PART XI: CATHERINE
The next afternoon at work, instead of two children, I’m visited by a police officer. He’s a tough-looking man who seems to be in his sixties. He has a gray crewcut and appears fit for his age, if not a little soft in his midsection due to time and gravity.
“Good afternoon. You the owner?” The policeman asks upon entering.
“Yes, I’m Catherine Howe,” I say. “How can I help you, officer?”
“You have a security system? Any cameras posted outside your store, Catherine?”
“No, officer. There aren’t many thieves interested in stealing books. My store has been here for decades, and I’ve never had a problem with anyone trying to break in.”
“Well, not knowingly,” the policeman says, correcting me. “If there aren’t any cameras outside your establishment, how would you know if someone attempted to break in?”
“Right,” I say.
At this point, I know something’s amiss. Never have I had a police officer come into my store and ask me these types of questions.
“Forgive me, Miss Howe. My name’s Officer Jim Greene. Part of my job is to keep an eye on these storefronts after hours and report anything out of the ordinary. Last night, shortly after you closed, there was a strange man pulling at the door and looking through your store window. Later that night, a man was found dead in the bathroom of the Parrot’s Beak, a bar about four miles from here.
“The man described as having been in the bar prior to the victim being found was similar in description to the man I saw snooping around your store last night. Here’s a picture of the suspect our sketch artist drew based on the info given by the bartender at the Parrot’s Beak.”
Officer Greene unbuttons a chest pocket on his uniform and pulls out a small square of white paper. He unfolds the image and puts it down on my desk. The man in the picture has thinning hair, which is greasy and flat on his head. His sunken cheeks and eyes and dimpled chin are unmistakable. I’m looking at an artist’s rendering of my brother.
“I’m sorry, Officer Greene. I’ve never seen this man,” I say, flatly, shaking my head.
“Well, if you see or hear anything, please let me know. Here’s a number you can reach me at,” the policeman writes his name and phone number on the back of the sketch. “I can’t be everywhere at once. You may want to consider looking into a security system.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the sheet of paper and putting it in the top drawer of my desk. Officer Greene nods and walks out the door.
I’m suddenly overcome by a feeling I hadn’t expected: concern for my brother.