I’ve also attached images of his watercolor rendition of the camp and some shots of the men taking exercise and engaged in other daily tasks. I still have many letters and military reports to wade through and will be in touch if I stumble across anything that could be of use to you.
Please let me know if you’ve made any fresh discoveries. I believe we make an excellent research team.
Affectionately yours,
Emmett Billinger
Olivia scrolled down, her finger hovering over the mouse as her eyes drank in the black-and-white photograph showing a group of uniformed prisoners standing on a row of wooden bleachers. A baseball game was in progress, and the spectators were facing the camera, relaxed and grinning.
The caption indicated that Heinrich Kamler was the last man in the second row, and Olivia immediately understood what Billinger had meant by his comment that Kamler stood apart from the others. He was a head taller than the rest of the men and had a lean, wiry body and the kind of chiseled, handsome face that would be at home on a movie screen. His eyes gazed into middle distance, but the unmistakable look of longing struck Olivia to the quick. She had seen the same expression in those very eyes. Recently.
Her mouth went dry.
She stared at the square jaw, the smooth brow, and the straight, proud nose and wanted to put her head back and cry out in misery. Instead, she hit the print button, pacing back and forth in front of the printer as it strung the pixels together into an image. An image that would shake the entire community.
Haviland watched her with anxious eyes, but Olivia was too lost in the picture emerging from the printer to pay him any heed.
The machine completed its task and the image fell neatly into a tray. Olivia snatched it up and carried it to the window. There was no denying it. The eyes gave him away.
Olivia leaned against the glass, pressing her right cheek against its cool surface as she glanced out at the ocean for a long time, desperately needing to be soothed by the dips and swells of blue.
It failed to comfort her.
She turned her stunned gaze on the interior of her house, her eyes staring at the well-known patterns of tile and wood flooring and carpet. It was as if she didn’t know where she was. Her surroundings, her town, and the people in it seemed to have turned inside out, and all that she knew had become cold and strange.
And no matter how much she wanted to, she could not avoid knowing what she now knew. There was no way to deny the truth that burned her lungs and brought hot tears to her eyes.
Olivia knew the identity of Heinrich Kamler. She’d known him for years and cared for him deeply.
The doorbell rang. Olivia leapt backward like a startled doe.
Haviland began to bark and raced into the kitchen. Olivia followed him slowly, like a sleepwalker. When she opened the door to Rawlings, she could not speak. She merely shook her head, again and again, clutching the photograph of Heinrich Kamler in her hand.
“Shhhhh,” the chief hushed her and gently pried the paper from beneath her fingers. He studied the image in silence and then touched her cheek. “Olivia, I’m sorry that it has to end this way. Raymond Hatcher is innocent of Nick Plumley’s murder. Heinrich Kamler is the killer.”
Mutely, Olivia averted her gaze, but Rawlings put a hand under her chin and forced her to look at him. “I came to tell you before I picked him up. It’s against every rule and regulation, and I’m half disgusted with myself for being here, but I knew this would hurt you. I didn’t want you to find out from anyone but me, but I can see that I’m already too late. I suppose your professor friend sent you this?”
Olivia didn’t even hear the question. She dug her fingertips into the fabric of the chief’s uniform sleeve and squeezed him hard. “Let me be the one,” she begged, her voice hoarse and pitiful. “Let me go to him first.”
Rawlings dropped his eyes. “I can’t allow that. You’d have him on the next plane, the next boat, anything to save him.”
“Even if I offered, he wouldn’t run,” she whispered. “He didn’t want to before. Ziegler forced him to. Please, Sawyer. I want him to have a friend there when you come for him. He’s been on his own for so long.”
The muscles in the chief’s jaw pulsed as he waged an internal battle over what was more important, following procedure and ensuring an airtight case or allowing another human being a moment of grace. In the end, he decided that Heinrich Kamler was worthy of a little compassion.
“You have an hour,” he stated sternly. “And I’m trusting you, Olivia.”
Too overwhelmed by emotion to respond, Olivia wiped the tears from her cheeks and gestured for Haviland to accompany her to the car. She backed out of the driveway, leaving sprays of dust and sand in her wake.
Never had she imagined that the end of the investigation would lead to the door of a friend. She’d always assumed that the killer would be some cruel and twisted stranger, a vengeful, spiteful, or greedy man with a black heart. But this one was funny, kind, and hardworking. He was one of them. He belonged to them.
Olivia sped through town, oblivious of everything around her. Five miles beyond the business district, she turned onto a narrow lane sloping down to the harbor. A small house with brown shingles sat perched on a gentle rise above the water. A worn path led to a small dock where a one-man fishing skiff was tethered, leisurely bobbing in the mild current.
The sight of the tiny vessel nearly made Olivia stumble, but she managed to make it to the front door.
There was no need to knock. Heinrich Kamler had seen her coming and had opened the door to welcome her inside.
“I’m glad it’s you, ’Livia,” he said in a voice heavy with sorrow. “Of all the people in this town, I’d have chosen you to know the truth.”
Olivia nodded, angry that she could not control the tears that rushed down her face.
“There, there,” the man said and reached for her. “I reckon we’ve got time for a glass of sun tea before the chief comes for me.”
She went to him, putting both arms around his back, taking in the frailty of his body. She traced the vertebrae of his spine and could feel his ribs through his thin, aged skin. Yet in her mind, she saw him as Evelyn White had seen him, a young man in the prime of life. A young man doomed by a lie.
The only comfort she had to offer was this embrace.
Olivia held him close. Haviland licked their hands and whined anxiously, as she whispered his name over and over again. “Wheeler . . . Wheeler . . .”
Chapter 17
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s
longing for itself.
—KAHLIL GIBRAN
Wheeler led Olivia into his tidy kitchen. The room was Spartan, lacking the bric-a-brac, photographs, and souvenirs displayed by most people who’d lived for eight decades. Every surface was clean, and the scent of oranges and vinegar hung in the air.
Three storage containers, a knife block, and a cutting board were lined up with mathematical precision on the countertop. Wheeler placed a lemon and a lime onto the board, cut the fruit into nearly transparent slices, and stuffed them on the bottom of a glass tumbler. He then smothered them with ice cubes, poured in his homemade sun tea, and beckoned Olivia to join him out on the small deck.