by Robert Ivey

A short story

© Copyright 2024 Robert Ivey.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

A two-lane back road that parallels Oklahoma’s Rt 97 is a good road to travel if you have a mind to enjoy some nature at a somewhat slower pace, but a driver needs to be alert to its many twists and turns. It’s a roller coaster of hills and valleys but otherwise it is a pleasant route to where I had an appointment to gather some historical information from the Osage tribal leaders at their casino offices for a report as part of my job at the Oklahoma Historical Society.

Reaching the crest of a hill, I noticed ahead of me on the rise of the next hill a black SUV tailgating a grey sedan. I broke into a panic, seeing that this would not end well. But what could I do? I was helpless. Moments later, the SUV appeared to hit the right rear bumper of the sedan, causing it to swerve to the left. The driver, in an unsuccessful attempt to regain control, skidded across the road which sent the car through the guardrail and over the steep canyon wall. Seconds later, I pulled my Prius over on the right shoulder where the accident happened and turned on my flashers. The SUV was nowhere in sight, leading me to think that this was no accident.

Getting out of my car, I walked across the road to see if I could be of some help. Looking down at the wreckage tangled among the boulders and brush, I knew that there was nothing I could do. After calling 911, I waited at the scene. It was only five or 10 minutes before the police and emergency personnel arrived.

After providing the police my account of what I saw and giving them my contact information, I was told that I could be on my way.

I kept thinking about what I saw on my way to the Osage Casino. I wondered about the victims and their survival, and why someone would want to harm them.

Chapter Two

Three months later, during my regular Saturday morning grocery shopping, I impulsively visited an estate sale that I had seen advertised on roadside signs for a week.. When I arrived, I saw a long line of cars parked on both sides of the street, and there was a constant flow of shoppers, second-hand dealers, and curious people like me, coming and going..

I’ve often thought that the term “estate” is a bit of a misnomer since most of these sales take place in ordinary houses, not the large mansions that the word “estate” usually brings to mind or the use of the term in England of a manor house or a community of two-up two-down row houses. But most of these sales are nothing more than a glorified garage or yard sale that takes place inside, with the aim of liquidating all the possessions.

I don’t need or want anything, especially more stuff and used stuff at that. What I find interesting about these sales is that the owners are not present. What happened to them? Did they die? Did they move into a home or go to live with their children? Maybe they just downsized into an apartment or condo.

It’s this mystery of the people who lived in the house and what we can glean about their lives from their now abandoned belongings: were they travelers, what we can learn about their family, what about their beliefs and their occupations? I’ve often thought of using what I’ve learned or imagined about them to write stories, but somehow I never get around to it.

The setup by the organizers of these sales are all pretty much the same: a multitude of card tables along with every flat surface in sight crowded with items dragged out of every closet and cupboard then affixed with stickers marked with arbitrary prices.

One of the interesting aspects of these sales is that the organizers, or perhaps families of the occupants, have removed or cleansed the residence of anything that could identify the people who lived there: names, diplomas, pictures and the like.

Our culture of consumerism is prevalent in most of these sales; some houses have so much stuff it is difficult to get around and I often wonder how the people managed to live amongst so much clutter. I’m sure they viewed their stuff as valuable possessions or some kind of status symbol. Then again, maybe they were hoarders.

Wandering among the tables and furnishings, it’s amazing how many were into collectibles even if their collections had little value on the market. In this house there was a hexagonal glass curio cabinet filled mostly with ceramic rooster figurines. Too much dusting.

One table held a collection of cameras. I recognized one of them as a Brownie Hawkeye camera and it immediately brought back memories of the camera I had as a kid.

Leaning against a wall on one table was a beautifully done 16×20 black-and-white photograph mounted on foam-core of people in a park. In the lower right was the name “Gus” and on the back was a sticker identifying it as a photograph that had been entered in a contest.

As I made my way through the rooms and around all the clutter, I saw a lone shoe box tucked away on a shelf in the corner of a bedroom closet.

Reaching up, I retrieved the box and opened it. Inside were old photographs and a few picture postcards. I thought maybe I could use these images to craft a story, perhaps about the people who lived here.

The box had no price sticker on it and as I was leaving through the garage, I asked the check-out person, “how much?”

She looked at the box quizzically, opened the lid to view the contents and said, “this must have been missed when all the personal effects were removed. I shouldn’t let you have it, but since all the family are gone, I guess it wouldn’t matter. How does 2 bucks sound?”

“Great,” I said as I handed over my money, then made a hasty exit in case she changed her mind.

Chapter Three

Eager to look into my treasure, I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the box on my kitchen table. I started slowly going through the images, sorting them into three piles: postcards, pictures with people posed or engaged in some activity, and those that were scenic views.

The postcards were from various locations.. Among them: Niagara Falls, Lake of the Ozarks, a scenic of the Spokane River, and one from Expo 67 in Montreal. None of the postcards had a written message on the back and none had any postage. This indicated to me that they may have been purchased just for the picture and not mailed. It seemed that these people traveled extensively around the country, but could I make a story from them? Probably not.

The largest pile was the one of people pictures. Some of them had dates and first names of folks in the picture written on the back, but most were blank; the people’s names and any dates were known only to the people who owned them, but more likely, any memory of these people were lost, even to them.

Looking slowly through the images, I came across a picture that looked vaguely familiar. The black-and-white picture showed a little girl of about 3 or 4 standing in front of a man and woman posed in front of a house. Oddly, the girl looked like me wearing a dress and holding a small bouquet. The adults were well dressed, indicating that this was perhaps commemorating some kind of special event like Easter. Who took the picture is unknown, but it was well posed. Going to my bedroom, I retrieved a photo album that my mother had originally put together and to which I’ve made some modest contributions. Thumbing through the pages, I came across a similar picture showing the same little girl, wearing what looked like the same dress, but the adults were different, as was the background. I recognized the adults as my parents and the girl as me. The picture was dated 1978. After scanning the pictures into my computer, I put it aside along with the album, thinking that I will have to ask my mother about it on my next visit to her nursing home.

Continuing my examination of the photos, I saw three pictures scattered throughout the stack that when put together appeared to be a series of shots showing two men, who seemed to be running along a city sidewalk. One of the men wore a fedora and was pointing a gun. In another picture, the running man in front looked like he was falling forward. In the third the guy with the hat was walking back to where he had come from while the falling man was lying face down on the pavement. Now here was a story, I thought, as I scanned the high resolution prints into my computer.

Another picture that caught my attention was one showing a man proudly standing in front of a store. The sign above the door said “Gus’s Camera Shop” and I immediately recalled the large print I saw at the estate sale and kicked myself for not buying it. On closer examination, the man in the picture appeared to be the same man as in the one with the little girl holding the flowers. But was that man Gus?

Chapter Four

On the second Sunday of each month, I visited my mother at the Clearview Extended Care Home, which was just a glorified name for a disgusting nursing home. On every visit, I felt guilty for her being here, but I had no choice; as a historian working for the state historical society, even with a PhD, I didn’t have the money or the time to be her caregiver but at the same time I was thankful for the Medicaid and other aid she received that paid for her minimal care.

Passing by the nurse’s station, I saw a collection of patients slumped and sleeping in their wheelchairs parked close by, as if waiting for something to happen.

The staff recognized me and one of the nurses greeted me by saying, “good morning Jean. Your mother is in the solarium.”

Giving them a wave, I said, “thanks.”

As I made my way to the solarium, I passed by an open door and heard someone’s loud screams, which startled me as if they were being tortured. The screaming reminded me of a funhouse ride at an amusement park. I couldn’t help thinking, was this an unfortunate preview of my own future? The reality is that sooner or later we all end up in a place like this enduring odors of disinfectant mixed with urine that smelled like someone pissed in a pine tree along with all the other inhumanities that were long lost but still endured by all the inmates here.

Entering the solarium, I saw my mother in her wheelchair staring out the window. Pulling up a chair next to her that I had dragged over from one of the tables, I said, “good morning mother,” as I leaned over to give her a kiss on the forehead.

She looked at me with a blank expression, and I knew this was not going to be a good visit. Some days she is fairly lucid and on others she is like a ghost. It was as if her mind caught a train heading for somewhere else while her body waits at the station like unclaimed luggage. So I said to her, “I’m Jean, your daughter.”

“Oh yes, dear,” she replied. Pointing out the window with a shaky, arthritic finger, she said, “I was watching the squirrels play on that tree over there.”

After several minutes of idle chitchat I brought out the photo album I had brought and we went through some of the pages looking at and reminiscing about the pictures hoping it would get her in the right frame of mind where she would be receptive to ask about the picture I found at the estate sale. Dementia patients sometimes have vivid memories of the past, but are completely oblivious to recent events.

We had made our way to the end of the album when I showed her the estate sale picture and asked, “do you remember these people?”

“Why yes, dear? The little girl is you. I remember you were wearing this delicate pink dress.”

“Who are the adults in the picture?” I asked.

She stared at the photo for several minutes, obviously lost in thought, trying to dredge up memories from the past. Finally she said, “why they are your Uncle Jim and Aunt Wilma, don’t you recognize them?”

“Do you remember where the picture was taken?”

“No, that was a long time ago,” she said.

We talked for a while longer before an orderly came to take her away for lunch.

As I walked out to my car, I thought she was either lying or just didn’t recall accurately about the adults in the picture. The family genealogy I had started several years ago turned up no relatives named Jim and Wilma that I recalled. Besides, the man in the family picture was probably the same man shown standing in front of the camera shop, but was that man Gus or somebody else? Maybe it was Uncle Jim as mother had told me.

Chapter Five

Several weeks had passed since I bought the box of pictures and the mystery of who owned the estate sale house was nagging at me. Driving by the house, I saw the sign in the yard advertising that the property was still for sale. On a hunch, I searched the county appraiser’s website, which revealed that the house was owned by Mark and Dorothy Spencer, who had lived there for 5 years. But what happened to them?

On the off chance that there was an obit in the paper, I searched back issues of local newspapers and hit the jackpot. Not only were there obits, but there was an article describing a mysterious car crash on a winding and hilly road near Sand Springs involving two fatalities: Mark and Dorothy. The article mentioned tire tracks on the road speculating that their car might have been run off the road by another vehicle and to notify the police if anyone can provide additional information. Could this be the same accident that I witnessed and reported to the police?

I read another paper that had obituaries for each of them. The obituaries said that their services are private, which means that their bodies were unclaimed.

Chapter Six

I entered the solarium and found my mother in her usual spot, staring out the window. The nurse was making her rounds, dispensing meds. The cup of water, which mother used to wash down the pills, was left on the table in front of her.

Pulling up a chair next to her, I introduced myself, something I have to do on each visit.

“How are you doing today,” I asked.

The meds had probably not taken effect yet because she was fidgety, turning her head quickly from side to side, looking around the room as if expecting to be attacked.

It was then that she launched into an almost incoherent rant about her jail-like institutional situation, repeatedly saying, “get me out of here.”

I started talking about my genealogy research despite her pleas, hoping it would help her reflect on her past and her family.

I desperately needed to get a DNA sample from her, so along the way I introduced the idea of how the science of DNA has been useful in developing family trees. She nodded her head as if she understood but I doubted that she did since she was never one to be interested in science and probably had not heard of or paid any attention to anything pertaining to the new technology of DNA.

I followed up that discussion, monologue actually, by asking her, “would you be willing to give me a saliva sample that I could send in for DNA testing?”

She tilted her head toward me and, with a cocked eyebrow, said, “Sure, what do I have to do?”

Producing the sample tube from the DNA test kit I had ordered, I said, “All you have to do is spit into this tube.”

Mother became very agitated. Her face turned red, and she protested loudly, saying, “I will do no such thing. That is disgusting.”

The nurse who had been dispensing pills rushed over and asked, “Is everything alright?”

I explained what I was trying to do, but the nurse was having no parts of it saying, “It is not your position to attend to the medical issues of our patients. That is our job.”

Before wheeling my mother away, she harshly but firmly said, “Your visit is over today. Please leave.”

I had a feeling that things would go badly, but I never thought that I would be thrown out.

However, I did come with a backup plan.

Before leaving, I quickly took her water cup off the table, dumped the remaining contents in a nearby potted plant, slipped it into a plastic bag, then put it in my handbag. Later, I used a cotton swab for collecting DNA samples to swab the lip of the cup, then inserted it into the protective tube provided with the test kit.

Two weeks after mailing the DNA test samples to the lab for both me and my mother, I received results in an email.

Pouring over the results, it was clear that the woman I considered to be my mother was not my biological mother.

Growing up, people, even relatives, commented that I had no resemblance to my parents or anyone in the family. I usually ignored them and later I thought that maybe some recessive gene was responsible because my face is much rounder than my parents’ oval faces and my skin tone is more Mediterranean compared to my parents’ northern European whiteness. These attributes were confirmed in the DNA results.

Comparing the picture of me in the two photos, my features more resembled those of the folks in the picture I found in the box from the estate sale than those of the folks I considered to be my parents.

So who is this woman who raised me? She is and will always be my mother, but she is not my birth mother. But how can that be possible when my birth certificate shows my parents to be Fred and Denise Baker?

Curious about the authenticity of my birth certificate, I called the records department at Tulsa General Hospital where the certificate says I was born to see if they had any information on a Doctor Edwin Schaefer whose name was on my photocopy of the certificate as the delivering doctor.

I had to do some serious pleading and cajoling with Teresa, who answered the phone but after a few minutes of keyboard clicking she came back on the line and said, “we have no record of a Doctor Schaefer working here or ever having admitting privileges here.”

I disconnected the call after thanking Teresa for her help and immediately did an Internet search for the good doctor, which confirmed that there was no record of a Doctor Edwin Schaefer in Tulsa at least in my birth year of 1975.

Chapter Seven

Learning that the people who raised me were not my birth parents hit me like an exploding bomb and I became convinced that the Spencers were my genetic parents. The evidence I had was flimsy at best, with only one old undated black-and-white photo to go by. Feeling a need to follow my search through I called the Medical Examiner’s office to find out if I could get some information on the Spencers.

The person answering the phone said, “Medical Examiner’s Office, Dan Flask speaking.”

“Mr. Flask, my name is Jean Baker and I’m calling in regards to Mark and Dorothy Spencer whose bodies I believe you still have.”

“Are you a relative?” Dan asked.

Not being in the habit of lying, I replied truthfully by saying, “I may be. That’s why I’m calling. I’m searching for my birth parents and have some information that leads me to believe that they may be the Spencers. Would it be possible to get their pictures and a blood spot card to have a DNA test performed?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you can’t prove that you are a relative, I can’t release that sort of information. All I can tell you is that their remains have been cremated in accordance with our policies. If you want to pursue this further, you will need to get a court order.”

I thanked Dan for his help as I disconnected the call, thinking it was really no help at all.

This is becoming more difficult than I previously thought. If I were not so curious about my true parentage, I would not bother and get on with my life, but the historian in me seemed to prevail.

In the process of doing some research on the Internet, I came across some references to people whose occupations are genetic counselors. Fortunately, there were several in the Tulsa area.

Calling a few of them, I found out that they specialized in helping people trace inherited diseases or to determine relationships for insurance purposes. None of which was of interest to me. Only one was willing to talk to me about tracing my parentage, so I set up an appointment.

I met Connie Brockman in her office located above an Italian restaurant in a small shopping district in the hospital district. The aroma of parmigiano and fresh bread made my stomach growl even though it was early in the morning.

Connie welcomed me with a warm handshake and gestured for me to take a seat in the chair across from her desk.

“So, what can I do for you?” Connie asked.

I showed Connie the pictures that caused me to question my parentage and the results of the DNA analysis of me and my mother. I concluded by telling her of the M.E.’s requirement for a court order to get the photos and a blood spot card for the Spencers. “So I thought that you might be able to help me get the necessary court order,” I said.

“That’s not our thing,” Connie stated..

I slumped back in the chair at the thought of reaching another dead end.

“But let’s explore this a bit further. Maybe I can still help,” Connie continued.

I perked up at the thought of possible hope.

Connie said, “Your situation is indeed unusual and complex but you need to know that the goal of our genetic counseling is not only the risk assessment of an inherited disorder but to make our clients aware of the availability of testing, prognosis and the management of treatment options. So that said, are you aware of any possible inherited disorder that you may have?”

“I don’t know if any of my disorders qualify as being inherited, but I’ve suffered from asthma since childhood. Also, I’ve recently been diagnosed with high blood pressure and my doctor discovered a lump in my breast.”

“All of those are possible inherited disorders and could give us something to work with,” Connie said.

“Are you saying that you could use my medical conditions to secure the Spencer’s DNA from the M.E.?”

“Yes,” Connie said.

“Isn’t that being a bit deceitful?”

“We have to work with what we have. You are still of childbearing age, and I’m sure that you would want to know of any inherited disorders that could be passed on to your children.”

“Yes, of course, but I have no plans to have children.”

“Perhaps, but you can never tell. Right?”

We concluded our meeting with a discussion of fees and a plan of action.

I arrived downstairs and found the restaurant had just opened for lunch. I decided to stop in for some much needed comfort food – wine, garlic bread and pasta..

#

In the passing month, I had nearly forgotten my visit with Connie engrossed as I was in some research on native American tribal lands, so it surprised me to receive her call.

“Hi Connie, so good to hear from you. I hope you have some good news for me.” I said.

“I think so,” she said. “I didn’t think I could pull this one off given the unusual circumstances, but the judge was either receptive or just sympathetic and ordered the M.E.’s office to release the blood spot cards for the Spencers.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Where do we go from here?”

“In accordance with the court order and M.E. office protocol, the blood samples are being sent to their approved lab. An appointment has been scheduled for you to provide a DNA sample at the lab. I will send the details to you in an e-mail.”

“Thanks, Connie. I appreciate your help with this.”

“Will you let me know the results?” Connie asked.

“For sure, and thanks again,” I said.

#

A week after my appointment at the lab, I received the results in an email. I stared at the email heading for several minutes before opening it for fear of what I might find. It could be no match, in which case I was back where this all started and I wasted my expense with Connie. Or, miracles of all miracles, I might have found my birth parents. But then what?

With trepidation, I opened the test results and saw that the paternity test with Mark Spencer was positive. Mark was my birth father and Dorothy was my birth mother.

The Spencer’s DNA confirmed that they were mostly of Mediterranean origin but the surname of Spencer, which has French origins, is hardly a name from the part of the world where it’s common for surnames to end in a vowel.

Relieved that I finally learned the truth of my parentage, I sent Connie an email confirming the match that I suspected, but we both knew was a long shot.

But now that I had this important piece of the puzzle, I was conflicted whether I should just let it go at that or should I pursue it further? Finally, the historian in me took over. After all, I was used to tracing the ancestry of native Americans, with little more to go on than ancient folklore. How much harder could it be in this age of abundant information at my fingertips to get to the bottom of my own story?

Chapter Eight

At lunch time I went out to grab a sandwich at the deli on the corner and brought it back to my office to eat while I and dove into the on-line search of my ancestry. All I had to go on was the name Gus and the year 1977, both of which were a guess. Was Gus the real name of my father or was it just the name on a picture at the estate sale? Even 1977 was a guess based only on the age of the child in the photo relative to my current age and the year of a car shown partially at the edge of the picture.

Fortunately, as part of my job, I had access to a treasure trove of on-line historical records from various ancestry databases to digitized back issues of newspapers from around the country going back decades. It was a laborious process, and I often found myself either going down the rabbit hole of some interesting story or just nodding off out of boredom. But I felt determined. 

After months of searching during my lunchtime, I found something promising in the Chicago Tribune Historical Archive. Gus Bianco had taken photographs of people’s city life for several years. Could this be the Gus I was looking for?

I continued my search, focusing now on the Chicago paper and the Gus character. For some reason, the last of Gus’s pictures were published in 1972. At the same time, I saw a front-page story about an alderman who allegedly shot someone in broad daylight. There was only one unnamed witness. Chicago is such a hotbed of crime and corruption that events like the shooting are not uncommon. But I had a strong hunch based on one of the shoe box pictures and decided to follow the story.

The story about the shooting moved from the front page to a short column on page three in just two days. The piece said that a Detective Wayne Mattox led the police investigation.

The wheels of justice move slowly and I only became aware of Alderman Tony Marino’s murder conviction and 30-year prison sentence in 1978 through a newspaper report. The report mentioned an unnamed eyewitness and a picture of the shooting that the paper finally published. I recognized the picture as one of my shoe box pictures.

I was three years old in 1978, but even at that young age, why would I not remember such a traumatic family event as my father, if indeed Gus was my birth father, being involved in a high-profile trial?

It was clear now that to get the rest of the story, I would have to travel to Chicago to meet with Detective Mattox if he were still alive.

Chapter Nine

The newspaper reports said that Det. Mattox worked out of the 12th police district, so I called the station and asked if they could tell me anything about the detective, like an address or phone number. I was told rather bluntly, “that a Detective Mattox doesn’t work here and even if he did, we wouldn’t give out any of his personal information.”

I started to say thanks but found myself talking into a dead line.

Searching the internet, I found a phone listing for a W. Mattox living on Yale Ave which, according to Google Maps, was in the 12th police district.

Two days later, I found myself getting off a plane at O’Hare Airport, renting a car and driving to the Mattox residence with some help from my GPS.

Wayne Mattox and his wife Marie, whom I’d spoken with earlier, lived in one unit of a row house.

After ringing the doorbell, it took a while for Marie to answer the door. When the door opened, Marie was standing there, hanging on for dear life to one of those wheeled walkers. I introduced myself and reminded her that we had talked previously over the phone and that I was there to talk with her husband.

“Come on in,” she said in a shaky voice.

Shuffling aside so I could get in the door, she said, “Wayne’s in the fruntroom there to your right. Like I told you, he is not well.” She then turned and shuffled off down the hallway.

The stench of the place was a nauseating mixture of stale cigar smoke and body odor. I would have turned around and left, but I was on a mission; one that I was determined to complete.

The front living room was not much larger than your average bedroom, with a window looking out into what passed for a front yard. On one wall was a large screen TV which was showing some sports game surrounded by many black and white photos and police commendations of one sort or another.

Opposite the TV were two lounge chairs, side-by-side separated by a small table. A reclining Wayne Mattox, looking every bit like a beached whale occupied one of the chairs. He was still dressed in his PJs and robe and sported a shaggy head of hair and an equally shaggy beard. Another walker was parked in front of his chair.

“Detective Mattox, thank you for seeing me.” I extended my hand and said, “I’m Jean Baker and I’m here to ask you a few questions about the Marino incident back in early 70s if that is okay.”

“Wayne will be fine,” he said as he gave my hand a weak shake and motioned for me to have a seat. The only other seat available was the vacant lounger, and I was not about to take it. Instead, I perched myself uncomfortably on the armrest.

“So you some kind of reporter?” he asked. “I don’t talk to those no good reporters.”

“No. I’m an historian from Oklahoma and I’m looking into a personal family matter. Trying to get some information on my ancestry.”

“I don’t know nothin’ abaht dat,” he said. “What’s your family ancestry have to do with me?”

“I saw your name in an old newspaper report that you were involved in investigating the murder committed by Tony Marino.”

Raising a shaky arthritic finger, Wayne pointed to a picture and said, “look atta pitcher?”

I turned to look at the picture he was pointing to while he continued, “dat’s me and Tony back in the day when we had dis neighborhood under control.”

I showed Wayne the shooting picture I had. He shook a little and asked, “Where did you get this picture? Tony did nothin’ wrong. He just shot a rat. There should be no law against shootin’ rats.”

I gave him a brief version of the story about how I came to have the picture and said, “I’m not here about Tony. I came to ask you about the unnamed witness. Do you know who it was and what happened to him?

“Yeah, I think he’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter. It was Gus Bianco,” he told me. “Another rat. Anyway, the feds came in and took the case away from me, then put Gus under witness protection. We thought we were in the clear after our boys beat the shit out of Gus and destroyed his photography business, but the guy comes back to testify against Tony. It was that picture you have that put him away.”

“Do you know where WITSEC sent Gus?”

“Yeah, bein’ a cop has its benefits, so I found out he was at a safe house in Spokane, Washington. Our boys tracked him down, but before they could eliminate him, the feds moved him again.”

I showed Wayne the picture of the couple with the little girl and asked, “is this Gus?”

Wayne took the picture, put on his glasses and held it close to his eyes and said, “Yeah, dat’s the rat.”

“Do you know what happened to the little girl?”

“I seem to recall dat Gus and his wife used some WITSEC connections to put her up for adoption, but I could be wrong. Dat was a long time ago and my memory is not what it used to be.”

I had gotten the information I came for, so I stood up, offered my hand to shake and said, “Thanks for your time and the information. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll see my way out.”

#

On the flight back to Tulsa, I had plenty of time to think about my encounter with Wayne. The one nagging question I had was how did Wayne know Gus was dead? I could have kicked myself for not being on top of my game enough to press him for an answer. It’s a lame excuse, but perhaps I was too eager to get out of his house and out of Chicago. And, come to think of it, what about those WITSEC connections?

On my return home, I began a search to find out if I could get any information out of the WITSEC records. I learned these records are sealed until parole termination, which in this case would mean the expiration of the sentence for a WITSEC prisoner. But Gus was not the prisoner, Tony Marino was, and he had been released, so the WITSEC records should be available. Not so fast. WITSEC records for Marino would have been transferred to the Washington National Records Center and can only be retrieved by authorized personnel. It would take a Freedom of Information Act to obtain the records and that could take months or years. So this was a dead end, as far as I was concerned.

One good thing that came out of my visit with Wayne Mattox was to learn Gus’s surname, Bianco, which would have been my surname at birth. Searching the Chicago newspapers for the name Bianco and the year 1975, I was overjoyed when I got a hit showing that a girl, Elaine, was born on May 12 to Mary and Gustavo Bianco. A further hit showed that Gus, proprietor of Gus’s Camera Shop, and Mary were married in Chicago on November 28, 1970.

#

Epilogue

I still don’t know the exact date of my adoption and how it was facilitated. Piecing together the data I had collected, I had a good idea of the date. As for how it was facilitated, that may never be known, given my adopted mother’s failing memory or just plain secrecy. WITSEC records might contain some of her knowledge, but they are also confidential. I am a perfectionist when it comes to completeness of data and I struggled with the realization that I needed to give it up.

Finally, there is the issue with the accident. With Tony’s release from prison, did he, his son Nick, or their thugs cause the accident that killed my birth parents, who were living in Broken Arrow as Mark and Dorothy Spencer? The case is closed as there is no evidence implicating the Marinos, and the police cannot determine the accident’s true cause despite my suspicions.

It was my day to visit mother. Ever since the DNA incident, the nurse in the solarium always gives gave me one of those looks as if to say “I’m watching you” as I strolled across the room to where my mother usually sits looking out the window watching the squirrels. After reminding her I’m Jean, her daughter, we had a lovely chat about nothing in particular. Near the end of my visit, I asked her, “does the name Elaine Bianco mean anything to you?” She looked at me as if she was searching her mind for an answer. Finally she said, “no dear” and went back to being entertained by the tree squirrels. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and said, “see you next week.”

Solving the mystery of my ancestry helped me feel more comfortable with who I am. This allowed me to focus more on my work, which aims to restore the identity of indigenous Americans whose identity is so closely tied to their tribal lands and the identities of the thousands of their children who had been sent away to schools by our government for the express purpose of erasing their identities along with their native culture.

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Constructive comments are welcome.