Norman’s visit to the Thirty-third Division headquarters in Illinois was even less successful. As soon as he reached the base, he was turned away on account of it undergoing reorganization. He couldn’t even get a hold of an officer to discuss his mission.
“Could I just talk to—?”
“Sorry, sir, but we are not taking visitors at this time.”
“But I just need to—”
“Sorry, sir, but we are not taking visitors at this time.”
He sat in his car next to a park as he thought of his next move.
Too discouraged to return home defeated, he began to drive aimlessly. He knew the answer was out there somewhere. Nothing in life was so mysterious that it couldn’t be demystified. He just didn’t know how to find it.
He checked his watch for the time. Nancy was expecting him home soon. He’d told her he’d be gone for just a few days. He’d told her he’d be home in time for dinner. Dinnertime was fast approaching. His stomach was confirming the appointment for him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the identity of Maxie McWalter. Who was he really? Why didn’t the Army have a record of his service?
He knew it was time to go home. The whole time he was in Washington, he knew it was time to go home. But now that he was back in Illinois—just a short distance from his family, from his work, from his life—he felt his heart divided again; he felt that it was more important to solve Maxie’s true identity and get back to the mission of recreating Dafodil for public use. His family would be there when he got back. Dafodil wouldn’t be.
He had to start heading home.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. The answer was within him. Somewhere. He checked his watch. Another minute had passed. He had already spent several days away from home. His wife would kill him if he stayed away another one. He imagined his tombstone with tomorrow’s date on it. He had to go home.
Then his eyes shot open. The epiphany came from out of nowhere, and he was pissed at himself for not thinking of it sooner. Somewhere between a farmhouse and a silo, he had realized that his trip to Washington was the right move all along. He drove back. Time was the answer.
“October 23, 1918,” he said to the clerk, when he returned to the War Department. “Between nine and ten a.m. That’s when Maxie was killed.”
Norman finally left with a list of possible suspects. It was worth the wrath he’d soon get from his wife for coming home so late.
Problem was, he was now on a roll. He finally had something to work with in order to crack this mystery. He couldn’t let the leads get cold. Not yet. Nancy would have to understand. She wouldn’t, but she’d have to.