Another full circle in my life, yet my children’s lives in my childhood home could not be more different from mine. I can’t imagine giving Penelope and Justin the freedom to walk to the 7-Eleven on Green Mountain Circle. Wouldn’t matter if I did; it’s long gone. The lapping wavelets of Wilde Lake, my onetime lullabye, now whisper to me of their intent to take my children’s lives if I ever allow my vigilance to flag. And in my imagination, Columbia’s famous walking paths and bike trails are like a Candy Land board game snaking through a forest of potential pedophiles. I don’t even send my children to the neighborhood elementary school I attended, a ten-minute walk. They go to private school at the opposite end of the county, which means I still have to have a babysitter, Melissa, just to drive them to and from school every day. Fred tried to make that an issue during the election, even tried to suggest I was a racist because the neighborhood school has a large minority population. That backfired on him when I explained that my children had been enrolled in their current school’s pre-K not long after their father died; the school was one of the few constants in their young lives. I was reluctant to remove them from the comfort of a familiar place for what would be shallow, political concerns.
I almost feel sorry for Fred. Almost. It had to be a special kind of hell, running against the unimpeachable Widow Brant. Such a tragic figure, having lost her childhood sweetheart. (Gabe and I didn’t start dating until college, but, you know, print the legend.) A respected figure, daughter and sister to two saintly men. And, by the way, a really good trial attorney. He couldn’t win, and he didn’t. The night of the general election, we were neck and neck the whole evening, but the final precincts delivered the victory to me. A squeaker, 50.5 percent of the vote, but all you need is 50 percent plus one. The gender divide did him in. Women didn’t like him going after my kids. The African American women that Fred thought would vote for him in a bloc much preferred me. Even his appearance at Davey Robinson’s church didn’t help him win those women over.
Besides, if Fred wanted to make it personal, there were better, juicier-truer-rumors to spread. He just didn’t know where to look.
JANUARY 8
They get a hit on the fingerprints quickly, from the door and the thermostat: Rudy Drysdale, a fifty-one-year-old vagrant with a history of loitering, trespassing, breaking and entering. But not a single act of violence, which tempers Lu’s excitement. A smart defense attorney could knock this charge down in a heartbeat. With this guy’s record, it would be easy to argue that he broke into the apartment after the woman was dead, panicked, and left. That wouldn’t answer the mystery of the print on the thermostat, but she’s not going to risk charging him on the fingerprint alone. She’s not even sure she wants to interrogate him yet, but she also can’t afford to leave a killer on the streets. Two detectives are dispatched to the cheap motels along Route 1. Drysdale, on medical disability, apparently stays in motels at the beginning of the month when he’s flush with his government money, then resorts to sleeping outdoors if the weather allows. Howard County is not an easy place to be a homeless man. There are no emergency shelters and only a handful of food pantries. How do you survive the winter if you are homeless in Howard County?
You break into a place you believe is empty. Lu thinks back to Mary McNally’s apartment. No lights were on. That hadn’t registered or seemed important because it was daytime. And, of course, the perp might have turned the lights out so no one would notice the ajar door, assuming he had left the door open on purpose. The thermostat, the door-Lu has to assume the killer wanted to play with the environment, complicate the process of determining the approximate time of death. Did the killer know Mary was on vacation, not expected back at work until January sixth?
One thing’s for certain: Mary didn’t meet Rudy Drysdale while standing in line for The Theory of Everything. Or at a coffee shop, or a wine bar. This was not a man that a woman invited into her home. Unless Mary McNally was the kind of softhearted person who saw a man with a WILL WORK FOR FOOD sign and took him at his word, asked him to do a few small chores for her.
The detectives find Drysdale at the second motel they check. He is docile-so docile, based on what Lu hears, that he might not be competent to stand trial. They attempt to interview him, but he says nothing, asks for nothing, only stares at the ceiling. He’s probably happy to spend a night in jail. After a few mild days, Maryland is in the grip of a terrible cold snap, with a low of ten degrees forecast for tonight.
Mike Hunt goes out with Drysdale’s mug shot, shows it around the Silver Diner, the apartment complex. Lu’s money would have been on the Silver Diner. It seems plausible that Drysdale treated himself to a cup of coffee there, sitting at the counter and nursing it as long as he could on a cold day. Silver Dollar advertises a bottomless cup of coffee. Get an English muffin, eat and drink slowly. As long as he didn’t smell and didn’t do anything too off-putting to the other customers, he could have spent hours there.
But the Silver Diner comes up empty. It’s the neighbor, the one with the long legs, who recognizes Rudy, says she saw him lurking in the parking lot the week before Christmas. Probably saying that just to get closer to Mike Hunt, Lu thinks. But it’s enough for a lineup, which Lu attends, and Jonnie Forke is grim, businesslike. Also very definite. “That’s the man I saw,” she says. “I saw him twice.” He was always moving, but there was something about him that didn’t seem right, which is why she noticed him.
B-I-N-G-O. With an ID this strong and the prints, Lu will have no problem charging the guy with first-degree murder. She calls home, asks her father if he’s comfortable supervising homework and bedtime. When he hears that she wants to stay to observe an interrogation, he says he’ll ask Teensy to work late. After all these years, Lu remains too cowed by Teensy to ask her to do anything extra. She still gets nervous helping herself to an ice cream sandwich when Teensy isn’t around to give permission.
Lu has takeout at her desk, reads the newspaper online-always strange to see Davey Robinson writing op-ed pieces, stranger still to realize he’s an out-and-out conservative-scrolls through the day’s e-mail, looks at her telephone messages. Her office still uses the pink “While You Were Out” slips. The last one, logged at 4:45 P.M., is from a Mrs. Eloise Schumann. Says you will know what this is in reference to, Della has written on the slip. (Is it wrong that Lu secretly loves having a secretary named Della, as Perry Mason did?) Of course Lu has no idea what it is in reference to. Isn’t that always the way? Everyone thinks his or her own drama is so central. She searches her e-mail for “Schumann,” searches her mind. Nope, blank, nada.
Mike Hunt calls. “He decided to open his mouth long enough to lawyer up already.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, so we’re going to let him spend the night in jail, push the interrogation to tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Think about it, Lu. This guy can’t bear to go up to Baltimore, spend a night in a mission. He sleeps outside or breaks into places. Anything to avoid human contact. A night in jail is going to rattle him.”
“Is he crazy, Mike? I mean, the kind of crazy that’s going to raise competency issues.”