Thatta boy. Do you want to meet at my house tomorrow night to see what we can find? I’ll have my laptop and you can bring yours.
Zander
I talked with Nora, and she told me that the odds are against us if we simply search the web for news stories about shootings that happened thirty-five years ago. She thinks we’ll have better luck if we look through back issues of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. They’re stored on microfilm at the Central Library in Seattle.
Britt
I’m game for a trip to Seattle tomorrow if you are. I can leave work as early as 1:15.
Zander
You’re going to be tired at 1:15 on a Friday. I don’t want you to feel obligated to visit the Central Library with me.
Britt
Since when have you known me to feel either tired or obligated? I’m going with you and I’ll be ready to leave at 1:15.
Chapter
five
Seattle’s Central Library had reveled in her three lives.
Her first incarnation, a Beaux-Arts design built with funds supplied by Andrew Carnegie, had opened in 1906.
Her second incarnation had come in1960, at a time when it had been en vogue to construct large civic buildings in the style of Ugly Utilitarian Monolith.
For her third incarnation in 2004, she’d made her debut wearing a dazzling garment of glass and steel that jutted upward and outward at shocking angles. Either her Dutch architect, Rem Koolhaas, had been drunk when he’d drafted her, or he’d been floating in a sea of creative brilliance. To Britt’s way of thinking, he’d been floating in a sea of creative brilliance.
She loved the newest version of the library. For a woman who was as ceaselessly curious as she was, the library’s more than three hundred thousand square feet offered countless wonders. Though she’d visited at least six times previously, this was the first time she’d attempted to comb through the library’s microfilm collection.
An excellent male librarian, who was wearing a tie and cardigan sweater (as male librarians ought), had gathered film for them containing old issues of theSeattle Post-Intelligencer. He’d givenher and Zander side-by-side projectors and a crash course on how to use them. Then they’d gotten to work.
They’d been at it for two hours already.
On the drive from Merryweather to Seattle in Zander’s rental car, Britt had scrutinized the pages Kurt had given to Carolyn concerning Frank’s early life. They’d talked through everything they knew about Frank’s years as James Ross, including the little bit Zander had gleaned from the family members he’d spoken with on the phone.
Carolyn had told them that Frank had received the wound on his leg shortly before she’d met him in June of 1985, so Britt and Zander suspected Frank had been shot in April or May of 1985. After some debate, they’d decided to add a month before and after to give themselves a wide margin of error. Thus, they were searching for articles about shootings in issues of the Post-Intelligencer that ran between March and June of that year.
“I’m done going through mine,” Zander said.
“I only have a few left.” Britt adjusted the microscope on her projector as she skimmed an article about a wife who’d shot her husband.
“I think we should add one more month to both ends of our timeline, just in case,” Zander said. “What do you think?”
“I sort of feel like we’re trying to sip from a fire hose as it is. There’s justso much information.”
“I know. But what if Frank got shot at the end of February, and we miss it because we don’t look at February papers?”
“I hear you about February, but why look at July? Carolyn met Frank in June.”
“So she says. Her memory isn’t always the best, and she met him a long time ago. It’s possible that they met in July or even August.”
She straightened the legal pad they’d set between them. On it, they’d listed the shootings they’d found so far that might have involved Frank. Most of the articles about shootings mentioned the parties involved by name. All those had been excluded. So far, they’d compiled a record of only six incidents. Below each,they’d jotted the date, the location, and a few details about what had occurred.
“I’ll look through the July papers,” he said. “Are you game to look through February?”
“Anything for you, Zander.” Man, the gun-toting wife in this article had really been mad at her husband, somewhat justifiably. He wasn’t a good person. He also wasn’t Frank. Britt moved on.
