Silver's Bones (7 page)

 

Chapter 8

B
ut Troy wasn't fine. When we entered the police department, he made a dive for the nearest restroom. Ten minutes later when he joined me in our office, he said he'd vomited.

“So, go home,” I said.

“I'm all right now.”

“Seriously, Kern, you look like shit. Go the hell home. What if you're contagious? I'll bring you a copy of the entire Dawson case file. I promise. Want me to drive you?”

“Nah. Thanks, though.” He shuffled out and I took the can of Lysol I kept in my bottom drawer and sprayed every visible surface of the room, including the doorknob.

After entering the things from Dawson's into evidence, I checked them out, plus the two 1997 evidence boxes, and went to the conference room we'd taken over for the case. I looked through one of the old evidence boxes first. I found the stack of birthday cards, including Wesley Stillman's. It had a drawing of a cat sitting on a window ledge looking out at a bird in a tree. The inside sentiment read, “May your birthday be filled with things you'd love to have.” He'd written underneath, “I feel like I'm the cat and you're the pretty bird. Happy birthday! Wes.”

He was caged on the inside looking out at the world. A little weird, if you asked me. She'd saved two notes from him. In one he'd asked her to meet him on Saturday at Dotty's Café. The other said, “Parker is not the one for you. Trust me on that. Wes.”
Bold of him to try and discredit her boyfriend,
I thought.
I bet he thought he had a chance.

I read through old notes and letters from Parker—sappy things. Parker's birthday card was huge and flowery and nothing like I'd have considered giving my high school girlfriend.

I picked up the 1996-1997 Prairie Falls High School yearbook. Silver Rae had been a junior that year. Although not much time would have passed between the yearbook photo and her senior pictures, she looked much younger in the former. She wore a pale-pink sweater, and her hair had been straightened. Her shy smile revealed vulnerability, not the confident look the camera had captured in her senior pictures. I liked it better so I made a photocopy, enlarged it, and placed it on the whiteboard. What sicko could have murdered this beautiful young woman?

The comments her friends had written seemed typical of what seventeen-year-olds write to one another. Aubrey and Jenny had written the longest entries. Aubrey carried on about how much fun they'd had through the year, ending with: “Our friendship is sooo important to me.” Jenny's was mostly about sports: the soccer and softball teams, and how great it was beating Brainerd. A girl named Laurel thanked Silver for helping her through rough times. I recalled that a Laurel somebody had crossed the crime scene tape at Adriana's—too much of a coincidence not to be the same person. It would make sense a former friend would want to see where she'd been found.

I looked for the girls' photos. Aubrey was blonde and had sharp facial features. She was attractive, but not pretty like Silver. I recognized Jenny. I'd seen her around town. She looked the same—wholesome.

Laurel didn't seem like she'd have been in the same crowd as the other three. She had the Goth deal going on. Her hair, dyed jet black, looked like someone had come at it with a handsaw. She had a blob of a tattoo on her neck and had overdone the piercings: several up her ear lobes, one in each eyebrow, and topped off with a nose ring.
How does that work when you have a cold?
I wondered. With all that effort, she still missed the badass mark because of her large doe eyes and plump, soft face.

I found Parker Gage's photo in the senior section. He was the all-American boy with his blond hair, handsome face, and confident smile. He had the same strong facial features as his sister, but on a guy, they worked better.

He'd written only a few lines on the back cover: “Silvy, what can I say, girl? Remember our first date? When I lost my keys, I thought you'd never go out with me again, but you just gave me one of your fantastic smiles and said—‘So what? Let's walk to your house and pick up the spare.' I was hooked right then.”
He'd signed his name and next to it drew a heart with a fishhook in it. Cheesy.

I looked for Silver's extracurricular photos: soccer, softball, the Falls Volunteers Club. Every photo captured the same great smile. I liked this girl.

I picked up her photo album and flipped through. It contained mostly pictures of her with friends: some at a lake, with teammates in sports uniforms, and many of her and Parker. They made a cute couple. Was he good to her, or did he just try to get in her pants, like most boys his age?

Patrice stuck her head in. “Glad I caught you. The Dawson evidence box?”

“Yeah, I'm going through some things they'd saved. Take a look at her photos.”

I handed her the album and she paged through.

“She was a cutie. Nice smile. How sad.”

“It is.”

“Anything else?”

“Mementos, notes, yearbook, baby teeth—but no diary entry telling me she was afraid of Mr. X.”

She gave me a hint of a smile. “That'd be too easy. I'll take the teeth up with the dental records—speaking of which, I have good news and bad news.”

“I hate when people say that.”

“Ha. Me too. The good news is the Dawsons' dentist held on to Silver's records because she was still missing. Bad news is when the clinic transferred to a computerized system ten years ago, Silver's medical records didn't make it because she wasn't a current patient. Carol Cook in records told me her medical file was most likely purged and shredded because some of the new hires probably didn't know her story.”

“Too bad her file wasn't flagged or something smart like that,” I said. “Do you know who her primary physician was?”

“Mrs. Dawson said it was Dr. Abrams at Riverside Clinic,” she said.

“I can talk to him, see if there's anything significant he remembers. I think I'll try to catch him before he goes home for the day.”

“And I'm on my way to Bemidji,” Patrice said.

“Here,” I said and handed her the evidence bag with the baby teeth.

She crossed her arms. I knew something else was on her mind.

“Do you feel the same as Troy? That I micromanage?”

“Yes, but I understand. You're new and don't know us.”

“I may be new to Birch County, but not to law enforcement. You know I was on the Bloomington Police Force for several years?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And I need to be part of this investigation. That's my job, I believe.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You can cut the ‘yes, ma'am' crap. I heard you and Troy have history—that you haven't always seen eye to eye—but you seem to be functioning as a team.”

“Who told you about our
history
?”

“Oh, listen, since I walked in the door, people have felt compelled to inform me how things are. So, I know most all the department and town gossip. I want you to know, I form my own opinions. I like how you operate, Cal. I would've assigned you lead because I think you're going to be my ace, but I thought Troy needed this one more. Besides, you're still a critical partner in the case.”

“I get that.” I said. But I didn't know her well enough to know if she was being truthful or just placating me with the “ace” bullshit.

“And, Cal, I never expressed my appreciation to you for being the first to change over to the black uniform.”

“You know you had a near strike on your hands.”

“I was well aware when the three months transition was up and the only black uniform I saw was the one in the mirror. I was afraid it was going to end in a real pissing contest. So, thank you for stepping out. I know the investigators like to wear plain clothes, but it looks more professional to wear the uniform.”

So say you.
“I pick my battles.”

She smiled. “So noted.”

“Speaking of battles, have you thought about the white summer shirts?”

“No. So, did you enjoy your Hawaiian honeymoon?”

No?
I nodded. “Who wouldn't enjoy Hawaii?”

“I didn't want to bring it up before you left, but when my husband and I went to Maui for our ten-year anniversary, it rained almost the entire two weeks.”

“Oh, jeez, no, we had great weather. So, are you saying no to the white shirts or no you haven't thought about it?”

“This one of your battles?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

She cocked her head. “So noted. What islands did you visit?”

So noted?
“Just Oahu . . . Sheriff, standing in the heat wearing black is ridiculous.”

“I love the diversity of that island. So much to do. You and Shannon seem to make a good couple. When this case is over, I'll take you both out for dinner as a wedding gift.”

“Oh, no need.”

“I want to. Oh, you're blushing. You're uncomfortable because I wasn't invited to the wedding.”

Now I am.
“Uh, it was a small affair. We just had family and close friends.”

“So you and Troy
are
close then?
He
was invited.”

“We should have invited you. I'm sorry. We had to draw a line.”

“Cal,” she said sharply, “I didn't expect to be invited. But I'd like to buy you two dinner, if that's acceptable.”

“It's fine. Do we have to wear our uniforms?”

She eyed me to gauge my intent. “If you're more comfortable in them.”

I smiled.

She said, “I best get going—we'll chat later. And quit bugging me about the white shirts, or it
will
be a no.” She left abruptly.

“You da boss,” I said. I took a deep breath and called Riverside Clinic.

 

 

At 5:35 p.m., the clinic
receptionist
left, so I picked up women's magazines and mindlessly flipped through, stopping to admire the Victoria Secret's underwear ads. I was starting to think I'd been stood up when a man about five-foot-nine with a slight build appeared and walked toward me with his hand outstretched. He was familiar. I'd seen him out jogging some mornings. One might say he had a distinguished look, with his black hair graying at the temples, Roman nose, dark-gray suit, pink tie, and sporty dark-rimmed eyeglasses.

“Peter Abrams,” he said.

“Cal Sheehan. Thanks for meeting me this late on a Friday afternoon.”

“No problem.”

I followed him back to his office in the rear of the clinic. As we were walking, he said, “I understand you have a warrant for records on a former patient.”

“Silver Rae Dawson. Yes, right here.” I waved the paper. “But I was told the records are missing. Carol Cook thinks they may have been purged.”

He took a seat behind his desk as I sat across from him in a wiggly metal-and-cloth chair. I handed him the warrant. He didn't even look at it before he started typing on his computer. The screen was facing away from me.

While I waited, I looked around the office. Offices tell a lot about a person. On his desk were two photos of himself with another man. In one they were dressed in polo shirts and shorts, drinking tropical drinks on a ship deck. In the other, the two were posed in an outdoor setting with two golden retrievers, who looked to be the subjects of the two large, framed watercolors on his wall.

He looked at me and said, “Carol's right. There's nothing here.”

“I know this is asking a lot to remember back fifteen years, but do you recall anything significant about her medical history?”

Dr. Abrams said, “I think you should talk to one of my colleagues. Let me make a call.” He dialed a number on his desk phone. “Joris? Glad I caught you. I have an investigator from the Sheriff's Department looking into Silver Rae Dawson's medical records—seems they've been purged. I think you should talk to him.” Abrams listened for a bit then and said, “Perfect.”

After hanging up the receiver he said, “Dr. Kline is one of our OB-GYNs. I'll walk you down to his office.”

OB-GYN? What's this about?
I wondered.

I followed Abrams down the narrow hallway of dark offices. Dr. Joris Kline's nameplate was fixed above an open door. He rose and came around his desk to greet me. He was in his mid-forties, his blond hair losing its battle against balding. Abrams made a quick introduction and retreated. Kline asked me in, closed the door behind us and gestured for me to sit. He pushed up the silver-framed readers on his nose and cleared his throat. His guest chair, identical to the one Abram's had in his office, was even more wobbly.

“I like your artwork,” I said, pointing to the framed prints on his wall: Marilyn Monroe, (the one where she's standing over an air vent and her skirt flies up), and Alfred Einstein looking unsmiling into the camera. A quote was printed along the bottom: “I am thankful to all those who said NO to me. It's because of them I did it myself.”

He said, “Consummate beauty and brains.”

“People say no to you?”

He cocked his head. “Sometimes.”

“I just wondered how you related to the quote.”

“It's complicated.”

“Einstein said if you can't explain something simply, then you don't understand it well enough, or something to that effect.”

He blinked at me. I pointed to the family photo on his desk. All four members were blond, attractive. “Nice looking family. Your boys look like you.”

He glanced at the photo and smiled briefly. “Thanks.” Then he sat back and crossed his arms. “So, you're inquiring about Silver Dawson?”

“Yes. Do all seventeen-year-old girls have an OB/GYN?”