He reached in and grasped the footlocker by a metal handle and gently slid it out. He noted that it stayed within the tracks in the dust that had already been made.
Joe sat back on his haunches and took a photo of the footlocker on his phone. There was stenciled white lettering on the top and side that read:
R. W. Kizer
U.S. Army
He undid six metal side clips that held the lid on tight. A musty odor wafted up from its contents.
On top was a neatly folded green wool army shirt with stiff lapels. He lifted it out and placed it on top of the bed. Underneath the shirt were the uniform trousers and a tightly coiled belt. He removed those as well and put them beside the shirt. Next was a beret emblazoned with a patch of a parachute.
Joe hadn’t served in the military, but he knew he was looking at a dress uniform. On the bottom of the locker were a pair of highly polished combat boots and a set of dog tags. R. W. Kizer once had A-positive blood.
There was no cash to be found. But there was enough spare room in the locker, Joe thought, that there could have been several thick stacks of bills.
Joe guessed that the uniform had belonged to Bert Kizer’s father. It matched the one in the black-and-white photo in the front room.
He carefully replaced all of the items in the box. Before he did, though, he unfurled the shirt on the top of the bed. d. kizer was embroidered over the breast pocket. On the right arm sleeve above the single private stripe was a unit insignia of some kind.
It was in the shape of a shield with a ribbon below it. The shield was severed diagonally by a white lightning bolt. On the top left of the bolt were six white parachutes on a field of blue. On the bottom right of the bolt was solid green with the word Currahee in formal script on the ribbon.
It meant nothing to Joe, but he took a photo of it.
He carefully refolded the shirt top and placed it exactly as he’d found it, then sealed up the locker and slid it back under the bed.
* * *
—
Steck’s window slid down as Joe approached the SUV. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not really, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to ask Norwood to analyze a footlocker under Bert Kizer’s bed. There might be some stray prints on it.”
“Gotcha.”
“See you in a minute with that pizza,” Joe said.
As he opened the door to his pickup, Joe’s phone chimed with a text message. Marybeth.
We’re starving. Are you on your way?
He replied:
Yup. Got sidetracked.
THURSDAY,
NOVEMBER 24
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
—William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gargoyle
Marybeth snapped open one eye in the dark, reached for her phone on the bed stand, and looked at the screen. It was four thirty-three. She was on her side in bed with her back to Joe. As usual, they were spooning. His left leg was on top of her left thigh and his arm was thrown over her shoulder. He was deeply asleep, which she chalked up to his full and exhausting day, as well as the two bourbons he’d had when he got back with the pizza.
As gently as she could, she disentangled herself and slipped out from beneath the covers. He moaned and asked her what was up.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m going to put the turkey in the oven. Go back to sleep.”
“Mmmmmmm.”
It didn’t take much convincing. Joe could sleep anywhere, anytime.
She pulled on her robe and slippers and quietly shut the bedroom door behind her.
Marybeth liked how her house felt to her as she padded down the hallway. She loved it that all three of her daughters would be back together in less than six hours. It would be loud, it would be raucous, and she knew she’d love every minute of it.
She was wide-awake and happy.
* * *
—
After rubbing butter on the cold skin of the big turkey, she slid it into the oven and covered it with a sheet of aluminum foil. Then she heated a mug of water in the microwave for a cup of tea that, she hoped, might induce her to want to go back to sleep for a couple of hours. She doubted it would work because she was jazzed by the impending arrival of her family and friends. Tube heard her stirring and waddled into the kitchen and collapsed in a heap at Marybeth’s feet.
Joe had told her about finding the footlocker under Bert Kizer’s bed and she was curious about it. As she steeped the tea bag in the hot water, she found his phone and powered it on. She knew Joe wouldn’t mind if she looked at the photos he’d taken at the crime scene. After all, her past research in the library and on law enforcement databases had assisted him on investigations time and time again. He encouraged her to get involved in whatever he was working on.