Part 9 (2/2)

”It's about Carl Hendricks,” my brother told me. ”Did you know he was married before?”

I tugged off my overcoat and slung it over the nearest chair. ”That's not a crime, is it?”

”He had another daughter too. She was killed. It happened around twenty years ago. She fell off the seawall right here in town.”

An image from the night before flashed through my mind, Dora, in the dense fog, poised at the edge of the seawall, facing the impenetrable water that swept out toward MacAndrews Island.

”I'd like to talk to you about this, Cal,” Billy said. ”Are you free?”

I could hear the urgency in his voice. ”Yeah, all right. Just give me a few minutes to get settled in.”

The clock had not yet struck nine when Billy arrived. He was carrying the battered leather briefcase my father had given him the day he'd turned the management of the paper over to him. Once he'd taken his seat in front of my desk, he opened it and took out a crumbly, yellowed copy of the Sentinel.

”Hendricks was only twenty-seven years old when it happened,” he said as he slid the paper over to me. ”The child was three.”

While he waited, I read the article. It was clear that the Sentinel had given the incident quite prominent coverage at the time. My father had selected a bold typeface for the headline. From all appearances, he'd also done a workmanlike job of running down the details of the story. I learned that Hendricks's first wife had died of tuberculosis in Royston Hospital in December 1916. According to the article, Hendricks had then moved to Port Alma, where he'd lived on Pine Road with his younger sister. On the day in question, March 4, 1917, Hendricks had come into town for supplies. He'd planned to go directly to Madison's, he'd later told authorities, but the child, whose name was Sophie, had gotten ”cranky,” and so he'd taken her along the wharf, then back to one of the benches that faced the seawall and the bay. Once there, he'd put her down and let her crawl about. At that point, a stranger had come up to ask directions. They'd talked briefly, then the stranger had departed. It was only then that Hendricks had noticed his little girl was missing.

”I talked to Dad last night,” Billy said when I looked up from the paper. ”He remembered quite a lot. He said that Hendricks continued to live with his sister after his daughter died. In the very same house that burned down.”

”What happened to the sister?”

”As far as Dad could remember, she moved out west somewhere. After that, no one knows. She just disappeared.”

”Into the mist,” I said, long used to the disappearance of such witnesses, how they vanished into the ether, taking all hope of truth and justice with them. I handed the paper back to my brother. ”What are you getting at?” I asked a little impatiently, thinking of the casework piled on my desk.

”Well, as it turns out, Hendricks's second wife--Molly's mother--died about three months ago.”

”So Carl's not a lucky guy. So what?”

”It was three months from the time of his first wife's death until his first daughter was killed.”

The nature of Billy's suspicions, how dark and terrible they were, suddenly became clear, but I still felt no need to entertain them myself.

”Killed? You mean murdered? Is that what you're getting at?” I laughed. ”Does the word 'coincidence' mean anything to you?”

Billy stood his ground. ”Do you want to hear more, or not?”

”Go ahead,” I said without enthusiasm.

”I checked the weather on the day the little girl disappeared. It was clear but very windy, so the ocean was probably whipping up quite a bit. In any case, there wouldn't have been many people out near the water.”

”Except for that stranger.”

”Who was never found.”

That didn't surprise me. ”Did anybody actually see Hendricks near the wall?”

”No.”

”And no one saw the kid either?”

”No one saw anything.”

”Well, there must have been some sort of official investigation.”

”Not much of one,” Billy replied. ”I found the police report. Carl Hendricks was the only witness. The police took him at his word.”

”Which leaves you where?”

”Wondering about that little girl.”

”I gather you don't accept Hendricks's account of what happened to her?”

”I have reason to doubt it.”

I was beginning to get exasperated. ”Other than coincidence, exactly what reason do you have?”

”Sophie Hendricks had withered legs,” my brother said. He waited for me to speak, then added, ”The lip on the seawall is twenty-eight inches high. She couldn't have climbed it.”

”And you're telling me that n.o.body raised that point when the child died?”

”Hendricks had just moved to Port Alma a few weeks before. It was winter. Sophie had probably never been seen by any local people. Except all bundled up. If that's true, then no one would have noticed her legs until spring.”

”I'm presuming the body was swept out to sea?” ”Never recovered. Yes.”

”Then, how did you find out about the little girl's legs being withered?”

He seemed almost reluctant to tell me. ”Dora,” he said finally. ”Dora found a picture. At the house. Among all that rubble.”

He reached inside his briefcase again. This time he came out with a photograph. It was badly scorched, but the central image was clear, a small child with curly hair, propped up in a chair, clothed only in a white diaper, perfect from the waist up but with legs disproportionately small and undeveloped, the feet curled. Dangling at the end of Sophie Hendricks's tiny legs, they looked like small, rounded flippers.

”Her name is on the back,” Billy said.

I turned the picture over, read what was written there: Sophie, 2 years, 3 months, then set it on my desk. ”So, your idea is that Hendricks threw his daughter into the ocean?”

”I don't know, Cal. I don't think anyone will ever know. But I'm worried about the other daughter. The one he has with him now. Molly.”

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