I look forward to settling into my desk every morning.
Like most, I unlock the door, to-go coffee in hand, and relish the first 20 minutes of the day – those moments before the world opens up when I can read the newspaper, check the stock market, maybe check the news in my soon-to-be ex-husband’s hometown.
Unlike most, however, on this day, rather than opening a spreadsheet filled with numbers and line items, I open a list of a different sort – one of body parts.
Silas and I agreed that it had come time to tighten up the organizational aspects of our work – until now, it had been almost secondary. Though we didn’t name Carson as the primary target of our effort, we both know that he is the guy. We have to be sure it’s all documented and, of course, properly categorized.
Time to wrap a bow around this one, even if we can’t make the arrest right now.
Such a gruesome debate it had been to determine how we would tabulate everything – do we do it by body part, found date, or location? We opt for the following:
– the identity of the body part
– a description, including condition at its time of discovery
– a photograph
– where and how the item was found
– the name and contact information of the finder
– the date
– DNA lab findings, both locally and from out west
– finger prints, if possible
– any other information known or speculated about the item
– notes about items that need further investigation.
Between this and my notes from the hundreds of interviews we had to conduct, it is my job on this day to write the story – the bible, if you will – of our case against Carson Sigmund.
A full day with my coffee, some smooth jazz, and these spreadsheets.
Silas continues to pursue other aspects of our investigation – researching news reports and conducting interviews. I don’t see him quite as much right now, but when we do come together, the sheer breadth of this investigation never ceases to amaze us. For someone as out of practice as I am, this is a lot.
“How can we recreate this into a coherent story?” I asked yesterday. “I mean, I’m wondering if one or both of us should continue our research out West, where things have happened … along Route 66, in Arizona, California, Oklahoma. What do you think?”
Silas was silent for several moments, contemplating.
“I guess we can’t rule it out,” he said.
—
I haven’t stood from my desk in six hours. This cannot be healthy.
I stand up to stretch and look at the clock. It’s well after six.
I close the laptop, put on my coat, and step out into the cold night air. The Riverside sounds about right for dinner this evening. Mother has bridge night with Miller, so I know she’s occupied. It’ll be nice to be out for a while.
I walk in, the strains of Brown Eyed Girl fill the air. There are three seats empty at the bar, so I claim two of them – one for my coat and purse, and one for me.
Cassie smiles and waves. “Welcome! What can I get for you?”
I have to think. Something warm or just a glass of wine? I opt for the latter.
“Red, please,” I say to her. “I’ve been looking at pictures of body parts all day. How have you been?” I say, sarcastically. Probably too sarcastically.
She nods and begins to pour. “Well, I’ll see your body parts and raise you cuts of meat for Sunday brunch. Bloody good day for both of us, I imagine.”
I laugh.
“How’s it going working with Mom?” I ask, tentatively. I’m never sure how much of this is my business or how much is me prying.
Cassie nods. “Just fine, we’re doing well,” she says. “She is a marketing machine, I have to say. We’ve been full every night this week and have two parties booked over the weekend.”
I smile and raise my glass. “Bitsy does bring it, doesn’t she, God bless her!”
The door jingles and in walks Bernie. I motion in his direction and he joins me.
Cassie smiles. “Are you aware,” she says to me as he settles into his seat, “that Bernie’s piece on the historic estate up the hill was so well-received, he’s been authorized to do a deeper dive into Carson’s life and successes, including his time at Middle Valley as well as his work out West.”
Bernie nods. “I’ll need all the help I can get, Merc. Got some time later this week?”
“I don’t know,” I say, once again and quite suddenly aware of just how small this town is. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
Cassie brings a menu to Bernie as I fumble in my purse for my phone. I scroll through the numbers and stop on Cassie’s to send a text. I type frantically.
Please don’t say anything to Bernie re: my day.
I panic. Silas would be aggravated that I’ve said even as little as I had.
I watch her for a moment as I sip my wine. Finally, she pulls her phone from her apron and checks it. She looks up at me and mouths “okay.”
I nod and speak up. “I think I’m ready to order.”
Gunnar Olafsson