A False Dawn

FIFTY-TWO

In the Jeep I listened to the voice-message Ron Hamilton had left on my cell.

“Hey, ol’ buddy, as you’re running around doing the fun stuff, I’m back here in database central. Got a last known address for Sandra Dupree. You might get lucky and find her in Jacksonville at 17352 Old Middleburg Road. Phone company has no records in her name. I figured that. Happy hunting.”

Driving to connect with I-95 north to Jacksonville, I tried Leslie’s cell. No answer. Then I called her office. A male voice answered. “Homicide, Grant speaking.”

“Detective Grant, this is Sean O’Brien. Is Leslie around?”

“No, she came in and made a few calls and went right back out.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“Tampa. Says she has an interview with an older woman who’ll only open up woman-to-woman. Sort of a Barbara Walters interview. I’m getting used to it.”

“Sometimes, when it comes to gender, especially if the interviewee is older, a one-on-one with the same sex causes a better dialogue flow.”

“Yeah, I know. It just seems that Leslie’s moving at such a fast pace that we’re sharing more notes passing in the hall than we do in the field. She’s been keen on your helping us in the Jane Doe cases.”

“And now I could use some help.”

“Does this mean I have a partner again?” He laughed. “Leslie has a lot of respect for you, but since she’s my ‘part-time’ partner…whatcha need?”

“Can we meet?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Give me ten minutes. Where?”

“Parking lot of the Waffle House on Dominion.”

It took Dan almost a half hour to get there. He pulled up next to my Jeep, got out, and walked over to me. “Sorry about running late. Slater wanted to chat.”

“And he’s such a compelling conversationalist.”

“In a monosyllabic four-letter-word kind of way. He wanted to know why I wasn’t with Leslie.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Truth. Told him she had an interview and I was meeting with a source. The schedules conflicted, so she went to cover one and I did the other. I just didn’t say she went to Tampa and I was meeting with you.”

I reached in the glove box and took out the Ziploc bag with the tree leaves in it. “I need this tested.”

He chuckled. “I see you didn’t work narcotics.”

“But can you tell me its genetic makeup?”

“Get outta here. You want the lab to do DNA analysis on some friggin leaves?”

“You got it. If I’m lucky, I’ll find some matching leaves. It’ll be our job to find out how close they match.”

The home on old Middleberg road was mid-1960s, ranch-style, in need of paint. The yard was brown from lack of rain or irrigation. Dandelions grew like lettuce in places. A seven-year-old Honda Civic sat in the open carport.

I turned off my cell phone and knocked. There was no sound. The second time I knocked louder. I heard a woman talking to herself. Maybe to herself. I could tell someone was standing behind the door. I said, “Sandra, can I speak with you.”

Silence.

“Sandra, I hope you remember me. I drove up from—”

The door opened to the length of the chain lock. I could see a pasty face, cheeks sunken, dark circles under the eyes. I could smell the raw alcohol. In a tired voice, the woman said, “I remember you. Why are you here?”

“Just to talk a few minutes. May I come in?”

She said nothing for a beat, then slid the chain lock off and opened the door. The living room was dark. In one corner was a small television. It was turned on but the volume was off. The house smelled of Scotchguard and cigarettes.

I sat on the sofa, and Sandra sat in a worn chair opposite me. Her hair was dull, the brown now peppered in streaks of gray, deep-set creases around the edge of her down-turned mouth. “How have you been?” I asked.

“Like anybody, I’ve had ups and downs.”

“I remember your mother during the investigation. How is she?”

“Mother’s dead, Detective O’Brien. Cancer. Started in her ovaries and moved like wildfire. Nothing they could do. This is Mama’s house. I lived here as a kid. Moved back in for a while after the…after the rape. I was actually married for two years. I had good and bad days. After a miscarriage, what was left sort of fell apart.” She inhaled deeply and I could hear a slight rasp in her lungs. “Why are you here? Did you finally catch him or did somebody kill him?”

“Neither.”

She glanced away, her attention now somewhere else, maybe four years ago, but gone from the room. “Sandra, I think he’s back.”

She looked at me like she had noticed a painting on the wall was a little off center. I almost expected her to reach out to touch my face. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are the only person who can identify him.”

“I’ve tried for years not to remember him.”

“He’s never stopped killing. Went from Miami to rural farms. Killing young women. And he’ll keep on until he’s caught or stopped.”

“If you find him, Detective O’Brien, are you going to arrest him or kill him?”

“I have to find him first.”

“That’s not a good answer.”

“I can’t arrest him.”

“Why?”

“I’m not a detective anymore.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I made someone a promise, and I’m trying to stop what I couldn’t stop four years ago. What can you remember about him?”

“Nothing more than what I told you then.”

“Sometimes people remember things that were buried.”

She looked at the silent glow from the TV. “His eyes were different. Strange eyes. Almost like a cat, but I told you that. I was so glad when Mama’s cat finally died. I couldn’t look the damn cat in the eye.”

“What color were the cat’s eyes?”

“Mustard-yellowish gold, a greenish tint and little flecks of brown in them. Kind of a wild hazel.” She got up and took a photograph off the bookshelf. “Here.” She handed the picture to me. “That’s the color.”

The photo had been taken close-up with a good camera and lens. It was a picture of Sandra’s mother holding a large cat in her lap. I looked into the mesmerizing eyes of a cat that seemed to stare back at me.

“Thanks for your time, Sandra.” I got up to leave.

“Detective…”

I turned around and she said, “His voice…”

“What about it?”

“He spoke in a monotone kind of whisper. Never shouted. Just total control. His voice made you listen to it. Sometimes I still hear it.”