by C. E. Nelson
There was little furniture in the one-bedroom apartment. The eating area off the kitchen had no furniture at all. It was filled with cardboard boxes. The boxes had housed the monitors and other computer equipment that dominated his living room. He kept the boxes, thinking he may need them if he was going to move. The living room had a worn tan couch with a garage sale coffee table in front. A recliner, Naugahyde and ripped in each arm, was next to the couch. The center cushion of the couch was dented more than the other two. It was where Tito spent most of his day.
Gonzales was small, scrawny. Always had been. He was picked on by other kids until his cousin had stepped in when Tito was seven. No one bothered him again. He was a good student, taking a special interest in electronics and computers. The small computer lab in his school became like a second home, the custodian often chasing him out when he locked up. By the time he was a teenager, he had saved enough to purchase his own computer and had found that he could sneak into the local hotels and resorts to gain access to the internet.
When he was nineteen, married with a child, his cousin Pablo contacted him. Pablo, who now wanted to be called Paul, had moved to the United States in a place called Minnesota and said that he had found a good job for Tito where Tito could use his computer skills. Tito did not want to leave his family but felt obligated to go. Smuggled across the border in a converted gas tanker with a hundred others, Tito found his way to Minnesota. Paul had already arranged an apartment for him.
Paul explained that Tito was to handle customer service on several websites for Paul’s boss. This was a new venture. He could purchase whatever equipment he needed, and if the business was successful, his responsibilities and compensation would increase. The business essentially was to handle requests for specific types of pornography that came from users of illicit chat rooms. For Tito, it was not a difficult assignment, and he didn’t mind looking at the inventory of video and images. He did get lonely, but Paul would supply him with female companionship from time to time.
Occasionally he would get special requests from Paul, for Paul himself, or for Paul’s boss, who Tito had never met. Tito had seen that Paul and his boss’s taste in pornography was explicit – and violent. Tito was certain they had actually killed some of the women on the videos. Only the day before Tito had received a special request from Paul. It was unusual in a few ways. First, it was not for Paul’s enjoyment or for his boss. Second, it involved child pornography, a rare request, and something Tito did not like. Finally, Paul had asked Tito to send the video and images to a computer and supplied the address.
Tito plopped down on the couch, put his beer on the table, and pulled the keyboard lying on the table to his lap. With a click of a few buttons, he opened the customer request file and was surprised to find it empty. It was mid-morning, a slow time, but still, he could not remember when there had not been at least one request. It was odd. He wondered if there may be an issue with the site or one of the programs. After a little searching, he discovered that the program supplying the requests appeared to be working incorrectly. The requests were being sent to another location. Odd. Tito began to look at where the requests were being routed when there was a knock at his door.
Chapter 22
By the time Jenkins made it to downtown St. Paul, it was after noon. It took her nearly another hour to figure out that Trask had been taken to the Adult Detention Center on Grove Street. As she approached the detention center from Lafayette Road, it was evident from blocks away that she was not going to get close. The street was clogged with media vans and other vehicles, a small army of people loitering in front of the building, police blocking the entrance.
Jenkins pulled her Subaru to the curb and turned off the engine. There was no point in trying to find another entrance, the facility was secured all around. She could wait for him to emerge, but she had no idea how long Trask had been inside, how long they would hold him, or even how he would leave the building. She guessed they would take him before a judge next. But where would that be? She scrambled to come up with a contact in Ramsey county who might know but came up empty. She decided to wait.
The former park manager at Purgatory Park lived in New Hope, north and east of Minnetonka, on the east side of 494. The man’s name was Web Banks, and he lived by himself with three large dogs in a small white rambler with pine-green shutters. The dogs immediately began barking when Palm rang the doorbell. The front door opened part way, a man bent over holding the collar of a barking dog.
“Yes?”
Palm showed his identification and asked to come inside to ask Banks a few questions.
“Just a minute. Let me put the dogs out back.” Banks shut the door, and Palm could hear him shouting at the animals. He returned and opened the door for Palm to enter. “Sorry about that. The dogs are a little too friendly when it comes to visitors. Like to jump on people, you know. Some people don’t like that. I try to keep them inside when it gets hot like this.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“So, come on in and have a seat. What’s this all about?”
Banks was average height, blonde hair, blue eyes, a little overweight. Typical Minnesotan. He sat in a worn blue fabric covered lounge chair and reached for the coffee cup on the small table next to him.
Palm could smell the dogs. It wasn’t overpowering, but there had definitely been some accidents in the house.
“Sit down, Detective. Can I get you some coffee?”
Palm looked at the couch with fabric matching the lounge chair. He thought at first it had some kind of pattern in the fabric but then realized it had a good coating of dog hair. At least the place was air-conditioned.
“Um, no thanks. This shouldn’t take long.” Palm pulled up the DMV picture of John Volk, the man identified by the current Purgatory Park manager as being frequently at the park during lunch and sometimes in the evenings. He handed Banks his phone. “You recognize this man?”
Banks stared hard at the picture and handed it back. “Yeah. I think I saw him when I was the Purgatory Park Manager for Minnetonka. He’d show up and eat his lunch at one of the benches once in a while. Did he do something?” Banks handed the phone back to Palm.
“You know anything about him?”
“Not really. Only said hi a few times. He never stayed too long. Always tossed his garbage.”
Palm sniffed. His nose was starting to run. Eyes getting a little itchy. “What do you do now, Mr. Banks?”
“Same thing I did for Minnetonka, but I’m manager for all the New Hope Parks. Get to spend most of my time at city hall and not outside.”
Palm searched his pockets for a tissue. He had a few more questions, but he had to get out of the house. He thanked Banks for his time and was at the front door before Banks could get up from his chair. A used tissue was pulled from his pocket and he blew his nose as he walked down the sidewalk to his car. Through watery eyes Palm looked at the address of John Volk.
As Grace parked across the street, he could see the man identified the day before as an ‘asshole’ inside his garage. The trunk of his car was open, and he was putting something heavy inside, using both arms. Grace walked up the driveway as Trevor Cousins put one more load in the trunk and slammed it shut.
“Mr. Cousins?”
Cousins stared at the man approaching. Cousins was a large man with a shaved head, small silver earring in his left ear, and tattoos running from his left ear, down his neck, and disappearing under his stretched t-shirt. “Who the hell are you? Get off my property.”
Grace held out his identification and ID’d himself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Cousins.”
“Go to hell. Talk to my lawyer.”
“Mr. Cousins, a seven-year-old boy is missing. Anything you could tell us about him might save his life.” Cousins was quiet for a moment. “Come on. You have boys, right? Just a few questions?”
“Make it quick. We have to get to baseball practice.”
“Were you home early y
esterday afternoon?”
“I have to work to pay the fucking taxes on this place so guys like you can dress all fancy.”
“And what about your boys? Were they here?”
“They were, and they didn’t see anything.”
“Maybe I could just talk to them a minute?”
Cousins’ eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Grace. “You stay the hell away from my boys. You understand? Now get out of here.”
Grace could see Cousins’ boys standing by the car watching. Big kids. It tempted him to shout out a question to them, but he was pretty sure about what would happen if he did.
Palm decided to stop at Purgatory Park before seeing Volk. The parking lot for the park was small, only six spaces, with only two empty spots when Palm pulled in. There was a railroad-tie retaining wall in front of the parking lot, a mixture of different colored daisies planted above. Steps in the middle of the wall led up to the park area. Palm stared at the flowers, dreading the thought of getting out of his car into the heat and humidity that had not taken leave. He didn’t like heat and humidity. This was likely to cause a major problem at home.
Palm was only three years from when he could take retirement, something he and his wife wanted him to do as soon as he was eligible. Palm wanted to spend more time fishing and golfing. The problem was that Palm wanted to do it in Minnesota. His wife had just last week announced that when he retired they were going to escape the long Minnesota winters and move to Florida where it was very hot and humid, and where his wife’s sister lived. Palm did not think he could take either for an extended period of time – like a day.
The park was small, a few acres, but seemed well maintained. There was a covered area with picnic tables on a cement slab, other tables and benches scattered throughout the area. A playground west of the covered eating area had slides and swings and two wooden towers connected by a rope bridge. Fifty yards south of the playground was a cement block restroom.
The creek could just be seen to the west, high grasses still lying flat from the storm separated the creek from the park. Thick brush and trees hid much of the waters diminished flow.
There was one older couple at the park, otherwise there were young parents watching their children burn some of their energy, hoping it would help them sleep a little better tonight. Palm talked to each adult but found only one woman who remembered seeing Volk. She said he sat on a bench by himself as he ate as she pointed out the bench to Palm. Had seen him a few times but never spoken to him. She’d not seen him on weekends.
Palm pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his forehead as he walked to the bench where Volk had sat. It was the closest bench to the parking lot, between the playground and the lot. The bench was on a small knoll with a good view of the entire area, and quick access to the parking lot. Palm walked to the restrooms and then looked back to the bench. Volk could easily see if a child had gone to the bathroom by themselves.
There was an opening in the brush behind the bathroom, and Palm ventured in. A trail. Only ten or fifteen yards further the brush became so dense that it was hard to see the restrooms. The trail split at this point, north and south, Palm taking a sharp left. In a short time, he found himself on the far side of the parking lot.
Palm sat with legs out his open door while his engine ran, waiting to feel the cool air from his air conditioner. The first breeze hit him, and he swung his legs in, closing the door behind him, and looked out his windshield as he thought. He knew the trail he did not take would lead behind the backyards of Creekside Drive and to the Little’s home. It had to be almost three blocks. Could Austin Newman have come all this way? And wouldn’t he have been seen by someone at the park if he did? Someone besides Volk? None of it seemed right. Unless. Unless Volk had seen the boy on the road and picked him up. Or, seeing the boy emerge from the brush, grabbed him and forced him back down the trail. Taking him the way Palm had walked and then to his car. No one would see. Palm had talked himself out of having to interview Volk but now he knew that wouldn’t work. He backed out of his spot and headed to Volk’s house.
Chapter 23
John Volk lived in a washed-out green split-level home with a tuck-under garage. The yard was overgrown, weedy. Tree branches that had probably come down in the storm still on the ground. The shrubs near the house were reaching out over the cement walk. The walk itself was pitted and uneven, weeds in the cracks. Palm could see the peeling paint on the door inside the storm door, as he rang the bell.
A diminutive man with round wire-rimmed glasses and thinning brown hair opened the door.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Volk?”
“Yes.”
Palm showed his identification. “I’m Detective Palm with the Minnetonka police. I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
“You look hot, Detective. Why don’t you come in?” Volk pushed open his storm door, and Palm stepped into the hall.
Palm could see what he guessed was the living room over Volk’s head, straight ahead, and through the open doorway to his left was a galley kitchen and eating area. He followed the man into the living room, and Volk asked him to sit.
“Can I get you something to drink? Some water on a hot day, perhaps?”
Palm’s tongue was practically sticking to the roof of his mouth. “That would be great. Thanks.”
Palm’s eyes followed Volk as he left the room and then looked around. The inside of the house was the complete opposite of the yard. Everything was clean. Not a speck of dust on the table next to Palm’s chair, and the thick beige carpet had the tracks of a vacuum. The furniture was not new but of good quality. A grand piano to Palm’s right dominated the room, its surface shiny in the light coming through the picture window.
“Here we are,” said Volk as he handed Palm a glass and then set a coaster on the table next to him. Volk sat in the wing chair on the opposite side of the table. “So, what can I do for you?”
Volk’s eyes were green and bright below bushy eyebrows. A thin mustache ended at the corners of his small mouth. He wore a navy-blue polo buttoned to the top and tucked into his khaki shorts.
“You may have heard that a child went missing near here yesterday. A boy. Only seven.”
“Oh my. I had not heard about that. Do you have a picture?”
Palm showed him the photo of Austin on his phone. Volk looked carefully at the photo and then handed the phone back shaking his head.
“No, I can’t say as I have seen him, at least not recently. It seems to me I may have seen him at the park a few weeks ago, but, I couldn’t swear to that.”
“Purgatory Park?”
“That’s right.”
“You go there often?”
“Yes, I often eat my lunch there and sometimes even dinner. It’s such a happy place. I like to watch the children.”
Palm had the glass to his lips but now he stopped. “Why do you like to watch the children, Mr. Volk?”
Volk stared at Palm, and Palm thought the man was maybe going to cry. Instead, he got up, walked to the piano, and lifted a framed picture that was there. He walked back and sat down, handing the picture of himself with a blonde woman and a small child to Palm.
“It was one of our favorite places to go. Danny could play there for hours.”
“Danny is your son?”
Volk to a deep breath. “Was my son. He and his mother were killed in a car accident several years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
"Thank you.”
Palm looked around the room. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Volk?”
“I’m an accountant. An out-of-work accountant. I’m sorry about the lawn. I had to discontinue my lawn service a few weeks ago. The neighbor boy was supposed to come and mow last week, but he’s not the most reliable, apparently.”
“Looks as good as mine.” Palm stood and handed his empty glass to Volk. “Thanks for your time and the water, Mr. Volk. Have a good day.” Palm let himself out the door, Volk
shutting it behind him. Walked to his car and stood with his hand on the door handle. Something made him pause. Just a feeling. After Palm got back in his car, he again looked across the street thinking he should check out the man’s story about his family. Volk was in the window.
Grace also had the feeling he was being watched. He and the two uniforms had gotten statements from everyone on the street except Daniel. Grace just had a weird feeling about the Daniel house. The windows of the home all had curtains or shutters or both. The windows on the garage had been blacked out. There was no way to see in. Banging on the front door and ringing the bell numerous times had produced no response. Grace had obtained the phone number for Daniel but calls had not been answered, and a message had produced no reply.
As Grace was about to leave, a kid riding a lawnmower came up the street and into the yard. The kid had on headphones with a small antenna. He looked at Grace on the doorstep for a minute before he lowered the blade on the mover and engaged the drive. Grace walked across the yard and stood in the boy's way on his return trip across the lawn. He signaled with a slash move across his throat for the boy to turn off the mower.
“Yeah?” said the kid after hanging his headphones on his neck.
Grace showed his badge. “You ever see the guy that lives here?”
“Is he a criminal or something?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Like once. At the beginning of the summer.”
“How do you get paid?”
“He leaves money in an envelope for me under the mat on his front step.”
Grace looked back at the steps. “You have any idea if he is here?” The kid shook his head ‘no’. Grace looked at the house again. “Thanks.”
Daniel had watched the exchange with the lawn boy making sure Grace went back to his car and drove away. He had also heard the banging on his door and his doorbell as well as his phone. He was tempted to go ask the boy what the policeman had talked about but decided it was best not to venture out. There could still be police in the area.
