The Truant Officer v5

by Derek Ciccone

  “So you are Darren McLaughlin,” she said with a grin. She turned to the cameraman, who looked half asleep. “Are you getting this?”

  “Turn the camera off,” Darren demanded.

  She turned back to him. “I’m going to be straight with you, Darren—can I call you Darren?”

  He said nothing, which she took as a green light.

  “Your wife is in danger, Darren. And it has nothing to do with a picture—it’s because you think the police are going to find her. If you’re counting on the police, Lilly is going to end up beaten and raped like the others—you saw the pictures of those women, right?” he again said nothing, but nodded slightly—he had. “I’m your best shot to get her back safe and sound.”

  He looked at her with disbelief. “What could you do to get Lilly back?”

  “For one thing, the police in this case are incompetent. They tell you that Lilly could be in danger if her name gets out. But then fail to protect information that would connect her to the abduction.”

  She displayed a credit card and held it in front of his face. It was Lilly’s Visa card. He tried to snatch it, but she pulled it back. “Where did you get that?” he asked with annoyance.

  Then the card was gone. She turned quickly to see a wiry man with thick gelled hair. He wore a cheap, ill-fitting suit with no tie and too much cologne. “I’ll take that, thank you very much.”

  “Give that back, Brandon,” she ordered.

  The man in the suit smiled coolly. “I’ll tell you what, Jessi. You stop messing with my investigation and I’ll look past this whole stolen evidence thing,” he held up the credit card to make his point. “And if you release any names in regards to this investigation, you’ll be heading to jail. And you don’t really strike me as a prison kinda girl.”

  The comment extracted a laugh from her cameraman and she shot a dirty look in his direction.

  The man in the suit nodded at a couple of bored airport security guards, who took great pleasure in escorting the pushy reporter and her cameraman out of the area.

  He turned to Darren. “Mr. McLaughlin, I’m Officer Longa of the Chandler Police. Please come with me, we have a lot to talk about concerning your wife.”

  Chapter 6

  Darren was led to a holding room beneath Sky Harbor. It was a place usually reserved for unruly passengers taken off flights. The potential terrorists made the headlines, but 99% of the time the cause of the disturbance was alcohol and not Jihad.

  The no-frills room was made up of just a metal table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a water cooler. Officer Longa had said nothing during their journey to the bowels of the airport, which included numerous flights of stairs in stifling heat. But Longa turned into a smiling greeter when they reached the room. He introduced Darren to two other plain-clothes officers. One named Madkins, who looked like an aging surfer with a mop of frosted blond hair. The other, Gutierrez, was a large, menacing man with a Fu Manchu mustache.

  They all sat around the table, except Longa, who continued to pace the room with nervous energy. Gutierrez and Madkins began looking through folders marked McLaughlin. When Darren had called to inform the local police that it was his wife on that video, they already had known her identity. It confounded him at first, but during his cross-country flight he had time to conclude that it was likely there was more surveillance footage than what was released, probably including the license plate number on the SUV she was driving. Thanks to the reporter, Darren now knew that Lilly must have given her credit card to the attendant. The surprise would have been if they didn’t know her identity.

  But at the same time, just seeing a police file with their name on it brought a sick feeling to his stomach. The heat began to smother his senses and he started to feel lightheaded.

  Longa noticed this, and asked, “Are you all right, Mr. McLaughlin?”

  “I’m fine,” Darren replied. He didn’t want any delays in the hunt for Lilly. “I’ve had a tough few hours.”

  “I can imagine,” Madkins said. “You seem nervous, I’m guessing that is related to worry for your wife.”

  “I just want to get Lilly back.”

  “Don’t we all, Mr. McLaughlin, don’t we all,” Gutierrez stated, then got up and filled a plastic cup with water and brought it to Darren. “Here you go, don’t want you to pass out on us. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Longa stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the table, beside Darren. “So you’re a pilot, Mr. McLaughlin?”

  Darren thought the pilot uniform should have been a dead giveaway, not to mention that these guys had six hours to gather information about him. But as with his commanding officers in the Air Force, he knew it was best to keep the answers short and never question. Besides, Lilly was the one who was good with the sarcastic remarks.

  “Yes.”

  Madkins continued to flip through the folder like he was cramming for a final exam. “I see you were in the Air Force?”

  “Yes, I graduated from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. I put in ten years before joining the civilian ranks. I now fly commercial.”

  “Air Force Academy, wow, muy impressivo, Señor McLaughlin,” Gutierrez interjected.

  “I’ll bet you had one of those cool pilot nicknames?” Madkins said, feigning interest.

  “That’s only in the movies,” Gutierrez shot back at his partner. “But what they do teach you in the military is how to use weapons, isn’t that right, Mr. McLaughlin?”

  Darren wasn’t sure how this was helping, but continued to conform. “We went to basic training like all military. But I mostly flew cargo missions. I was never involved in any combat.”

  Longa got things back on track, “So the reason you were in New York was because you were working...as a pilot?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Do you have a schedule set in advance?” Longa continued.

  “Yes, we put in bids at the beginning of each month for our trips. They are based on seniority. So I’ve known about this trip for weeks. Can you please tell me what this has to do with getting my wife back?”

  Longa frowned at Darren’s challenge. “Getting her back means finding the person who drove off in your vehicle. I’m trying to establish if someone might have been aware that you were planning to be out of town.”

  Darren had assumed it was a random act. “So you’re saying that her abductor—this gang member—might have been planning this and waited until I was away?”

  The three of them traded curious glances.

  “Who said anything about gang members?” Gutierrez asked with an incredulous look.

  “Do you know something we don’t know?” Madkins chipped in.

  Darren remained confused. “I saw it on the news—fourth woman this month.”

  “If it’s on the news it must be true,” Madkins added with his smirk.

  “Ever heard of a copycat crime, Mr. McLaughlin?” Longa asked.

  “Sure—when someone makes a crime look like one that already took place—you think that might be what happened with Lilly?”

  Madkins and Guitierrez broke into laughter. Longa shushed the comedy team, before continuing with a serious face, “How have things been in your marriage, Mr. McLaughlin. The spark still alive?”

  “Things are fine.”

  “Fine, as in you’re doing it five times a week, or fine as in nobody is filing charges against each other?”

  “Things are fine,” Darren repeated, his tone turning angry.

  Longa remained serious. “Things will only be fine when we get Lilly back. And the only way we’re going to do that is if you start telling us the truth. You do want us to find your wife, don’t you, Mr. McLaughlin?”

  Chapter 7

  “We’ve had a little rough patch, okay? I don’t know exactly what you’re accusing me of, but if you don’t want to find Lilly, then I’ll do it myself,” Darren had officially lost his cool.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. McLaughlin. We’re not accu
sing you of anything,” Longa said with arms in the air, surrender style. “We’re just covering all our bases. But we’re convinced that your wife’s disappearance is connected to your flight schedule.”

  Madkins and Gutierrez nodded their heads.

  Darren did his best tough-guy nod and responded, “Good.”

  “When was the last time you had contact with your wife?” Longa asked.

  Darren suddenly remembered the photos she attached to her text. It seemed like years ago. “She sent me these photos. I assume it was right before she was attacked,” he said, reaching into his front pocket and handing them the phone.

  Madkins practically drooled on the photos, “Every man’s fantasy indeed, you are one lucky man.”

  He passed the phone to Gutierrez. “Ooo-la-la—that is one hot tamale.”

  The phone finally arrived in Longa’s hands and he looked impressed. “A woman like that must be hard to hold onto for a simple man like yourself, Mr. McLaughlin...no offense. I’d be jealous all the time.”

  That sounded like another accusation. Darren understood that the husband was always the first suspect, but it wasn’t helping to get Lilly back, and that’s all he cared about at the moment. He then remembered something else. “She had GPS on her cell phone. Can’t you use cell phone towers to trace it?”

  They all laughed.

  “Maybe we should get him a badge,” Madkins quipped.

  With a raised hand, Longa quieted his troops once again, and then said, “That’s the first thing we did. It’s called triangulation, and it led us to a dumpster at the local high school where your wife works. The phone was too smashed for us to positively ID it, but we are confident it was Lilly’s phone. It was destroyed and ditched, so we are dealing with people who know what they’re doing.”

  “Which makes it interesting that you would bring the cell phone up,” Gutierrez said in an accusatory tone, no longer laughing.

  Darren chose not to take the bait, remaining silent.

  “Do you have any idea why your wife was out at that gas station on a Sunday night?” Longa asked.

  Darren shrugged. “I don’t know. But Lilly always let the gas gauge run low. Maybe she was filling up so she wouldn’t have to worry about it in the morning.”

  Longa’s look said he didn’t buy the answer. “The night manager said she seemed in a rush. What would be the hurry if she was just filling her tank before going home to get a good night’s rest?”

  “She’s always on the go—it’s just the way she’s wired. Nothing out of character,” Darren replied.

  Madkins took another peek at the pictures that Lilly took of herself—pictures that were only meant for Darren. “And she is dressed to impress. That doesn’t look like a curl-up-with-a-book outfit.”

  “Lilly always dresses like that. I’m a little more conservative, but she…”

  “Your wife works at South Chandler High School, correct?” Longa interrupted.

  Darren assumed he already knew the answer—it was obvious that he knew a lot more than he was letting on—but continued to go with the flow. “Yes—she taught junior and senior English.”

  “You said she always dresses the same way. Does that include school?”

  Darren had enough of them blaming the victim. “What are you getting at!?”

  “I’m just saying that kids that age can be very impressionable.”

  “Catch a glimpse of some leg and go into hormone overload...ah, those were the days,” Madkins interjected.

  “Those are still your days. Bottom line is, hormones can make these teenagers do some crazy shit,” Gutierrez added.

  Darren started to think along with them. Teenage hormones, knowledge that he was out of town... “Are you saying one of her students might have done this? And then made it look like a gang initiation?

  Longa took out a fake pen and pretended to write down his theory. Another not-very-subtle way of letting him know they were the police and in charge. And as much as he wanted to storm out, he needed these jerks.

  “Was she close to any specific students?” Longa asked.

  “A lot of them. She always wanted to help—especially the ones who had tough upbringings, like herself. She certainly didn’t mean to lead any of them on.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. Did any of her students come over to your house, or meet with her outside of school?” Longa asked.

  “She held tutoring sessions at our house on the weekends. But I met all of those kids and none of them gave off the vibe that they’d be capable of something like this.”

  “Husbands can always tell that sort of stuff,” Longa said. “Were you always present for these sessions to perform your Jedi mind tricks?”

  Darren ignored the sarcasm. “No, sometimes I was away, like this weekend.”

  “Ever meet a Brett Buckley?”

  The name surprised him. “Yes. He had moved here recently from Seattle or something like that. Do you think he was the one behind this?”

  The officers had another hearty laugh at his expense, while Darren bit his tongue.

  Finally Longa gathered himself enough to say, “It takes more than one person to pull off something like this.”

  “It takes two to tango,” Madkins said, still chuckling.

  “Lleva dos el tango,” Gutierrez seconded. “But my guess is you already know this, Mr. McLaughlin, even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself.”

  Darren was tiring of the code-speak and inside jokes. “Let’s cut the bull. Tell me what happened to my wife!”

  Longa pointed his finger in Darren’s direction. “I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”

  Just as the words were about to fly out of his mouth, the doors of the room swung open and the cavalry barged in—led by a silver-haired man in an expensive suit. “This interrogation is over,” he announced.

  Longa fought against it, but the man pulled rank. “This case is now officially under the jurisdiction of the FBI. One more stunt like this, and I’ll personally make sure you’re writing parking tickets for the next thirty years.”

  Longa and his team were ushered out. When the doors shut, the distinguished looking man sat beside Darren and gave him a disarming smile.

  “Mr. McLaughlin, I’m Agent LaPoint of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I’m your new best friend.”

  Chapter 8

  The US Attorney pounced off his chair in his Manhattan office and picked up the ringing phone. “Eicher here.”

  “It’s LaPoint.”

  Eicher felt a twinge of relief. He’d been waiting for this call since he got the news last night.

  “Well?” he asked, having run out of patience.

  “I just finished grilling the husband—the pilot. He either doesn’t know shit, or he should win the Oscar. And I don’t mean he should be happy to be nominated, he should win the damn thing.”

  Eicher sighed. Another dead end. How could he be living under the same roof and have absolutely no clue? As a federal prosecutor, he believed in the standard of reasonable doubt, but as a card-carrying cynic, he was always skeptical of convenient coincidences. So he needed it proven beyond any reasonable doubt that the McLaughlins’ swift infiltration into Brett Buckley’s life was a random act.

  “But we got lucky,” LaPoint tried to paint a bright side.

  “And how would that be?”

  “The local police had beat us to him, and they were going to get an arrest warrant for the wife.”

  Eicher winced. He knew the type of publicity that these kinds of cases generated. Signing an arrest warrant would have been the equivalent of putting the kid before a firing squad. “I thought Fitzpatrick said that situation was under control.”

  “If it was, then I wouldn’t be sweating my balls off in the Arizona desert, would I? Fitzpatrick ordered the local police to shut down their investigation weeks ago. We gave them no explanation other than our boy Buckley had a higher calling. But after last night’s events, I think they saw it as a chan
ce to ride in like heroes.”

  LaPoint gave the impression that Eicher should thank him for messing up his case, and probably getting Nick killed in the process. “Something sparked the kid—set him off. I interviewed him a hundred times over the past year. He was unflappable and levelheaded. This move was completely out of character. What do you think happened?”

  LaPoint chuckled. “I think we both know what happened. And just the fact you asked means it hasn’t happened for you in a while.”

  Eicher conceded the point. It was a logical explanation, especially when recent events were factored in. But when it came to this case, he had learned that nothing was as it seemed to be. He thought for a moment, before saying, “I think it goes deeper.”

  “I think you and the kid have something in common.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re both spooked. Seeing things that aren’t there. I think it’s straightforward—the local cops scared him when they threatened to make an arrest on the other matter. He knows who he’s dealing with—so it makes sense that he got scared. He even told Fitzpatrick that he saw Zubov scouting him out at the mall, which we both know couldn’t be true, because if it was, he’d be dead. So he did what we all do when we get scared—we run to our mommy—in his case, a mother figure. Traveling in pairs gives the illusion of safety, so that’s what they did.”

  Eicher knew that panic was the first step toward tragedy. And just the thought of the soulless killing machine named Zubov made him ill. But he also knew what the kid had been through in the past year, so maybe LaPoint was right—the fear drove him to confide in his favorite teacher. In the end, she was the only one he trusted and she helped him concoct a plan to get him out of Dodge before Zubov got him. He wasn’t going to stick around to find out if he was real or imagined.

  Eicher wondered if Lilly McLaughlin really understood exactly what she had gotten herself into. But then he had another thought. A troubling one. Perhaps she knew exactly what she’d done.

  He flipped through a folder that had been sitting in the same spot on his desk for the past year. One photo was of Nick’s father, Karl Zellen, who wore a fashionable bullet hole in his forehead. The next picture was of his mother, Paula, lying lifelessly in the lion’s den, sprayed with bullets. But the photos that grabbed him by the throat—the ones that turned this case into an obsession for him—were the ones of Nick’s girlfriend, Audrey Mays. It was a warning to Nick about the perils of testifying against Alexei Sarvydas.