The depth and breadth of data available never ceases to amaze me. So much of it is tied to the nine-digit number the government assigns to each American shortly after birth. Yet even without a Social Security number, I can easily zero in on a target, trapping him in a snare of computer printouts. It’s just a matter of knowing where and how to look and I know. I had been taught by a South Korean computer genius named Kim. Her massive tip sheet made the task easier—I had it laminated—along with other helpful hints on what to look for and how. Yet even without them, I was pretty adept at exposing an individual’s history.
By ten fifteen I had learned nearly everything that was public record about Merodie Davies and Priscilla St. Ana, and a few phone calls gave me more. I arranged the information in a file folder and then made appointments to visit a few people. I was about to call G. K. to give her an update when the phone rang.
A recorded voice told me: Qwest has a collect call from Merodie Davies, an inmate at the Anoka County Correctional Facility. To refuse this call, hang up. If you accept this call, do not use three-way or call-waiting features or you will be disconnected. To accept this call, press 1 now. Thank you.
I pressed 1.
“Hello? Merodie?”
“Hi, McKenzie. Yeah, it’s me. I’m still in jail.”
“Are you okay?”
“I guess. I just got done with treatment. They make you go through treatment in here and—G. K. said I could talk to you. Can I talk to you?”
“Sure, but, Merodie, you need to be careful what you say. They tape these phone conversations, and anything you say can be used against you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“McKenzie—your first name is Rushmore, isn’t it? What kind of name is Rushmore?”
“My parents once took a vacation in the Badlands of South Dakota. They told me I was conceived in a motor lodge near Mount Rushmore, so they named me after the monument. But it could have been worse. It could have been Deadwood.”
I’ve told that story many times, and each time I got a laugh. Merodie didn’t laugh. She said, “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, no—”
“It musta been hard on you.”
“It’s not that bad—”
“I understand what you’ve been through because, well, because of my name.”
“Merodie?”
“Yeah. I’m probably the only woman in the world who has it. At least I hope so.”
“Why’s that?”
“Merodie is the name of a man’s underwear manufacturer. I don’t even know if it exists anymore.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Uh-uh. My mom, she saw the name on a box in a store somewhere in South Dakota—same place your name comes from, isn’t that a coincidence? Anyway, it was years and years ago when she saw the name. She always thought it was a good name for a girl, and when I was born . . .”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. My mother named me after men’s underwear. You know what? Like the guys say, I’ve been taking it in the shorts ever since.”
She laughed when she said it, but there was no humor in her voice, and for a moment I thought the laughter would change to tears.
“I’m sorry, Merodie.”
“It’s okay. My mother’s done worse to me than give me a crummy name. A lot of people have done worse. You kinda get used to it.”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Hey, are you all right?” she asked me. “You sound funny.”
“I’m good.”
“You sound like you have a cold.”
“Maybe a little one.” Somehow, telling her about my hangover didn’t seem like a good idea.
“It’s this weather,” she said. “It’s been so hot everyone’s got their air-conditioning running full out and you go from the real cool air to real hot air and then back to the cool air and you get a cold.”
“I’m okay.”
“You should put some Vicks on it.”
“Vicks?”
“VapoRub. Put it on your chest and a little dab under your nose, it’ll clear you right up.”
“You’re in jail, yet you’re worried that I might have a cold. That’s kind of amazing, Merodie.”
“I don’t know why. Just cuz you have problems doesn’t mean you can’t worry about your friends, right?”
“Right.”
“You’re my friend, aren’t you, McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good, cuz a girl, she can’t have too many friends. But really, you gotta get some Vicks. You gonna get some?”
“I will. I promise.”
“McKenzie?”
“Yes, Merodie?”
“I did therapy today. I think I told you. It was so early. You wouldn’t believe how early. Up at six, shower at six fifteen, breakfast at seven. It’s like—I know it’s a jail but, my God. At seven thirty they bring me to this room, kinda like a classroom, you know, in school, and this woman was there, this chemical dependency counselor, a woman I’ve never seen before who was asking about my drinking problem. And I’m like, I don’t know this woman, so I tell her, ‘I don’t have a drinking problem,’ and she says, ‘You were in a house for two weeks with a dead man and didn’t even know it. That suggests you have a drinking problem,’ which I guess is true enough. But I didn’t kill him, McKenzie. I swear. I didn’t kill Eli. That’s what I told the counselor, and she just shakes her head and says, ‘That’s not my department,’ and I’m like, ‘What is your department?’ ”