Goodnight, Irene (18 page)

“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 doors. About five miles back on Highway 85, we turned off onto a dirt road that ran through some fenced acreage with cattle here and there. It was easy to see why a four-wheel-drive vehicle was necessary. We jolted our way down a road that had so many potholes, NASA could have tested lunar-landing vehicles on it. Finally we came to a stop outside an opening in the barbed-wire fence; from the opening, a gravel drive led back to a trailer. Ramos honked and waited awhile. Soon the trailer door swung open and a thin gray-haired lady stared out and then waved to us. Ramos slowly pulled into the drive, trying not to raise dust.

“Hello, Enrique!” she barked out in a raspy voice. “Who you brought with you?”

“A couple of folks from California, Mrs. Owens.”

“California! Well, come on in out of the sun. It’s hotter than hell out. A couple of old devils like Enrique and I can take it, but you folks are probably just about baked.”

The trailer was an old silver one, with light wood paneling. By the time the four of us had squeezed in, it felt as if we had quite a crowd in there.

After introductions, she motioned us to sit down on a couch behind a Formica table. On a shelf below a window were several framed photos of Jennifer. Baby pictures, family pictures. Jennifer with another young girl. Jennifer standing outside the trailer. A larger version of the graduation photo. She had been a beautiful blonde with a shy, closed-mouth smile.

Mrs. Owens went over to the refrigerator and came back with a big pitcher of lemonade. She brought out four ornate glasses on a tray covered with an old lace doily.

I felt like shit. I glanced at Pete, and knew he felt the same.

“So what brings a police officer all the way out from California to see a seventy-year-old desert rat?” she asked.

“Why don’t you sit down for a minute here, Mrs. Owens?” Ramos suggested.

She gave him an inquisitive look with her china blue eyes and slowly sat down. “What’s this all about, Enrique?”

“It’s about Jennifer, Mrs. Owens.”

“Jennifer? My Jennifer?”

He nodded.

“My God, she’s dead. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I’m sorry, we believe so, yes.”

She began to cry. She got up from the table and stumbled back into a bedroom and shut the door, which didn’t muffle the rising wail of grief. We sat immobilized, none of us looking at the other. After a while we heard water running. She stepped out, drying her face on a pink towel.

“I’m sorry,” she said to us. “You’d think after thirty-five years I wouldn’t care if I ever saw her again. But I’ve always hoped—” She broke off.

“Of course, ma’am,” Pete said, “that’s only natural. And we are very sorry to have to be the ones to end those hopes.”

“What about my grandchild?” she asked suddenly.

We were all startled.

“Grandchild?” repeated Ramos.

“Jennifer ran away because she was pregnant. She ran off to be with the father. Who is he? And what became of my grandchild?”

If I had doubts that Hannah and Jennifer were the same person, this last question ended them. Jennifer looked like the woman in the pictures, came from a Southwestern town with high levels of fluoride in the water, disappeared near the date Hannah was found, and she was pregnant.

We all exchanged looks. I went over to her and put an arm around her. “This is a very difficult story to tell, Mrs. Owens. Please sit down.”

For a moment it seemed she would resist this idea, but then she meekly allowed me to lead her back to the chair.

I sat back down, across from her.

“Tell me,” she said quietly.

“On June 17, 1955,” I began, “a woman’s body was found on the beach in Las Piernas. We now believe that woman was Jennifer.”

“1955! Dead since 1955!” she exclaimed, but then fell silent.

“The woman was guessed to be about twenty years old. She was two months pregnant when she died. She was murdered.”

“Murdered! Why? Why would anyone want to kill Jennifer?”

“That’s one of the reasons we’re here, Mrs. Owens. We don’t know. Whoever killed her—” I tried to find the right words. “Whoever killed her took steps to make it hard to identify Jennifer.” I rushed on. “A friend and co-worker of mine was a reporter on our local paper. His own sister had been killed and hadn’t been found for five years. That happened a few years before Jennifer was found. He sort of adopted the case of this unidentified woman and tried to learn all he could. He ran a column about it every year. He used to tell me that he knew somewhere someone worried about her, the way his family had worried about his sister.

“Not long ago, a new coroner came to work in our city; he found new evidence about Jennifer. He got help from a forensic dentist. Did Jennifer have stains on her teeth?”

“Yes, poor dear,” she said, glancing up at the photographs. “She was always so self-conscious about them. From the water here, you know. Too much fluoride.”

“More than anything, those stains led us to Gila Bend. Unfortunately, my friend died before he could learn your daughter’s identity. He knew that this would be very sad news to you, but I know he hoped it would be better than always wondering what became of her.”

She was quiet for a while, then said, “It’s true. At least now I know. Thirty-five years of hell. I’ve sat here and wondered why she hated us so much that she could never write so much as a postcard. I wondered if she was married, if the baby was a boy or a girl. I wondered why she wouldn’t at least let the child see his grandmother. I wondered if she was dead. I wondered if she was being tortured. I wondered if she had amnesia. You wouldn’t even believe some of the things I’ve wondered. At least that’s over.”

“How did you learn she was pregnant?” I asked.

“Oh, I nearly beat that information out of a cousin of hers. The weekend before she left, Jennifer had gone up to Phoenix to see her cousin Elaine. Elaine Owens — she’s the daughter of my husband’s brother. My husband was never more than a cattleman, and God rest his soul, not a very good one at that. But his brother did real good for himself. Made some money up in Jerome on copper, and sold out long before the bottom dropped out of the market. Went on to invest in God knows what all, but he certainly had the Midas touch.

“Elaine and Jennifer were about the same age, and even though they never paid much attention to us, the family was fond of Jennifer, and she got invited up to Phoenix pretty regular. I don’t know. Looking back on it, it seems that was the cause of a lot of trouble.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Jennifer was always so unhappy when she came back. Who could blame her? She lived high on the hog the whole time she was there. Elaine would loan her clothes and they would go to parties with rich kids and so on. Then she’d come back here to little old Gila Bend and the feed store and this tiny little trailer.

“Anyway, this last time she went up to see Elaine, she came back in a real state. She would cry for no reason. Next thing I know, she’s taken a bus to San Diego.”

“Did you know anyone there?” Pete asked.

“Not a soul. So I drove up to Phoenix and just about skinned Elaine alive. She finally told me that Jennifer was pregnant and had gone off to California to find the father. I always figured that little snot knew who the father was, but she swore up and down that Jennifer didn’t tell her his name and I couldn’t get it out of her. Needless to say, we never had much to do with that side of the family after that.”

“Do you still have their address?” Pete asked.

“Well, I’ve got one from back then. They might still be there, but I don’t know. It’s been a long time. Let me see.” She got up and pulled open a kitchen drawer full of papers, and picked out a little address book. She put on a pair of reading glasses and read off a Phoenix address as Pete wrote it down.

She looked up over the rim of the glasses. “Did you find a little gold ring? Her daddy’s mother gave her a gold ring with a little ruby in it. Was she wearing it?”

Pete and I looked at one another.

“No, ma’am,” he said quietly, “we didn’t find a ring.”

N
OBODY SAID A WORD
on the ride back to Gila Bend. When we reached the station, Pete looked up at Ramos. “You gonna tell her?” he asked.

“About the body? Yeah, I’ll tell her. But not right away. Let this sink in first. Hell, she’s over seventy years old. But she’s made of strong stuff, you know?”

We nodded. Pete asked if he could make some calls. I told him I was going to walk around a little, but would meet him back at the station for lunch in about twenty minutes. Ramos accepted our invitation to join us.

They went into the station and I walked across the street to one of the motels. This one was done up in a flying-saucer and rocket ship motif. Outdoors, it was like walking around inside a clothes dryer. But once I was back indoors, I got gooseflesh from the chill. I kept thinking that the local people must adapt to rapid temperature changes like nobody else on earth. I looked around and found a pay phone. I called the paper and asked for Lydia.

“City Desk,” came the response.

“Lydia? It’s Irene. I’m calling from Gila Bend.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Listen, are you near an open terminal? Or can you connect me to someone who is? I’m out here without a laptop or modem but I think I’ve got something that shouldn’t wait until I get back tonight. Can I give it to you over the phone?”

“Sure,” she said, “hang on.” She covered the receiver and I could hear her shooing people away from her desk. “Okay,” she said at last, “I’m all set.”

I gave her the story the best I could. I figured Wrigley would love touting the fact that largely through the efforts of O’Connor, a thirty-five-year-old mystery had been solved. We had found Hannah’s hometown just three days before the anniversary of her death. I briefly went over the work done by O’Connor, Hernandez, MacPherson, and law-enforcement officials in both cities that had led to the tentative identification.

More gingerly than I should have, I told as much as I could bear to tell about Mrs. Owens, trying to avoid feeling that I had taken advantage of being there at a time when she was vulnerable.

I also recapped the local angle: O’Connor’s death, his son’s beating, the deadly car chase and the sidewalk hit-and-run killing, all possibly linked to the old case. I wound up with the standard “investigations are proceeding” lines.

“That’s it, Lydia,” I said when I finished.

“Whew!” she said, “you’ve had a busy morning.”

“Yeah, I’ve got pretty mixed feelings about it, too.”

“You liked her mother, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. I guess I went too soft there. Hell’s bells, Lydia, you should have been there. I feel lousy about it. I haven’t gotten my hide thickened up enough yet. Give me another two or three interviews with parents of dead children and I’ll be able to do this kind of story without batting an eye.” I took a deep breath. I realized I was getting defensive. “I guess I can’t trade on anybody else’s misery right now. I’m too rocky myself.”

“Believe me, Irene, I understand. You know how I hate that ‘invasive-but-it-sells-papers’ stuff that Wrigley’s so in love with. Besides, Phoenix is less than an hour’s flight away, so if Big Bad John doesn’t like the way you wrote it, I’m sure he’ll send somebody out there tonight to steal a photo of Jennifer off that shelf and take a few pictures of Mrs. Owens crying. By the way — he put your piece from yesterday on A-one.”

“Slow news day, huh?”

“Where is this modesty coming from?”

“Must be the heat out here. Anyway, got a couple of other loose ends to take care of before I head back. Everything going okay with you?”

“Nervous about my hot date tonight, but okay otherwise.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. I hope so. Well, I better flag John Walters down. I think he’ll be pleased, kiddo.”

“Hope you’re right.”

We hung up and I fished the number of the downtown branch of the Bank of Las Piernas out of my purse. I dialed and got through to the switchboard. “Ann Marchenko, please,” I said.

There was a pause. “May I ask who is calling?”