“But this commander you quoted . . .” I searched the copy for the name. “ ‘Steve Meadows, commander of the Atlanta Police Department’s homicide unit.’ You must have talked to him.”
“I’m sure I did. But that was thirty-four years ago. Who knows? It’s possible I lifted that quote from a briefing, or a press release. I wish I could tell you that I had a direct pipeline to the homicide chief, I really do. Not that it would have done me much good. The Atlanta PD was even more screwed up back in those days than it is now. Understaffed, same as today. The guys working homicide could barely keep their heads above water. Meadows or whatever his name was likely didn’t have a damn clue who took out your parents.”
That seemed a rather indelicate way of putting things, and I shot Brett a dirty look.
“Sorry. But it’s the truth.”
I took a deep breath and willed myself to keep going. “Your colleague Jessica”—I cocked my head back toward the newsroom—“Jessica said reporters often know more than they’re able to print.”
“She’s right. But whatever I might have once known about this story, I’ve forgotten long ago. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
He leaned back and flicked his gaze up and down my legs again. “I tell you what. I’ll have one of the interns look at this today. See if they can track down a phone number for one of those neighbors who used to know your mom and dad. And meanwhile, I’ve had a thought.”
I waited.
“What I’m thinking is, you’re a great story, in and of yourself. We could interview you. Write up a profile. About your coming back to Atlanta, coming home after all these years, trying to find out about your family. It could be a sweet little update.”
I shook my head no.
“Now, hang on, hear me out. There might be readers out there who remember your folks. Certainly our older readers still remember that period in the city in general. Terrible time. Late seventies, early eighties, new murders rolling in every other day. It would be great if one of them turned out to have a happy ending after all this time.”
“A happy ending? My parents died.”
“True. My apologies, didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. But what I was fixing to say was that you turned out so well. After everything your family suffered. A college professor, and a beauty to boot.”
“No,” I said firmly.
“We could talk about it over dinner.”
“No, thank you.” I narrowed my eyes in a way intended to signal that my refusal covered both the story proposal and the dinner invitation.
“As you like. But think about it this way. Friends of the family might see the story and want to get in touch. Or old work colleagues of your dad’s. Who knows who might be out there? If my interns don’t turn up anything, it’s your best shot at locating people who knew your parents.”
He had a point. I pressed my lips together. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it.”
? ? ?
I DROVE FROM the newsroom to the cemetery.
The obituary that Leland Brett had written that ran the day of the funerals mentioned the burial location. Arlington Memorial Park was in a neighborhood called Sandy Springs, just a ten-minute drive from the newspaper. A pretty cemetery. Tasteful fountains, small, landscaped lakes. If it weren’t for all the mausoleums and marble, the place could have passed for an upscale golf course.
I stopped at the front office, housed in a squat building inside the gates.
“Hi,” I greeted the woman behind the desk. “I’m trying to find a specific grave.”
“Write the deceased’s name down here,” she said. “I’ll see if anyone’s free to do a location lookup.”
Five minutes later another woman appeared, wearing a black pantsuit and carrying a pink-highlighted map. I reached out my hand for it.
“Did you drive?” This second woman had a harsh, nasal accent. New York maybe, or New Jersey.
“I did, yes.”
“Easier if you just follow me then. The sections aren’t well marked. People get lost, drive around for an hour looking. I was ready for a smoke break anyway. ”
I hopped back in my Mazda rental car and followed. She led for five minutes along smooth, paved roads lined with pine and magnolia trees. Birdsong came to me; a pair of robins flitted between our cars. Eventually she pulled over and rolled down her window.
“Should be right over there.” She pointed down one of several rows marked by small, circular stones set flush in the ground. “Want me to get out and find it with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks. Thanks very much.”
The day had warmed up considerably since I’d left my hotel this morning. An unseasonably mild breeze ruffled my hair as I climbed out of the car. Bright sunshine glinted off the asphalt. I shed my jacket, unwound my scarf, and threw them both on the front seat. I picked up the roses I had purchased en route and started walking.
Their graves, when I found them, were modest but well kept. Boone and Sadie Rawson Smith were buried side by side under a single granite marker. It listed their names, dates of birth, and dates of death. Nothing else, no epitaph. I crouched down and ran my fingers over the lettering. I’d asked the florist to tie together two dozen white roses with a pink satin ribbon—pink, for the little girl who had loved this couple once, who had taken three decades to find her way back to their side. I laid the flowers on the grass and stood back.
I had expected this to be the toughest moment in my journey to Atlanta. I had expected to weep. But I was all cried out from my morning in the newsroom. Instead I felt empty. And suddenly, embarrassingly, hungry. My stomach growled.
I stood around a bit longer, waiting to be felled by overwhelming emotion. It didn’t happen. The photograph of my mother’s face had hit me harder than this sunny, peaceful spot. Within a few minutes I felt ready to leave. I touched my fingers to my lips and then spread them one last time across the cool stone where my parents’ names were carved.
If it was closure I was looking for in Atlanta, I wouldn’t find it here.
Twelve
* * *