“Why does everyone keep saying that? I could end up paralyzed. In fact, that’s probably a bigger risk if I go ahead with the surgery than if I leave things alone.”
“I don’t know about surgical risks and whatnot,” he replied in that even, steady way of his. “I was just reckoning, if it was me, I couldn’t live with knowing where that bullet has been.”
Exactly. Beasley had articulated my reasoning better than I had myself, at dinner tonight with my family. You could analyze the medical pros and cons until you went blue in the face; the fact remained that the slug of metal in my neck had been responsible for the death of my biological mother. You couldn’t just leave it there.
“The surgeon says he’ll try to extract it, intact. So I was thinking, maybe you would want to take a look?”
“As evidence, you mean?”
“Well, you tell me. Would it be of interest to the police? I mean, given how long ago everything happened?”
“Absolutely. Unless and until you get a conviction, a murder investigation remains open. New evidence is always of interest. There’s a Cold Case Squad, that’s what they do.”
“What about the statute of limitations?”
“Isn’t one. Not for murder.”
“And how does it work?” I asked with genuine curiosity. “What would they do with the bullet?”
“Run all kinds of tests on it. Measure it. Weigh it. Ideally, they’d have something to try to compare it with. A gun seized from a suspect, say. Or another bullet taken from the crime scene.”
“But you don’t have that, right? You said the bullet that killed Boone Smith was dug out of a doorframe, you never found it.”
“True. I’m just telling you the ideal scenario. A good ballistics tech could still do something with your bullet, though. Check for distinctive grooves on it. Maybe tell you what kind of gun fired it.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
“Sure. But, Ms. Cashion?” He hesitated. “What are your expectations here? It pains me to keep saying it, but I couldn’t catch your parents’ killer back in 1979. And that’s when the case was fresh, and we had a team working it full-time. I’d caution you against getting your hopes up that anything much is likely to happen now.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m not expecting some dramatic arrest.”
“Mm-hmm. Still. You never know. I’ll make a call or two, find out what’s left of the file on your family.”
“What’s left?”
“Safe to say those files would have been shifted off-site many years ago.”
“You mean stuff might have gotten thrown away.”
“Let’s say misplaced.”
I ran my good hand through my hair. “One more thing. The suspect you arrested. Or not arrested, but questioned. Cheral Rooney says he’s still alive. She gave me an address for him.”
Beasley sighed. “Did she now.”
“I’m wondering if you should go talk to him.”
“Why?”
“She’s convinced it was him. She told me—”
“Ms. Cashion.” Beasley’s voice turned stern. “I’m sorry your mama’s old neighbor has got you riled up. And I don’t blame you, Lord knows, stumbling on this mess after so many years. But he didn’t do it. The suspect, the one she wanted us to question—he didn’t do it. He had an alibi, couldn’t have been over on Eulalia Road that day. We never had diddly on him. Nothing but her say-so.”
“You had me. I pointed to his picture.”
Beasley made an exasperated clicking sound. “Yes, ma’am, you did. Right before you started pointing for a lollipop and your dolly. I’ve seen more reliable witnesses, is my point. You were three. You were a baby. There’s not a prosecutor in the whole great state of Georgia who would hang a murder case on the testimony of a three-year-old. Certainly not one who’s been scared so bad she won’t speak.”
Twenty-four
* * *
MONDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2013
In the morning I woke early and walked to Saxbys. It’s not my favorite breakfast spot—that honor belongs to Patisserie Poupon—but I have to walk right past it to get from my house to the library. So does half the student body of Georgetown; by midmorning, the line of students jostling for lattes and chocolate muffins would be out the door. At six, though, when Saxbys opened, I had the place to myself. I grabbed a table in the window, an enormous mug of Darjeeling, and settled in to work.
I have never lost my sense of wonder that I get paid to read all day, to steep myself in the literature of another country, and another century. It is a scandalously pleasant way to earn a living. I sat marking papers until nearly nine, then pushed my glasses back on my head and looked up. My cell phone was ringing. An Atlanta number, area code 404, lit up the display.
“Hello?”
“Sweet Caroline.” The oleaginous voice of the Journal-Constitution’s managing editor oozed into my ear. “This city is a sorrier place for your having left us, I’ll tell you. Like a light’s been turned out.”
“Hi, Leland.”
Oddly, he began to hum. I pressed the phone closer, straining to make out the tune. “Tell me you’re not humming Neil Diamond.”
“You must get that a lot.”
“Thankfully, no. First time in quite a while.”
“I’ve been sitting here dreaming up ways to lure you back,” he drawled. “We never did get that drink together.”
“We never will, Leland. Was there something I can help you with?”
“Got a few messages to pass on to you. More calls coming in, people who read our article. One man says he flew with your daddy, for Delta. And a lady called—think her name was Susie. Says she and Sadie Rawson were sorority sisters, up in North Carolina. I said I’d let you know. I’ll send you all their contact information.”
“Thanks. That would be great. Hang on a sec.” I cranked up the volume on my phone. In the hours I’d sat working, Saxbys had filled. Rihanna blared from the ceiling; three baristas sweated over the hissing espresso machine. The entire varsity soccer team appeared to be here, dressed in matching gray-and-navy shorts and logo sweatshirts, 2012 BIG EAST CHAMPIONS—BLEED HOYA BLUE!