“Here’s the most recent one,” Vernon said. “It was his first school picture. And his last.” And he held up a T-shirt advertising missing children. On it was a picture of Grady along with his date of birth, height, weight, coloring, and an 800 number for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The boy was smiling brightly. He was a sweet-looking kid with a bright chipped-tooth smile, and Greg tried to shake away the image of the specimen on Joe Steiner’s desk.
“They posted his picture at airport kiosks, in public buildings, on the Internet, you name it. Mailed it all over the country, and even had a billboard on Highway 27 outta Chattanooga,” Mrs. Dixon said.
“Lotta damn good that did,” Vernon growled.
There were two rooms off the living room, and one of them was closed. On the door was a sticker with a cartoon bear. Greg walked over to it.
“We called him ‘Lil Bear,’” Mrs. Dixon said. She got up. “You can take a look if you like. All the other officers did.”
“He didn’t come for that,” Vernon said. “Fact is, I’m not sure what he came for.”
“I would like to see his room, thank you,” Greg said. He did not pick up on Vernon’s bait. It wasn’t the right time.
From a dish on the mantel, Mrs. Dixon removed a key and unlocked the door.
The room looked as if it hadn’t been touched since the boy’s disappearance. The air was close and scented with mothballs. There was a small bed with a stuffed bear lying at the foot. One wall was covered with banners and drawings signed by his classmates and teachers: “Come home soon” and “We Love You, Grady” and “We Miss You.” Another wall had decals and pictures of cartoon bears, snapshots of the boy and a dog, a UT football banner, a poster-board drawing of the Dixon house with the tree swing, signed by Grady; another of Jesus in a pasture with children and sheep. On a small table sat a nearly complete truck fashioned intricately with Legos. A box of loose pieces lay by it in expectation.
“He liked to build things,” Mrs. Dixon said. She opened a bureau drawer and pulled out some photos of Grady posed proudly with several different structures. “He’d sit in here for hours working away, his tape machine playing his stories.” She nodded at a yellow plastic device and a stack of tapes. “He was a very neat boy, always picking up after himself at the end of the day. I almost never had to speak to him. Some kids are pretty messy, especially boys, but not him.”
Against the rear wall was a small desk with a neat arrangement of books and a kid’s Fisher-Price electronic keyboard toy.
“We were saving to get him a computer for Christmas.” Mrs. Dixon sighed and began to close the door. “We had nothing to go on, but we always hoped he’d come back.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I prayed every day he’d come home.” Vernon put his arm around her.
Greg picked up Grady’s baseball glove. On the strap that went over his left wrist Grady had printed his name with a black marker. As he stared at it, he wondered how these people could go on. They had so little and now they had lost everything that mattered. But he sensed that they would go on, and he drew from their strength.
They returned to the living room. “I want you to know that the investigation is ongoing in Massachusetts. We’ve not given up on Grady,” Greg said. “And that’s why I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may, because we’ve found some similarities to another case.”
Vernon Dixon didn’t look pleased.
“’Spose it can’t hurt,” Mrs. Dixon said.
“Three years ago, we found the remains of another child—a boy about Grady’s age—also in the waters of Massachusetts. We’re trying to determine if there’s a connection.”
“I know what you’re gonna ask,” Vernon said, “and the answer is no. It’s what I told him. We got no idea how he ended up in Massachusetts. We’ve never even been to Massachusetts. We ain’t even got relatives or acquaintances in Massachusetts. ‘Cept for you, I don’t think I ever met anybody from Massachusetts.”
Mrs. Dixon nodded in agreement.
“I understand that,” Greg said. “But the other child we found had markings on the skull similar to Grady’s.” Greg could not get himself to use the word holes. “I’m wondering if you can tell me what kind of neurological procedure he had had.”
Mrs. Dixon’s face was a perfect blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer. What markings?”
“The perforations, the holes.” Greg raised his finger to the side of his head.
“What holes?”
He flashed a look at Kemmer for an explanation. Greg knew Joe Steiner had notified Gene Grzywna, the Gloucester case officer, about the holes, and he in turn had sent a report to Kemmer. Or he was supposed to have.
Kemmer made a faint shrug that said he didn’t have a clue either. If there was a screwup, Greg didn’t want to fan Dixon’s contempt of police.
From his briefcase, Greg pulled out a computer schematic of a child’s head, the holes in Grady’s skull designated as black circles. Kemmer shook his head. He hadn’t seen the drawing. Somebody in Gloucester had screwed up badly. This was not going to be easy. “Our medical examiner suspects that these are the results of some kind of neurological procedure. A brain operation.”
“Brain operation? Good heavens, no,” Winnie said. Suddenly the expression on her face turned dark with concern.
Maybe operation was the wrong term. “Did Grady ever have a biopsy for a lesion or tumor?”
Vern shook his head.
“Seizures? Blackouts … ?”
“Nothing like that. Hell, he never even had headaches.”
“And we got all his medical records,” Mrs. Dixon added.
“Is it possible to see them?”
Vernon looked hesitant, but Mrs. Dixon got up to get them. Vernon glowered at Greg. “Are you saying it might be some other child you found?”
“No, it’s Grady, I’m afraid. We’ve got a positive ID on the DNA and dentals.”
Was Joe Steiner wrong about the holes? That they were made by some marine organism?
Mrs. Dixon returned from the other room. “He was a very healthy boy.” She was carrying a thin folder. “You can see for yourself.” She handed it to Greg.
Inside were doctors’ reports of vaccinations, checkups, paid bills, insurance statements, and receipts for medication. It all looked unremarkable. Twice, a few years back, the boy had been to the emergency room for a split knee and removal of a fishhook in his thumb. No paperwork from any neurologist or neurosurgeon’s office.
Vernon looked at the schematic. “You’re saying these holes were in Grady’s skull?”
“Yes.”
“So how in hell did they get there?”
“That’s what I hoped you would tell me.”
Vernon gave Greg a harsh look. “I just said he never had a brain operation.”
“It’s possible we’re mistaken.”
“Now there’s a big surprise.”
Deserved! Greg thought. “It could be some aquatic organism.” And in the back of his mind he could hear Joe Steiner: “The polychaete worms leave smooth cavities.”
Greg had worked with Joe Steiner for a dozen years and never found him wrong about anything. When he didn’t know something, he’d say so. When he was uncertain, he’d go to people who weren’t. He also said he had double-checked with his people at the Crime Lab.
Or these people were holding back—but why lie about your kid’s biopsy?
Or the kid had the procedure after he was kidnapped. Christ! Nothing made sense.
“These holes were done with very high-speed cranio-blade drills with precision guidance.”