.

“Do you know what became of the tape?” she asked.

“Evidence locker at the county. Always thought the kid would appeal, but knowing that he’s guilty as sin, probably did us all a favor by accepting his sentence. In my mind, that’s the same as owning up to the crime.”

“He didn’t own up to anything,” she said.

“No answer is sometimes the same thing as saying that you’re guilty.”

“That isn’t how our legal system works, Sheriff Derby.”

His eyes stayed on her. The bobbleheads moved slightly behind them, a Greek chorus of plastic and spring necks. “Look, I understand where you’re coming from. I wish I could help you and your people. I wish there was something that I could tell you that would make the world a better place, a place where the sun always shines, where no kids are hungry, and your cousin wasn’t a killer.”

Annoyance had clearly given way to genuine irritation.

“It is nice to dream, isn’t it, Sheriff?” she said, getting up and reaching for her coat. “Thanks for your time. Thanks for all you’ve done for my … my people.” She paused and turned, a smile on her face.

“I have often thought of the nice woman, Patricia, who was so kind to me during the trial,” she said as they passed by a record’s clerk outside his office.

A look of recognition came over the sheriff’s face, but it was fleeting. “Yes, Patricia Stanford,” he said. “Nice and smart. Retired from the department years ago.”

“Do you happen to know where she is?” Birdy asked.

Jim Derby, witch hazel balm oozing from every oversized pore, looked upward and then shook his head. “Sorry, but I lost track of her. I think, yeah, I think she passed away.”

As Birdy climbed into her bright red Prius, a finger tapped at the window.

It was the records clerk, who’d overheard Birdy’s conversation with the sheriff.

“Hey, don’t know why he said that. I can only guess. He never liked Pat much. Not that I could tell anyway. As far as her being dead, that’s a complete crock. I chatted with Pat-Stan last month at the Antiques Mall in Port Angeles. She runs the place.”

“He must have made a mistake,” Birdy said, purposely a little unconvincingly. She didn’t like Jim Derby at all. She was glad she didn’t live in his congressional district. She would probably doorbell for any other candidate no matter what their qualifications.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the clerk, a middle-aged woman whose county-issue name badge identified her as Consuelo Maria Diego. “But I don’t think so. He just hated Pat. She quit here because of him. I don’t know what the beef was, but Sheriff said, ‘Pat didn’t have a leg to stand on.’ He could be mean like that, you