Wherever We Are Chapter 7
Greg's trip to the town bank was more exciting, especially for the bank's employees and a few customers. With his vest, they seemed to know why he was in town. Three employees had worked in the bank for longer than thirty years. The women had individual reasons for remembering the day Evan Atwater disappeared. They also supplied a list of places—businesses, most closed and forgotten, and churches—who would have had a bank bag similar to the one he held.
"Check at the church—with the steeple. Nelda Owen has worked there for forty years," one woman suggested. She had the brightest red hair he had ever seen on a woman her age. "If I remember correctly, something happened to their deposit about the time of Evan's disappearance."
Before Greg left the bank, each one expressed a long-forgotten memory.
"I never thought he ran away."
"Evan was a good kid; we all knew him."
"His father never got over it."
With that statement, Greg asked about the father.
The red-haired employee explained, "Mr. Atwater looked for that child for years. Lost his job with the lumber yard because he spent so much time out in the hills and mines around here." She looked at the other women. "I think he died five years later—broken heart, I'd say." The other women nodded.
Greg knew they wanted an explanation of the bank bag and how it connected to the missing boy. He left without providing reasons for his inquiry knowing the entire population would know about his visit by noon.
Grissom found nothing in the dusty files; every crime for five years fit into a cardboard file box with room to spare. When the mother and daughter left, he joined Sara in the cavernous space behind the deputy's office.
"Hey," he said; his voice deep and hushed. Sara had heard him, his footsteps echoing as he approached. She had not looked up from repacking.
"Hi," she responded, keeping her head down. This was the first time they had been alone since he kissed her and she kissed him. His fingers came to rest on the edge of the table.
"Sara," her name left his lips on a breath of air—differently, she thought, and she looked up.
It was not his mouth she noticed first, but his eyes; the color had darkened yet reflected light from the high windows. Blue, she thought, the color of the morning sky.
He stood over her, trying to form thoughts into words. Seconds before she could say anything, he said, "Wherever we are, whatever we do, no questions, no doubts, just us." His lips edged upward into a grin. "We can't talk about this at work. Not yet."
She nodded. He had said "just us" making it sound as if they were already lovers—at least a couple, no longer supervisor and love-sick employee. She smiled and ducked her head. She was embarrassed to feel so giddy, so euphoric by his words.
Just as quickly, he turned to work asking what she had learned from the mother.
"Evan was running errands—he left his mom right after lunch. All this," she indicated the bottles and other items in the box, "seems to be random clutter." She picked up one of the small jars sealed in a clear evidence bag. "This is a cold cream container—very popular at one time." She lifted an eyebrow. "My theory is these containers belong to the same person who left the boxes—or perhaps a daughter or son of who filled these jars with buttons and threads. The shirt was a rag—no value, but gathered up with junk and thrown in a box. Susan thinks the bank bag—where is Greg? She thinks the bank bag was wrapped with the shirt, but can't be sure."
Grissom had moved a chair to sit across the table from her. He let her talk.
"But the shirt—why keep the shirt? I can understand one person keeping a box of junk for years, but I can't understand why someone who harmed a kid, or let's say killed him, would keep the shirt."
Grissom raked a hand through his hair. "Interrupted, maybe? The shirt is not grimy with dirt, but there are some stains—we can figure all that out back at the lab." He grinned again. "Sara." She looked at him. "Are you okay? With everything—between us?"
"I'm fine, Grissom." She gave him a broad, quick smile.
Noise signaled Greg's arrival with the bank bag and the deputy as Greg related his news from the three women with his usual animation and excitement. Sara watched, knowing that Grissom's patience with Greg could run thin. Today, Grissom almost smiled as the young man circled their chairs as he shared his news.
"The church—Ed, do we need to call Nelda Owen?" Grissom asked.
Ed's hesitation was normal, setting his thoughts into words before speaking. "No, Nelda's been at that church all my life—she's there."
If the three CSIs had been asked to describe a small church secretary, Nelda Owen would have provided the original model. Slightly built, wearing a dress and sweater in a style from a couple of decades past, her hazel eyes sparkled and her mouth had an instant smile when Ed opened the door.
Quick introductions and explanations were provided to explain the strangers visit.
"Evan Atwater," she sighed as she said the name. "We don't hear his name anymore, but most of us left here remember the day he disappeared like it was yesterday. Back then, kids did not go missing—no Amber alerts, no internet, no television reports—I guess kids did disappear but you just didn't hear about it."
Greg handed her the bank deposit bag without saying anything.
"My goodness." Nelda Owen turned the bag over in her hands. "I'd bet my life this is the church's bag. The last time I saw it, I handed it to Evan. He was a sweet kid, always coming around offering to do errands. He had taken the Sunday collection to the bank dozens of times."
They stood around her as she recounted a long-ago story. "I tried to tell the sheriff about the deposit—mostly checks back then—but his idea was Evan had lost the bag and ran away. Back then, I was already an old maid, female, no one of importance, but I never thought Evan ran away—even if he lost the bag, he would not have run away." She passed the bag back to Greg.
"You need evidence and I might have something that will help." She rummaged around in a drawer for a ring of keys. "Come with me."