Part 15 (2/2)
”You were right with the age but a bit off on the date of death. Ten years wasn't enough.”
I waited for him to go on.
”Her name was Savannah Claire Osprey.”
In French it came out Oh-spree, with the accent on the second syllable. Nevertheless, the name told me that the girl was probably Southern, or at least had been born Southern. Not many people outside the Southeast named their daughters Savannah. I lowered myself into my chair, relieved but curious.
”From?”
”Shallotte, North Carolina. Isn't that your hometown?”
”I'm from Charlotte.”
Canadians have difficulty with Charlotte, Charlottesville, and the two Charlestons. So do many Americans. I'd given up explaining. But Shallotte was a small coastal town that didn't qualify to be part of the confusion.
Claudel read from the printout. ”She was reported missing in May of 1984, two weeks after her sixteenth birthday.”
”That was a quick turnaround,” I said, digesting the information.
”Oui.”
I waited, but he did not go on. I kept the annoyance from my voice.
”Monsieur Claudel, any information you have will help me confirm this ID.”
A pause. Then, ”The shunt and the dentals were unique so the computer spit the name right out. I called the Shalotte PD and actually talked to the reporting officer. According to her, the mother got the case entered, then dropped it cold. There was the usual media frenzy at first, then things died down. The investigation went on for months, but nothing ever turned up.”
”Troubled kid?”
A longer pause.
”There is no history of drug or discipline problems. The hydrocephaly caused some learning disabilities and affected her eyesight, but she wasn't r.e.t.a.r.ded. She went to a normal high school and did well. She was never considered a potential runaway.
”But the child was hospitalized frequently because of problems with the shunt. Apparently the apparatus would get blocked and they'd have to go in and fix it. These episodes were preceded by periods of lethargy, headache, sometimes mental confusion. One theory is that she became disoriented and wandered off.”
”Off what, the planet? What's the other theory?”
”The father.”
Claudel flipped open a small spiral notebook.
”Dwayne Allen Osprey. A real charmer with an arrest record longer than the Trans-Siberian Railway. Back then Dwayne's domestic routine revolved around drinking Jim Beam and beating up his family. According to the mother's original statement, which she later retracted, her husband always disliked Savannah, and things got worse as the child grew older. It wasn't beyond him to slam her into a wall. Seems Dwayne found his daughter a disappointment. Called her Water Brain.”
”They think he murdered his own daughter?”
”It's a possibility. Whiskey and rage are a deadly c.o.c.ktail. The theory was that things got out of hand, he killed her, then disposed of the body.”
”How did she end up in Quebec?”
”An insightful question, Dr. Brennan.”
With that he rose and shot the cuffs on the crispest, whitest s.h.i.+rt I'd seen in decades. I gave him a drop-dead-p.e.c.k.e.rhead look, but he was already out the door.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair.
You bet your prim little a.s.s it's an insightful question, Monsieur Claudel.
And I'm going to answer it.
17.
I TOOK A DEEP BREATH TOOK A DEEP BREATH. AS USUAL, CLAUDEL HAD MADE ME FURIOUS.
When I felt calmer, I looked at my watch. Four-forty. It was late, but maybe I could catch her.
Checking my Rolodex, I dialed SBI Headquarters in Raleigh. Kate Brophy picked up on the first ring.
”Hi, Kate. It's Tempe.”
”Hey, girl, are you back in Dixie?”
”No. I'm in Montreal.”
”When are you going to get your skinny tail down here so we can tip a few?”
”My tipping days are over, Kate.”
”Oops. Sorry. I know that.”
Kate and I had met at a time when I was as committed to alcohol as a college freshman on spring break. Only I wasn't eighteen and I wasn't at the beach. Past thirty, I was then a wife and mother, and a university professor with exhausting teaching and research responsibilities.
I never noticed when I joined the rank of brothers and sisters in denial, but somewhere along the way I became a champion rationalizer. A gla.s.s of Merlot at home in the evening. A beer after cla.s.ses. A weekend party. I didn't need the booze. I never drank alone. I never missed work. It wasn't a problem.
But then the gla.s.s became a bottle, and the late-night binges required no company. That's the beguiling thing about Bacchus. He has no entrance fee. No minimum drink order. Before you know it you're in bed on a sunny Sat.u.r.day afternoon while your daughter plays soccer and other parents cheer.
That show had closed down, and I wasn't about to re-raise the curtain.
”It's funny you called,” said Kate. ”I was just talking to one of our investigators about the biker boys you glued together back in the eighties.”
I remembered those cases. Two entrepreneurs had made the mistake of dealing drugs on turf claimed by the h.e.l.ls Angels. Their body parts were found in plastic bags, and I'd been asked to sort dealer A from dealer B.
That foray into fresh forensics had been a catalyst for me. Until then I'd worked with skeletons unearthed at archaeological sites, examining bones to identify disease patterns and estimate life expectancies in prehistoric times. Fascinating, but minimally pertinent to current events.
<script>