Page 95 of What She Saw
I’d searched for a grave marker on the cemetery’s website, but here now, it took me a moment to orient myself. When I spotted a few landmarks, I moved west. It took five minutes to find the right grave.
I glanced down at the brass plate. The marine logo followed byCJ Taggart, 1944–2020.
“Figured I should stop by and pay my respects. But I’m not sure how me standing here accomplishes that.” I knelt and brushed the leaves from the plate. “It’s taken me a while, but I’m working the case now. No one wants me here.”
Wind whispered through the trees.
“But that pretty much sums up my life.” The irony was amusing.
“You talking to him?”
The question came from a man standing at a fancier grave up ahead. He appeared to be in his late seventies. He had gray hair, a weather-lined face, and a thick mustache. He wore khakis and an ironed white shirt.
“I am. Who are you?”
“Mitch Lawson. I come each day to visit my wife.” Fresh flowers filled the vase at the grave. Wilted ones of the same variety were discarded on a sheet of newspaper.
I looked behind that to the gravestone of Daisy Lawson. She’d died ten years ago. “Did you know CJ Taggart?”
“We often found ourselves at the diner for supper. You must be the reporter.”
I rose. “I’m not a reporter. Just a writer.”
“Aren’t they the same?”
“Reporters recite the facts. I’m trying to re-create the story.”
“What’s that mean?” Mr. Lawson asked.
I’d explained this distinction before, but most didn’t understand that my work was more of a calling than a paycheck. “I don’t want a headline or clicks. I’m looking for the missing women.”
“They aren’t missing. They’re dead.”
“Still missing.” He was right. Finding bones in the ground wouldn’t change much in the grand scheme. But all answers, even the bad ones, were better than none.
“Any leads?” Mr. Lawson asked.
“Not yet.” I stepped toward him. “Did Taggart ever talk about the case?”
A hint of shaving cream was smudged on the skin under his ear. Back in the day, his wife probably would have wiped it away before he left the house. “If he did, it was always around an anniversary, when a reporter showed up to ask questions.”
“I’ve read all the articles on the case. The last anniversary article was ten years ago.”
“That’s right. My wife, Daisy, had just passed about that time. And I was in the diner often. The reporter was interviewing Taggart in the back booth.”
The last article had been a predictable rehashing of old facts. Nothing new. “Did Taggart remark on the interview?”
“He didn’t like the guy quizzing him. Said he hadn’t done his homework.”
The reporter had no curiosity about the missing victims. “Did you know any of the women?”
“My daughter went to high school with Debra.”
“What was your daughter’s impression of Debra? She the kind of gal who would just take off?”
“Carrie said Debra was focused. She had her sights set on college. Carrie always said Debra was going places.”
“I’ve heard that. Did Carrie know Kevin?”
