When Time Is a River

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  When they returned, two days later, the robin was still alive and sitting on the window ledge. Brandy had opened the window and it flew out and directly to the nest in the oak tree only a few feet away from her window. She’d been ten at the time and felt sorry for the dead babies.

  Now, watching what Emily’s disappearance had done to Christine, Brandy understood that the real suffering had been for the momma bird, watching helplessly while her babies died.

  Kathleen emerged onto her flagstone patio, carrying a tray of hot tea and sandwiches. She set it on a glass-top table, then beckoned to Brandy.

  Brandy pulled out a green metal chair, gone to rust at the bolts that held it together. She stared at the back door. “Will we hear the phone?”

  Kathleen nodded toward a set of bells for the phone above the doorway. “Don’t worry. We’ll hear it.”

  Before Brandy could lift the teacup to her mouth, the phone pealed, loud as a siren in the still yard.

  Brandy flinched. Her gaze met Kathleen’s and held for a terrified instant. Knocking her chair over in the rush, Brandy took the steps two at a time, then plunged through the kitchen door. “Hello?”

  “Is this Brandy?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice strangled.

  “Your father just called,” Officer Corbin said. “The child in Medford was not Emily.”

  * * *

  Brandy and her dad moved around each other in the kitchen with polite concern. The child in the dumpster turned out to be a little girl missing from northern California. People could be so vicious. Someone had kept that little girl a whole year before killing her.

  Unable to sit, Brandy started the washing machine, loaded the dishwasher with coffee cups and water glasses, and wiped the granite counters with a damp sponge. When her dad swept the Cheerios and cookie crumbs from beneath Emily’s highchair into a dustpan and headed for the plastic trashcan beneath the sink, Brandy cringed. “Don’t do that.” She wanted to keep everything Emily had touched the way it was until her baby sister came home.

  Her father looked at her, then dumped the dustpan’s contents back onto the floor beneath Emily’s highchair. One Cheerio rolled to a stop beside the highchair’s front leg.

  With her back against the pantry cabinets, she stared at the Cheerio as if it held some key to the future. The silence of Emily being gone rang in Brandy’s ears. A three-foot high silence that seemed to scream out: please, you have to find me.

  When her dad put on a fresh pot of coffee, he phoned the police station for the hundredth time, then joined Brandy at the kitchen table. They reviewed the day’s events.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Not again,” he said. “I can’t face another round of pity hiding behind a batch of chocolate chip cookies.”

  Each time the bell rang, her father had answered the door, politely thanked the givers, then crammed the perishables into the already-packed refrigerator. The baked goods were stacked, untouched, on the kitchen counters.

  Eager to do something helpful, Brandy stood. “I’ll get this one,” she said, hurrying toward their entryway.

  She opened the door.

  Detective Radhauser stepped inside. “Is your father home?”

  As Brandy ushered him toward the kitchen, Christine appeared in the hallway. “Have you found my baby?”

  When he shook his head, her stepmother turned without a word and headed back to her bedroom.

  Brandy led Radhauser into the kitchen, offered him a cup of coffee.

  He took it, pulled out a chair, and joined Brandy’s father at the table. “The prints on the animal cracker box match Emily’s.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We let the boy go home. He didn’t have anything to do with Emily’s disappearance.”

  Her dad leapt to his feet. “Maybe not, but he has to know something. You’re just being soft on him because he’s not right in the head.”

  “The boy’s story checks out,” Radhauser said. “We’ve had our share of cranks and cons, but we got a call on the 800 number. A young woman who works as a nanny said she saw someone in a Winnie the Pooh costume carrying a giggling little girl who loosely fit Emily’s description. The caller thought they were playing a game. Five minutes later, we got another call. Same story. Except this one thought someone had hired the Pooh bear for a birthday party. She said the child carried a yellow balloon.”

  “Yellow is Emily’s favorite color,” Brandy said. What would Emily do if someone posing as Pooh bear had entered the women’s restroom? Brandy didn’t need to think about the answer. Emily would have lifted her arms to be picked up. Kent and Mrs. Wyatt had been right.

  Her dad clamped his hands together, then pushed them back out until his knuckles cracked. “How can you be sure it was Emily and not some other little girl?”

  “We can’t be one hundred percent certain, but it adds credibility to what Kent told us.”

  “But the boy has Down syndrome.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can’t see,” Radhauser said. “And we now have two other accounts to support his story.”

  “Three,” Brandy said. “Don’t forget Mrs. Wyatt.”

  Her father looked at her. “Who is Mrs. Wyatt, and why do you know about her when I don’t?”

  Brandy held her breath, uncertain of what to say.

  “Your daughter talked to her on one of the neighborhood canvasses,” Radhauser said. “She has a long history with Ashland Police and is not the most reliable witness.” He told Brandy’s father how Mrs. Wyatt claimed to have seen a person wearing a bear costume load a little girl into a vehicle parked in the Winburn lot.

  “I think she’s telling the truth this time,” Brandy said.

  “It’s beginning to look that way,” Radhauser agreed.

  Her dad paced across the kitchen. “Jesus Christ. What kind of a person would do something like this?”

  The muscles in Brandy’s neck stiffened. Emily would think someone wearing a costume that looked just like the one in the toyshop window was the real thing. She’d be excited and she’d say, “Bumblebee no sting big Pooh. He no nap.”

  “A smart one,” Radhauser said. “Someone who knew Emily wouldn’t be afraid of Pooh.”

  “Shit,” her dad said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “I interviewed both callers and they were credible. Vernon is working the list of known sex offenders. We’ve got officers visiting all the costume shops and talking with the costumed healthcare workers from the Children’s Health Fair. We’re going to find her.”

  Brandy braced herself. But it didn’t keep the image from forming. Emily empty-eyed and exploited by some pervert with a video camera and an email list of pedophiles with credit cards. She looked at Radhauser and he looked at her.

  “We scented the canine unit with Emily’s sneakers.” Radhauser let out a long puff of air. He told them about the way the hound had stopped in the middle of the bridge where they now believed the perp had taken off Emily’s shoes, and then circled a parking place in the Winburn lot.

  Her father’s eyes looked puffy and rimmed in red. “What kind of a weirdo would do something like that? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone in a big hurry stop in a busy park to remove her shoes?”

  Radhauser stiffened. “I hope to find that out, Mr. Michaelson.”

  “So, you’re telling me someone dressed up like Winnie the Pooh carried Emily across the playground. Stopped in the middle of the bridge to take off her shoes. Took the time to tie the laces together in double knots, and then tossed them into the creek. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Radhauser said. “But it sure looks that way.”

  Brandy’s father tapped his index finger on the table. “I don’t believe this. Some freak, wearing a costume, with…” He paused. “With a damn shoe fetish, has Emily.”

  Radhauser sat back, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  A gust of wind from the open window ruffled the edge of the finger painting Emily had stuck
onto the refrigerator door. Above the painting, five magnetic letters floated in a plastic, child-like script. Multicolored and insistent, they spelled Emily.

  “Jesus,” her dad said. “It’s been an entire day since she was taken. She could have been put on a plane and be halfway around the world by now.” He laced the fingers of his hands together as if he were going to pray.

  Brandy turned and gripped the counter, her hands wet and icy. She leaned over the sink, trying to purge all the muddled things inside her. But in the back of her mind, a plan began to form.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If a missing child wasn’t found in the first forty-eight hours, they probably never would be. Emily Michaelson had been missing for nearly twenty-six. Radhauser glanced at his watch. He needed a solid suspect. Now. What the hell was taking Vernon so long?

  Detective Vernon tapped on Radhauser’s office door, then stepped inside. “I got Stefan Wysocki in the interrogation room. He’s our man.” Vernon’s face was red, the way it got when he was excited. He’d taken off his blazer and there were circles of perspiration under his arms. He held up an evidence bag holding a 6-inch high stuffed bear. It wore a blue T-shirt with the words Children’s Health Fair and the logo of the local hospital printed across the back. A plastic stethoscope hung around the bear’s neck. “We found this in his bedroom. I checked with the fair’s coordinator. They only handed them out to kids under six.”

  Radhauser’s muscles went loose in relief. “Nice work,” he said, feeling hopeful for the first time since Emily disappeared. “It’s about time we caught a break.” He tucked the bear into his briefcase to pull out when they needed it.

  Vernon jerked over a chair and sat in front of the desk. He looked both frazzled and exhausted—probably hadn’t gotten any more sleep last night than Radhauser had.

  “This is what I know about the scumbag,” Vernon said. “He’s got no sheet. But he lives alone in that expensive high rise near Mountainside Elementary. Tenth floor. Overlooking the playground. We found binoculars on his bedside table.”

  The headache that had dogged Radhauser all morning ratcheted up a notch as he imagined the small playground behind Lizzie’s preschool. Little girls on swings, their skirts lifting in the wind. Little girls clambering around on the monkey bars and seesaws. He clamped his eyes shut, hoping the images would go away. “Do you ever wonder why we keep doing this job?”

  “Every day,” Vernon said.

  As a detective, Radhauser had seen almost everything, but nothing repulsed him quite as much as the twisted mind that allowed a grown man to take an innocent little girl and use her for his pleasure. If anyone ever laid a hand on Lizzie—

  Vernon opened Wysocki’s laptop and downloaded a file. He slipped the computer across the desktop to Radhauser. It was filled with photographs of little girls in bathing suits. Little girls in party dresses with ruffles and patent leather shoes. Toddlers wearing sailor suits and Easter bonnets.

  “He had an entire bedroom full of kiddie lingerie, child-sized sequined evening gowns. Even boxes of tiny high heels in every color. It was fucking creepy. But it was the teddy bear that convinced me.”

  They spent a few moments discussing strategy, then Radhauser stood, slapped a hand on Vernon’s back. “Let’s get this over with. Try not to scare him into silence.” Radhauser worried about Vernon. This case was getting to him and it showed.

  By the time they stepped into the interrogation room, the two west-facing windows were already steamed up. It was a small, olive green room, about eight feet by eight feet. It held only a square wooden table with circular stains from coffee cups and coke cans, a tape recorder and four mismatched wooden chairs.

  Stefan Wysocki stood in the center of the room, his right hand slipped casually into the pocket of his slacks like a fashion model. He was a good-looking man—slender, but broad in the chest and shoulders. “How may I be of help, detectives?”

  Despite his handsome features, his body looked like it had been made from parts taken from other bodies—his arms too short for his long legs, his head a little too big for his slender neck. His dark hair was neatly styled as if he was ready to broadcast the weather on national television. He wore a starched white shirt open at the neck, and a tan linen jacket with brass buttons. He looked like a man who never passed a mirror without casting a lingering glance into it.

  Radhauser pulled out a chair and motioned to Wysocki. “Thank you for coming in.”

  Wysocki sat, adjusted the creases on his pants, and then folded his long-fingered hands in front of the recorder that rested on the table. His nails were neatly filed and had a pink sheen.

  Radhauser cringed, pictured Wysocki painting Emily’s fingernails and then his own.

  “Ever since I heard it on the news,” Wysocki said, “I’ve been worried sick about that little girl. But I’m meeting a client at four.” He had the soft, melodious voice of a man who could convince any little girl to help him look for a lost kitten. A man who knew how to get what he wanted.

  “I understand you’re in an interesting line of work, Mr. Wysocki,” Radhauser said. “Would you tell us a little bit about it?”

  “Pageant attire for girls in sizes 2-T to 6X. Three-toddler is my most popular line. I guess you could say I consult on wardrobe issues. And I put together photographic portfolios for contestants.” Wysocki shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

  Vernon walked to the corner of the room and backed into it, watching Wysocki intently as if trying to get a sense of what went on in his brain.

  Wysocki looked over at Vernon and flashed him a big smile, a wink, and a pinkie wave. The cocky son of a bitch.

  “Don’t wink at me, you…”

  Radhauser shot Vernon a look and set his briefcase on the floor. He pulled out the chair across from the suspect, then turned on the tape recorder. He stated the date, time, and location, and that Detectives Radhauser and Vernon were interviewing Stefan Wysocki, a person of interest in the Emily Michaelson case.

  Wysocki listened, then glared at Vernon. “Person of interest? You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with that little girl’s disappearance.”

  “Well, gee whiz,” Vernon said. “Could it be because you’re always hanging around the park, taking photos of little girls?”

  “Did you check the ice cream shop?” Wysocki jeered. “I hear the last missing kid was found napping under a table there.”

  Beneath the bravado, Radhauser heard a hint of fear.

  “You’ve got no probable cause. Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  “You’re certainly entitled to do that,” Radhauser said. “But we’re not arresting you. We just have a few questions. And you were nice enough to come in.”

  Vernon moved closer. He softened his voice. “Like how do you explain the kiddie porn on your computer?”

  “There’s nothing pornographic about those pictures. And lots of people like little girls. Why do you think those kid beauty pageants are so popular?”

  A line of sweat broke just under Radhauser’s hairline and trailed slowly down the back of his neck. The little girls in Wysocki’s online photo album were around Emily’s age—between three and four years old. “My daughter is interested in competing,” Radhauser lied, hoping to lower Wysocki’s guard, make him less defensive. “Maybe you can show me and my wife some of your outfits.”

  “It would be my pleasure. I’ve got the best selection in the valley. Some of them are…” He paused, shrugged. “Sweetly provocative. Just perfect for pageants.”

  Provocative. The word echoed inside Radhauser’s brain, his thoughts coming rough and relentless. What kind of person found a three-year-old girl provocative? He sucked in a breath. “Do you spend much time in the Lithia Park playground?”

  “That park has an incredible variety of bird species. It’s beautiful and inspirational. My true calling is poetry. And I’m published, I might add.” He lifted his chin.

  Vernon laughed, then pulled out the other chair and sat
next to Radhauser. “Would that be in the National Association of Perverts Anthology?”

  “Go ahead and make your stupid jokes. You have no idea how hard it is to get poetry published. I’ve placed a few of my photographs, too.”

  “Congratulations,” Radhauser said. “Were you in the park yesterday?”

  “Half of Ashland was there.”

  “I know. I’ve spoken with a lot of them. But were you there?”

  “I’m trying to remember.”

  “You’re a little young for Alzheimer’s. Besides, I have signed statements from two witnesses, former clients of yours. Both of them saw you near the park playground yesterday, taking photographs. It was about the time Emily Michaelson went missing.”

  Wysocki shifted in his chair, lifted the cuff of his shirt and checked his watch. “People lie all the time. Besides, that little girl was snatched from the women’s restroom.”

  Vernon stared at him for a long moment. “Listen, you little faggot. With a fucking wig on, you’d be able to use the women’s restroom. I heard rumors you enjoy dressing like a woman.”

  Wysocki jerked back in his chair as if he’d been slapped. “I most certainly do not.” His pale cheeks reddened. “Why are you harassing me?”

  “Do you carry costumes as part of your fashion line?” Radhauser asked.

  Wysocki nodded. “Child pageants often include interpretive dance or acting as part of the talent segment.”

  “Do you have access to bear costumes?”

  “Why, Detective Radhauser, do you need one?” There was a mocking tone to his voice.

  Radhauser wanted nothing more than to slap that wise-ass attitude off Wysocki’s face, but he wasn’t the kind of detective who resorted to violence.

  “I suppose I could order a bear costume if one of my clients wanted one.”

  Radhauser felt the heat rising on the back of his neck. “Have you ever worn a bear costume, Mr. Wysocki?”

  Wysocki jumped to his feet. “The cops searched my apartment. They didn’t find any evidence to support that claim.” He puffed out his chest. “I told you my line is for toddlers and preschool girls. You may have noticed I’m a bit larger than a size 6X.”