The Subtle Art of Brutality

“No. Not on this.”

“Will it be a missing persons case?”

“Maybe. For a missing persons case there needs to be some evidence that she went missing against her will. A crime was committed. Call the cops. Call her back. Leave a voice mail saying you need to know where she is, who is threatening her, who the father is, anything.”

“Why do you need to know the father?”

“He might know where she is. He might be threatening her. A child from an affair can be a serious problem. When was the last time he slept with her and where gives us a date and time of her location. Call the cops. Call me with anything.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll call and call and call.”

“Alright.”

I consider the possibility that, for who Delilah Boothe apparently is, the words that come out of her mouth need to be dialed down a notch. Finding out she is pregnant is a great motive to run away. If Darla raised her girls to get married before they got pregnant, and Delilah went against it, I can see her doing this.

But if she really is knocked up I want to know who the father is. Dad equals suspect. Bigger than shit.

With the sun tucked safely away behind a cloak of pregnant clouds, the wind feels confident enough to dance outside. It conjures dust devil patterns which snatch up crystalline grains of snow, swirling in angry frenzies.

“Mr. Buckner?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think they could trace this call if I asked them?”

“No. Again, as far as the police know, this adult woman left to enjoy the freedom America provides and she just called home to check in with her mother.”

“It’s just that...she won’t answer her phone or anything.”

“That’s not a crime. The police will tell you the hard truth just might be she doesn’t want to talk to you.” More crying. Sorrow. “You said it yourself: you don’t want to be part of the life Delilah left behind.”

I look Darla in the eye. She looks away. “But you might be.”

The only thing I hate worse than listening to an innocent woman cry is listening to a child cry. Darla shuffles through her box of pictures for a while. She singles a few out. Even smiles at one through her tears.

“Darla?” I say. Her name shatters the moment and her smile is stolen by the demons of her predicament. Sniffles. Breathing deep and jagged.

I ask: “Why would she not want you to tell anyone?”

“I have no idea.”

“Who would you talk to enough that would make her not want you to let them know?”

“I talk to everybody. Everybody. My baby girl has gone missing. Who wouldn’t I talk to?”

“I’d advise you against telling anyone.”

“Why?”

“Let’s assume she’s in trouble. She doesn’t know you’ve been talking to ‘everybody’ since she left. She just knows who you normally talk to. Whoever they are, don’t tell them. Play it safe.”

“But what if a friend or a relative hears from her? Knows something?”

“They’ll tell you. I’m going to question everybody through the course of this. Now, call the cops.”

“You said they won’t help.”

“I said this isn’t a crime. There’s a difference.”