Disturbance

TWELVE

Dwayne Foster had a story of his own, of course. One advantage of not having a deadline was that I had the leisure to let him tell it. By turns he was angry with the police, then cognizant of the fact that they couldn’t work miracles, full of half-formed plans for everything from pulling up stakes and moving to another part of the country to staying and delivering his own form of justice to the killer.

After he wound down a little, we started going over some questions I had. On the night Marilyn disappeared, he had come home at about half past midnight. Dinner had been waiting for him as usual. Marilyn’s habit was to go to bed between ten-thirty and eleven. Police said computer records showed she had been online at about nine-thirty.

“I just want to make sure I’m not making any assumptions about Marilyn’s routines and habits. Did she ever go for long walks at night?”

“No. Even though this is a safe neighborhood-” He broke off, then started again. “Even though we used to think this was a safe neighborhood, she was afraid to do that. Being diabetic, she didn’t like to exercise alone, because, well… she was good about her meds and all that, but she wasn’t always good at gauging what she needed to eat to avoid going too low on her blood sugar. So just to be on the safe side…” The word seemed to catch on him like a small, sharp hook, and he looked away. He took a breath, then went on. “She had routines at the gym, and her trainer there was someone who knew about diabetes and what to do and all that. Sometimes we went walking together before I left for work, but if you’re asking if she could’ve been walking around alone in the neighborhood at midnight or whenever it was, no ma’am.”

“I’m just trying to figure out the logistics. Her car was gone, but her purse and phone were here. Any woman I know would have taken her purse and phone if she was driving somewhere at night, even-perhaps especially-in an emergency. There were no signs of forced entry. So one of two things happened-she went out of the house and encountered someone there, or she invited someone in who then forced her to go out to the car.”

“The police said something like that. They had me give them a DNA sample, then took our trash. Said that if she had given him something to eat or drink, his DNA might be on something. But unless it’s someone she met at the dentist’s office, or one of the neighbors, I just don’t know why she would have let anyone in, or gone outside in the middle of the night.”

“From all you’ve told me, it sounds as if your wife was a helpful person. If a young man came to the door and said he’d been in a car accident, and had already called the police but he needed her to help him with his injured, pregnant wife until they got there, would she step outside to take a look? Or if he pretended to be crying and asked her if she could please tell him whose dog he had just hit?”

“I see what you’re saying. Only there’s no wife or dog or whatever.”

“Right. Or he’s wearing a uniform, or-whatever-does something to gain her trust. If she was taken between nine-thirty and midnight, then there’s a chance it really wasn’t all that late when he first arrived. None of your neighbors saw anyone come here that night?”

“No. But I’m not really surprised. No one around here pays much attention to anyone else. The police asked them all-over and over again. Someone said they heard a car, assumed it was mine. Frankly, I think that lady is lying and just wanted to be part of the drama-you know what I mean?”

“Yes. Maybe if we look at this from another angle-he arrived here somehow, on foot or was dropped off. Maybe he was given a ride by someone who had no idea what he was up to but dropped him off here.” I paused. “But anyone who was innocent and unaware would have spoken up by now if they’ve heard the news.”

He shook his head. “I think about that all the time now-all the news stories about missing people that I never paid much attention to. Stories about murders. I didn’t really care, so maybe no one really cares about Marilyn.”

“You can’t think like that, Dwayne. Tell me-have people around here offered to help you?”

He sighed. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve seen the good side of people, too. I’m in a mood, I guess. Kept hoping they’d catch the guy by now. But her family, people she knew, even total strangers have asked me what they could do to help me out. I never could figure out an answer.”

“Give yourself time. You’re probably still numb.”

“Yeah. I am.” He gave me a fleeting grin. “That is, when I’m not just pissed off. But I have to change my attitude. To be honest, I was totally surprised by how many people were at the funeral, how many told me that she’d touched their lives in some way. I’ve got a lot of thank-you notes to write.”

He looked over at a table laden with sympathy cards, but I doubted he was going to tackle that task anytime soon.

“To go back to what I was thinking about,” I said, “you didn’t see a car parked in front of the house that night?”

“No. I’m sure of that, because I parked on the street, and there wasn’t any other car near where I parked. My pickup is kind of wide, so I usually park on the street, so I don’t block her car in the garage. I mean, I did. I still do…” He looked lost.

“The police still have her car?”

“Yeah. They’re still hoping they can find some DNA somewhere on it.”

“A couple of things occur to me. One is that her killer planned everything out and had a way to get here that didn’t leave his own car parked on the street. Maybe he parked on a neighboring street, but it’s also possible he had an accomplice who brought him here.”

“What about a cab or a bus?”

“Possible, although he’d know that the driver might remember bringing him out here. The police have probably already checked on cab companies.”

“Haven’t they already done most of what we’re doing anyway?”

“Maybe.”

“So why are you staying interested?”

“I’ve found myself with extra time on my hands lately.”

He studied me for a moment, and I grew uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “Naw. That’s not it.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve been straightforward with me up to just now. What’s going on?” He frowned. “Her car was parked near your house, the news said. When you found it. Right?”

“Right.”

“Not just a coincidence it was there, was it?”

“Probably not.” I told him about the garden hose, which made his face drain of color.

“Holy God Almighty,” he said. “You think he’s after you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know of any connection I have to your wife, and I have no idea who the young woman left in the car trunk might be. And I sure as hell have no idea why he would target me, or even try to scare me.” For a moment I thought of talking to Dwayne about Nick Parrish, but he had probably already seen the news reports on the Moths and probably would say what everyone else kept saying to me: “Nick Parrish is in prison.”

“Your husband is a homicide detective, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So he works late at night, too? Like I do?”

“Sometimes.”

He put his face in his hands. “I think about the lousy shift differential, and I wonder, if I had worked day shift, would he have picked someone else?”

“Don’t,” I said.

He looked up.

“Don’t play that game. Even a bodyguard can’t protect another person every hour of every day. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Okay, fair enough. Should I come back another time?”

“Sorry, no, I’ll be all right.”

“Do you think you could do me a couple of favors?”

I explained that I was fairly sure Marilyn or someone close to her had unwittingly given the killer information he would need for his plans-where she lived, if she had dogs, what Dwayne’s work hours were, and other details.

“So I’d like to spend some time looking at what’s on her computer, if it’s still here.”

“Yeah, the police just copied the hard drive. I know most of her passwords.”

“I may need to ask a friend of mine who’s a better hacker than I am to take a look at it, but we can make a start.”

I also asked to be given the numbers of his wife’s hairdresser, her pastor, her sister, her closest friends.

“Men and women?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, and you know what? I’ll write a note telling them that it’s okay for them to talk to you, and that you are helping me out and not working for the paper anymore.”

The kindness of that offer nearly made up for the hollow feeling its wording gave me.

“Anything else you want to look at?” he asked.

“Let’s start with the sympathy cards,” I said, deciding my own bereavement was nothing next to his.

So I went after the story.

I spent time becoming acquainted with a dead woman. I came to know Marilyn Foster by talking to those who missed her. Some were afraid-the lightning strike of violent death had pierced the pretense most of us adopt to some degree, that our lives are safe. As far as they were concerned, talking about Marilyn’s murder just might be akin to holding up a metal rod on a stormy day. Better to hunker down until you could pretend again.

Fortunately, most seemed to find comfort in talking to me. For them, the grief and anger and helplessness that came with her sudden loss were eased a bit by doing something-anything-to try to help apprehend her murderer.

They trusted me.

I was going to try to be worthy of it.

It wasn’t the only way I kept busy, but pursuing that story got me going again. Rachel Giocopazzi, wife of Frank’s partner, Pete Baird, asked me to do a little temporary work at her private investigation firm. It wasn’t unlike work I did as a reporter, mostly tracking down property records and the like. I also helped set up a database program she needed on her office computers and taught her assistant how to do the entry work on it, but I don’t think any of that amounted to fifteen hours altogether.

Rachel used most of the time I was there to convince me to let her teach me more about self-defense. “I lost my workout partner, so this will be good for me,” she said.

“I’ve seen you in action. I’m not up to your speed.”

“Of course you aren’t, but going over the basics with a beginner will be good for me, and if I need a tougher workout, Frank can join us.” So we set up a rigorous schedule of lessons that helped me to work off some stress several times a week.

Working off stress wasn’t my big motivator. I never needed to be persuaded to practice. Rachel was an excellent instructor. She even brought in other people to help me test my new skills. No matter who she put me up against, though, I always had one opponent in mind. I didn’t believe for a moment that it was a marathon he was dreaming of from his prison cell.