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“Good afternoon, Mrs. E,” I greeted my old neighbor when she answered the door in a bright floral muumuu.
I had brought along a variety box of Dunkin’ Donuts. One of the flavors was the closest thing to paczki I could find, a Polish fruit-filled cake covered in powdered sugar that Mrs. E used to make from scratch. Back in the day Carli and I would haunt her kitchen window like the little sugar zombies that we were, getting fat on the wonderful smell alone.
Standing on her stoop, I opened the lid of the box to tempt her. “An Americanized version of paczki!”
Her penciled brows shot up to her hairline. She waved off the donuts with a sneered “Those are garbage.” Then her talon-like fingers gripped my wrist with unexpected strength as she pulled me inside. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
Rooting through a stack of newspapers, she cried out, “Aha!” when she located two hidden (and reasonably clean) paper plates and placed them at the kitchen table, one for each of us, then picked a donut—a custard-filled one with chocolate icing. I selected the same.
“I wanted to pick your brain again about what you saw the night my dad was attacked. We’re close to catching him, but I really need your sharp memory. Think you can help me?”
“I can certainly try,” she said, dabbing at a clump of vanilla custard that hung from the corner of her lips.
“Can you remind me again exactly what you saw? This time close your eyes, imagine yourself in that moment. Where were you standing when you saw everything?”
“Standing right there.” Mrs. E pointed a crooked shaky finger at her back door that exited from the kitchen. “I was letting Lucy out.”
“Close your eyes and visualize it. You’re letting the cat out. Now what do you see? What drew your attention?”
“It was dark, but the streetlights cast a glow, enough that I noticed a shadow moving. Only it wasn’t a shadow. It was someone dressed in black. And wearing—what do they call it?—oh, yes, a hoodie. I’m pretty sure it was a man. A smallish man.”
“How was he walking?”
“Pretty quickly. Almost like a fast march. But the movements were stiff. He carried himself very erect.”
“What about the hands?”
“Gloved.”
“Can you see his face?”
“Not really well, but the streetlight looked white against his face. Yes, he was definitely white.”
We were getting somewhere. Although the pieces slowly dragged together, coalescing from a blur into a crisp picture, Mrs. E had a conviction in her voice, a determination to help solve the puzzle.
“What about the shoes—did you get a look at the type of shoes?”
“Black boots, I think. Not cowboy style. Shorter.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“Yes. He was wearing sunglasses, if you can believe it. The oddest thing at that hour.” She smiled apologetically. “My memory’s not what it used to be, sweetie, but I hope this helps.”
I smiled back and squeezed her veiny hand. “You’ve been a tremendous help, Mrs. E. I hope my memory’s half as good as yours when I’m in my ... sunset years.”
“Sunset years, my ass! Honey, I’m just plain older than dirt!”
When our laughter finally faded, I said, “Well, I don’t know about that, but with your help I wouldn’t be surprised if we catch the guy now.”
As she glowed with pride, I realized how important it was to remind our elderly friends that we needed them more than ever to make the world a safer place. In fact, our shut-in neighborhood watchers were the eyes and ears of the community.
After chitchat about her latest feline addition to the family, a black and white stray she named Puddin’, I hugged and thanked her, then headed across the street to my dad’s house. If the killer had been watching me sneak into the house, it was possible he used the same entry point the night of my dad’s attack. I rounded the back of the house to the basement window, where the earth appeared undisturbed since the night of my father’s attack.
Huddling over a collage of footprints, I could easily make out the imprints of the sole of my Converse tennis shoe, which I’d splurged on after cashing my first police department paycheck. Then a second set of footprints—a couple sizes larger. Deep prints from a work boot or military boot with rugged, multi-directional lugs for maximum traction; I’d seen a similar pattern on the boots worn by EMTs and members of SWAT. I could just make out the word Vibram set in an octagon in the middle, so I took a picture with my cell phone. They definitely weren’t my dad’s Reeboks or my mom’s Easy Spirits.
A quick internet search for “Vibram boots” on my phone returned the most interesting result. Common military-issue boots. My mind dashed back to the lingo in the letters. You’d make a helluva Jane Wayne. Where had I heard that name before? Of course—Jane Wayne Day, named after the Duke. All branches of the military had them; a day set aside for wives to experience the challenges their husbands faced on a daily basis. I’d read about one such event at Camp Lejeune. Then there were the I must soldier on and the D-day references.
That’s when I knew who was behind it all.