everything, the whole system, goes down
the drain. No explanations needed. No apologies required.
The betrayal had badly damaged his faith in his own
instincts. How was it possible that he could not see through the elaborate
subterfuge of his wife's betrayal? It had happened directly in his field of
vision. Jim, his friend, his neighbor, his drinking buddy. How long had it gone
on? Would he ever know?
The wound, he knew, would never heal. It distorted his
entire life, his self-image, his relationship with his children. Could he vouch
for the two oldest? Nothing was ever the same again. No! Mr. and Mrs. Calvin
Marlboro were no mystery. None at all.
They zipped up the bag covering the body of Orson Simpson.
As they did so, one of the divers came up and dropped some tote bags and a
woman's leather pocketbook on the deck of the ribbon bridge. He fingered the
damp leather skin of the bag. Certain it was Jane Doe's handbag, he put it in a
small plastic bag. He sent the other baggage and the four bodies back to the
Medical Examiner's office.
Because this was the last of it, he stayed with the others
as they dismantled their equipment, including the temporary morgue. When
everything had been loaded, one of the divers opened a bottle of Scotch and
passed it around as a kind of farewell toast. There wasn't much talk.
It was already dark when he and Forbes got back to the
Medical Examiner's office.
"Wanna knock off for the day?" Forbes asked.
"You go," McCarthy said. "I'll hang out here
for a while."
Forbes watched him for a moment, then shrugged a good-bye.
They were partners but not intimates. McCarthy had seen to that. Everyone
around him knew how high McCarthy had built his wall. He grunted a good-bye as
Forbes sauntered off.
When he had gone, McCarthy spilled the moist contents of
Jane Doe's handbag onto one of the metal tables. There were the usual personal
objects of a woman's life: makeup, wallet, key ring, money, perfume, a
half-filled tube of mints, scattered small change. The woman's name was Lily
Corsini Davis. It was all there on the various identification cards: her
driver's license, an American Express card, her medical plan card from Woodies.
On some of the IDs she was Mrs. Edward Nelson Davis. Her address was on "Q"
Street in Georgetown. Five foot three, 120 pounds, hair black, eyes brown. The
small driver's license photo showed a dark prettiness, perhaps beauty. He
checked the details on the license against the height, weight, and body
description provided by the Medical Examiner's report. There was no doubt about
her identity.
But there was nothing in the contents to suggest any
connection with the man. On another part of the metal table he spread out what
had been removed from the pockets of the man's clothing: a wallet, a pile of
bills in a money clip, some coins, a leather key case, seven different credit
cards, a driver's license, a photograph of a young boy. The license told him
that the man's name was Orson Oscar Simpson, age thirty-five, 180 pounds, six
foot three, brown hair, brown eyesâfacts already partly deduced from a visual
inspection of the body. There was an address in McLean.
A fragile, waterlogged ticket confirmed that the man was
indeed the Calvin Marlboro of the passenger list, which meant by a process of
elimination that the woman was most likely, although not completely confirmed,
Mrs. Marlboro. Unless there was another body around, this just had to be the
missing woman. The unused remaining ticket indicated a Miami return four days
from the date of takeoff, three days previous. He felt an odd twinge of psychic
pain but let it pass. Somebody out there must be sick with worry.
With painstaking thoroughness he went through the contents
of the recovered tote bags. In each tote bag were summer clothes and the usual
toiletries, each defining a gender. Still there was no obvious connection. In
the woman's small toiletry duffel bag, he found what he assumed were the usual
toiletries.
the drain. No explanations needed. No apologies required.
The betrayal had badly damaged his faith in his own
instincts. How was it possible that he could not see through the elaborate
subterfuge of his wife's betrayal? It had happened directly in his field of
vision. Jim, his friend, his neighbor, his drinking buddy. How long had it gone
on? Would he ever know?
The wound, he knew, would never heal. It distorted his
entire life, his self-image, his relationship with his children. Could he vouch
for the two oldest? Nothing was ever the same again. No! Mr. and Mrs. Calvin
Marlboro were no mystery. None at all.
They zipped up the bag covering the body of Orson Simpson.
As they did so, one of the divers came up and dropped some tote bags and a
woman's leather pocketbook on the deck of the ribbon bridge. He fingered the
damp leather skin of the bag. Certain it was Jane Doe's handbag, he put it in a
small plastic bag. He sent the other baggage and the four bodies back to the
Medical Examiner's office.
Because this was the last of it, he stayed with the others
as they dismantled their equipment, including the temporary morgue. When
everything had been loaded, one of the divers opened a bottle of Scotch and
passed it around as a kind of farewell toast. There wasn't much talk.
It was already dark when he and Forbes got back to the
Medical Examiner's office.
"Wanna knock off for the day?" Forbes asked.
"You go," McCarthy said. "I'll hang out here
for a while."
Forbes watched him for a moment, then shrugged a good-bye.
They were partners but not intimates. McCarthy had seen to that. Everyone
around him knew how high McCarthy had built his wall. He grunted a good-bye as
Forbes sauntered off.
When he had gone, McCarthy spilled the moist contents of
Jane Doe's handbag onto one of the metal tables. There were the usual personal
objects of a woman's life: makeup, wallet, key ring, money, perfume, a
half-filled tube of mints, scattered small change. The woman's name was Lily
Corsini Davis. It was all there on the various identification cards: her
driver's license, an American Express card, her medical plan card from Woodies.
On some of the IDs she was Mrs. Edward Nelson Davis. Her address was on "Q"
Street in Georgetown. Five foot three, 120 pounds, hair black, eyes brown. The
small driver's license photo showed a dark prettiness, perhaps beauty. He
checked the details on the license against the height, weight, and body
description provided by the Medical Examiner's report. There was no doubt about
her identity.
But there was nothing in the contents to suggest any
connection with the man. On another part of the metal table he spread out what
had been removed from the pockets of the man's clothing: a wallet, a pile of
bills in a money clip, some coins, a leather key case, seven different credit
cards, a driver's license, a photograph of a young boy. The license told him
that the man's name was Orson Oscar Simpson, age thirty-five, 180 pounds, six
foot three, brown hair, brown eyesâfacts already partly deduced from a visual
inspection of the body. There was an address in McLean.
A fragile, waterlogged ticket confirmed that the man was
indeed the Calvin Marlboro of the passenger list, which meant by a process of
elimination that the woman was most likely, although not completely confirmed,
Mrs. Marlboro. Unless there was another body around, this just had to be the
missing woman. The unused remaining ticket indicated a Miami return four days
from the date of takeoff, three days previous. He felt an odd twinge of psychic
pain but let it pass. Somebody out there must be sick with worry.
With painstaking thoroughness he went through the contents
of the recovered tote bags. In each tote bag were summer clothes and the usual
toiletries, each defining a gender. Still there was no obvious connection. In
the woman's small toiletry duffel bag, he found what he assumed were the usual
toiletries.
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