STERLING SPARKS’S EXPECTATIONS are on the money. Each of Chicago’s four network news stations runs a segment on the well-attended fete at The Melancholy Dane. Several video clips are shown, including portions of Sparks’s speech, Major Knudsen’s testimonial and a full fifty-five seconds of Ole Henryks’s tearful expressions of appreciation.
In a short clip, newswoman Jane Turner asks Sparks, “Does Mr. Henryks have any idea why Mrs. Stein wrote those statements?”
“I will provide the only plausible explanations: this doddering old woman has somehow confused Ole with some other person she knew or read about long ago in her younger years. To be frank, in her present condition I don’t think Mrs. Stein could identify Santa Claus out of a lineup of Chicago aldermen.”
Catherine and Liam are seated on the couch watching the newscast. They rerun it over and over, pausing it to watch the video of Henryks sobbing. They lock eyes. A palpable doubt is creeping in and taking hold. Liam says, “Do you suppose that it’s possible? Could she have confused Ole Henryks with someone she knew years ago? Perhaps the boy she once knew as Hendricksen? Could she have misidentified Ole Henryks?”
“Could she?” Catherine sits back. “Hell, anything is possible.”
“Henryks is really convincing. That was no act, Cat. No actor is that good.”
“You could say the same thing about Britta. I’ve been sitting with her, listening to her for hours on end. I have to believe she is telling me the truth. I can’t be that bad a judge of character.”
“Cat, I don’t think she’s lying, I’m sure that someone named Hendricksen betrayed them or informed on them years ago, but this could simply be a case of mistaken identity. I don’t think she’s doddering, or senile, or demented, but to tell the truth, I don’t know how well I could identify people from seventy-five years ago.”
“She has a damn good memory. She narrates in extraordinary detail.”
“I’m not talking about her ability to recall facts; I’m talking about her ability to facially recognize a person whom she hasn’t seen in seven decades. And there’s something else. Yesterday I went down the National Archives office on South Pulaski. You can research immigration and naturalization records there. All the Ellis Island stuff. By name and date. You may remember that I researched Eliot Rosenweig’s immigration twelve years ago in that office.”
“I remember. What did you find yesterday?”
“There are seven Hendricksens listed as immigrating to the U.S. during the relevant years. Only one of them came from Denmark, and that was in 1922. And his name was Asger Hendricksen. So, no Ole Hendricksen. But I did find the record for Ole Henryks, who immigrated to the U.S. from Denmark in 1947 with his wife, Margit.”
Catherine clenches her fist. “You see! She’s right. That’s Ole Henryks! He would be the right age.”
Liam does not share her excitement. “That doesn’t solve our problem. We know that Ole Henryks immigrated here from Denmark. I was looking for Hendricksen.”
A sly smile forms on Catherine’s face. She has an idea. “What was Margit’s maiden name?”
Liam shakes his head. “I don’t know if it wasn’t listed or if I just didn’t look. Her name in the registry was Margit Henryks. Do you think that Britta knew a Margit somebody?”
“We’re going to find out.”