In the wallet they found fifty-seven dollars in paper, eighty cents in ordinary coins, four three-cent postage stamps, and an 1837 Indian head penny, the value of which they were not qualified to determine. There was a dentist’s appointment booklet, a local dry cleaner’s receipt, a ticket from a Chinese laundry on the next block. In another compartment was an assortment of business cards: a doctor’s, one from a home furnishings store, another from a Chinese restaurant on Pleasance Street. On the other side of the bill compartment was an address book, a slim, expensive leather version of the kind sold in candy stores for a dime. Leland put it aside until he was done emptying the wallet. In the pocket under the change purse was a receipt from a U-drive-it dated February 3 and a small piece of pink cord. Leland recognized it as the kind used to attach pencils to dance cards and said so to the others. He opened the picture compartment. The first was a formal high school graduation photograph of a pretty, bird-nosed blonde, dated June, 1942, and inscribed “To Teddy,” and at the bottom, “All my love, Susan.” Behind it, wedged in the same celluloid folder, was a snapshot of Susan and Theodore Leikman in bathing suits beside a lake. There was no date, but the youth on the subjects’ faces and the length of the skirt on the girl’s suit indicated to Leland a time between 1940 and 1943. The next photograph, backed to the other two, was dated 1941, and was of a 1936 DeSoto Airflow sedan. In the second folder was a formal portrait of a woman of thirty or thirty-five years wearing a cloche hat and what appeared to be a plain black suit. There was no date. The next photograph, the only one in that folder, was a wedding shot, circa 1919 or ’20, of the same woman and a man of about thirty. His haircut was of the bowl type and in his cutaway coat he looked as if he were realizing that his fly was open. In the next folder was Theodore Leikman’s Social Security card and driver’s license, which gave his age as twenty-three, and bore this address. In the last folder was his Selective Service registration card and two classification cards, giving Leikman’s status as 4-F. The identification card in the wallet bore another address, in Wokoma Lake, upstate.

The address book produced more than thirty names and numbers, some with addresses, most without. Carol Linjak was listed, and so was a Susan Starrett, no address, with an exchange not in Port Smith. Leland gave the book to Schoenstein, who knew what to do. “Tell the operator to check the books for Pettit and Carter counties for the numbers outside the city.”

“Some of these numbers will be discontinued or recently changed,” Schoenstein said. “We’ll have to wait while they check their files.”

Curran said, “How are you going to work this?”