A mistake. I’ve caught the top of the ten o’clock news. There’s a collective intake of breath as the photo of the boys flashes on the screen, the announcer saying: “No news in the case of the missing Callahan twins…”
“Oh, God,” Liz says, as I punch the television off.
It’s almost a relief when a jittery redhead with bad skin and green fingernails arrives to take our fingerprints.
We all endure this woman’s bad temper as, one at a time, she calls us to the seat next to her. Using the coffee table as a platform, she presses our fingertips into an ink pad and then rolls out each one onto a prepared card. As she rolls my left pinky and then lifts it straight up from the file card, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something sordid about the process. The card contains nothing but the minimal information required to identify me, that and the oblong blobs left by my fingertips, each with its own intricate pattern of whorls and lines.
I am given moistened towelettes to remove the ink from my hands while my mother takes my place. Maybe it’s because the Xanax has worn off, maybe it’s the half a dozen cups of coffee she’s downed since her arrival. Whatever the reason, she can’t seem to allow the technician to manipulate her fingers. She keeps twitching, moving the fingers herself. She apologizes and the tech issues an exaggerated sigh as she rips each messed-up card in two and tosses it into the wastebasket.
“Relax,” she tells my mother for what must be the tenth time, “let me move your finger. You’re rolling it – see, you’re smearing it.” Her tone of voice varies between accusing and patronizing. “Let me manipulate your fingers. Don’t roll…”
“I’m not rolling,” my mother says. “I’m trying not to.”
“You are.”
“Stop bullying her,” I say. “This is voluntary, correct?” My mother casts me a grateful look, but she’s beginning to sniffle.
“Let’s try again,” the fingerprint bitch says, filling out another card with yet another exasperated sigh.
This time, it goes well for a minute or two, but then, Mom twitches or something.
“You’re doing it again!”
My mother breaks down, begins to cry.
“Leave her alone,” my father says, getting to his feet.
“Excuse me,” the tech says, extricating herself from her seat and marching toward the door. “I don’t get paid enough to put up with this grief.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say in an automatic tone.
“Do you want some water, Glenna?” my father asks in an anxious voice. “Alex – do you think we could get some water in here?”
“Sure.” I drag myself up from the couch and speak to the policeman posted in the hall. I realize – and the thought fills me with guilt – that I am tired of my parents, that I wish they would go home. Jack, too. I know they’ve come because they had to come and lend whatever support they can. I guess I’d be hurt if they hadn’t come. But it feels as if Liz and I have to take care of them.
Shortly after the policeman brings the water, Shoffler shows up. He stands in the threshold and raps his knuckles against the inside of the doorjamb. “Can I have a word with you, Alex? With you and Mrs. Callahan?”
There’s something about the look on Shoffler’s face that freezes my heart. First of all the latex gloves he’s wearing – they’re all wearing them – provide a chilling, clinical note. I stand up fast, as if there’s a rope attached to the top of my head and someone’s yanked me to my feet. “What is it?”
“You can speak freely right here,” my father says, with a little inclusive sweep of his hand. “We’re all family.”
Shoffler holds his hand up, palm toward my father like a cop stopping traffic. “Just the parents,” he says, with something that’s more like a grimace than a smile.
Liz is gray. We follow Shoffler upstairs into my study, where a uniformed officer, also gloved, sits on the corner of my desk holding a clipboard. Shoffler introduces the man: “This is Officer David Ebinger.”
Shoffler explains that it’s the custom, post-O.J., to have a single officer handle evidence, from tagging and bagging, to checking it in and out of the evidence room, to introducing it in court. “We have to establish chain of custody,” he says, in a matter-of-fact way, “in case there’s a court case somewhere down the line.”
We nod. We understand.
And then Shoffler closes the door. “We found something,” he says.
I can’t say a word.
On my desk sits a brown cardboard box about the size of a shoe box. Its flaps are open, splayed to the sides, and taped to it is a white tag with writing on it. Shoffler nods to Ebinger and then, using the eraser end of a pencil, extracts from the box a crumpled and badly stained piece of clothing. Once he’s got the whole thing clear of the box, I see what it is: a yellow T-shirt. The stain is reddish brown and I know instantly that it’s blood.
Liz moans. I put my arm around her and she leans in to me, turning her face in to my chest. She can’t look, but I can’t stop looking. Shoffler is trying to gently shake out the piece of cloth suspended from his pencil. It must have dried in this crumpled state, and it’s so stiff his efforts don’t accomplish much. For some reason I feel compelled to watch, filled with dread that the shirt will slip off the pencil and fall to the desk and that I must not let this happen. Finally the folds of fabric in one part of the bunched T-shirt lose their adhesion. It’s like a clenched fist opening, and suddenly I can see what the bunched folds hid, a palm-sized flat expanse of the T-shirt.
I don’t need to see any more.
What’s visible is the cartoonish drawing of a fish tail, the tail of what I know to be a whale, the interior of which I know to be printed with the word NANTUCKET.
“That’s Kevin’s,” I say. I seem to speak without volition. “Sean has a green one.” I can’t take my eyes off the shirt. I try to concentrate on the fabric, exclude the image of Kevin in the shirt. There’s a weird metallic taste in my mouth. Liz is shivering in my arms.
“Where did you find it?” I hear myself ask.
“Could you confirm that, Mrs. Callahan? I mean the identity of the shirt?”
Liz stiffens, lifts her head away from my chest. She turns her head, takes a look. She makes a terrible little sound. Her hand flies up to her mouth. She manages a few choppy nods.
Shoffler presses her. “Are you telling me the shirt belonged to your son Kevin?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find it?” I ask again, but again Shoffler doesn’t answer. He maneuvers the shirt back into the box, pushes the flaps shut with the pencil. Ebinger meticulously tapes it closed.
“There’s one more thing,” Shoffler says. “Would you follow me?”
Shoffler leads, Ebinger follows in our wake. I try not to speculate on the fresh horror he’s going to show us. I concentrate on looking at the back of Liz’s head, the slight sway of her dark ponytail. We enter the boys’ room. I can hardly breathe.
“We decided to leave this in situ for the moment,” Shoffler says, levering open the door of the closet with his pencil. “Can you explain this?” he asks, using the pencil to point to the top shelf. He moves aside, allowing us to peer into the closet. There, next to Candyland and Sorry is a small glass mixing bowl full of a clear liquid. It’s on the very edge of the shelf, ready to topple.
“What is it?” Liz asks. “Is it water?”
“We’re not certain yet – but, ah – as I said, if you can tell us what it’s for, that would help.”