She nodded.
“I’m Officer Harriman. Did you call to make a missing persons report?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “My husband. Could you please try to find him?”
“I’ll do what I can. Do you want to talk out here?”
She nodded, seeming relieved. She motioned to the swing. He was half-afraid the thing would collapse, but as he sat gingerly on it, he found it was sturdy, and the eyebolts that attached it to the porch roof seemed likely to hold. The air was cool, here on the porch. Maybe not as cool as it was in the patrol car, with the windows up and the air conditioner on, but this was better than standing out in the sun.
Mrs. Sarton sat as far away from him as she could on the swing, but her posture relaxed a little.
He took out a notebook. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “What’s your husband’s name?”
“I already told the other officers, including that one there.” She lifted the tip of her index finger to indicate Bear. It was the slightest of gestures, made as if she didn’t want Bear to see her pointing him out.
“I’m new on the job,” he said. “Maybe you could act as if I’m the first person who ever heard about this.”
She nodded. “Thought so. The others think it’s funny.” She paused, then said with surprising fierceness, “It’s not funny at all.”
Frank believed her, but at the same time, he knew there was something about all of this that Bear and the others found laughable, crazy, worthy of ridicule. He wasn’t even close to seeing what that was, but he felt a sudden fear that she would say something to him that would make him laugh. And knew that it was the one thing he shouldn’t do, especially not in her presence.
Frank had been raised around cops. Bear and others who had worked with his dad had been regular guests in the Harriman home over the years. They were family. So he had an appreciation of cop humor, and considered it essential to staying sane on the job. But there were rules-at least among the kind of officers he wanted to emulate. You didn’t use that humor to ridicule the vulnerable while they were asking for your help.
What had happened here? What had made the others treat this as a joke case?
“No, there’s nothing at all funny about a missing person,” Frank said. “I’m sorry if anyone gave you the impression that it is. But because I’m so new, I’ll need your help.”
She nodded again. “My husband, Derek Sarton, D-E-R-E-K S-A-R-T-O-N, is missing. Here are a few photos of him.”
She handed him a set of photos that she had clearly prepared in advance. One showed a tall, heavyset bald man in a Hawaiian print shirt, black shorts, and sandals. He was tanned and smiling as he lifted some beverage in a martini glass toward the camera. Frank guessed he was in his late fifties or early sixties. Another showed him in a group of men in suits. He was younger, with more hair and less weight. It was a business photo, some kind of groundbreaking ceremony, next to a sign that said, “Future Home of Sarton Industries.” The third was of a couple with a young son. They were well-dressed, including the boy, who looked to be about ten. Sarton was a handsome man, probably in his midthirties, and petite Mrs. Sarton appeared to be near the same age. Judging by the clothing and hairstyles, the photo had been taken in the 1940s.
“Thank you. When did you last see Mr. Sarton?” he asked.
“It was Halloween.”
“About eight months ago?” He thought he could figure it out now. Mrs. Sarton probably constantly pestered the detective who had taken on the case. The case was as cold as a cod’s belly and Frank had been sent here for “goodwill,” to keep the citizen happy. Empty public relations for a case unlikely to receive any other department time and energy.
“No,” she said. “Not quite six years ago.”
“Six years?” He managed not to shout it.
“October 31, 1970.”
He glanced at Bear, still in the car. Saw him laughing.
Frank wrote the date down in his notebook. “Tell me about it.”
She teared up. “You aren’t going to leave? That’s all I usually get to say before they say something rude to me and leave.”
“I’m staying here to listen to you until I’m ordered to do otherwise.”
She smiled at him. “Bless you, Officer Harriman!”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he said quickly. “You’ve made a report before, right?”
“Yes, although I don’t believe any real effort was made to find him. Detective Pointe told me that Derek probably just wanted to get away from me.”
“He said that?” Pointe was an ass. Frank knew few departments gave missing persons cases to anyone for whom they had high expectations. You could see the pasture from most missing persons desks. Pointe, who would put more effort into avoiding work than the work itself would have cost him, was not the pride of the department.
“Not at first,” she admitted. “I think I annoyed him. Even my son told me to give up and stop bothering the police.”
“Is your son at home now?” Frank asked.
“Harold?” She hesitated, then said, “Well, I hope so, but I’m not sure that’s possible. If by ‘home’ you mean heaven. But maybe he asked for forgiveness at the last. Not for me to judge.”
“Your son is deceased?”
“Yes.”
He noticed that she didn’t seem too broken up about it. “Is there a reason you doubt… uh… where he ended up?”
“Of course. I’m quite sure he killed his father. Or helped his wife to do it.”
Frank cursed silently. Either this was much bigger than he’d thought-way too big for a rookie-or she was delusional and nothing he said or did would matter much. She didn’t seem crazy, though, just a little odd. In his few months on the job, he had already realized that he was going to be spending much more time as a half-assed mental health worker than he had expected, but he definitely wasn’t prepared to assess a situation like this.
He looked over at Bear again, then back to Mrs. Sarton. “Did I mention that I’m new to the job?”
She glanced toward the black-and-white, then added, “Yes, you did, a few times. I suppose the fact that you’re not like that jaded fellow over there is why I’m comfortable talking with you. Why don’t you come into the house? It’s a complicated story, but I’ll try to explain it all to you, Officer Harriman.”
What did he have to lose? “Sure.”
She pulled out a set of keys and began unlocking dead bolts. Six of them.
A seventh key unlocked the door itself.
She paused, then turned to him. “My home isn’t a mess, exactly, but I never let anyone in here. I hope you’ll forgive the condition of the living room. And it’s an old house that has belonged to three generations of old people, so we’ve each added a layer of things to it, I’m afraid.”
Thinking of his mother, who had placed ceramic frogs and other knickknacks on virtually every surface of their home, he said, “Please don’t worry about it.”
As soon as he said that, he found himself hoping she wasn’t talking about a situation more along the lines of the home of his mother’s sister, Aunt Alice, the super pack rat. Much to the family’s dismay, Aunt Alice had been in the news over it.
He looked toward Bear, who was now frowning. Fine. Frank smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, then followed Mrs. Sarton into her home.
He was relieved. Like his mom’s living room and dining room, these rooms had shelves and side tables loaded with knickknacks, although most of Mrs. Sarton’s looked considerably older and more expensive than ceramic frogs. There were pictures of elegantly dressed men and women. A few of Mrs. Sarton showed her in stylish clothes. All were placed in neatly arranged groups. This house was orderly and clean.
Still, one wall of the living room had about thirty cardboard boxes lined up on it. They were tidily stacked and labeled, but each label was printed only with a series of numbers, using some kind of system that didn’t give him any clue as to their contents.