May 1, twenty-three years earlier
“I spotted the body on a sandbar,” said the canoeist, Ted Anders.
“In what condition would you say the body was?” the Chicago Times reporter asked.
Ted pushed his baseball cap further back on his head. “Condition? What do you mean? She was dead.”
“Were there any visible wounds? Was the body clothed?” The reporter made a mental note to remember that exchange for the next staff meeting.
Ted looked at Bud expectantly, hoping he would answer. Bud hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t see any wound,” Ted said. “But you’ve got to remember that girl was covered in mud. She barely looked…” He struggled for the right word. “…human. Yeah, she was barely that.”
“What about the clothes?”
“Just a T-shirt. I told Bud right away it was that missing girl.”
“What made you think it was her?” the reporter asked.
“Well, who the hell else could it be? It was in all the papers about her. Though she looked older than fourteen.”
“How do you mean?”
“Bigger like. She was a big one. For her age, that is.”
The reporter winced at Ted’s fishing metaphor. “You guys canoe the Des Plaines River a lot?”
Ted pulled his cap down over his eyes. “What’s a lot?”
The reporter rephrased his question. “How often do you canoe the river?”
“Once spring’s here, pretty much every chance we get,” Ted answered. “But I got to tell you, it’s the first time we’ve found a body. I mean a human body.”
Bud leaned down and picked up his fishing gear. “I hear they think the uncle did it.”
The reporter closed his notebook. “That’s what they’re saying.”