I nod and mimic the same sad smile the priest is wearing. It seems appropriate.
The cemetery empties. I’ve been left alone to grieve, to find it in my heart not to throw myself into the hole and die with her. There’s only one reason why I don’t. I must keep myself together in case my child is found.
My daughter. A small, sturdy flower born too early, a week ago today. Before the violence on our tiled kitchen floor. She might as well have been wrenched from my wife’s womb, instead of torn from her breast.
We talked about naming her Ellie, but we ultimately decided on Violet.
V for her mother, and those violet eyes I’ll never see again. V for the valiant effort she made to live despite the odds against it. V, because she is the intersection of two lines cast askew by death, not sturdy right angles, but unbalanced, falling over, not quite down.
V, for Violet.
I can only pray that she lives, and one day, I will see her again.
34
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
CURRENT DAY
The bottle hits the edge of the glass, the liquid sloshing into the lowball. Zack Armstrong barely notices the too-heavy clink, nor that he’s missed the glass and hit the table with most of his pour. The bottle is half-empty, and he is well on his way to being trashed.
He needs the buffer. He doesn’t like to make this phone call, and yet, he feels compelled. Every six months, like clockwork, he rings Detective Gorman to see where things stand with the case.
It is a pointless endeavor. Vivian’s murder, Violet’s kidnapping, it’s old news. Seventeen-year-old cold cases aren’t front and center in anyone’s mind but the family left behind.
Gorman isn’t even a detective anymore. He’s a sergeant, runs a squad, and the last time they talked, was about to hit his retirement age, take his twenty, and bolt for greener pastures. The last thing in the world he’d do is reopen a cold case on the eve of his departure.
But Zack has to try. Every six months, he dials the number for the Nashville Metropolitan Police, asks for the homicide office, talks to Gorman, and then they both go on their way for the next six months. Fruitless, but something about it makes him function. He has Gorman’s home and mobile numbers, and in the beginning, he used them frequently, but as the case ages, as the pain grows hard and deep within him, he feels the niceties should be observed. He always gives Gorman the chance not to talk to him by calling the office directly.
Not calling isn’t an option, but over the years, instead of hourly, daily, weekly, he’s backed it down to every six months, to show respect. Zack isn’t about to let the police forget. And Gorman is the only person he can talk to. The only other one who knows the gritty details, who saw the blackened blood, who understands what it’s like to have your life snatched away while your back is turned. Not only understands but sometimes even feels badly about it all.
Zack knows the detective cares, in his way. But the man can shut off his emotions with the best of them.
Yes, a little distance, a few niceties, this he can give the man who worked so hard to find his wife’s killer, his daughter’s kidnapper. Never mind that he failed to find the culprit. Most husbands wouldn’t be so forgiving of that fact.
He takes a bracing sip of Laphroaig, then picks up the phone and dials.
“Metro Police.”
“Homicide, please.”
Silence, then a click. A voice he doesn’t recognize answers.
“Parks here.”
“I’m looking for Sergeant Gorman.”
More silence. “Um, sir, I’m sorry, but Sergeant Gorman is no longer with us.”
The rage blooms bright in his chest. How dare he leave without at least saying goodbye? Without warning him he was handing off the case to another detective?
He pulls himself together. “When did he retire?”
“He didn’t. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Sergeant Gorman passed away. Is there something I can help you with? I’ve taken over the day shift. Sergeant Bob Parks.”
“I’m Zack Armstrong.”
Another brief silence. He hears papers flipping in the background, the bray of a distant laugh. He’s been in that office often enough to know that the room is tiny, there is a television in the corner above the desk, and the homicide office itself is a warren of cubicle desks that house a bunch of detectives who are practically on top of one another. They are moving soon, to a new office space, one he assumes will be shiny and clean, state of the art. Maybe they already have. Maybe his image of the scene is already distorted.
“How can I help you, Mr. Armstrong?”
The tone is neutral but inquisitive. Polite. As if the man has no idea who Zack is.
“I’m calling to inquire about the status of a cold case from 2000. The murder of Vivian Armstrong. My wife.”
The cop’s response is automatic but sincere. “Oh. I am so sorry for your loss.”
If Zack had a quarter for the number of times he’s heard those words...
“Sergeant Gorman was my contact for the case. No one phoned to tell me he’d passed away.”
“Sorry about that, sir. It was sudden, an accident. We’re only now settling the squad’s reorganization.”
“What kind of accident?”
“That’s...personal information I’m not authorized to release.”
“Right. How did I not hear about this? I read the papers. There’s been no report of the sergeant’s death.”
“His family didn’t want a lot of attention. It’s been hard for them.”
“I see. Well, I am terribly sorry to hear about this, but as I said, I’m calling for an update on my wife’s case.”
“2000, right? Vivian Armstrong? I remember it. I was patrol back then. I didn’t work the scene, but it was certainly news everywhere. Your infant daughter was kidnapped as well if I recall.”
“That’s right.”
“Weren’t you the one who found your wife? You were out of town and came home to find her dead?”
Zack grits his teeth. He hears the lingering question in the cop’s tone. Are you sure you didn’t fly off the handle and murder your wife? You can tell me the truth.
“Yes. I was in Gulf Shores. My mother was ill.”
“Well, I don’t have any updates for you, sir, but I’m happy to pull the case files and give it a look. Can I call you back?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
“Same number and address as is in the file?”
“That’s right.”
“Give me a few days, okay?”
“Absolutely. Thanks.”
Zack hangs up, feeling oddly elated. New eyes. He hasn’t had new eyes on this case in years.
He takes the Laphroaig and steps over the dog. The stunning fawn Belgian Malinois lifts her pretty head, and he can swear she raises a furry brow.
“Sorry to disturb, Kat.” Kat—short for Katerina—sighs heavily and wags her tail. “You don’t need to get up, honey. I’m just going to look.”
Another wag, the rug catching under her powerful tail. She understands him better than most people. She puts her head back on her paws, and Zack walks down the hall toward the guest room.
His house on Love Circle is modern, boxy, all glass and exposed brick. Impersonal, some would say. He designed it himself, placed it on the hill where he can look over the city. He can also walk or bike to work, which makes life easier. Easier? More convenient.
The cozy house where he lived with Vivian and the specter of his daughter was torn down years ago. He couldn’t fathom anyone living in it, and he certainly didn’t want to stay there. He’d never be able to look at the kitchen floor again without seeing the blood. He arranged to have it dismantled, giving undamaged sections to Habitat for Humanity. A crane had taken the roof off in one piece. Goodwill had taken the furniture. The remainders: doors, windows, beams, had gone to the various housing charities throughout Nashville. He left with nothing but their wedding photos, a sonogram, and the clothes on his back.