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Lance
from the SFPD Homicide Detail resumed his discourse on dismemberment cases.
    “Yeah, Harry. Head near Dallas, a leg near Tulsa,
a leg near Nashville, an arm near Wheeling, an arm near Savannah and the rest
in Louisville.”
    “So who gets jurisdiction, Mr. Celebrity?”
    Would it ever end? Reed shook his head. For some
inexplicable reason ever since the Keller case, just about every detective,
reporter or armchair critic Reed met, seemed obligated to mess with him.
    You were an asshole getting so close to that story.
Ever think of that?
    After the Keller case, the national press portrayed Reed
as some sort of hero whose “relentless investigation” helped find Keller. But Reed
knew the truth. He had lived it. He had told everyone how stupid he was. How
un-heroic he was, how lucky he was, extending his concern to the other families
involved. That is what Reed told every interviewer. But that was not what they
wanted to hear: Tell us about your “relentless investigation”.
    That was several months ago. Interest was trailing off.
Reed was thankful. Looking at Zach and Ann’s snapshots taped to his computer
made him smile. The ordeal had changed him. He found peace and focus with Zach
and Ann. Zach was doing well in school. Ann’s children’s clothing stores in the
Bay Area were successful. Their marriage was better. They were a family back in
their house in the Sunset. He was working on his book, declined job offers with
the Los Angeles Times and the Washington Post and returned to the San Francisco Star with restored self-confidence, minus the ego and
obsession. He was a solid crime reporter, just working his beat today, fishing
for news at the Homicide Detail.
    “Come on Reed, in dismemberment cases, who’s got
jurisdiction?”
    “Louisville catches it. It’s where they find the heart.”
    “You’re a smart-ass, you know that, Reed?”
    “So you going to give me my prize now?”
    “Got my hand on it right now. Know where my hand is?”
    “Keep it up and I’m going to come down there.”
    “I got to go, Reed.”
    “Hey, wait a sec. I’m looking for news. What’s going
on?”
    “Nothing. Some addict in the ’Loin. Guys are in court,
working on stuff.”
    “What’s Sydowksi doing?”
    “Not sure. Linda’s out. Something to do with the feebees
in Montana.”
    “What’s going on there that’s connected to here?”
    “Remember when the Forty-niners had Montana?’
    “You had more hair then.”
    “Missing kid.”
    “Missing how?”
    “Like in not there.”
    “Harry, come on, I’m going on vacation in a few hours.”
    “Just a friggin’ minute. You are a burr in my boxers,
you know that Reed.” Lance put Reed on hold. Then came back. “Ten-year-old San Francisco girl lost in the Rockies in Montana.”
    “Why call you guys?”
    Lance was silent.
    “What’s the real connection to here?” Reed said. “The
physical evidence doesn’t match the story. Some link to San Francisco?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Reed had reported on so many homicides he thought like a
detective.
    “Something awry in the family’s history?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “A conviction?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “That it?”’
    “Daddy’s got a hurt hand.”
    “How did he do that?”
    “I don’t know anything, but your questions are
interesting.”
    “Is there a mommy? What’s Mommy’s story?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “But they’ve got no body? Just a missing kid, right?”
    “I suppose. I am not up on the details. I am sure the
very capable FBI has it under control.”
    “Who’s the family? Got names?”
    “Don’t know. All I heard is the feds are going hard on
it. Walt might be going out to Montana to help. I got to go now.” Lance hung
up.
    This was intriguing, Reed thought, checking the newsroom
clock again. He was meeting Ann and Zach to pick up some things for Chicago. Going full out on a kid lost in the Rockies, as if it were a homicide. Secret
suspicions about Dad. Flying Sydowski to