Shattered Image (15 page)

I
n one of the older neighborhoods in Austin, not far from my favorite cypress grove on the river trail, is an old house turned restaurant. It’s called Maddie’s Breakfast. Maddie’s is open 24/7. She serves up eggs just about any way you can imagine them, bacon and sausage for all the carnivores, toast, waffles, pancakes, French toast, fruit dishes—and the list goes on.

Austin’s own brand of music plays over the sound system—music that includes country-western, progressive country, blues and some “Austin” music that simply defies categorization. The decor is eclectic for kicked-backed comfort.

Jack and I used to take Mike there from the time he was about twelve. Now, over fifteen years later, Mike and I still met there for an early-morning breakfast sometimes. This time we included Tommy Lucero.

I had slipped into my jeans, a cotton purple short-sleeve sweater and my brown snakeskin boots. I had made a copy of Chris’s sketch with my computer printer, folded it and
stuck it in my jeans pocket. I locked everything up and jumped into the Jeep to head for my breakfast appointment with my two favorite cops.

I had finished the carburetor overhaul on the Jeep and a couple of other things I was doing to it, so I had decided to take it out for my breakfast jaunt instead of the Mustang. It ran like a top. Sometimes, my mechanical abilities amazed even me. It was raining again that morning, so it was a good morning to give the Mustang a rest. The rain pounded down on the soft top of the Jeep, but my mud tires held the road well.

The boys were already there when I arrived and Tommy was “champing at the bit,” as we say down here in Texas. He would have to “champ” awhile longer, because there was a twenty-minute wait and Mike and Tommy only had us on the list for five minutes when I got there. Drew had talked to both of them, but we chatted about nonsense while we waited—we didn’t want anyone to overhear any of our conversation about the investigation. In ten minutes’ time, they had managed to come up with a booth and they seated us.

I had already decided I was having the whole-grain French toast with fresh berries and all-natural maple syrup. I was also having an extralarge glass of their mango-tangerine juice and their awesome bottomless cup of coffee. The boys were loading up on cheesy omelettes with lots of pig meat on the side. We were all going to need an extra hour in the gym that day.

I pulled the copy of the sketch out of my jeans pocket and handed it across the table to Mike.

“That’s the sketch Chris did last night of the CILHI project I’m working on. She used my notes and photos and
the partially completed bust. She added the nose and eyes and finishing touches herself.”

I saw the expression on Mike’s face, and so did Tommy.

“What?” Tommy asked.

“I’ve seen pictures of Uncle Teddy my whole life. He was shot down before Mom and Dad even married. But I’d know this face anywhere. Chris has never seen Uncle Teddy, has she?”

I shook my head.

Mike looked at Tommy. “This is my Uncle Ted.” Mike looked back at me. “You finished with the bust yet?”

“I’ll finish it after breakfast. I could see where it was going, but I wanted Chris to work blind and show me what she thought it should look like.”

“Wow,” Mike said under his breath. “Mom, they really found him this time, didn’t they?”

“Yes, son, they really, finally found him.”

Tommy was looking at the sketch and shaking his head.

“Toni, how long has he been missing?”

“Since June 30, 1968.”

“That’s over thirty years ago.”

“Yes.”

Mike handed me the sketch and I put it back in my jeans pocket. Our food arrived and we all dug in.

“So, Toni, give us your take on the trip to Houston and Hempstead,” Tommy said. “Drew talked to us yesterday, but I want to hear all the details.”

I was about halfway through my French toast, but I began to tell Mike and Tommy about my conversation with Nadine. First I told them about seeing Lori Webster on Mrs. Ferguson’s street. I told them I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but I was pretty sure it was her.

“Mike and I will go back up to Georgetown and talk to her again.”

Then I told them about Nadine and the Hempstead group.

“Nadine didn’t know any spots where her son bird-watched, or if she did, she couldn’t remember. She gave me the names of three of his friends in Hempstead. Two you had already talked to.”

“Julie and Frances?” Tommy asked.

“Right.”

“And?” Mike said expectantly.

“And a guy named Bud Wolfram. He was Brian’s boss. Before I got down to all my questions, the local police chief came in and joined us.”

“Chief Grant,” Tommy said.

“Right. He asked me some questions.”

“Okay,” Tommy said. “So what did Julie and Frances tell you exactly?”

“Well, Julie started by telling me that she knew several places, but couldn’t be sure about the exact one. Then she and Frances exchanged a look, and Frances told me they knew exactly where he had been that day.”

“So, it was this place Drew told us about,” Mike said. “Some cranky old guy owns it and won’t let us on.”

“Well, that’s what Chief Grant says. Bud Wolfram said the old guy shot at some kid who trespassed. Apparently the whole place is marked No Trespassing and he shoots on sight, no questions asked.”

“Drew said he called Chief Grant yesterday after the two of you talked,” Mike said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the chief went out there yesterday and the old guy told him no one was coming on to his property for any
reason. It would be a cold day in July before he let the police search there for anything. Then he started raving about knowing his rights.”

“Great.”

“So, we are definitely going to need a warrant, and it’ll need to be airtight or we’re hosed,” Tommy said.

“What else did you talk about with Mrs. Ferguson? Was that it?” Mike asked.

“No, son. We had a mothers’ and widows’ conversation that I thought was more appropriate. She showed me Brian’s sketches and a book he wrote. He had a doctorate in ornithology.”

“Whoa! I didn’t know that,” Tommy said.

“Yes, so that’s what all the bird watching was about. All his friends talk about what a nice guy he was.”

Tommy continued. “Yeah, we got the same impression of him. Mrs. Ferguson had talked to him on the phone the day before he disappeared. He was good about calling her regularly. They were apparently a pretty close family and kept in touch. He would go to Houston about once a month, even though he really didn’t like it there.”

“Does anyone like Houston?” Mike asked.

“Mike…”

“Well, Mom…”

“Tommy, go on.”

Tommy was smiling as he swallowed a bite of his omelette. “She said he had called her the night before. Said he was going out the next day—his day off—to do some bird watching in the surrounding countryside. He was really excited about it because he’d been working a lot and was looking forward to being outside and relaxing.”

“So, he went alone? I wonder why the girls didn’t go?”

“Actually, Mrs. Ferguson said he was looking forward to going alone and having some time to himself.”

“Did anyone check with the two girls when he didn’t come back—I mean, at the time?”

“Yeah. There was a search for him and he was never found. The two girls had totally solid alibis and were not suspects. In fact, from the way she tells it, they were devastated by his disappearance.”

“Yes, Nadine Ferguson told me that part. She said Julie was interested in him.”

“Apparently he was interested in her, too, Mom. She never really got over him.”

We finished our breakfasts and then the boys and I fought over the check, but Tommy won. It would be the Sullivans’ turn next time.

It was still raining steadily, but not heavily. I was frustrated by these two cases in Austin and troubled by the CILHI case, and the weather was not improving my mood. I drove off through the damp and gloom thinking about Addie Waldrep, Brian Ferguson and Doug Hughes, and wondering if we would ever know the truth.

On my way home I had turned off the beaten path and headed toward the cemetery without even giving it much thought. I arrived at the stoplight outside the front gates, wondering if I were going to go on in or not. The light turned green and I proceeded through the gates. I drove slowly along the narrow road inside, winding my way through various sections until I came to the section where Jack was buried. There was a grove of trees nearby, and their foliage spread shade over the grave site—at least they did on a sunny day. I parked the car along the roadside and got out.

It was misting now, and I was wearing a rain slicker I had grabbed from the back seat of the car. I walked carefully through the graves and approached Jack’s plot. I looked down at the tombstone—“John ‘Jack’ Kevin Sullivan.” Every time I looked at it, I had the same incredulous feeling—the feeling that it couldn’t be, that someone had gotten it wrong somehow. Emotion gave way to intellect, though, and I knew it was true.

I sat on a stone bench that Mike and I had placed next to the grave.

“I came to tell you that they finally found Ted’s remains in ’Nam. Guess you already knew, but I just found out.”

The mist tapered off a bit, and there was a slight rustling in the tree above me. I saw a sparrow huddled up under some leaves. I looked back down at Jack’s headstone.

“Irini asked me to help identify Ted. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t have a choice. They were having trouble with it because of his DNA, and because his teeth were so good. It was hard, Jack. I got Chris to help me some, and now I have to go home and finish up the work.”

A car drove by slowly and then came to a stop up ahead at the next section of graves. I looked down at my hands and cleared my throat.

“Anyway, I guess you know I was real upset with you the other day for leaving me to deal with it all by myself, but ever since then, it’s been a little better. So, I guess you were praying for me over there, the way I do for you over here. I’m sorry. Sometimes I get to missing you so much that I forget what we both believe. I’m doing the best I can, Jack. I hope you’ll cut me some slack when I lose it over you.”

Another car pulled up behind mine and two women got out and started walking in my direction—obviously coming to visit a grave somewhere near Jack’s.

“Well, I have to go now. I have to finish Ted’s reconstruct. Go with me, Jack, and keep praying for me. I can’t have you with me physically right now, but I need to know you’re there spiritually.”

I said, “May your memory be eternal.”

I went back to the Jeep, cranked it over and drove carefully out and headed home.

When I got back to the house, I went into my studio straightaway to do what I knew I had to do. I sat looking at the partially finished face. It looked like a skeleton with muscle laid over it. It didn’t look like anyone in particular at this point, but Chris had made her sketch of the finished face with eyes and nose. Now I had to get my hands back into the clay, adding the final layer of “flesh,” including eyes instead of clay sockets, and a nose that extended beyond the bone below the flesh. Finally, I began to smooth the final layer of clay, adding those last sculptural touches that made it human. I added clay hair to the bust, parting it and creating texture in it to mimic Ted’s hair in its short military cut. Now it was done.

I sat on the stool for a while and just stared. I stared at a face I had not seen like this in over thirty years. But I had known as soon as I had put my hands on that skull in Hawaii that it was Ted. I could feel it—and I could even see it in the bone structure itself. I had to know if what I had seen in that skull was real or just what I wanted to see. That’s why I had Chris come and verify everything I had done and finish the bust for me, before I actually finished
it in clay. Even then, with Chris’s blind input and the finished bust before me, I hardly believed that those meager remains belonged to my friend Ted. At that moment, looking at that face, I felt strangely numb. The feelings just didn’t come. I guess it had just taken so long to get there, it was difficult to absorb.

Chris was going to sign an affidavit and attach her sketch to it to send with my materials to CILHI. She was a well-known and respected forensic anthropologist and medical examiner. Her certification gave my work the objectivity it needed, not just for the scientists and officials at CILHI, but for me.

I looked at the clock. It was 4:30 p.m. It was 11:30 a.m. in Hawaii. I might catch Sergeant Major Tomlinson before he went to lunch. I picked up the phone and dialed the number. They transferred me to the sergeant major’s line, and he answered.

“Sergeant Major, I have finished the bust.”

I first explained about the input from Dr. Nakis, and then I told the sergeant major that Dr. Nakis’s affidavit would be part of the documentation I would sent to CILHI.

“And what is the result, Dr. Sullivan?”

“It is the image of Captain Theodore P. Nikolaides.”

“Well, thank goodness.”

It was as emotional as I ever heard the sergeant major get. Each time I had worked with him previously, we had identified the man CILHI was searching for, and each time the sergeant major had a similar response. He was a soldier through and through, but his heart was in this work for sure.

“It all sounds excellent, Dr. Sullivan. I’m sure we’ll find the results satisfactory. I’m glad that we could identify Captain Nikolaides and close his case.”

“Yes, so am I.”

I felt odd talking about Ted as if he were a case, but the sergeant major tried to stay detached in his work. He saw hundreds of “cases.” He had one disappointment after another in those cases when ID’s could not be made. He allowed himself one heartfelt expression of relief, and then he was back to business. I wondered what, if any, emotion he allowed himself in private.

“If you would, Dr. Sullivan, send all your materials—notes, photos, Dr. Nakis’s affidavit—send all that to me. Dr. Carroway and his team will review everything and make an official determination as soon as they can.”

“Any idea how long it will take, Sergeant Major?”