Staring at the monitor, Buck’s mouth hung open, and he wrung his hands. This was exactly what Ray didn’t want, but somehow, it had happened. Right before their eyes. And then he saw Susannah standing behind Ray, up on the stage, her lips curving in a subtle smile, as if she had known all along the “miraculous” event would occur.
Buck’s shoulders sagged, his stomach twisting in knots. I haven’t a clue how she did this, but we’ve gotta find out.
32
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 26, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI DOWNTOWN POLICE STATION
When it rains, it comes down in sheets, Jeff thought, sitting in the precinct of his former army buddy, Malachi Johnson. On Sunday, miracles had occurred. People got up from their wheelchairs and dropped their canes. He was still wondering how it had happened. He suspected there was a darker side to the story than what witnesses had seen. As he sat listening to Malachi tell him things he’d discovered about Susannah Baker, he knew this feeling of apprehension was justified.
They sat at Malachi’s desk, stacked with files from other cases. His muscles rippled a short-sleeved shirt, and his badge hung around his neck. Jeff had forgotten what a commanding presence his six foot four friend was. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you,” Malachi said, selecting a slim manila folder off the top of the pile. “This isn’t an active investigation, and I’ve had to do research on my own time.”
The squad room was noisy, police officers talking and clattering on computer keyboards, phones ringing, and the smell of onion permeating the air.
Jeff nodded his appreciation. “It ain’t like you got nothin’ else to do, man. I’m just glad you’re willin’ to consider it.”
“There isn’t much, but what I do have is suspicious and certainly merits further investigation.”
Jeff squirmed in his chair. “Whatever you got, I’m all ears.”
Malachi opened the file, shuffling papers. “This Baker woman is absolutely committing identity theft. A friend of mine works at the St. Louis Post Dispatch, so I asked her to run the name through obituaries of women with the same name and close in age. The first couple of years she came up empty. But Anna, like any good reporter, is persistent and started looking at older obits.”
Jeff frowned. “Doesn’t sound so good.”
Malachi smiled across his gray metal desk. “No. One of the most common ways of committing identity theft or assuming someone else’s identity is by obtaining the names and dates of deceased persons from obituaries and cemeteries. A lot of obits include pictures, making it easier to find a person who resembles the criminal.” Malachi pushed the open folder toward Jeff. “When Anna searched older obits, she discovered a Susannah Baker who died in a single-car accident in 1995. She was thirty-three years old and looked like this.” Jeff pondered the photograph of a smiling young woman with dark, wavy hair, high cheekbones, and full lips.
“She looks a whole lot like Ray’s Susannah,” Jeff said, the astonishment evident in his voice.
“That’s the idea,” Malachi explained. “Your preacher friend’s fiancée comes to St. Louis needing to be somebody else. Looking for someone she resembles, she picks this woman. From there, she contacts the DMV and says she’s lost her driver’s license. They replace it for a small charge and take her picture, so now she has a photo ID.”
“Meanin’ the real Susannah Baker is dead.”
“Hey, Malachi!” It was another cop sitting one desk over.
Malachi slipped the folder under the ink blotter on his desk.
“You know the guy we arrested for burglary yesterday? Can you interview the suspect with me?”
“Sure, Phil. Is he here now?”
Phil, also a fit figure, walked over to Malachi’s desk, standing behind Jeff. He stroked a thick mustache. “He’s in holding, so we can talk as soon as you’re through. Who’s your friend?”
Malachi and Jeff both stood. “Phil Burt, this is Jeff Jones. We served in Iraq together.”
Jeff extended a hand, and Phil responded with a strong grasp and hearty shake. “The Jeff Jones? Malachi tells me you won yourself a silver star for bravery. Congratulations.”
Being made out the hero always flustered Jeff, and he stammered his reply, “Uh, thanks, man. I was um, protecting my unit. Malachi would’ve done the same for me.”
Sensing Jeff’s uneasiness, Malachi said to Phil, “Give us about ten minutes.”
“No problem,” Phil said. “Nice meeting you.”
Once Phil was out of earshot, the men settled back into their seats, and Jeff spoke slightly above a whisper, “I don’t want to get you in trouble, bro. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“The thing is, she needs more than a driver’s license to prove she’s Susannah Baker. She can get a copy of the real Susannah Baker’s birth certificate by saying she’s lost it, too, and showing her new driver’s license as ID.” Malachi pointed to the obituary. “We discovered from the obit that Susannah Baker was a North Dakota native who moved to St. Louis as a young adult. The imposter goes to vital records for the county and asks for a copy. This is becoming a real problem with identity theft, and some counties ask for information on the birth certificate only the person would know. Or you can get a bored records clerk, who buys your story that you’ve been living overseas as a missionary.”
Jeff clenched a fist. “This is exactly what me and Buck was thinkin’. Can’t you arrest her for lyin’ about who she is?”
Malachi raised hands. “For the most part, this is just speculation. Yes, Anna found a Susannah Baker with a similar appearance and the same birth date who died in 1995. Is it suspicious? Absolutely. But weirder things have happened, Jeff. To prove this woman is masquerading as Susannah Baker, we need a birth certificate, credit cards, and a social security number. I did some investigating, and getting a dead person’s social isn’t that difficult. The Social Security Administration has what they call the Master Death Index database containing all previously used numbers. It’s been computerized since the 1960s, and if your mystery woman has that, she has a new and improved identity.”
“But ya’d think 9/11 would make stealin’ someone’s identity harder,” Jeff said.
“For foreigners, sure,” Malachi answered his friend. “Right now, that’s what the focus is on, not US citizens in their own country. My guess is that she’s done this before and knows how to avoid the pitfalls of electronic tracking.”
“What’d ya mean?”
“In the old days before computers, criminals would get the name and birth dates of deceased babies from cemeteries. They’d get the birth certificate and build a new identity from scratch. They were called ‘paper trappers’ because it was all done on paper.” Malachi paused, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head of tapered short black hair that faded into his skin. “How do you know she doesn’t have an accomplice?”
“There ain’t no accomplice, Malachi.” Jeff huffed. “She and Ray are livin’ together. Christ, they’re hardly ever apart.”