access this record?”
The last person to look at the file was a patrol officer named William Dunning, at the Liberty County police station, who had left a note to say that the parents had called this past Friday to report they’d had a phone call from their missing boy, but that the call had been abruptly disconnected.
“Can you print this off?” I asked.
VII
M ARY B ETH paged me two hours later.
“Lieutenant? I have a Mr. and Mrs. Peters here to see you. Do you, like, want to see them? It’s about that crucified kid thing.”
Daniel and I both looked at the phone, frowning.
The crucified kid thing?
I hit the button to reply. “I’ll be right there.”
I walked down the hall to the receptionist’s desk, with Daniel trailing. Mary Beth gave me her doe-in-the-headlights look, which I did my best to ignore.
“Do you, like, want to talk to them?” Mary Beth asked.
“Is the pope, like, Catholic?” I replied.
She frowned. “I’m not sure. Is he?” She probably didn’t know. I tried not to think too unkindly of her; there were Americans who weren’t even sure who George W. Bush was. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing, ignorance sometimes being bliss and all of that—what else could it be if the subject was George W. Bush?
“Yes, I’ll talk to them. Do you suppose that’s why I asked them to come?”
She offered a beaming smile, which was odd.
I went into the waiting room. “Mr. and Mrs. Peters?”
They both stood.
“I’m Lt. Thomas Noel. I’m the one who called. This is my partner, Daniel Qo.”
The woman put a hand to her mouth, then turned to her husband.
“You think you’ve found Frankie? Is that it?” the man asked.
I nodded. “Would you come with us, please?”
I led them to my office and had them sit in the chairs opposite my desk.
“Can we get you something to drink? Coffee, water?”
Neither wanted anything to drink. Both looked to be somewhere in their forties. Both had gone soft around the middle. Both obviously shopped for their clothes at Walmart and pinched pennies to get by and had probably driven here in a pick-up truck. They lived in Liberty, Missouri, which was on the outskirts of Kansas City.
Daniel stood solemnly off to one side, watching me carefully, knowing he was going to have to conduct such conversations himself in the not-too-distant future.
“He ran away two years ago,” Mr. Peters said. “We haven’t heard from him since, don’t know what became of him.”
“Maybe the best thing to do is have a look,” I said, “and then you can decide whether it’s your son or not. Perhaps it won’t be.”
“We just heard from him Friday,” Mr. Peters said. “He called us up. Said he was in trouble and didn’t know how much time he had. We didn’t know what he meant by that. He was in quite a state. Of course we were surprised. Hadn’t heard a word from him in two years. We were starting to think we might never hear from him again. Out of the blue, the telephone rings.”
He fell silent.
Mrs. Peters looked like she might add something, but she did not.
“We stayed home,” Mr. Peters said. “We thought he might call again. We just sat around and waited. We saw the news about that crucified kid, but we didn’t think it would be Frankie. That sketch didn’t look anything like him.”
“Why don’t we go have a look?” I suggested as gently as I could. “Chances are, it’s not your son that we found. But then again, it might be. It might be best if we just settle this right away, and if it’s not your son, then we can talk about his phone call and figure out a way to find out where he is.”
I called Durmount over at the morgue, asking if we could do a viewing of the body.
“Right now?” she asked.
“If it’s possible, yes. We have parents who might be able to identify the body.”
“I’ll get ready.”
Mr. and Mrs. Peters looked at each other, and I could see hope fighting with fear in the gaze that passed between
The last person to look at the file was a patrol officer named William Dunning, at the Liberty County police station, who had left a note to say that the parents had called this past Friday to report they’d had a phone call from their missing boy, but that the call had been abruptly disconnected.
“Can you print this off?” I asked.
VII
M ARY B ETH paged me two hours later.
“Lieutenant? I have a Mr. and Mrs. Peters here to see you. Do you, like, want to see them? It’s about that crucified kid thing.”
Daniel and I both looked at the phone, frowning.
The crucified kid thing?
I hit the button to reply. “I’ll be right there.”
I walked down the hall to the receptionist’s desk, with Daniel trailing. Mary Beth gave me her doe-in-the-headlights look, which I did my best to ignore.
“Do you, like, want to talk to them?” Mary Beth asked.
“Is the pope, like, Catholic?” I replied.
She frowned. “I’m not sure. Is he?” She probably didn’t know. I tried not to think too unkindly of her; there were Americans who weren’t even sure who George W. Bush was. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing, ignorance sometimes being bliss and all of that—what else could it be if the subject was George W. Bush?
“Yes, I’ll talk to them. Do you suppose that’s why I asked them to come?”
She offered a beaming smile, which was odd.
I went into the waiting room. “Mr. and Mrs. Peters?”
They both stood.
“I’m Lt. Thomas Noel. I’m the one who called. This is my partner, Daniel Qo.”
The woman put a hand to her mouth, then turned to her husband.
“You think you’ve found Frankie? Is that it?” the man asked.
I nodded. “Would you come with us, please?”
I led them to my office and had them sit in the chairs opposite my desk.
“Can we get you something to drink? Coffee, water?”
Neither wanted anything to drink. Both looked to be somewhere in their forties. Both had gone soft around the middle. Both obviously shopped for their clothes at Walmart and pinched pennies to get by and had probably driven here in a pick-up truck. They lived in Liberty, Missouri, which was on the outskirts of Kansas City.
Daniel stood solemnly off to one side, watching me carefully, knowing he was going to have to conduct such conversations himself in the not-too-distant future.
“He ran away two years ago,” Mr. Peters said. “We haven’t heard from him since, don’t know what became of him.”
“Maybe the best thing to do is have a look,” I said, “and then you can decide whether it’s your son or not. Perhaps it won’t be.”
“We just heard from him Friday,” Mr. Peters said. “He called us up. Said he was in trouble and didn’t know how much time he had. We didn’t know what he meant by that. He was in quite a state. Of course we were surprised. Hadn’t heard a word from him in two years. We were starting to think we might never hear from him again. Out of the blue, the telephone rings.”
He fell silent.
Mrs. Peters looked like she might add something, but she did not.
“We stayed home,” Mr. Peters said. “We thought he might call again. We just sat around and waited. We saw the news about that crucified kid, but we didn’t think it would be Frankie. That sketch didn’t look anything like him.”
“Why don’t we go have a look?” I suggested as gently as I could. “Chances are, it’s not your son that we found. But then again, it might be. It might be best if we just settle this right away, and if it’s not your son, then we can talk about his phone call and figure out a way to find out where he is.”
I called Durmount over at the morgue, asking if we could do a viewing of the body.
“Right now?” she asked.
“If it’s possible, yes. We have parents who might be able to identify the body.”
“I’ll get ready.”
Mr. and Mrs. Peters looked at each other, and I could see hope fighting with fear in the gaze that passed between
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