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

to locate a Moshe Eisenberg who worked in this department a number of years ago,” she said. “It’s very strange, the personnel records just end … nothing … no notations, nothing. We thought you might remember something about the man.”
    The superintendent looked at them blankly for a moment and then slowly removed his goggles and laid them neatly on the desk. “Why do you want him?” he asked.
    â€œWe think he may have been murdered,” Rocco answered.
    â€œMoshe Eisenberg?”
    â€œThat’s what we think.”
    The superintendent blinked and then began to laugh until he grasped the edge of the desk with both hands. “Well,” he choked. “Well, then, I guess I killed him. I’m Moshe Eisenberg. Changed my name to Monty Eisenhower in 1943. Seemed like the patriotic thing to do at the time.”

Four
    Since getting drunk at eleven in the morning seemed slightly obscene, Rocco left Lyon off at Nutmeg Hill and proceeded back to Murphysville to wreak utter devastation on overtime parkers and those who pass stopped school buses.
    The Wobblies grinned at Lyon from the mantelpiece, and Kimberly, sneakered feet on desk and phone in hand, was arranging a protest meeting for the Attica brothers.
    Lyon stomped out onto the patio and contemplated the blossoming trees and nesting birds. Contemplating trees and birds is a hell of a thing to do if that’s not what you want to do, he thought. Going back into the study, he glared at Kim, who waved him away with an obscene gesture.
    In the kitchen he made himself a dreadful cup of instant coffee and sulked at the formica-topped table. He ran the tips of his fingers over the haphazard design of the table top. Formless, erratic, purposeless …
    Lyon Wentworth was angry with himself. Angry for his initial involvement with this case in the first place, angry for looking at the grave and for deluding Rocco into thinking that an amateur and a small town police chief could best the powers of one of the most highly trained State Police forces in the country.
    His theory of the identification of the male victim had seemed rational, to fit the scanty clues available. Now there were three choices available: one, to chuck the whole thing and go back to his book; two, to rethink the whole matter and try to come up with something else; or three, continue to pursue the same path with the … with the realization that if the murders were not done by a madman, all possible attempts would have been made to cover up identity. In retrospect it had to be considered that the murderer so far had done a pretty damn good job in covering up leads.
    What other avenues were open? The murder weapon? Considering what Rocco had told him of the pathologist’s report and what he’d seen in the trailer, Lyon suspected it was the missing stove ring. Even locating that wouldn’t prove much. The ownership of the land and lake where the trailer was found was a dead end; the corporate face of the Water Company had yielded nothing. Reluctant liaison by Rocco with his brother-in-law of the State Police had produced no further results. The dredging operation was now almost complete and, except for finding thousands of pieces of ancient trailer, had turned up nothing tangible.
    If it had only been one of the two little girls whose records they’d looked at … but the evidence was undeniable. Monty-Moshe was quite obviously alive, with a 37-year-old daughter living in Fresno, California, and little Rebecca was also living in California, according to …
    Something was wrong. He realized that he’d been denying the subconscious premonition that had been with him for hours. He had fought it, submerged it back into his mind, obliterated it because he had willed it so, because he refused to consider the possibility, because he didn’t want it to be Rebecca.
    He went back into the study to find Kimberly still intent on the telephone.