took out his iPad. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
It didn’t take too long. Afterward Decker said, “Two things come to mind. Who is Hank Carter? And more important, why didn’t the colleges institute the walking-home policy after Yvette disappeared?”
“Can’t help you with the second question,” McAdams said. “I can look up Hank Carter when I get some Wi-Fi. Unless you want me to use my phone, but it’s always pretty slow when we leave Greenbury. It gets very rural.”
“Indeed.” Rina gazed out the window at the open road. It was all green and leafy but within a month or two, it would catch fire with the brilliance of autumn. City folk poured into the area to leaf watch.
From the backseat, McAdams said, “Interesting theory about a serial killer, Rina. All of them in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Decker said, “What did you do with the original list of missing women in the area?”
“It’s on my iPad.”
“Can you pull it up?”
“I think it’s in my e-mail, so no. As soon as I get connected, I’ll give it to you.”
Rina said, “Are you looking for other remains near where you found Pettigrew?”
“Not actively, no.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Not a bad idea,” McAdams said. “We should at least look around before the ground gets frozen over.”
It was a good point. Decker said, “Maybe I’ll ask Radar about bringing in a cadaver dog, but first let’s identify the body. If it’s Pettigrew, I’d be interested in knowing who he was meeting up with in Greenbury.”
“And you think the parents would know?”
“Perhaps his mother might. Usually, kids talk more to their mothers than their fathers.”
McAdams said, “It’s kind of a toss-up with me. My mother is nice, but she really isn’t listening to what I’m saying. My dad is listening. That’s the problem.”
Rina smiled. “If this Pettigrew was undergoing hormonal therapy, how could you keep that from your parents?”
“You could if you were estranged from them,” McAdams said.
“I suppose, although if he was that in your face when he went off to college, the parents would suspect something, right?”
Decker said, “They probably knew something but maybe they didn’t know everything. And I’d just like to point out that we’re getting a little fixated on Pettigrew’s sex change. The murder could have nothing to do with Pettigrew, the woman. It’s better if we first find out about Pettigrew, the person.”
After dropping off Rina at their son and daughter-in-law’s apartment, Decker wended his way through the neighborhoods of lower Brooklyn, relying on navigation because he sure as hell wasn’t familiar with the area. Within ten minutes, he hit the on-ramp to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, better known to natives as the VZ, crossing over the bay until he exited into Staten Island. The Pettigrews lived five minutes from the VZ in a compact, one-story brick house on a block of one-story brick houses. Daylight was almost gone, but there was enough to see the sidewalks lined with old oaks and yellow-tinged leaves although the weather was still hot and muggy. Eastern summers were one of those things that Decker had forgotten about after living in L.A. all those years. Southern California was hot but for the most part dry, and even when people complained it was muggy, it usually wasn’t all that bad.
After parking curbside, he and McAdams got out, their faces hit by a wave of wet heat as they walked to the front entrance. Someone must have been watching because the door opened before either of them knocked.
They came face-to-face with a woman in her midfifties: five nine, average build, short brown hair, dark eyes, thin lips, roman nose set into a long face. She wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and baggy jeans a tad too short for her height. There were slippers on her feet.
“Joanne Pettigrew,” she said. “Please come in.”
Decker and McAdams followed her into a tidy living room—couch, chairs, tables, and a baby grand piano that couldn’t be played because the lid was weighted down with framed pictures of family adventures. Plenty of photos of a long-haired teenager, but as he grew older, the pictures disappeared. Before Decker sat down, he introduced himself and McAdams. Both of them gave the woman their cards. She pointed to the couch. The men sat, but she didn’t. Instead she walked out of the room and came back holding a manila envelope.
“I had plenty of time to pick up the dental records.” She handed the envelope to Decker. “If they don’t match, could you please get them back to me?”
“Of course,” Decker said. “Thank you so much. I know this must be hard for you.”
She let out an exhale. “The local police have a copy so if they come across unknown bones or whatever you call them—remains, I guess—they automatically plug them into their system.” She dropped down into a chair and dry-washed her face. “What makes you think it’s Lawrence?”
Decker said, “The description we got of your son roughly matches the dimensions of the body that we found.”
“There are a lot of men who could match my son’s dimensions, Detective.”
“Of course.”
“So …” She held up her hands in a shrug. “You must be going on something else.”
Decker said, “The body had long, dark hair. The coroner also described him as having piano fingers. There were remnants of nail polish on his fingers and toes. We also found an earring. We asked around the colleges and found someone who told us the description might match Lawrence. We don’t have a whole lot to go on and we may be completely wrong. And if we are, I’m sorry to put you through all this. But I’m following the meager leads we have.”
Joanne nodded. “So you know that Lawrence went to Morse McKinley.”
“Yes,” Decker said. “He dropped out after his junior year.”
“Do you know why?”
“I heard he dropped out to get hormonal treatments.”
“So you know.” She rolled her eyes. “He went around calling himself Lorraine. The boy always had a flare for the dramatic.”
“Tell me about him.”
“I have three children. The first two were just …” She threw up her hands. “Like normal people. Lawrence was the youngest and he was always different. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my son. I won’t exactly say I was supportive of his choices, but I accepted who he was. There are men who are gay. And then there are gay men. Lawrence fit the gay men category. Everything he did revolved around showing the world his sexual identity. And if you didn’t like it, he was right there in your face. I stopped counting how many times I got a call from high school: ‘Don’t worry. No one was hurt, but Lawrence got into an altercation.’”
“It can get wearisome.”
“You’ve got that right. Lawrence kept claiming he was being bullied and that he had to defend himself. That was probably true. There were a lot of, you know, regular kids who went to his high school. We have a lot of cops and firemen and just normal guys in the community. I’m sure the school wasn’t big on sensitivity training.”
“Do you think he was bullied?” McAdams asked.
“I don’t know. But he certainly didn’t act like a bullied teenager. He wasn’t the least bit withdrawn. He did really well in school. And he had friends, Detectives. Lots of friends. Lawrence could rein in the act if he had to. For instance, he never got into fights with the neighborhood boys. They liked him even though they knew what he was.”
“The