close to his desk, glancing down at pictures of a dead young woman, her back laced with thin, bloody, parallel lines.
I kept moving, until I could see Pop on his hands and knees on the concrete garage floor. He raked his right hand across the rough surface of the cement, then stared at the bloody lines on his palm. “That’s how she got those striated marks,” he said. “He couldn’t pick her up. He lifted her legs, dragged her across the concrete floor, then maneuvered her into the trunk.”
Pop walked within feet of me, ignoring the bloodthat stained his hand, and sat again at his desk. After a few minutes, he picked up the telephone receiver, and as he dialed, seemed to realize for the first time that his hand was bleeding. He balled up some tissues and gripped them, stanched the wounds, and made his call.
A few weeks later, I saw an article in the newspaper. The police had charged their prime suspect, Frank Lockerby, a mechanic, with the murder of a young woman. Pop was mentioned in the article, and so was his old police friend and my godfather, Ray Bolton.
Years later, I asked Pop about the case. “The lines on the victim’s back were crucial to making the case,” he explained. “We could explain every other mark on her body, but didn’t know what had caused those marks, and didn’t know where the crime had been committed. Once we knew how the marks were made, we had a crime scene—the gas station where Lockerby worked— and that gave Ray the additional physical evidence he needed to make the case. Lockerby was a shade over five feet tall, and had a slight build. He couldn’t have lifted his victim. He had to drag her across the concrete floor.”
That was only one of many times that I had learned not to question my father’s erratic behavior in matters related to murder.
Now, I watched his Jeep disappear through the gate, and returned to my work at the computer.
Ginger had spent months putting together the relational database for Pop, but I wasn’t having any luck making it work. I had entered all the criteria that Pop and I had been able to come up with, but every time I tried to run the program, I got the same on-screen message: GOTO: DEA .
I knew that Pop had done a lot of work for governmentagencies, but I had never heard him mention anything about Drug Enforcement. When I tried to call up the DEA file, the screen seemed to freeze, as if the computer were waiting for the rest of the command. After a series of tries, and just as many failures and reboots, I shut down the system and put away the disks. I was starting to agree with my father, at least as far as technology was concerned.
POP WAS GONE NEARLY TWO HOURS. I WAS READY to call Buck when I heard the Jeep pull into the yard.
“Fuckin’ phones,” he said as he came through the door.
“If you put one here in the house …”
“I’d have to talk to people.”
“What about a fax with a handset? Stick an answering machine on it and turn off the ringer.”
Pop ignored me as he stomped around the house. Max dove off his chair and headed for cover under the sofa.
Pop mumbled something that I couldn’t hear.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“I said you get more like your mother every day She had to have a phone in every room. Even the fucking bathroom.”
Pop was seething. He didn’t say why he was angry, and I had long ago learned not to ask. When he’s ready to talk, he talks. Not before.
“I booked a flight to Washington, D.C.,” he said. “You can come if you want.”
“What?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the Lincoln Memorial.”
I knew that there was only one Lincoln on his mind. Lincoln, Nebraska. Charlie Starkweather—and whatever connection he had to our shooter. But the trail was here, not in Washington.
“Pop, what are you talking about? You’ve got a case to work.
We
do. You are somebody’s target, and that somebody made Lake Albert his personal
I kept moving, until I could see Pop on his hands and knees on the concrete garage floor. He raked his right hand across the rough surface of the cement, then stared at the bloody lines on his palm. “That’s how she got those striated marks,” he said. “He couldn’t pick her up. He lifted her legs, dragged her across the concrete floor, then maneuvered her into the trunk.”
Pop walked within feet of me, ignoring the bloodthat stained his hand, and sat again at his desk. After a few minutes, he picked up the telephone receiver, and as he dialed, seemed to realize for the first time that his hand was bleeding. He balled up some tissues and gripped them, stanched the wounds, and made his call.
A few weeks later, I saw an article in the newspaper. The police had charged their prime suspect, Frank Lockerby, a mechanic, with the murder of a young woman. Pop was mentioned in the article, and so was his old police friend and my godfather, Ray Bolton.
Years later, I asked Pop about the case. “The lines on the victim’s back were crucial to making the case,” he explained. “We could explain every other mark on her body, but didn’t know what had caused those marks, and didn’t know where the crime had been committed. Once we knew how the marks were made, we had a crime scene—the gas station where Lockerby worked— and that gave Ray the additional physical evidence he needed to make the case. Lockerby was a shade over five feet tall, and had a slight build. He couldn’t have lifted his victim. He had to drag her across the concrete floor.”
That was only one of many times that I had learned not to question my father’s erratic behavior in matters related to murder.
Now, I watched his Jeep disappear through the gate, and returned to my work at the computer.
Ginger had spent months putting together the relational database for Pop, but I wasn’t having any luck making it work. I had entered all the criteria that Pop and I had been able to come up with, but every time I tried to run the program, I got the same on-screen message: GOTO: DEA .
I knew that Pop had done a lot of work for governmentagencies, but I had never heard him mention anything about Drug Enforcement. When I tried to call up the DEA file, the screen seemed to freeze, as if the computer were waiting for the rest of the command. After a series of tries, and just as many failures and reboots, I shut down the system and put away the disks. I was starting to agree with my father, at least as far as technology was concerned.
POP WAS GONE NEARLY TWO HOURS. I WAS READY to call Buck when I heard the Jeep pull into the yard.
“Fuckin’ phones,” he said as he came through the door.
“If you put one here in the house …”
“I’d have to talk to people.”
“What about a fax with a handset? Stick an answering machine on it and turn off the ringer.”
Pop ignored me as he stomped around the house. Max dove off his chair and headed for cover under the sofa.
Pop mumbled something that I couldn’t hear.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“I said you get more like your mother every day She had to have a phone in every room. Even the fucking bathroom.”
Pop was seething. He didn’t say why he was angry, and I had long ago learned not to ask. When he’s ready to talk, he talks. Not before.
“I booked a flight to Washington, D.C.,” he said. “You can come if you want.”
“What?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the Lincoln Memorial.”
I knew that there was only one Lincoln on his mind. Lincoln, Nebraska. Charlie Starkweather—and whatever connection he had to our shooter. But the trail was here, not in Washington.
“Pop, what are you talking about? You’ve got a case to work.
We
do. You are somebody’s target, and that somebody made Lake Albert his personal
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