Free A Child's Garden of Death by Richard; Forrest Page A

alabaster skin. As Lyon closed the folder he could imagine the little girl jumping from the photographer’s chair to skip down the hall to class. He knew with a start that if this was the victim, that if this little girl was the one whose body …
    â€œWhat’s in yours?” Rocco asked.
    â€œOh, it’s not this one,” Miss Parsons said, snatching the folder from Lyon. “There’s a note on the outside of the folder that the family moved to California.”
    â€œWhere did the father work?” Rocco asked.
    Miss Parsons efficiently flipped open the folder. “Father, Meyer Meyerson, address 1215 Houston Blvd., employed at the Houston Company.”
    â€œBut moved to California,” Lyon said with relief.
    â€œWe’ve got it here, then,” Rocco said jubilantly. “Want to see her picture?” he said, and handed the folder across the table to Lyon.
    â€œNo, thank you. Are you sure it’s her?”
    â€œGot to be. Listen. Father, Moshe Eisenberg, home address 210 Asylum, place of business, Pratt and Whitney Aircraft.”
    â€œ210 Asylum. That’s the Civic Center.”
    â€œSure it is, now. But we’ve got something to go on. We’ll track them down.”
    As they left Miss Parsons, Rocco thumped Lyon on the back, and Lyon was grateful that he hadn’t looked at the Eisenberg girl’s photo.
    The young and efficient assistant personnel manager at the aircraft plant was most helpful as she ushered them into a private conference room. She sat at the end of the table, with pencil poised. Long red hair framed her youthful face.
    They quickly told her the story, and her intense young face became even more intense. “Of course,” she said. “He could have worked here or at one of the other plants, but let’s start here.” She jumped from her seat and scurried from the room, only to return in a few minutes with a personnel folder and a puzzled look.
    â€œYou have his folder?” Lyon asked.
    â€œYes,” she replied. “I have Moshe Eisenberg’s folder, but it’s very strange. The folder just ends. I mean, it’s like there should be other pages or something, but it just ends in 1943.” She paused to reflect a moment. “That was during World War II or something, wasn’t it?”
    â€œOr something,” Lyon said and felt old.
    â€œRecord keeping wasn’t the best then. Lots of men were in and out of here, but this folder just ends … doesn’t say if he was terminated or anything.”
    Lyon and Rocco glanced across the table at each other with the knowledge that they now had an address turned into a civic center and a file that just ended.
    â€œI just don’t understand it,” the young personnel assistant said. “We try to be so careful, but of course we never have to go back this far in the records unless someone is still here.” She tapped her pencil with a click against the table. “You know what we might do. This man was in Department 210. Just yesterday I was processing a retirement for the superintendent of that department. He’s been here over thirty years and just might remember something.”
    Department 210 was a die shop almost a quarter of a mile through the plant from the executive offices. They followed the clicking heels of the young girl, and since conversation was difficult in the din of the factory, Lyon glanced at Rocco and saw that he was intent on the taut skirt of the young woman in front of them. Lyon nudged him in the ribs and the large man looked over at him with a grin and proceeded to inspect the overhead crane system with great intensity.
    The superintendent of Department 210 was wearing safety goggles and bending over a lathe as he helped the operator to set up the machine. He turned quickly and smiled at the young personnel assistant, then beckoned them toward a small glass-enclosed office.
    â€œThese gentlemen are trying