The former serviceman had plainly not weathered the years well. Walsh silently showed his badge. Sullivan stared at it for a few seconds, then removed the chain and let him in without a word.
The apartment was a small, cluttered one-bedroom. The air smelled of stale smoke and old liquor. Empty bottles were lined up across the kitchen table.
Sullivan made his way to the kitchen and dropped heavily into a chair. With shaking hands, he lit a cheap cigarette. Walsh sat down across from him on a stool and opened his notebook.
Sullivan listened to the detective’s account in complete silence. When Walsh told him what had been found under the cabin floor, the man barely reacted. It gave the impression of someone who had long expected bad news.
Ash from his cigarette fell onto the dirty tabletop. He didn’t seem to notice. The muscles in his hollow cheeks tightened and released, the only sign of strain.
At last, after a long pause, he spoke. His voice was rough, as if he didn’t use it much. He confirmed that he had filed the missing persons report back in 1995.
He described receiving Anna’s letter later on. He had recognized his daughter’s handwriting right away. But from the beginning, something about the note had felt off.
Anna had never addressed him as “Dad” in letters. In their family, she always wrote “Daddy” or just “Pop.” It was a small thing, but it mattered to him.
But the handwriting expert had insisted the writing was genuine. Law enforcement told him his daughter had left the country. At first Sullivan tried hard to keep searching on his own.
He called consulates and mailed inquiries, but got nowhere. Eventually, worn down by not knowing, he started drinking more heavily. Before long, it became a full-blown problem.
He lost his job. His wife, tired of the drinking, eventually left. Sullivan was left alone with his suspicions.
All those years, he said, he had believed something terrible had happened to Anna. Not because of some hunch, but because the facts never added up. He just couldn’t prove it. Walsh listened carefully and made a few notes.
Then he moved to the key question. Where had Sullivan been on the night of June 17 into June 18? The man gave a bitter half-smile.
He said he had been home alone. Drinking and watching TV. He couldn’t remember what had been on. There were no witnesses who could confirm his story.
His wife had still been living with him then, but that night she had gone to stay with her mother. So yes—he had no alibi…
