Long Bright River(27)

But I have work to do, and so I rise, and kiss my son’s forehead, and quietly close the door.



* * *



—

In the living room, I open my laptop—an ancient one of Simon’s that he gave to me, years ago, when he bought a new one—and open an Internet browser.

I have always resisted ‘social media.’ I don’t like being connected to anyone at all times, let alone relative strangers, people from my past with whom I have no reason to remain in touch. But I know that Kacey uses it—or at one time used it—frequently. So I enter Facebook into the search bar, and click on the link, and try to look for her there.

And there she is: Kacey Marie. The main picture on the page is of my sister holding a flower in her hand, smiling. Her hair looks the same as it did the most recent time I saw her on the street, so it must be at least somewhat up-to-date.

Below, on the page itself, I don’t expect to find much. I can’t imagine updating her Facebook page is at the top of Kacey’s list of daily to-dos. But I am surprised to discover that her page is littered with posts. Many are pictures of cats and dogs. Some are pictures of babies. Strangers’ babies, I presume. Some are vague rants about loyalty, or fakery, or betrayal, that look as if they have been created by others for the purpose of mass-marketing. (Reading them, I am made aware, again and again, of how little I know, today, about my sister.)

Some—the important ones—are by Kacey herself, and these are the ones I scroll through most avidly, looking for clues.

If at first you don’t succeed . . . says one from last summer.

Anyone have a job for me??

I want to see Suicide Squad!

Rita’s!!! (Here, a picture of Kacey, grinning, holding a water ice in a cup.)

I love love, says one from August. Attached to it is a picture of Kacey and a man, someone I don’t recognize, someone skinny, white, short hair, tattoos on his forearms. He and Kacey are gazing into a mirror. He has his arms around Kacey.

He’s tagged in the photo: Connor Dock Famisall. Beneath it, someone has written, Lookin good Doctor.

I squint at him. I click on his name. Unlike Kacey’s, his page is marked private. I think about sending him a friend request, and then decide against it.

I enter Connor Famisall into Google, but there are zero results. I’ll run a search on his name in the PCIC database tomorrow, when I’m back in a police vehicle.

Finally, I navigate back to Kacey’s page.

The post at the top, on October 28, is by someone named Sheila McGuire.

Kace get in touch, it says.

There are no comments beneath it. In fact, the last time Kacey seems to have posted at all is a month ago, on October 2. Doing something that scares me.

I click on the Message button. And, for the first time in five years, I contact my sister.

Kacey, I write. I’m worried about you. Where are you?





The next morning, Bethany is early, for once. I’ve recently resorted to bribing Thomas to let me leave in the morning without a scene: stickers that, when a count of ten is reached, lead to a coloring book of his choosing. Today, therefore, I get to work early, and head to the locker room. I’m wiping my shoes with a paper towel when something on the little TV mounted in the corner catches my attention.

—A wave of violence in Kensington, says the anchor, solemn, and I straighten up a bit.

The media, it seems, has finally picked up the story. If these murders had been happening in Center City, we would have heard about the first one a month ago.

There’s only one other officer in the room, a young woman who started not too long ago. Today, she’s getting off C-shift. I don’t remember her name.

—The bodies of four women have recently been discovered in separate incidents initially believed to be overdoses. But new information is causing police to question whether foul play might have been involved.

Four.

I only know about three: the woman we found on the Tracks, still unidentified; seventeen-year-old Katie Conway; and the eighteen-year-old home health aide, Anabel Castillo.

I sit down on one of the wooden benches that run between the lockers. I wait, closing my eyes, suddenly imagining my life divided sharply: before this moment and after it. It’s how I’ve felt every time I’ve ever received bad news. Time slows in the breath people take after saying, I have something to tell you.

They give out the names, beginning with Katie Conway. Her mother is interviewed, distraught, a mess, almost certainly intoxicated. Her voice is too slow. She was a good girl, says the mother, about Katie. Always a good kid.

I’m waiting, breathless. It can’t be Kacey, I think. It can’t be: someone would have told me, surely. I don’t talk about her at work, but we do share the same last name—Fitzpatrick, our father’s—if nothing else. I check my cell phone. No calls have come in.

Next, the anchor moves on to Anabel Castillo, the home health aide, and then to the unidentified woman Eddie Lafferty and I located on the Tracks. No picture, of course, is available for her. But I can still see her clearly in my mind. I’ve been seeing her behind my eyelids every night before I fall asleep.

I know they will move next to a discussion of the fourth victim, the one I haven’t heard about yet. Slowly, and then quickly, my vision dims.

—This morning, says the anchor, a fourth and possibly related victim was discovered in Kensington. She has been identified, say the police, but they’re waiting to release her name until her family has been notified.