Missing Girls- In Truth Is Justice

by Larry Crane

  The crowd went silent as the four of them filed out the door, down the porch stairs to the driveway and the microphone. The reporters jostled each other to get closer. The gawkers pressed in.

  Gavin would do the talking. Marcella told him she’d only come apart at the seams if she tried to speak.

  “We are devastated by the disappearance of our daughter, Hannah, and pray every minute that she will be returned to us. Hannah is nine years old. She is blonde with beautiful brown eyes. She’s four feet six inches tall and weighs sixty-five pounds.” Gavin’s voice wavered, and he stopped to cover his mouth. He waited for the surge of emotion to subside, then went on.

  “She started walking to school Friday at 7:40 a.m. She was carrying books and papers in her small blue backpack. We have stapled her picture and description all over the area on posters. If you have seen Hannah, or even just think you might have seen her, please notify the police immediately. We are offering a reward for any information that leads to her recovery. Thank you.”

  They stumbled back into the house. Nickerson answered questions for another twenty minutes then dismissed the reporters. The crowd dispersed to their cars. Marcella watched from the front picture window as Gavin trudged out to the street, head bowed, and stooped to pick up scraps of paper where the crowd had been. He engaged in a staring contest with a curious driver who crept to the end of the street and looped back for another look.

  From the street, Gavin saw Marcella step out onto the front porch. He turned to see what she was seeing—the expanse of deep green grass in front of their brick colonial and the patches of snow, the only vestiges of winter that still remained. Ground water ran in a miniature river where the driveway met the pavement. She crossed her arms in front of herself as a shield against the wet chill in the air and looked up and down the street as if she expected to spot Hannah in the distance hurrying home from Dina’s house late for supper and knowing she was late. Dark gray clouds drifted low and formed a background for the bare branches of the maple in front that stood out black as a cat against the sky. Gavin came up the porch steps and took her in his arms.

  The cameras had not been trained on Gavin during the conference. On TV, they saw that it was Marcella who they zoomed in on, awash in tears with Brett and Celia at her side, her face a blotchy wet sobbing mess. Behind the story that the pictures on the screen told, Gavin thought he heard something else—something edged with inevitability, that in the absence of any clues, he and Marcella were becoming suspects in the minds of the most suspicious of the general public. The TV pundits wondered how the father of a missing child could be so calm. No tears? Where was he when all the volunteers were out searching the woods? And, by the way, would a proper mother let her nine-year-old walk to school?

  Chapter 3

  The cops did not go so far as to string crime scene tape around the yard, thank god. But a steady parade of them came and went, filling the white van out front with paper bags of items from the house. Someone in charge considered it evidence and of some help finding Hannah. All of this they replayed within an hour on TV news reports—along with repeating footage of the army of volunteers systematically combing the wooded areas around town. What more can I hope for? Gavin thought. They were searching.

  “Mr. Armand, this is Agent Elton Dvorak at the FBI Field Office in Lisle. I’m calling to inform you that the Bureau has been briefed by the local law enforcement officials there in Naperville and the Illinois State Police about the disappearance of your child. As you can imagine, we take these incidents extremely seriously. We’ve coordinated with Chief Nickerson who I’m sure you know, as well as the State and Federal Missing Persons Agencies. Whenever there is the possibility of a kidnapping that could involve movement across state borders, we investigate and assist in any way we can. I’d appreciate it very much if you and Mrs. Armand could come over to our offices at 4343 Commerce Court in Lisle, so we can add your thoughts to our discovery process. We’d like you to come over as soon as you can today, Mr. Armand,” Dvorak said.

  It was a short silent drive to Lisle. Agent Dvorak led them through the hallways of the two-story modern building to the Missing Person Investigation team room where half a dozen male and female agents were busy on the telephone at their desks. Gavin was amazed to see the magnified school photograph of Hannah that Celia produced pinned to a bulletin board, and three large cardboard posters with extensive black felt-tip pen notes around the room.

  “Will you come this way, Mr. Armand,” Dvorak said, leading the way to his office on the perimeter. Gavin looked around to see Marcella being led into another office across the way. “Please have a seat. This is Agent Salter,” he said, indicating a youngish, earnest black woman already seated at the side of his desk.

  “I feel a little intimidated,” Gavin said. “Should I?”

  “No. Not at this point, Mr. Armand. We’re pretty intense here. Just to get things started, can you tell us where you were when Hannah disappeared?”

  “Well, I went to work as usual, and about three in the afternoon, I got a call from my wife, telling me Hannah was missing.”

  “You were in your office all day?” Agent Salter asked.

  “Yes. Except for lunch.”

  “Where did you go for lunch?”

  “I took my secretary to the officer’s dining room. It was her birthday.”

  “Can you tell us who saw you in your office all during that day?”

  “Sure. Ms. Chadran, my secretary, as I said. Ted Danzig, my boss. I spent a good hour and a half with him. Lots of people moving around the office saw me, I would say. Actually, I’m not sure exactly when she—Hannah—well, when she got diverted on her way to school.”

  “Is that what happened?” Dvorak asked.

  “That’s our assumption. Marcella watched her go down the street on the way to school. She only found out she didn’t get there when she went in to meet her teacher for a chat.”

  “You assume this, or you know this?” Salter said.

  “This is beginning to sound as if you suspect me of something.”

  “Nothing of the kind, Mr. Armand. Can you tell us exactly what you did that morning as you went to work?”

  Gavin slumped a little in the chair and exhaled loudly. “I catch the 7:33 at the Naperville station every weekday morning except when I’m traveling. I leave the house at 7:15 to be sure to catch the train. When I left, Hannah was just coming downstairs to have breakfast.”

  A wave of sadness took hold of his face as he directed his eyes down to his lap and pictured Hannah bounding down the stairs.

  “Hi, Daddy!” He heard her words as clear as day.

  “I kissed her on the forehead. She said, ‘Good-bye, Daddy.’ I kissed Marcella on the way to the door. I caught the train, no problem, and I was at my desk at 8:45.”

  “Can anybody on the train corroborate this?” Salter asked.

  Gavin slumped again in exasperation—like, what is this?

  “I see basically the same people on the train every morning, but I probably couldn’t tell you if one of them didn’t show up one time or another. Can anyone corroborate what I told you? Obviously not if they’re as inattentive as I am. Commuters are passing acquaintances, not fast friends or anything. I don’t know. I didn’t talk to anyone, I can tell you that. I usually don’t. I have my nose stuck in the Journal on the way in.”

  “You arrived at the office at 8:45?”

  “I always arrive then. I have to say I didn’t check my watch.”

  How can I be a suspect? he thought. Unless I have a definitive answer for every fucking question they can think of, I sound like I’m being evasive. I’m not being evasive. I’m telling it exactly as it is. And I’m not an airhead either. Does anybody walk around taking notes on everything they see or hear all through the day? Jesus.

  “Mrs. Chadran saw you come in?”

  “Miss. Yes. She will recall every detail. She’s very good.”

  “Hannah left the house at…”

/>   “Seven forty. That’s what Marcella remembers. She would know.”

  “School starts at …”

  “Eight sharp. That’s what they tell me.”

  “Did you see anyone on the way to the station?”

  “No,” Gavin said. “Do you mean can anyone confirm what I said, or did I see anyone suspicious? Well, neither. I’m sorry I didn’t look around. I’m so preoccupied, I guess, that I wouldn’t have seen anything awry even if I did look around. So, there you are.”

  It’s answers like this that can get me in trouble, annoyed and peevish answers, Gavin thought. They’re what the FBI is really after—moments when my guard is down—and I reveal the kind of person I really am, as if I’m always hiding something. Suspicious bastards. Snarkiness has never done me any good, and it might even get them thinking I’m the kind of guy who could do unspeakable things. Cool it.

  Salter, the female FBI agent was imperturbable, and just kept up with the blank face and never-ending questions. “You have been married how many times?”

  “What do you mean? Once, that’s all.”

  “You and Marcella married when?”

  “January 1946. After the war.”

  “Two children?”

  “Three. Brett was born in in ‘47. Celia ‘51. Then, Hannah came along in ‘61.”

  “We’re just gathering information, Mr. Armand. You and Marcella are fine with each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “No problems?”

  “No.”

  “You both wanted another child?”

  “Yes. You’re curious to know if Hannah was planned or something?”

  Salter ignored all of his questions—made it obvious that she was the one doing the questioning. “You and Marcella are fine with each other?”

  “Of course,” Gavin said.

  Another agent came in the room and spoke softly to Dvorak, then left.

  “The other children are okay with Hannah?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Jealousy or favoritism issues?”

  “No. She was our joint baby girl. We were all in it together bringing her up.”

  “Mr. Armand, members of my team have driven your wife back to your house. She’s presumably shown us the exact route Hannah took to school. We’re looking at everything. Nothing is too private, too sacred to poke into. It may take a while, but we will find out what happened. Trust me. Good-bye.”

  “I have to say you’re pretty heavy-handed. I don’t mind it with me, but to be interrogating my wife like you have me, well, as I said.”

  “We’ll be interviewing all day long, Mr. Armand. Teachers, neighbors, business colleagues, everyone with any kind of connection to you or your family. We chose to interview your children at the house, while you were here. We’ll be talking to anyone who might know anything even in the remotest way having to do with this disappearance. I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll understand that when something as serious as a child going missing occurs, we can’t stand on ceremony or let anything get in the way of the investigation—you’ll actually take some comfort in a thorough approach as we track down facts and information.”

  In the team room, every agent was standing at their desk, off the telephone, staring at him. He pointedly looked every last one of them in the eye. He hurried out to the car. At home, Marcella, Celia, and Brett bunched together and searched his face for information.

  “What were they after, Dad?” Brett asked.

  “They wanted to know where I was when it happened, what I knew, and who could vouch for me. They seemed skeptical of everything I said. They said they interviewed you and Celia here.”

  “They kept asking me stuff about the family, like were you guys on good terms, and what did I think when Hannah was born. I felt like yelling at them for asking me that, but I didn’t. I kept calm and remained helpful even when they barged all around in our business,” Celia replied.

  “That’s good, Cel’. Don’t let your emotions get the best of you. Stick with the facts, otherwise you seem like you’re being evasive, and that stinks,” Gavin said.

  Marcella spoke up: “They drove me around town asking exactly what route she took to school. Did she always walk? Why did she walk this time? I cried a lot. They seemed to be questioning everything, every decision. Does she ever walk with other children? Have you told her she can stop in at stores along the route? Is she likely to have tarried along the way or would she be right on time? I kept feeling more and more guilt.”

  “They asked me for the names of people at school they could talk to—to corroborate my story. I told them I wasn’t telling stories,” Brett said.

  He gathered them in the living room. It’s turned from hot to very cold, he thought. Almost as if Hannah isn’t ours anymore—just the subject of another kiddy search as far as they’re concerned—an object to be scrutinized. “We have to hold together and help each other,” he said. “Marce, will you come upstairs with me?”

  They slid onto the bed and sat with their legs crossed Indian-style facing each other. He felt the pinch of embarrassment rising in his chest, and knew that his face was getting red.

  “All right. You’re shaking,” she said. “Did they accuse you? How could they?”

  “They didn’t accuse me. They did everything but,” he said. “I’m feeling miserable, Marce. I can’t help it.”

  They don’t hesitate to ask me any question that occurs to them, he thought. We don’t ask ourselves these things. ‘Is your marriage working, Mr. Armand?’ Come on. I lied when I told them we were fine.

  “Are we fine, Marce?” he said.

  “Fine? What’s fine?” she asked. “Of course we’re fine.”

  “It’s almost as if some miraculous revelation would emerge if we did ask questions of each other. I don’t believe you did anything wrong letting Hannah walk to school. I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong in bringing her up. I don’t think any mother could be more loving.”

  “What do you think, Gavin? Tell me what you do think.”

  “I’m not sure we’re the same people we were before she came along.”

  ‘Came along.’ Jesus, he thought. Right in the middle of the Breedlove business she’s suddenly pregnant. I would have to be a complete robot not to think there might be a connection. But, as usual I don’t press and as a result there’s this fact of Hannah’s existence that we’ve never nailed down absolutely. The FBI drilling in right to the heart of it is what’s so upsetting. We never nail anything down. We just absorb it, throw a big shovelful of dirt over it, and go on. If we didn’t, we couldn’t go on. Marcella told me about Breedlove. I absorbed the information. We went on, and we haven’t spoken of it since. But I think about it. I think about it a lot. And that’s not fine.

  “They asked about the kids. I told them when Brett was born and when Celia was born, and then I said that Hannah came along. And they said: ‘came along?’ A question—like what does ‘came along’ mean? I just said yes, nothing more.”

  “What more is there?” Marcella brought her clenched hand up to her face and looked over it into his eyes.

  “There was this secret we kept from the kids and everyone. Oh, it wasn’t a secret to Breedlove, was it? I lied to the FBI about that too, and it damn well showed on my face. Now I’m thinking they bored right into something that is so obvious. They did it in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Everyone we know probably wonders that way about us.”

  “Gus Breedlove,” she said. “It was such a little thing when it happened and it’s still that. It never was serious. It’s over, Gavin. Over when Hannah came into our lives. We agreed it was over and done with, completely, forever. Now you’re telling me it was never over for you.”

  “I let it drop, Marce. It’s in the past. But it’s still hanging around.”

  “I didn’t lie to you. I told you everything.”

  “You told me what you wanted to tell me, and I didn’t press for anything more. I didn’t ask any questions. I never do
. If I ask you anything, I might have to do something.”

  “Do what?” Marcella asked, backing up against the headboard.

  “Something as drastic as you and that fucking Breedlove.”

  “What do you mean? Gavin!”

  “I mean it never was a little thing. Not to me.”

  No way. It went right through me, like a spear. I would never do that to her. I’ve thought about it every day since. I dream about it a lot and every time it spreads out way beyond one little kiss. I can’t help it. It’s in my head to stay.

  “Hannah is ours, yours and mine,” she said.

  “That’s what you say. How could you say anything else? It’s all come tumbling out again with this questioning. By people from outside who have no stake in it. I’m such a weakling.”

  “You’re not a weakling,” Marcella said.

  You had no fear with Breedlove—of the consequences with me, your husband. You were reckless with my love. I wouldn’t have the guts to do that to you. And that…that just kills me. It’s crazy, but it says to me that you just don’t give a damn.

  “When you just clam up on me and leave the room when I’m spilling everything to you, I have nowhere to go,” she went on. “I’m left holding a confession that you see as arrogant of me or something. I may even have smiled. But, oh God, that was embarrassment. I wasn’t proud. I was devastated by what I did. I opened myself up. I wanted you to tell me you understood that I was opening myself up completely to you.”

  Chapter 4

  Marcella waved back at the neighbors from across the street whenever they made eye contact. It’s best not to linger out in the front yard, because then they think they’re obligated to come over and say something cheerful, she thought. They’re good neighbors, good friends, but after a while, there really is nothing new to disclose about Hannah. They know that, and so, it’s best just to wave and smile.

  So little of any usefulness in finding Hannah can be done as a family, she thought. Of course, that doesn’t keep Gavin and Brett from driving to Chicago and Cicero to patrol until well after midnight and beyond—probably creeping along the streets of the sleaziest neighborhoods, peering into every alley. Hannah’s no wayward teenager hooked on heroin and sucked into prostitution or some such thing and likely to be walking the streets—but driving around skid row somehow gives Gavin something to do to make him feel useful.