Page 154 of Fire and Bones

Suspecting the effort was probably futile, I phoned the Cathedral Heights station. Sergeant Arthur Gunders had retired in 1972. Died in 1984.

I asked if Ruby Dockeray was ever found. Response: An MP case from 1943? Are you serious?

Undeterred, I pressed harder. Was told that if a file that old still existed—an extremely remote possibility—it might be in the district’s archives.

A very lengthy and somewhat confusing conversation with the archivist revealed that, prior to DC home rule, the National Archives would have set the records management requirements for police reports in the district. Unfortunately, the gentleman had no knowledge of retention regulations back in 1943 but felt they were probably like those of 1979, the earliest with which he was familiar. As of 1979, a missing person report had to be kept at the local department for two years, then transferred to the Federal Records Center for ten. After that, it would be destroyed. He felt chances were slim to none that a 1943 missing person file would still exist.

Discouraged, I phoned Ivy. She was delighted to help—in exchange for a promise of exclusivity should a newsworthy scoop emerge. I suspect she was envisioning a human-interest piece that would win her a Pulitzer or some other journalism prize.

While awaiting Ivy’s feedback, I started my own digging.

Googling the name “Ruby Berle Dockeray” and “1943” yielded nothing but the original Post story about the seven MPs. Substituting “1918,” the year of Ruby’s birth, was another dead end.

I turned back to Ivy’s photocopies and spent weeks rereading every one in my spare time. Found no mention of Ruby Berle Dockeray. Not surprising. Ivy had focused on coverage of the Warrings and the Foggy Bottom Gang.

I’d had luck with the Post, so, after ponying up the fee for a half-year plan, I wasted an additional month troweling through the newspaper’s online archives.

Births. Marriages. Obituaries. Arrests. Divorces.

Nada.

Like a rat working a maze, I buzzed through cyber-loop after cyber-loop, hoping for pay dirt.

More nada.

Frustrated, I decided to try another angle.

Ruby Berle Dockeray was last seen at the Foggy Bottom house. As of 1942, the house belonged to W-C Commerce. W-C was a holding company established by Emmitt Warring and Amon Clock.

I’d already read Ivy’s articles generated by a search using the keyword “Warring,” so I went with the name Amon Clock.

Though fewer in number, an abundance of links popped up.

A big chunk of that autumn’s reading was devoted to those sites. Katy thought I was obsessed. Maybe I was.

Eventually, I stumbled across the picture.

The Washington Times. May 4, 1937. Page four, below a continuation of front-page coverage of the Hindenburg disaster. A suspect had been cited for holding the largest cache of illegal liquor in DC since the repeal of Prohibition four years earlier.

A group photo accompanied the article. Two men, one the suspect, a woman, and a child. The foursome was standing in bright sunlight on the National Mall. A banner in the background announced the first National Boy Scout Jamboree.

Names ran below the image. The “child” in the middle was Ruby Berle Dockeray.

It took less than a minute to establish that the jamboree had taken place in June of 1937. I did the math. Ruby was nineteen at the time the pic was snapped. Fully adult, but small.

As I studied the faces with a handheld lens—each surprisingly sharp for an image that old—odd thoughts began fluttering in my head, frail and ill-formed, like ghost moths circling a porch bulb. Eventually, disparate bytes collided, leading to a pair of irrefutable conclusions.

The subcellar victim was, in fact, Ruby Berle Dockeray.

The constellation of features barely discernible on her mummified and decomposing corpse—the low nasal bridge, prominent forehead, thin, silky hair, and extremely short stature—suggested a disorder known as Laron syndrome.

Laron syndrome is a condition that occurs when the body is unable to utilize growth hormone. Reduced muscle strength and endurance are additional symptoms frequently seen.

I’m not the overly emotional type. But I’d felt a tremendous sadness as an imagined scene surged up in my brain. A tiny woman, perhaps weak and vulnerable, succumbing to blows hard enough to fracture her skull and jaw.

As the archivist had predicted, Ivy struck out in her search for an MP report on Ruby Berle Dockeray. The young woman had simply vanished.

I took solace in knowing that, more than eight decades after Ruby’s disappearance, I’d helped with the recovery and identification of her remains. Sadly, her sister was long dead. And Deery was unable to locate a single living relative with whom to share the news.