Caitlin walked over. “Guess who didn’t leave town?”
They turned like she’d caught them conspiring, but Scott broke into a smile. “What a lovely surprise. Caitlin, my friend and I are finishing up a private conversation. Mind if I catch you in a second?”
She nodded, stepped back. “Please do—sorry to interrupt. I’ve got work to do anyway.”
She returned to her laptop, powered up, created a folder named “Chapman,” and started her notes.
Angela Chapman. Missing two years. Sophomore at the time. Would be a senior now.
“Two years,” she said, drew a thumb across her lip.
“I’m sorry?”
She looked up, saw the waitress, ready for a drink order.
“Beer,” Caitlin said to the woman with the ponytail to her waist. “Do you have Singha?”
The waitress nodded, left a menu. Caitlin went back to work.
Two persons of interest. Ex-boyfriend and friend, both older, now graduated. Not enough evidence to bring to trial.
She noticed a brown bottle of Thai beer that had materialized without interruption, took a sip.
Who was Angela Chapman? Big change in personality from high school. Party girl with Goth style.
“Are you ready to order?”
The waitress again. Caitlin sent her on a mission for dumplings and a house salad, then started a new paragraph.
If Angela died, why hide the body? Drugs, evidence of sexual abuse? Could the suspects afford to pay someone to make things go away? Could they do it themselves, as in physically, logistically?
She started another thought.
If Woods had killed me, could he have made me disappear?
She stared at the screen, her finger over “Delete.”
“Here you go.” The waitress delivered a plate of warm dumplings.
Caitlin could smell the garlic, onion, and hot oil of the sha-shas. “What happened to the salad?”
“I dropped it off five minutes ago.”
The waitress left. Caitlin tilted the screen, saw mixed greens. She hit “Save” and went to food enlightenment.
Scott Canton tapped on the end of her table. “She lied about the salad.”
Caitlin smiled through a swallow and gestured to the empty chair. “So sorry I interrupted. Please, sit.”
He did. “I heard your waitress say your salad had been there for five minutes, but she brought it with the dumplings.”
“Smooth move on her part. I don’t notice the outside world when I’m in my tunnel.”
“Your tunnel.” He scratched at his nose. “Funny you should say that. I was speaking with my young friend about one of my own tunnels when you approached.”
“Your time in Vietnam?”
He nodded. “And coming home. He’s about to finish his first year in college after two tours in Afghanistan. Life on campus can seem a bit surreal.”
“I’m sure. Better or worse?”
Canton shrugged. “I believe the only word that fits is different. So how long do we have you in our alternate reality?”
Caitlin went for another dumpling, tried to get a few chews in before she spoke.
“For the duration.” She pointed to her laptop. “I’ve started a project.”
“Fantastic.” He stood. “I have a class in fifteen minutes, so I must let you return to your tunnel. Of course, this means you’re expected at my office hours on Wednesday. Think you can find it?”
“I can find anything.” She reached for her wallet. “If I were to give you forty bucks—”
He waved the cash away. “I’ll make the arrangements, but save your money. Your company will be payment enough.” He left with a smile and a hat tip.
Caitlin felt herself relax. She’d have more of Canton’s weed in two days. She looked back to her laptop, made a note, then reached for her phone. Detective Greenwood had said he’d help with anything. Time to test the man.
CHAPTER
12
THE WATCH COMMANDER asked Caitlin to wait in the otherwise empty lobby of the Bloomington Police Department. A sturdy woman, near retirement age, in a well-fitted suit appeared seconds later.
“Miss Bergman, would you come with me?”
Caitlin recognized her from the department’s website. “Sure thing, Chief Renton.”
“Call me Abigail. Detective Greenwood’s busy at the moment, so I wanted to take the opportunity to introduce myself.”
They passed into the chief’s office. Caitlin took one of the chairs in front of the large desk. Rather than taking the desk chair, the chief sat next to her.
“Is this okay? I find the distance created by that desk to be far too impersonal.”
“Your office.” Caitlin angled her chair to face the woman’s not-quite-welcoming smile. Could a smile be nervous?
“I hope you find the modern BPD to be much better than your last interaction with the department. Twenty years ago, this was a small-town shop. Today I’ve got twelve detectives and one hundred officers, all trained by the state, with additional certifications by the FBI and specialties in search and rescue, SWAT—even anti-terrorism. Almost thirty percent of my staff is female.”
“Impressive, Abigail. Sounds like the right woman’s in charge.”
Renton relaxed a notch. “Better days all around. How can we help you today?”
“Not sure if Greenwood told you, but I asked if I might get a copy of the files.”
“Yes, of course. I have them here.” She went to her desk, handed Caitlin a sealed document folder.
Caitlin glanced at the description, saw her own name. “Nice, even customized for me.”
“I’m sorry?”
Caitlin looked again, saw the date: 1997. She held her own sexual assault file. Caitlin felt the weight of the private history in her hands. Light. About what she expected.
“This will be very helpful, but I was asking for the Chapman files.”
“Oh.” The chief sat down behind her desk. So much for the personal feel. “I’m sure you’re aware we can’t release the files from an open investigation to anyone, let alone a member of the press—not without a court order.”
“That said,” Renton continued, “I understand Doris Chapman has asked you to look into Angela’s disappearance, and I’d like to help keep that woman’s spirits up.”
“Chief, I told her I saw little chance I’d find anything your detectives haven’t, but she sounded desperate.”
Renton’s concern seemed genuine. “After two years, we all are.”
Her office phone rang. The conversation ended after a few words.
“They’re ready for you, Miss Bergman. Let me show you the way.”
Caitlin rose. “Thanks for your time. And thanks”—she tapped on her assault file—“for this.”
Renton squinted. “I’m not proud of what’s in that folder. I wasn’t here at the time, so I can’t pass judgment, but I can say my department works in a very different way.”
Caitlin nodded. “Hopefully, we all work in different ways now.”
* * *
Detective Greenwood had his own desk in a four-cubicle bullpen. Besides a framed picture of himself with his arms around an attractive brunette, his workspace looked clean and efficient: no kids, no headlines. Caitlin felt the urge to open drawers, see if the man’s interior matched his exterior, but he popped in behind her.
“We’re good to go, Miss Bergman.”
She rose from the visitor’s chair. “Where to?”
Once again, he looked good in a fitted dress shirt, navy-blue slacks, and smooth brown dress shoes. “Crime lab.”
“Seriously? The ‘crime lab’?”
“Sounds cooler than ‘conference room,’ right?”
Caitlin followed him into the uncool conference room. A squat woman in a BPD polo and slacks worked a laptop, her hair in a ponytail so tight it gave Caitlin a migraine. The enlarged image of her computer’s desktop appeared on a wall-mounted television.
G
reenwood did the honors. “Caitlin Bergman, this is Detective Jane Maverick.”
“That’s a great name.”
Maverick looked up like she smelled dog poop. “Need me to spell it?”
Caitlin guessed Maverick was in her fifties. “Did someone get that wrong?”
Greenwood lightened the situation. “Jane’s not a big fan of the press.”
“Vultures,” Maverick muttered, reaching for an empty coffee cup. “I’m getting a fresh one.” Her walk out the door blew a day’s worth of cigarettes Caitlin’s way.
Greenwood motioned toward the chairs.
Caitlin sat. “You two partners?”
“There are eleven of us on rotation. We all work together.”
“Chief Renton said you have twelve detectives.”
Greenwood shook his head. “Should be back to twelve next month. We’re down one, and the vetting process is extensive.”
“You lost someone in the line of duty?”
“No, just everyday life.”
Behind them, Maverick swore through a mouthful of fresh coffee. “Bullshit. Shepherd ate his gun. Nothing everyday about that.”
Greenwood remained the master of tact. “True, but no big conspiracy there. The man was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, and he didn’t feel like losing the fight.”
“Pussy.” Jane returned to her seat at the laptop. “I had a double mastectomy. You see me check out early?”
Changing the subject, Greenwood opened his hands. “We have some dirty laundry, Caitlin, but nothing too bad. You’re welcome to all of it.”
Maverick laughed, then fired a shot Caitlin’s way. “Is that why you’re here? You gonna do an expose on BPD like you did in LA? See how many ‘fallen angels’ we have? Maybe see how we small-town amateurs botched the Chapman disappearance?”
Caitlin met her head on. “Actually, I’m writing about sexual abuse on college campuses, contrasting my own experience twenty years ago with attacks on women today. I chose this town because I went to IU, and yes, part of my piece may include Angela’s disappearance. But I’m not looking to embarrass anyone or focus on the day-to-day policing in this department.” She leaned forward. “Why? Did you botch the Chapman disappearance?”
Jane whistled low through her teeth. “What a bitch. I just might like you, Caitlin Bergman.”
Caitlin smiled. “I had no doubt, but that’s not an answer.”
Greenwood jumped back in. “About Chapman, did Chief Renton explain the guidelines?”
Caitlin started her cell phone’s audio recorder. “No photos of anything you show me. I can record, but audio only, and I’ll supply you with a copy of the recording before I leave today. That way, in the event I take anything from this exchange to print, there’s no chance of misquotation.”
“Great,” Greenwood said. “Jane’s going to cover the basics. It’s my case, but it helps to hear someone else talk through it.”
Caitlin slid her phone closer to Detective Maverick. “And you’re familiar with the time line, Detective?”
Maverick nodded. “From patrol to K9, there’s not a BPD officer who doesn’t have the Chapman time line memorized.”
CHAPTER
13
DETECTIVE MAVERICK HIT the lights and began. “Two years ago, Angela Chapman was wrapping up her sophomore year. Know where the Varsity Villas are?”
Caitlin nodded. “Big townhouses near the stadium, known for party-friendly types?”
Greenwood, seated at the laptop, pulled up a satellite map on the extended screen.
Maverick pointed out a group of apartments separated by a strip of forest. “Chapman lived in Cedar Creek, the smaller complex directly north. She woke up there the day in question, a Friday two weeks before the end of the spring semester. Her roommate, Devon Miller, saw Chapman grab a granola bar around ten AM on her way to the gym. All smiles, no worries.”
Greenwood switched from the map to a spreadsheet. “We traced two text messages from the Student Recreational Sports Center between eleven and noon.”
Names and places came back to Caitlin. “The big gym down by the train tracks?”
“Right,” Maverick continued. “Chapman does a cardio class, hits the showers.”
Caitlin tried to decipher the spreadsheet. “Who did she text?”
“First was a reply to a friend, Lakshmi Anjale, journalism student. Need me to spell it?”
Greenwood zoomed in on the first exchange. “Caitlin’s familiar.”
“Lucky you. As you can see, Anjale posts, Happy hour? Chapman replies with a thumbs-up emoji.”
Greenwood switched to an image of a pale young man Caitlin recognized from the wall in Doris Chapman’s basement, David Amireau, then pulled up the first line of a second text exchange comprised of only emojis.
Maverick pointed to a crescent moon, a beer bottle, a smiling monkey, and a white triangle. “Obviously these kids weren’t majoring in English. We’re interpreting this as ‘Come out for a beer tonight, and we’ll do cocaine.’ ”
Caitlin had to agree. “Did Chapman reply?”
Greenwood scrolled down to the text-only answer: F-balls yes.
Maverick moved on. “Anyway, a camera shows Chapman leaving the gym at twelve fifteen. She got to her class in the theater building at one. We assume she walked; it’s less than a mile.”
“What about emails or messaging?”
Greenwood sat back, arms folded. “We have her laptop and tablet. Both were synced to cloud services, so if she used the email from her phone—”
Caitlin knew the answer. “You’d at least have a record.”
“Exactly,” he said, “but no phone was found.”
Again, Maverick pushed forward. “Anyway, Chapman finishes class at three and meets intramural basketball friends at Bear’s Place around five. All girls, Chapman, Anjale, and two seniors—Dolores Garcia and Mary Pavlos.”
Caitlin checked the notes she’d made so far. “Not her roommate, Devon Miller?”
“Miller drove up to Purdue to visit her boyfriend, leaving our ladies knocking back cocktails courtesy of the upperclassmen and Chapman’s fake ID. Around eight, Anjale and Chapman go back to Anjale’s place to smoke pot and watch a movie. At ten, Chapman tells Lakshmi she’s going to hit the bars with Amireau and her regular hookup, Kieran Michelson. You have the image, Jerry?”
Greenwood brought up another face Caitlin knew from the Chapman basement of horror—the good-looking one.
Maverick gave a whistle. “There’s our handsome devil. Quarter to eleven, he and Amireau knock on the door. Lakshmi tries to keep Chapman in, says they’re too messed up, but Chapman heads out.”
“Why didn’t Lakshmi go along?”
Greenwood handled that one. “Claims she didn’t feel like going out. Too high.”
Maverick finished her coffee, tossed the cup in the trash can. “So the threesome heads to Kilroy’s Sports Bar, the home of late-night mistakes, and get there by eleven fifteen.”
“Were they walking?
“No, Amireau and Michelson were live-out frat boys. A pledge chauffeur dropped them off. A kid named Fodor, like the guide. They called him Frodo.”
Caitlin laughed. “How could they not?”
“Frodo spent the night driving drunks around and is accounted for until five AM. Where was I?”
“Kilroy’s Sports,” Caitlin answered. “Why’d it take so long to get there?”
Greenwood returned the screen to the text message spreadsheet. “Amireau and Michelson said they stopped for a street dog. Also confirmed by a text Chapman got from Anjale. She asks OK? Chapman replies, F’d up, Going to Sports, Gonna eat some SAUSAGE first. As you can see, these two were fast exchanges, both within the minute. No reply from Anjale until eleven twenty-one. She came back with, It’s ur body. Eleven twenty-three, Chapman replied with, We’ll talk 2mrw.”
He opened a video clip. “They entered Kilroy’s at eleven thirty-two. Second bouncer that day that didn’t flag Angela’s
fake ID.”
The brief video showed Angela Chapman and her two male escorts walking happily into a crowded bar.
Maverick leaned against the wall near the TV. “They blend in until one fifteen AM, when our girl goes all Sleeping Beauty near the beer garden and hits the ground. Security kicks them out.”
Caitlin looked to Greenwood, but saw no action. “No video?”
He shrugged. “Witnesses said it happened too fast to get their phones out, and the security cameras pointed the other way. We’ve got them on the way out, though.”
He clicked another clip taken from an external camera. Michelson argued with a bouncer, while Amireau dragged Angela Chapman out the door, her arm draped around his shoulder, her eyes barely open. She might have been sixty sheets to the wind, but she laughed the whole way out.
Maverick pushed off the wall and sat on the edge of the table near Caitlin. “Okay, she’s drunk as hell, safe to assume coked up, and out with a guy she regularly had sex with and his coke-snorting friend. No car. What do they do?”
Caitlin checked her notes, didn’t see an answer. “Where do the boys live?”
Greenwood pulled up the map they’d started with. “Less than quarter of a mile from Chapman’s place. The Varsity Villas.”
Caitlin put herself in the same location twenty years earlier. “They walk home—unless they went to another party?”
Maverick tapped on the table. “Right on both counts. They walked to the boys’ place, hit the bathroom, then went two streets over to an apartment party. Other guests said they arrived around two.”
“Why do people remember that?”
Maverick reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of gum, and popped a piece in her mouth. “Amireau brought a bottle of vodka when supplies were low. Plus, there was a fistfight.”
“Do tell.”
Greenwood took over. “The party host, Genevieve, and our kids lined up for shots. Genevieve says Chapman’s eyes barely focused, and her balance was shit. She cut Chapman off, had her brother usher the trio out, but Amireau wouldn’t leave without his bottle of Stoli. Whole party ended up on the grass out front to watch big brother drill Amireau twice in the face.”
Come and Get Me Page 5
