“No, I’m sorry, I mean … I didn’t niean that. I was one of four detectives assigned to the case. We–”
“You arrested the wrong man and he killed himself,” Mrs. Cadwallader said matter-of-factly. “I remember your picture in the paper. You lost your job. They called you a Communist. I remember thinking at the time how sad it was, that you made a mistake and they had to get rid of you so they called you that.”
I felt the queerest sense of absolution creep over me.
“Why are you here?” Mrs. Cadwallader asked.
“Did you know a woman named Marcella DeVries Harris?” I countered.
“No. Was she Johnny DeVries’s sister?”
“Yes. She was murdered in Los Angeles last month. I think her death was connected to Margaret’s.”
“Oh, God.”
“Mrs. Cadwallader, did Margaret have a child out of wedlock?”
“Yes.” She said it sternly, without shame.
“In 1945 or thereabouts?”
“On August 29, 1945.”
“A boy?”
“Yes.”
“And the child . . .”
“They gave up the child!” Mrs. Cadwallader suddenly shrieked. “Johnny was a drug addict, but Maggie had good stuff in her! Good Cadwallader-Johnson stock! She could have found herself a good man to love her, even with another man’s baby. Maggie was a good girl! She didn’t have to take up with drug addicts! She was a _good_ girl!”
I moved to the grandmother of Michael Harris and tentatively placed an arm around her quaking shoulders. “Mrs. Cadwallader, what happened to Maggie’s child? Where was he born? Who did Maggie and Johnny give him up to?”
She shrugged herself free of my grasp. “My grandson was born in Milwaukee. Some unlicensed doctor delivered him. I took care of Maggie after the birth. I lost my husband the year before, and I lost Maggie and I never even saw my grandson.”
I held the old woman tightly. “Ssshh,” I whispered, “Ssshh. What happened to the baby?”
Between body-wrenching dry sobs, Mrs. Cadwallader got it out: “Johnny took him to some orphanage near Fond du Lac–some religious sect he believed in–and I never saw him.”
“Maybe someday you will,” I said quietly.
“No! Only half of him is my Maggie! The dead half! The other half is that big, dirty, Dutch drug addict, and that’s the part that’s still alive.”
I couldn’t argue with her logic, it was beyond my province. I found a pen on the coffee table and wrote my real phone number in L.A. on the back of my bogus business card. I stuck it in Mrs. Cadwallader’s hand.
“You call me at home in a month or so,” I said. “I’ll introduce you to your grandson.”
Mrs. Marshall Cadwallader stared unbelievingly at the card. I smiled at her and she didn’t respond.
“Believe me,” I said. I could tell she didn’t. I left her staring mutely at her living room carpet, trying to dig a way out of her past.
_______________
“My baby. My love.”
“Where is he?”
“His father took him.”
“Are you divorced?”
“He wasn’t my husband, he was my lover. He died of his love for me.”
“How, Maggie?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“He’s in an orphanage back east.”
“Why, Maggie? Orphanages are terrible places.”
“Don’t say that! I can’t! I can’t keep him!”
_______________
I ran through Cutler Park searching for a pay phone. I found one and checked my watch: ten-fifteen, making it eight-fifteen in Los Angeles. A fifty-fifty chance: Either Doc or Michael would answer the phone.
I dialed the operator, and she told me to deposit ninety cents. I fed the machine the coins and got a ringing on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” It was unmistakably Michael’s voice. My whole soul crashed in relief.
“Mike, this is Fred.”
“Hi, Fred!”
“Mike, are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s asleep in the bedroom.”
“Then talk quietly.”
“Fred, what’s wrong?”
“Ssshh. Mike, where were you born?”
“Wha-what? In L.A. Why?”
“What hospital?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your birthday?”
“August 29.”
“1945?”
“Yes. Fred–”
“Mike, what happened in the house on Scenic Avenue?”
“The house–”
“You know, Mike; the friends you stayed with while your mother went on her trip four years ago–“