The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 14

Sgt. Marci Robbins had been on the force for twelve years, and sober for the last three. During her darker days before AA, she'd been a longtime undercover on the vice squad. She'd also been party to a rocky marriage that had ended in her surrendering primary custody of her two children. More recently, she'd survived breast cancer and now wore a prosthesis on her left side. Whenever she and I talked, somewhere in the early going she'd tell me the number of days she'd been on the wagon.

Meeting her the first time, you'd suspect none of that. Marci was naturally beautiful and didn't fit the image most of us have of a recovering alcoholic and cancer survivor, much less a police officer. With a genuine smile and a self-effacing nature, she projected confidence and congeniality. One of her friends that I interviewed for the department morale piece told me that when she worked undercover, they had to do a lot to make her more commonplace. Being noticeable isn't healthy for a vice officer.

But other currents ran under the surface. Marci developed a strong distaste for being pushed around or intimidated. She had dealt with self-control challenges in her personal life. When on the job in a covert role, she presented herself as a trustworthy, if somewhat ditzy, blonde with a transparently vulnerable side. She made a perfect moll, just the target to attract a manipulative and sadistic criminal. She busted abusers by the dozens in her work as an undercover but avoiding them in her personal life had been a struggle. The challenges she'd faced and overcome, and the breadth of her understanding, made her an invaluable friend. Her viewpoint and advice had often helped me through my issues, professional and otherwise.

Now Marci was primarily a desk officer, her days on the street over, toughened by her experiences. The department's environment didn't support her when she wrestled with abuse and family issues in private. But her superiors stepped up to the plate once everything was out in the open. To their credit, they pointed her to the help she needed. The department had finally become a home of sorts for her. Though Marci was happy with what she was doing, she'd told me she sometimes found herself frustrated, wanting to fix all the problems she could see around her.

It was the last part that connected us. Marci had been a reliable source for my piece a couple of years ago on the morale, management, and deployment issues within the San Diego Police Department. We'd clicked and became fast friends, although our long work hours when I was still at the Union-Tribune meant we didn't socialize much.

I looked forward to seeing her again, so I texted her, "Can't believe how long it's been since we've done lunch! My treat if you have the time ????—I want to catch up, and there's a good story I've been researching. You might have answers to some questions I have...."

A few moments later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. "Perfect timing," Marci texted back. "Taking some personal time off tomorrow—does 11:30 at Born and Raised work for you?"

"Great choice; see you then!" I finished.

In case I wanted to share them with her or anyone else, I made an extra copy of the black-light versions of Brian's letters. Out of printer paper and needing a few things for the kitchen, I headed to Von's, where I could get everything I wanted in one visit. After I found what I was looking for, it surprised me to see Gary Gilbert standing with a heavyset woman in one aisle. "Gary, I didn't know you lived in the area," I said as I sidled up to him from behind.

"Oh, hi...," I could see he was struggling to remember my name.

"Debra Ann Wynn, the lost letters...?" I offered.

"Oh, yes, Debra Ann. I'm sorry, but I've gotten so bad with names lately. It's nice to see you. We've been here for about fourteen years, right, honey?"

The woman he turned to had a round, reddened face, and she used all of it when she smiled.

Gary introduced her. "Debra Ann, this is Barbara, my wife of twenty-two years. Honey, this is Debra Ann, Alex Wynn's daughter."

Gary's description of his spouse reminded me of the care Dad always took to acknowledge Mom's territorial rights. He'd always mention how he felt about Mom whenever an attractive woman, especially one my mother didn't know, would introduce herself as having any kind of prior relationship with him. He explained why when, as a teenager, I called him on it.

"It's not that I'd have anything to answer for," Dad said, "or that Mom is so insecure that she'd feel threatened. It's a little thing, doesn't cost anything, that you do out of respect for the person you love. Something to pre-empt any misunderstandings not just with her, but also with the other person."

Seeing Barbara's smile linger, I knew where he was coming from.

"It's so nice to meet you, Debra Ann," Barbara said. She exuded warmth, and I could sense that she had grandkids thrilled to see her when she came around.

"Alex was the man I told you about who found the blank letters out in the Gardens," Gary continued, "and he was trying to find who they belonged to. Since Alex passed away, Debra Ann has been trying to solve the puzzle. She was a journalist with the Union-Tribune and now works on projects she chooses.

"Oh, Debra Ann, that reminds me: one of our visitors turned in another of those letters. She'd hung onto it for a while, wasn't quite sure what she should do with it."

"Wow, thanks. Will you hold it for me?" I asked. "I've got some things going on for the next few days, but I'll be out there as soon as I can to pick it up."

I turned my attention to Barbara, who was resting her purse on the shopping cart handle.

"Gary tells me you do the pulled pork and the sides when you go out on the road barbequing—everyone knows those are the best parts," I said with a little laugh. "I'm looking forward to going to one of your competitions."

"It would be a pleasure to see you there. Have you had any luck tracking down the letter writer?"

"Yes, I think I have the answer," I replied. "Believe it or not, the author wrote them in invisible ink, so they have actual contents you can read once you know how."

"Invisible ink! Seriously?"

I nodded. "He left them at the Pierce family plot near Mom and Dad. Her brother Brian wrote the letters to Bridget. Sadly, though, I won't be able to return the letters after all."

"Doesn't the brother want the letters back?" Barbara asked.

"Unfortunately, the memorial gardens recently had to inter Brian. It looks like he was the victim of foul play, and the authorities are trying to figure it all out. I am still investigating because what happened to him might have something to do with the contents of his letters."

"Aw, that's too bad," Gary said. "I expected a happier ending out of all of this."

"Me, too. I'm hoping to find something that brings a better resolution," I said. "Even if that only means getting justice for Brian and learning the truth about what happened. I've got to run, but it was so nice to see you again, Gary, and to meet you, Barbara. Best of luck at your next barbecue event!"

"Thanks, Debra Ann—keep us posted, and I hope you find the answers you're looking for," Gary said as we parted company.

From your mouth to God's ear, I thought to myself. I knew that with Brian's murder, the list of questions I had in hand was only growing and becoming more serious.

As things would turn out, I should have added to my request, "and only God's ear."