Long Bright River(25)

I’m going to look up Kacey’s name in the PCIC database.

I’m not supposed to: technically, we are required to have a valid reason to search for any individual, and my log-in credentials will reveal what I’ve done to anyone who cares, and I dislike violating protocol in this way—but today, I’m banking on the idea that no one actually does care. No one has time to, in our district.

Still, my heartbeat quickens slightly as I type.

Fitzpatrick, Kacey Marie, I enter. DOB: 3/16/1986.

An arrest record a mile long is displayed. The earliest one I can see—the others, presumably, expunged due to her then-status as a juvenile—is from thirteen years ago, when Kacey was eighteen. Public intoxication. It seems almost mild now, almost funny, the kind of escapade on so many people’s records.

But the kind of trouble Kacey was getting into got quickly more serious, after that. An arrest for possession, an arrest for assault (an ex-boyfriend, if I remember correctly, who used to hit her and then called the police the first time she ever retaliated). Then solicitation, solicitation, solicitation. The most recent item on Kacey’s record is from a year and a half ago. That one is for petty theft. She was convicted; she spent a month in prison. Her third period of incarceration.

What I don’t find—what I was hoping to find—is any indication that she’s been brought in more recently than that. Any indication, I suppose, that she is still alive.



* * *



—

There is a natural next step. Any detective on any missing persons case would, of course, interview the missing party’s family members as soon as possible.

And yet, as I consider the phone in my hands, I am stopped by the same queasy feeling of unease that overtakes me anytime I contemplate getting in touch with the O’Briens.



* * *



—

The simplest explanation is this: They don’t like me, and I don’t particularly like them. My whole life, I’ve had the uncomfortable feeling that I am in some way a black sheep in my family—as is, I should add, anyone who evinces signs of wanting to productively participate in society. Only in the O’Brien family would a young child’s good grades in school, or her reading habits, or her eventual decision to enter law enforcement, be looked at with suspicion. I’ve never wanted for Thomas to experience the very lonely feeling of being an outsider in one’s own tribe, or to be influenced in any way by the O’Briens—who, in addition to dabbling in petty criminality, have a tendency toward racism and other charming forms of prejudice as well; and so I made the decision, after he was born, not to inflict the O’Briens and their strange set of ethics upon him. My rule is not hard and fast—occasionally we see one of them on our annual or biannual visit to Gee’s house, and occasionally we run into an O’Brien on the street or in a store, and on these occasions I have always been cordial—but largely, I avoid them.

Thomas doesn’t, yet, understand why. Not wanting to frighten him, or to overwhelm him with information he cannot, at this age, process, I have told my son instead that our limited contact with my family is mainly a product of my work schedule. Lacking a better reason than this, he often asks after them, asks to see the ones he knows, asks to meet the rest. Once, when he was enrolled in his last school, all the children were given the assignment of constructing a family tree. When Thomas asked somewhat breathlessly for pictures of various members of ours, I was forced to confess that I had none; so instead he drew illustrations of what he imagined everybody looked like, sad smiley faces with mops of curly hair on top in a variety of colors. He has this diagram hanging, now, on the wall of his bedroom.



* * *



—

Sitting in my patrol car, I prepare to put aside my pride: to extend a hand to my extended family.

First, I generate a list of people to contact. This time, I do take out my notebook, and find a blank page at the very back, and rip it out. On this page, I write down the following names:

Gee (again)

Ashley (a cousin of ours, around our age, to whom we were very close when small)

Bobby (another cousin, less likable, who is himself mixed up in the business, and who used to deal to Kacey until I found him one day and threatened him with arrest, and more, if I ever caught him doing so again)

Next I move on to others:

Martha Lewis (at one time, Kacey’s parole officer, though I believe she has since been assigned a new one)

Then a few bus acquaintances. Then some of our neighborhood friends. Then some of her grade school friends. Then some of her high school friends. Then some of Kacey’s current friends, who may, for all I know, be enemies by now. One can never be certain.



* * *



—

Sitting in parked patrol car 2885, I go through everyone in turn.

I call Gee: no answer. No answering machine either. When we were younger, this was probably to avoid creditors. Now, it’s out of habit, and probably a certain amount of misanthropy. People want to get ahold of me, says Gee, they can keep trying.

I call Ashley. I leave a message.

I call Bobby. I leave a message.

I call Martha Lewis. I leave a message.

Finally it occurs to me that almost nobody listens to voicemails anymore, and so I begin to text everyone instead.

Have you heard from Kacey lately? I type. She’s been missing awhile. If you have any information please let me know.