The Overseer Read Free Page A

then, some unknown character drives by, pulls over, clasps her in his arms, and has time to hear her blurt out one word before she dies. One word.” O’Connell tossed the paper clip onto the coffee table. “Where’s the connection?”
    “All right,” countered Stein, “but then, why no records? Less than seven hours after the incident, police and hospital reports, gone; the guy who picked her up, vanished. It’s as if the girl never existed—no past, no family, not even dentals. If we hadn’t been running the sweep, there’d be no trace at all. I’m telling you, it’s a little weird given Votapek’s history.”
    “ Votapek’s history ,” Pritchard repeated. “Wonderful. And because of that, you think our conservative senator and his cronies are killing young girls.” He turned to Stein. “Whatever the history, Bob, I find that very hard to believe.”
    “Then why the missing records? Why the complete whitewash?”
    “We could always ask Schenten,” smiled O’Connell. “‘Excuse me, Senator, but we seem to have found a dead girl in your vicinity. Any comments?’” He shook his head and again picked up the clip. “We weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place. You’ll have to do—”
    “Granted,” Stein admitted. “But we still have the dossiers on the folks who were there—Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick. If nothing else, we have to see if there’s a connection between their arrivals and the girl.”
    “And, of course, the dying word.” O’Connell shook his head. “Which was … what, Bob?”
    Stein hesitated. “To be honest, sound and visual distortions were tough. Our guys were over a hundred yards from the point—”
    “Technoexcuses aside, what did she say?”
    “As best as we can make out— Enreich .”
    “ Enreich ,” exhaled O’Connell. “Now that’s very helpful. He—or she—could be anybody. Or maybe it’s not even a person.”
    “Do we have anything on it?” asked Pritchard.
    “A former East German dissident—Ulf Peter Enreich—disappeared in the spring of ’63,” replied Stein. “The body was confirmed in ’74. We’re still running the name; something might come up, but Gael’s right. Beyond that, it’s a dead end.”
    “As you know, gentlemen, I don’t like dead ends. Not at all.” Pritchard took the file in his hands and leaned back.
    “We could pressure Tieg and Sedgewick,” offered Stein. “See where—”
    “Because of the girl ? ” chided O’Connell. “Where in the hell do you get that? We don’t even have an idea how the three men tie into Schenten, let alone to one another. And Votapek—the linkup there is pure guesswork. It might surprise you, Bob, but being a conservative doesn’t make you a conspiratorial loony.”
    “Just someone with a misguided perspective.”
    “Whatever young Mao here might think,” O’Connell continued, “all we know is that they’ve been visiting the senator with some frequency. Once in August, twice in October, and, now, two nights ago. Let’s not forget, this was a minor operation. Snap a few photos; ask a few questions.” He turned to Stein. “Why the cover-up, Bob? Maybe the sheriff was having a little something on the side. It got out of hand and he didn’t want anyone to know. It’ll be a made-for-TV movie. That doesn’t, however, make it a Committee priority. Sorry, boys, but right now, our recently deceased young friend—”
    “Is a dead end,” interrupted Pritchard. He tossed the file onto the desk. “Which would seem to bring us back to my earlier suggestion.”
    O’Connell said nothing for a moment. “I thought we’d agreed—”
    “To leave her alone?” answered Pritchard. “She’s had time to recover.”
    “ Recover ?” The Irishman seemed unable to find the words; then, as if explaining something very rudimentary, he spoke. “She’s now part of research, Arthur. At State proper—”
    “And, no doubt, bored out of her mind.”
    “Which is probably a very