Tell Me Who I Am (2 page)

Colusa County is sparsely populated, located in the Central Valley northwest of Sacramento. The general aviation airport is three miles south of the town of Colusa, and I'd arranged with a ride-service company similar to Uber that the agency uses throughout the state to pick me up and supply a car I could use on my drive seventeen miles to Sparrow Lake, near the northeastern county line.

The lake itself was picture-postcard material, surrounded by tall old pines through which rustic cabins on the shoreline could be glimpsed. The town itself looked like a set from an old Western movie—an old and neglected one. False-fronted buildings, their paint blistered and peeling; decaying wooden sidewalks; cars and trucks parked helter-skelter at angles to the edges of a potholed main street. As I drove along I noted two saloons that were obviously tricked up for tourists but didn't appear to be doing much business; a Wells Fargo bank; a small grocery; a hardware store; and an office calling itself the
Sparrow Sun
. Newspaper?

Possibly. Good place to start.

The office contained two desks, only one occupied. A woman sat there, pushing her fingers through her short dark hair. She looked up from a page she was penciling and said, “You want to place an ad? I can be with you in a second.”

“Thanks.” I moved around the waiting area, examining the framed clippings that were posted on the walls. A few were from the
Colusa Express
and concerned the missing Stanton child.

The woman behind the desk slapped the copy she'd been editing into an out-box and came over to me. “Tricia Prine,” she said, extending a hand. “Editor and owner.”

I introduced myself, told her why I was there.

“That story.” She motioned me to a chair beside her desk and sat back down. “Every few years we get somebody nosing around here about it. Nothing ever comes of it.”

“What my client has found may constitute a break in the case.” I studied Prine: she was in her mid- to late twenties, too young to have any true memories of the Stanton disappearance. “Did you live here then?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We…I only moved here five years ago. My husband Ned and I bought this piece-of-shit newspaper with these stereotypical dreams about being award-winning country muckrakers. Sort of like the
Point Reyes Light
people, you know? Only there wasn't any muck to rake, and after a while Ned got fed up and moved back to LA. Now he's with the
Times
there and building a great career. And I'm…just here.” She gestured around weakly.

“You get the paper in the divorce settlement?”

“Oh, yeah. He was fair about all our assets, such as they were. He just wanted out. I don't blame him. Your dreams can only stretch so far.”

I like women—and men—who don't want to put the blame for their out-of-control lives on others. And I liked Tricia Prine.

I said, “Let's see if you and I can develop a story that'll put some life into this old rag.”

Tricia and I went over the details we had on the Stanton family. Jackson, the brother who had been told to watch his siblings, had returned to the area and was living in an isolated cabin near the lake.

“You'd better be real wary of approaching him,” she told me. “He can be a mean drunk, and he's drunk most of the time.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Well, I wouldn't recommend you go to his cabin. Better the Desert Rat Saloon. He hangs out there.”

“Any other family members?”

“A sister, Ramona Pitts. Was ten when the kid disappeared. Runs that raggedy-ass gift shop down the street. She's okay, especially if you buy something.”

“What about friends?”

Tricia considered. “Angie Ellis was close to the other older sister—I forget her name. She lives on Willow Way, an artist, works out of her garage.”

I thanked her and told her I'd check in later.

The “raggedy-ass” gift shop was closed, so I asked a passerby for directions to Willow Way. It was a dusty side street with no trees, especially not a willow, in sight. The woman who came to the door of the small stucco house wore paint-stained clothing and a discouraged look.

“Tricia Prine called to say you might be by,” she said. “I've got time to talk—it's been a bad day creatively. Time for a beer. Join me?”

“Why not?”

The heat in the shabby front room Angie Ellis showed me to was oppressive. She raised a pair of old-fashioned windows, went through a door, and returned with a couple of cans of Bud Light. Normally I dislike the stuff, but I happily let it slip down my parched throat.

I showed Angie Ellis the photos of the Judsons. She didn't recognize them.

“Were you friends with Pamela Stanton?” I asked.

“I was friends with her older sister, Katie. She's dead, couple of years now. Anyway, we were out fishing…oh, hell…messing around by the river with a couple of guys from school the day the kid disappeared. The parents were gone, and old Jackson had gone off someplace, even though he was supposed to watch the kids. All hell broke loose later that night: phone calls, sheriff's deputies. And later, reporters. I couldn't tell them a thing. I can't tell
you
a thing.”

“Think back. Did anything unusual happen before all hell broke loose?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Well, there was one…I guess you'd call it an oddity. Mr. Stanton was this big, easygoing guy. But that morning he seemed kind of nervous. He kept asking Mrs. Stanton if Pamela was ready.”

“Ready for what?”

She shook her head. “I don't know—ready.”

“What did Mrs. Stanton say?”

“Just gave him a look. The old what's-the-matter-with-you look. And then they were off to the medical unit.”

“Where was Pamela when they left?”

“Around, I guess. I mean, Jackson was supposed to be watching her. Me and Katie, we took off for the river.”

Ramona Pitts tried to sell me a dozen items—one of which, a fake handlebar mustache, I bought as a joke gift for Ted—before she would settle down and talk about the day her younger sister went missing. She didn't recognize the photos of the Judsons and was vague on the details of the disappearance.

“I don't recall.”

“I was only ten, you know.”

“I can't remember.”

When she asked if there was a reward for any information, I gave up on her. She couldn't have cared less about her sister's fate because there was nothing in it for her.

Jackson Stanton wasn't at the Desert Rat Saloon, although the barkeeper informed me I could count on finding him there later. In the meantime I canvassed the business section and many of the nearby houses, showing people pictures of the Judson couple and asking if they'd ever seen them in the area. All the answers were negative. The Judsons were attractive and affluent-looking; they would have stood out in people's minds, even after twenty years. I had to conclude they hadn't been involved in Pamela Stanton's disappearance.

The Desert Rat Saloon looked like a set from
Gunsmoke
; I half expected to see Miss Kitty and Marshal Matt Dillon descend the stairs from the upper story. But there was no one in the saloon except for a bartender—not the one I'd spoken to earlier—in a stained apron watching a Giants game on the big-screen TV and a man in a straw hat and plaid shirt, whom the barkeep identified as Stanton.

As I approached, he pushed a stool toward me and said in a gravelly voice, “Sit. I know who you are and why you're here. News travels fast in a place like this. Want a drink?”

“Uh, sure.”

He signaled the bartender without asking me what the drink should be.

“Let's get this settled right away,” Jackson added. “I did not see who took my sister. I did not harm her in any way. Folks around here have whispered about me and tried to shame me ever since it happened. But all I've ever been guilty of is being a neglectful teenager.”

“Your family moved away because of that kind of talk.”

“Ran away is more like it.”

Two Bud Lights in their bottles appeared before us.

I sipped mine, said, “But you came back.”

He shrugged. “The lake's my home. Maybe by coming back I was trying to prove something. Can't say as I have.”

“My client thinks she may be Pamela. She's located papers that indicate it.”

“Papers can be bought any day of the week. Besides, why would any decent person want to latch on to a family like ours? We're worthless: a drunk like me; another brother who was shot dead by the cops in a convenience store robbery; another who OD'd on the street in LA; another who's been disappeared from the face of the earth for more than twenty years, probably's been lying in a grave next to a dope farm the whole time. Then there's Ramona with her godawful gift shop. And Katie's dead.”

“My client…” I described her.

“Now I
know
she doesn't want to connect with me,” he said. “Nobody like that would.”

“Jackson, please try to remember anything unusual about that day.”

His cool gray eyes focused on mine. He might've been a drunk, but the alcohol abuse hadn't destroyed his intelligence.

“Okay,” he said, “there were a couple of things. For one, Pammie was dressed up that morning. Little flowered…what did they call 'em? Pinafores. One I'd never seen before. Better than the usual stuff Ma bought for us at Kmart too. Why would a kid be dressed up when it's just supposed to be an ordinary day going into town?”

“And?”

“And?” He looked at me blankly.

“What's the other thing you remember?”

“Oh, right. For a while afterwards we seemed to have more money than usual. More food. Sure, friends brought casseroles and cakes and stuff after Pammie went missing, but we went out for pizza a lot and Ma had some new dresses. Then the money wasn't there. Dad spent a lot of time in the bars drinking money up when we had any.”

“Are you sure Pamela didn't go with your parents to…where were they headed for?”

“Colusa. One of those medical health trailers was supposed to be there. Ma needed regular checks on her thyroid.”

We talked a bit more, but there wasn't anything else he could tell me. After a while his attention wandered to the Giants game, and I left.

Ramona Pitts had given me a list of addresses where she thought other members of her family could be found, but they were all at a distance, and it was getting on toward midafternoon. So I went back to the airport, got the overnight kit I always carry in the plane's baggage compartment, and checked into the tidy-looking Shady Grove motel. I updated my office on my whereabouts by e-mail, then lay back on the bed to think over the bits and pieces I'd gleaned about Pamela Stanton's disappearance.

Mr. Stanton was this big, easygoing guy. But that morning he seemed kind of nervous.

He kept asking Mrs. Stanton if Pamela was ready.

Why would a kid be dressed up when it's just supposed to be an ordinary day playing around the house?

…mobile-health unit for tests on her thyroid…

I got up and went to my laptop. Googled hospitals and found the number of the Colusa Regional Medical Center. The switchboard directed my inquiry to a Mr. Henry in administration. He was friendly and helpful, saying, “Let me see if I can access the information you need. Thanks to a generous benefactor, we have a new automated system, and our volunteers have put records on it that go back many years.” Tippety-tapping of a keyboard.

“Yes, here it is,” Mr. Henry said. “We still use the same mobile-health testing company as we did in the period you're asking about.”

He read off the phone number and gave me a contact name, Felicia Parr.

The mobile-health firm put me through to Ms. Parr with a minimum of delay.

God, I thought, how pleasant it is to be operating in this kind of environment instead of the urban areas, where every request is met with suspicion!

Felicia Parr also had a fully automated system. There had been no mobile unit testing for the thyroid in Colusa on the date I asked her about.

I lay back on the bed again.

The Stantons—father and mother—had gone somewhere on the day their daughter Pamela vanished. But not their stated destination.

…dressed up…

For a while afterwards we seemed to have more money than usual…

I reached for my folder on the case, turned to the newspaper clippings with the two-year-old's photo. She had been an exceptionally pretty child. The word “marketable” came to mind.

Back to the laptop. For a few minutes I couldn't come up with an appropriate term for what I was looking for. “Adoption.” No, I needed to refine it. “Adoption agencies.” Too broad a category, and there were thousands of them.

What about private adoption? That was what mine had been. It was a perfectly legal method of placing an unwanted infant or even an older child in the home of a family who did want her or him. Or an infant such as I had been, whose mother couldn't care for her and relinquished her to distant relatives who could.

But the case of Pamela Stanton didn't have the feel of either category.

An illegal adoption? What else did they call that?

Black-market adoption.

My fingers were flying over the keyboard now.

Such adoptions violated state and federal law. Usually large sums of money were involved. They were often arranged by an attorney, an adoption agency, something termed an “adoption facilitator,” or another intermediary. There was another name for such facilitators or intermediaries.

Baby brokers.

This was getting too complicated for me. I called the agency. Fortunately Mick had not left yet, and when I told him what I was looking for he said he'd get right on it.