I thought the case names I came across would trigger memories, but it was the sight of Ben Byrd’s precise penmanship that called up images of the past. He’d used a fountain pen and a particular brand of ink, so his field notes were easily distinguished from the scribbles Morley had made with assorted ballpoint pens. All the final reports were neatly typed. The originals had gone to the clients’ attorneys and the carbons were filed in descending date order, the most recent on top. Ben had insisted on storing the rough draft notes with the finished versions, making sure both were retained. I could remember a couple of occasions when critical information hadn’t made it into the typed report, and it was Ben’s policy that had saved the agency embarrassment.
He and Morley had been a study in contrasts. Ben was a statesman and a gentleman, tall, elegant, and dignified, while Morley was the rumpled, overweight jack-of-all-trades who generally flew by the seat of his pants. Morley relied on intuitive leaps, where Ben operated by the methodical accretion of detail. Morley was quick off the mark and insights came to him intact. At the outset, he couldn’t always justify his position, but nine times out of ten he was right. Ben might come to the same conclusion, but his was a carefully rendered composition, where Morley’s was a quick sketch.
In one expandable file folder, I found a stack of annotated index cards, wrapped with a rubber band that broke the minute I lifted the packet from the depths; Ben Byrd’s bold blue cursive again. He was the one who’d taught me the art of the interview without the use of a notebook or tape recorder. Didn’t matter to him if he was dealing with a client or a culprit, an adversary or a confidential informant. His policy was to listen with his whole being, mind open, judgment held in reserve. He absorbed tone and body language, trusting his memory as the conversation went on. After each exchange, he converted facts and impressions into written form as soon as possible, using index cards to record the bits and pieces regardless of how unimportant they might have seemed in the moment. He was also an advocate of shuffling and reshuffling his makeshift deck of cards, convinced that even a random rearrangement would sometimes suggest a startling new view. Until that moment, I wasn’t even aware how thoroughly I’d absorbed the lesson. I’d forgotten his habit of dating his index cards and decided it might be a smart idea to adopt the practice myself. I could see the virtue of keeping track of the order in which information was acquired along with the content itself.
After that brief detour, I worked quickly, doing a spot check here and there, still hopeful I might find pertinent financial statements. That Pete might slip personal business papers in among agency documents made no particular sense, but I didn’t want to rule out the possibility. The folders themselves were shopworn, tabs ragged and bent, a consequence of the box’s being too shallow for the contents. Since banker’s boxes are designed to accommodate standard-size files, I was perplexed by the poor fit.
I studied the bottom of the empty box, noting that the cardboard “floor” was uneven along the edge. I’d constructed many identical cartons, which arrived in flat packages for assembling in place. There were always tricky diagrams labeled Flap A and Flap B with arrows pointing this way and that. I thought of it as an IQ test for office employees whose job was to pack up documents for long-term storage. The puzzler was that the final flap should have fit seamlessly, and here it did not. I retrieved a letter opener from my pencil drawer and wedged it into the gap, using it as leverage. I cringed at the harsh shriek of cardboard on cardboard, but did succeed in popping out the makeshift rectangle that had been cut to fit.
Under it was a ten-by-fifteen padded mailing pouch, addressed to a Father Xavier, St. Elizabeth’s Parish in Burning Oaks, California, a small town a hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of Santa Teresa. The return address was 461 Glenrock Road, also in Burning Oaks. The package was postmarked March 27, 1961, roughly twenty-eight years before. I removed the mailer and studied it, front and back. Originally, the padded envelope had been taped and stapled shut, but someone had already opened it, so I felt at liberty to take a peek myself.
Inside, there were a number of items that I removed one by one. The first was a red-bead rosary; the second a small Bible with a red leatherette cover embossed with LENORE REDFERN, CONFIRMED TO CHRIST, APRIL 13, 1952. The name was written again on the frontispiece in a girlish cursive. Knowing little about the Catholic Church, I imagined young girls were baptized or confirmed at age twelve or so. I wasn’t sure if baptism and confirmation were synonymous or different religious rituals, but I thought the taking of a First Communion figured in there somewhere.
I reached into the mailer again and removed a crude handmade card on red construction paper. The simple lettering said Happy Mother’s Day! In the center, there was a child’s diminutive handprint outlined in white tempura paint with the name April printed under it, doubtless under the guiding hand of an adult. At the bottom of the mailer was an unsealed envelope that contained a child’s birthday card. On the front was a teddy bear holding a balloon with a button affixed. The button read: NOW I AM 4! Inside, the handwritten message read: I love you with all my heart! XOXOXOX Mommie