“I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it but the reconstruction had Tommy’s chin, which was prominent. The nose was a little smaller maybe, and the haircut was wrong.” He shrugged. “It looked like an older version of that boy I knew. What happened to him? Before I could get the story from the ladies in the post office you whisked me away.”
Cynthia answered. “The man in the photograph was murdered, his face severely disfigured, and his body dismembered. The fingerprints were literally cut off the fingerpads and every tooth was knocked out of his head. Over a period of days people here kept finding body parts. The head turned up in a pumpkin at our Harvest Festival. It was really unforgivable and there are children and adults who will have nightmares for a long time because of that.”
“Why would anyone want to kill Tommy Norton?” Orlando was shocked at the news.
“That’s what we want to know.” Rick made more notes.
“When was the last time you saw Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton?” Cynthia wished she could think of enough questions to keep him there for hours.
“At my graduation from Andover Academy. His voice had deepened but he was still a little slow in developing. I don’t know if I would recognize him today. I’d like to think that I would.”
“You said he attended Princeton—after he straightened out.”
“Fitz was a mess there for a while after his parents died. He was very withdrawn. None of us boys was particularly adept at handling a crisis like that. Maybe we wouldn’t be adept today either. I don’t know, but he stayed in his room playing Mozart’s Requiem. Over and over.”
“But he stayed in school?” Rick glanced up from his notes.
“Where else could they put him? There were no other relatives, and the executor of his parents’ estate was a New York banker with a law degree who barely knew the boy. He got through the year and then I heard that summer of ’75 that he started to come out of his shell, working back at Kincaid, Foster and Kincaid with Tommy. They were inseparable, those two. Then there was the accident, of course. I never heard of any trouble at Princeton but Fitz and I weren’t that close, and anything I did hear would have been through the grapevine, since we’d all gone off to different colleges. He was a good kid, though, and we all felt so terrible for what happened to him. I look forward to seeing him.”
They thanked Orlando, and Blair, too, for waiting. Then Cynthia got on the horn and called Kincaid, Foster and Kincaid. Leonard Imbry still ran personnel and he sounded two years older than God.
Yes, he remembered both boys. Hard to forget after what happened to Fitz. They were hard workers. Fitz was unstable but a good boy. He lost track of both of them when they went off to college. He thought Fitz went to Princeton and Tommy to City College.
Cynthia hung up the phone. “Chief.”
“What?”
“When are Little Marilyn and Fitz returning from the Homestead?”
“What am I, social director of Crozet? Call Herself.” Herself was Rick’s term for Big Marilyn Sanburne.
This Cynthia did. The Hamiltons would be back tonight. She hung up the phone. “Don’t you find it odd that Orlando recognized the photograph, if it is Tommy Norton, and Fitz-Gilbert didn’t?”
“I’m one step ahead of you. We’ll meet them at their door. In the meantime, Coop, get New York to see if anyone in the police department, registrar, anyone, has records on Tommy Norton or Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton. Don’t forget City College.”
“Where are you going?” she asked as he took his coat off the rack.
“Hunting.”
60
In just a few days at the Homestead, Little Marilyn knew she’d gained five pounds. The waffles at breakfast, those large burnished golden squares, could put a pound on even the most dedicated dieter. Then there were the eggs, the rolls, the sweet rolls, the crisp Virginia bacon. And that was only breakfast.
When the telephone rang, Little Marilyn, languid and stuffed, lifted the receiver and said in a relaxed voice, “Hello.”
“Baby.”
“Mother.” Little Marilyn’s shoulder blades tensed.
“Are you having a good time?”
“Eating like piggies.”
“You’ll never guess what’s happened here.”
Little Marilyn tensed again. “Not another murder?”
“No, no, but Orlando Heguay—he knows Fitz from prep school—recognized the unidentified murdered man. He said it was someone called Tommy Norton. I hope this is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for, but Sheriff Shaw, as usual, appears neither hopeful nor unhopeful.”
The daughter smiled, and although her mother couldn’t see it, it was a false smile, a knee-jerk social response. “Thank you for telling me. I know Fitz will be relieved when I tell him.” She paused. “Why did Rick Shaw tell you who the victim was?”
“He didn’t. You know him. He keeps his cards close to his chest.”
“How did you find out?”
“I have my sources.”
“Oh, come on, Mother. That’s not fair. Tell me.”
“This Orlando fellow walked into the post office and identified the photograph. Right there in front of Harry and Miranda. Not that anyone is one hundred percent sure that’s the victim’s true identity, but well, he seems to think it is.”
“The whole town must know by now,” Little Marilyn half-snorted. “Mrs. Hogendobber is not one to keep things to herself.”
“She can when she has to, but no one instructed her not to tell and I expect that anyone would do the same in her place. Anyway, I think Rick Shaw went over there, slipping and sliding in the snow, and had a sit-down with both of them. I gave him the key to Fitz’s office. Rick said he needed to get back in there too. He thought the fingerprint people might have missed something.”
“Here comes Fitz back from his swim. I’ll let you tell him everything.” She handed the phone to her husband and mouthed the word “Mother.”
He grimaced and took the phone. As Mim spun her story his face whitened. By the time he hung up, his hand was shaking.
“Darling, what’s wrong?”
“They think that body was Tommy Norton. I knew Tommy Norton. I didn’t think that photo looked like Tommy. Your mother wants me to come home and talk to Rick Shaw immediately. She says it doesn’t look good for the family that I knew Tommy Norton.”
Little Marilyn hugged him. “How awful for you.”
He recovered himself. “Well, I hope there’s been a mistake. Really. I’d hate to think that was . . . him.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I think it was 1976.”
“People’s appearances change a lot in those years.”
“I ought to recognize him though. I didn’t think that composite resembled him. Never crossed my mind.
“He had a prominent chin. I remember that. He was very good to me and then we lost track when we went to separate colleges. Anyway, I don’t think boys are good at keeping up with one another the way girls are. You write letters to your sorority sisters. You’re on the phone. Women are better at relationships. Anyway, I always wondered what happened to Tom. Listen, you stay here and enjoy yourself. I’ll drive back to Crozet, if for no other reason than to calm Mother and look at the drawing with new eyes. I’ll fetch you tomorrow. The major roads are plowed. I’ll have no trouble getting through.”
“I don’t want to be here without you, and you shouldn’t have to endure a blast from Mother alone. God forbid she should think our social position is compromised the tiniest bit—the eensiest.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “You stay put, sweetie. I’ll be back in no time. Eat a big dinner for me.”
Little Marilyn knew she wouldn’t change his mind. “I think I’ve already eaten enough.”