Sacred and Profane

“It’s fine,” Marge said. “I appreciate your taking the time out to talk to me, Mrs. Bates.”

“That’s all right,” she answered softly. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“That would be fine.” Marge saw Decker standing off to the side. How long he’d been there, she didn’t know. It was good that he didn’t intrude. His size could sometimes be intimidating. Marge thought that this was one of the times.

She said, “Oh, Sergeant Decker’s back.”

“Just about done?” he asked, entering the room.

“Yes,” Marge answered, winking at him. “Perfect timing.”

“Did you find anything illuminating?” Mrs. Bates asked Decker. He noticed anxiety in her voice.

“Not really. It’s just a teenage girl’s room,” he said; then added quietly, “not unlike others I’ve seen.”

Like my own kid’s, he thought.

Mrs. Bate’s eyes began to swell with tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Decker said.

She nodded.

“Mrs. Bates,” he asked, “did your daughter ever know someone who was deaf or hard of hearing?”

The question took her by surprise.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“It may be important.”

“How so?”

“I’m not really sure. But as soon as I am, I’ll let you know.”

“A hearing aid?” the woman asked.

Decker said yes.

“No, I don’t believe so,” she answered, deep in thought. “Maybe I can ask Erin … when does she get home? … Let’s see, it’s Wednesday … Thursday? … I think it’s Thursday …”

She realized she’d been talking to herself and gave an apologetic smile.

“Also, I’d like to talk to your husband when it’s convenient for him,” Decker said. “May I call him at home tonight to arrange an appointment?”

“Certainly.”

Marge flipped her notebook shut.

“You’ll keep me abreast?” Mrs. Bates asked.

“Of course,” replied Marge.

Mrs. Bates wrapped herself in her arms and began to knead them like dough.

“I loved my daughter,” she said. “I want you to catch the monster that … that killed her. But perhaps you can understand if I tell you that maybe I’m better off not knowing everything.”

Decker flashed to his own daughter.

“I understand,” he said.

“What’d you find out?” Decker asked Marge. He turned on the ignition, let the motor idle for a moment, then backed out of the driveway.

“Mom liked to shop with her daughter,” answered Marge.

“The usual denial?”

Marge nodded. “Not my kid! She couldn’t have run away.” She rubbed her hands together. “They fix the car heater yet? Day’s turned nasty.”

“No, but the air-conditioner works perfectly.”

“Terrific. Why don’t we chill up the inside so the outside’ll feel warm by comparison?”

Decker laughed. “You’re looking a little better,” he said.

“You talk to people with real problems, you all of a sudden don’t feel so sick,” she said. “What’d you find in Lindsey’s room?”

Decker said, “I found an average, nice kid. Not too deep, but not angry, either. Her records were standard top forty stuff, no heavy metal or rebellious punker crap. Her clothes were a bit more adventurous than preppy, but definitely not punk, either. She was into her nails in a big way. Found at least a half dozen nail kits.”

He pulled onto the freeway and floored the gas pedal. The car protested, bucked, then surged ahead.

“Girl didn’t read at all. Her book shelves were filled with knick-knacks and stuffed animals. Not a single book.”

“Posters?” Marge asked.

“Rock stars, a few of the top New York models. A few framed homilies—Love conquers all … love is the treasure of kings, Love is the treasure of life. Stuff like that.”

“A nice kid,” Marge said.

“A nice kid,” Decker said.

“Pictures of boyfriends?” Marge asked.

“Couldn’t find any. Couldn’t find any snapshots in her room. The family probably keeps photo albums in a different place.”

“You didn’t by any chance happen to come across a diary?”

Decker shook his head. “She kept one?”