The Lesson of Her Death

swoop down and grab the baseball and sail out over the grandstand and they won every game there was. And Mr. Pillsit says to Freddie—”
    Dr. Parker held up her hand. “Sarah, did you read this story someplace?”
    She shook her head. “No, I just made it up, like I was supposed to. I
thought
I was supposed to. I’m sorry …” The eyes lowered theatrically. “Did I do something wrong?”
    “No, not at all. Keep going.”
    “And Mr. Pillsit, he says to Freddie, ‘If you really want to play baseball, I can make you the best player that ever was, only you have to go find the tallest tree in the eagles’ forest and climb up to the top. Are you brave enough to do that?’”
    Freddie was of course up to the job, and Sarah enthusiastically continued with his adventures, not noticing the psychiatrist’s braceletted hand reach forward and nonchalantly lift her gold pen, recording in rapid, oblique symbols of speed writing Freddie’s quest for the magic baseball—fighting Hugo the Claw, the worst eagle that ever was, building a new clubhouse for the team after their original one burned down, running away from home and living in a big nest with a family of beautiful golden eagles. Freddie never returned home though he did become a famous baseball player. By the time Sarah finished, Dr. Parker had filled ten pages of steno paper. “That is a very interesting story, Sarah.”
    “No,” Sarah said, sounding like a TV film reviewer.“But the picture was of Freddie and a baseball so I couldn’t think of anything else.”
    The doctor flipped through her notebook slowly then said, “All right, I’ve got to look over all the work you’ve done for me and you’ve got to go study for your tests.”
    “I want my daddy to help me.”
    After a moment the doctor looked up. “I’m sorry, Sarah. What did you say?”
    “I want Daddy to help me study. Is that okay?”
    “That’ll be fine,” Resa Parker spoke absently. Her mind was wholly occupied by a boy and a baseball and a talking eagle.
    “This is my federal firearm permit and this is my Missouri private investigator’s license.”
    Sheriff Steve Ribbon studied the squares of laminated plastic in the man’s wallet. He’d never seen a federal firearm permit. Or a Missouri private eye’s license.
    He said, “Looks in order.”
    Charlie Mahoney put the wallet back in his pocket. He wore a businessman’s suit—in a fine, faint plaid that looked gray but up close was tiny lines of pink and blue. Ribbon liked that suit a whole lot. Ribbon nodded him toward a chair, observing that the man had two types of self-assurance: the institutional authority of a long-time cop. And the still confidence of a man who has killed another man.
    Mahoney tossed an expensive, heavy tan raincoat onto an empty chair and sat down across the desk from Ribbon. He talked without condescension or interest about the beautiful spring weather, about the difficulty of getting to New Lebanon by air, about the ruralness of the town. He then fell silent and looked behind Ribbon, studying a huge topographical map of the county. During this moment Ribbon grew extremely uncomfortable. He said, “Now what exactly can I do for you?”
    “I’m here as a consultant.”
    “Consultant.”
    “I’m representing the estate of Jennie Gebben. I was a homicide detective in Chicago and I have a lot of investigatory experience. And I’m offering my services to you. Free of charge.”
    “The thing is—”
    “I’ve apprehended or assisted in the apprehension of more than two hundred homicide suspects.”
    “Well, what I was going to say was, the thing is, you’re a, you know, civilian.”
    “True,” Mahoney conceded. “I’ll be frank. I can’t tell you how upset Mr. Gebben is that this has happened. This has nothing to do with your ability to collar the perpetrator, Sheriff. Sending me here was just something he felt he had to do. Jennie was his only child.”
    Ribbon winced and felt genuine sorrow in his heart. “I appreciate what he must be going through. I’ve got kids myself. But you know how it is, regulations. You must’ve had those in Chicago.”
    “Sure, plenty.” Mahoney studied the great blossom of Ribbon’s face and added some shitkick to his voice as he said, “Can’t hurt just to do a little talking. That can’t hurt nothing now, can it?”
    “No, I suppose not.”
    “You’re in charge of the case?”
    “Well, ultimately,” Ribbon said. “But we got a senior