by Roger Hayden
The woman’s smile dropped as she paused with a look of understanding towards why they were there. “Yes, Detective. One moment, please.”
She grabbed a service phone on the wall behind her and called the manager. “Yes, sir. We have some detectives here to talk to you.” She paused and sized Hayes and Shelton up, taking notice of Miriam who stood behind them. “Yes, I’ll tell them. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and spoke softly as though she didn’t want to bring attention to their presence. “Mr. Hutton will be right out.”
From his picture, Samuel Hutton was the same assistant manager who Miriam had spoken with, and she was confident he’d remember her. Their conversation was brief, and he wasn’t satisfied with Miriam asking one of the cashiers if she had any information about Walter Browning. With Browning’s involvement solidified, now Miriam wanted to know about someone else.
“Is this about Walter?” the red-haired woman asked. “We can’t believe it. I didn’t know him that well. Is it true?”
“I’m afraid we can’t confirm that right now, ma’am,” Hayes said as he leaned against the counter.
“We’re all very concerned,” she continued. “I hope he wasn’t involved.” She paused and then leaned in closer. “I have to admit, he was a little weird.”
Miriam stepped forward and placed her hands on the counter, taking charge. “We’re looking for an employee who may have been friends with Mr. Browning. First name is Ken.”
Shelton touched her arm without saying anything, but Miriam kept her focus on the woman as she thought to herself.
“Ken? Why he’s our—”
Suddenly, Hutton emerged from a back room and approached the officers, his dark, thickened eyebrows, balding head, and red-puffy face the same as when Miriam had met him before.
“Yes, Detectives. How can I help you?” He then paused and took immediate notice of Miriam. His stone face indicated that he believed her to be a troublemaker. “I’m sorry, I thought I made it clear that if you need to speak with management about the kidnapping case to please set up a meeting.”
Miriam slinked behind Shelton, trying to take the focus off her.
“We understand that, Mr. Hutton,” Hayes said. “We just have a few questions, and then we’ll be on our way.”
Hutton looked around with a concerned look. “Can we speak back here? I think it would be more appropriate.”
“Certainly,” Hayes said.
They followed the assistant manager behind the counter as Miriam turned to the red-haired woman one last time, but she was already helping another customer. Hutton was quick to lead the detectives away, and Miriam caught the back of his tight-fitting dark blue vest and white long sleeves move around the corner, just in time to catch up.
Hutton led them down a short and narrow hallway where he entered the first room on their left—a modest break room with two circular tables, chairs, and a counter with a sink, microwave, and coffee machine. He waited for the detectives and Miriam to enter the room and then closed the door.
Miriam stood near the counter as Hayes and Shelton both sat down. There were no windows in the small room. Coffee grounds littered the two tables. Miriam pictured Walter and Ken sitting there, discussing their kidnapping plot all within the security of a confined break room.
“I’m sorry to be skittish about this whole thing,” Hutton said, approaching them, “but I’ve got a business to run. This store has an image to maintain as a safe family environment. I think you can respect that.” He then pulled out a chair and leaned against its backside.
“We understand, Mr. Hutton,” Hayes said. “It isn’t our intention to harm a local business with this investigation, but there are still a lot of unanswered questions.”
Hutton nervously looked up at Miriam and then back to the detectives. “I heard about Walter Browning, and we’re willing to disclose whatever information needed about him. I didn’t know him very well, but it seems that he was involved in something bad.”
“Well, he kidnapped Natalie Forester, for starters,” Shelton said. “Right here in your parking lot.”
Hutton stood quietly for a moment, stunned to silence. He scratched at his forehead and then shook against the chair. “I had no idea. None of us did. I still don’t know all the details, but we take the safety of our customers and their children very seriously here.”
Miriam took her hands out of her pockets and moved forward from the counter, ready to engage the initially recalcitrant assistant manager. “We received Mr. Browning’s name from an anonymous tip. Someone knew what he had done. The person we’re looking for now is another one of your employees. A man named Ken.”
Hutton looked perplexed. “Ken?”
“We don’t have a last name,” Shelton said. “We were hoping you could help us out with that.”
Hutton nodded with a permanent look of confusion. “I can have Shelia look at our employee books and make sure.”
“Does the name ring a bell, Mr. Hutton?” Miriam asked, walking toward him. “Or should we speak with the manager?”
“Mr. Gutierrez isn’t here today,” Hutton said. “He’s visiting a new location two towns over. I’m perfectly willing to cooperate here.”
“Much like you dismissed my questions about Walter Browning?” Miriam asked. She placed her hands on the back of a chair close to Hutton and leaned forward. “There’s still a girl missing, and we want to speak to Ken.”
Silence filled the room as Hutton stared ahead with tiny sweat beads on his forehead.
“Are you nervous about something, Mr. Hutton?” Hayes asked. “Relax. We just need to speak with this employee.”
“Ken Frohman,” Hutton said. “He works the night shift. Stocks shelves. But I can’t think of a time when the two of them were on the same shift.”
“We need a name and an address,” Miriam said.
“Sure…” Hutton said, nodding with a vacant stare. “I can’t imagine that we’d have two employees mixed up in this thing.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Hayes said, rising from his chair. “The sooner we talk with Mr. Frohman, the sooner we can clear everything up.”
“You just better hope he hasn’t fled town,” Miriam added.
Hutton jerked his neck back with furrowed brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Mr. Hutton,” Hayes said, intervening. “Please get us his contact information, and we’ll be on our way.”
Hutton glared at Miriam and walked slowly to the door, opening it. He left the room and down the hallway, presumably to get the requested information.
“We should keep an eye on him,” Miriam said, her eyes narrowed.
“Are you trying to rile up the locals?” Hayes said. “You’d think he pissed in your Corn Flakes.”
“I’d just appreciate it if he were more forthcoming,” Miriam said. “There’re lives at stake here.”
Hayes walked the room as Shelton scrolled through his cell phone. Neither of them seemed to want to argue the point. Hutton was slippery, but Miriam didn’t believe him to be involved in anything. He appeared as a man overwhelmed in both his position and the circumstances.
“I’ve got to say, this guy could be our main lead. Good job,” Shelton said while stuffing his cell in his side pocket.
“You can thank Dr. Trudeau later,” she said.
Footsteps sounded down the hall and Hutton re-emerged holding a large three-ring binder. He placed it on the table and opened it, several document protectors, which held employee records. He thumbed through the files and stopped somewhere in the middle. “I believe this is Mr. Frohman’s current residence.”
“Is he scheduled to work today?” Miriam asked.
Hutton thought to himself for a moment. “I believe he’s scheduled to come in later tonight.”
“Better go to his house then,” Hayes said.
Hutton pulled a sheet out of the folder and handed it to Hayes, who took it eagerly. Miriam eyed the assistant manager as she watched Hayes take a picture
of the paper with his cell phone. For a moment, she wondered if Hutton had called Ken Frohman and offered a warning. But her mind was getting carried away again. He was just trying to help. Not everyone was a suspect.
Hutton placed the file back into the folder and closed the book, looking up. “Is there anything else, Detectives?”
“We should be good for now,” Hayes said. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out his card. “Please call us if you encounter Mr. Frohman or if anything else comes to light.”
“I sure will,” Hutton said, looking relieved.
The heat was off him for now. Miriam pushed the chair back and extended her hand with a thank you.
“We’ll be in touch,” Hayes said.
Hutton’s face seemed to drop at the thought as he led them out of the store and to the front counter. The red-haired woman curiously watched them, only to return to counting money from her register.
“Have a good day, Detectives,” Hutton said, walking off toward the aisles.
Shelton unexpectedly called out to him, and he stopped dead in his tracks. “One last thing!”
“Yes?” he asked with an anxious stance.
“What aisle is your pasta sauce on?”
Hutton’s arms slouched in relief as he pointed ahead of him. “Aisle three. On the right.”
Shelton thanked him and then turned to Hayes and Miriam. “That was pretty funny. Anyway, I just remembered I had to pick some up. I’ll be right back.”
“I need to get a throw-away phone too,” Miriam said, turning to the customer service desk where they had some displayed behind the counter.
She asked the clerk for assistance and purchased a phone as Hayes waited. A thought suddenly entered her mind, just as the clerk rang her up. Ken Frohman could have skipped town hours ago. If he was as smart as he thought he was, why would he risk it? She turned to the windows by the exit and watched the parking lot, on alert. There could be another note awaiting her, or there could be nothing at all—just dead ends and more riddles.
“Can I get a look at that address?” she asked Hayes, tugging on his coat sleeve.
“Sure.” He held his phone up and showed her the image: Kenneth Frohman, 513 Sandspur Lane.
“Sandspur Lane?” Hayes said. “That’s only a few blocks from here, right by your hotel, Ma’am.”
For Miriam, there were no coincidences in the case. Perhaps Mr. Frohman never expected his name to come up, and she couldn’t wait to get to his house and find out.
Forgiveness
The man sat in his underground study, deep into his work. Down here he was free to pursue his interests without interruption. His cell phone was close but turned off. An old-fashioned fire bell was affixed to the wall, designed to ring if any visitors pushed the doorbell. But he rarely ever had visitors to the ranch house. This was his sanctuary, a place where he could work unabated.
He had no children and no roots beyond a distant ex-wife he hadn’t spoken to in two years. What he was doing was important. It would change the world one day. There had been many failed experiments along the way, and now he was closer than ever before to administering a successful prototype.
Prior to the two young girls in the cellar, his test subjects consisted of vagrants and prostitutes, people who could disappear without much notice. Now, the entire community was up in arms. Kidnapping the girls posed a considerable risk, but it was a risk worth pursuing.
The man diligently typed away onto his PC in the darkened room with no windows and light shining down onto the man from two fluorescent light bulbs. His interior setup was akin to a laboratory with operating tables, a freezer, and surgical tools strewn across trays. There was a washing station in the corner with aprons hanging from the wall. Like an astute professor, the man had a large dry erase board hanging from the wall across from him with various figures and notes scribbled about.
One wall, however, was dedicated to memorabilia involving the Snatcher case replete with newspaper clippings, photographs, and articles detailing Detective Miriam Castillo, now Miriam Sandoval, and soon to be Miriam Garcia after marrying her current fiancé. The man knew everything about Miriam, though it took a while to track her down.
After stopping the Snatcher, she had changed her last name and moved to Phoenix. Miriam was a side project of his, a game. He enjoyed toying with her and throwing scraps at her when necessary. He admired her resilience and willingness to skirt the rules sometimes to get what she wanted. She was the prototype renegade detective that he so admired in the mystery serials he frequently read.
He took pleasure in reaching out to her and becoming her latest conquest. In a way, he believed he was doing her a favor. Despite her shying away from the spotlight, despite her taking an office job with the Phoenix PD, he knew that she craved a re-emergence. What better way than to personally request her involvement in the case? Ultimately, however, she would never catch him. He almost felt sorry for her in that regard. If there was a chance, he would have never taken the risk.
She was doing exactly what he wanted her to do, every step of the way. Walter Browning was a red herring, a pawn he had used to manipulate the investigation. His next ambitious move would eliminate the slightest opportunity of solving the case. After that, he’d lay low for some time and reach out to Miriam again after she returned to her desk job with an overwhelming dissolution about the entire experience.
“How’d they blow it?” the news reporters would ask.
The disappearance of April Johnson and Tara McKenzie would have the media in a tizzy. They might even make a TV movie about the case. As he typed into his daily journal, the man considered everything before him. It nearly pained him to imagine Miriam’s despair.
One thing was certain: he couldn’t underestimate the authorities or Miriam, for that matter. Every step he made was an attempt to push them further away from ever discovering his identity. There was no cause for celebration. Everything he had worked years on pursuing could vanish in an instant if he made the wrong move. Caution, prudence, and intelligence directed his every move. Humility was a virtue. The awareness that he could be caught at any moment was never far from his mind.
On his desk were several magazines cut to pieces, tiny letters scattered about. Several rough drafts lay about, painstakingly created with an X-ACTCO knife, a glue stick, and a pair of latex gloves. The change in letter type was yet another attempt to confuse the authorities and lend credence to the notion that the letters were nothing but a hoax.
The personal letters to Miriam, however, were typed from the same computer he was currently working on. Cutting out magazine letters, piece by piece, was very time consuming. He certainly wasn’t going to do it with every letter. By now, Miriam and her detective friends were probably searching every detail of Walter Browning’s background. They would find an unremarkable man who was hardly worthy of their time. Natalie Forester was safe at home by now as well. She could consider herself lucky. Few had ever been saved.
A television sat directly across from the man, resting upon a stand and continually turned to the local news. Watching them trying to make sense of the shootout at Walter Browning’s house filled the man with immense satisfaction, primarily due to his orchestration of it all. A framed 8x10 photo of his ex-wife, Beth, rested near his computer with her eyes cut out of the photo.
For now, he spent his free time leading Miriam and her detectives to their doom in addition to holding two young girls as prisoner. The man remembered his days as a young, eager medical school graduate. His professors shunned him and lambasted his ideas and theories. The fools. He’d prove them all wrong soon enough.
A local news update appeared on the television, citing a residential shooting involving suspected kidnapper Walter Browning. Natalie Forester’s picture came across the screen as they discussed her rescue from the clutches of a depraved predator. Several details were lacking in the report, but he knew them all too well.
The man typed his latest findings as the news played i
n the background. The police, with Miriam at the helm, were actively searching for a suspect. If it was a suspect they wanted, he was more than prepared to give it to them. He rose from his chair and looked around his underground lab, his sanctuary. No one was going to impede his progress. He took a deep breath and then took a sip of herbal tea from a nearby coffee mug. It was time to let the girls know their fate. It was the most respectful thing he could do. He understood their fear and panic. Things would get better soon enough. It just depended on how they looked at it.
He walked upstairs with a steady whistle and entered a garage where boxes sat piled to the side next to a tool bench and a large, expensive chest. He pushed the door closed and then heaved against the large slab of concrete that blocked his entrance to this second underground room. He then left the garage and entered the front foyer of his spacious ranch house as the dusk sun illuminated the house.
Everything, from the hardwood floors to the expensive furniture and Avant-garde bookshelves and tables, was spotless, but the man didn’t keep his house clean for guests. He could only function in a clean environment.
An empty house of such magnitude could make the average person feel lonely and isolated, but not him. He reveled in the privacy. What were human beings but opportunists and pests? No one would understand his work until they saw the results, and when they did, they’d be astonished.
He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of red wine. Upon discovering the latest breakthrough, he deserved a little celebration. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Sandoval was searching in vain for the real kidnapper. The thought amused him. He took a sip of wine and looked out the kitchen windows as the bright orange sun slowly dipped below the horizon. There were no words to his growing satisfaction.
Everything was falling into place so well that he nearly disregarded his first rule about celebrating too early. Miriam was a formidable foe, and he didn’t hesitate at the thought that he’d kill her if it came down to it. But he hoped that wouldn’t be the case. The most he desired was that she’d go back home, disenchanted and unfulfilled. After another sip, he walked toward the cabinet separating the kitchen from the cellar and pulled it back, feeling slightly tipsy.
