The Abducted Super Boxset: A Small Town Kidnapping Mystery

by Roger Hayden

  Hayes looked around the room and shook his head, disappointment in his eyes. “How did we not see this?”

  “There was no evidence, nothing to indicate he was a part of it. He had been planning this for months… years maybe.” She then touched his arm and spoke in a consoling tone. “It’s not like it took us very long. I think in a way, he wanted to be caught. Just not like this.”

  Hayes looked at her, wide-eyed. “And what about right now? You still think that he wants to be caught?”

  Miriam stared down, locked in thought, her eyes catching a few magazine clippings on the floor. “I think he’s readjusting, adapting, but he’s far from finished.”

  They conducted another walk-through, back toward the staircase, examining the troves of damaging evidence before them. With the photographs on the wall, explosive tinkering, and mannequins positioned in the corner, Trudeau looked to be the one in need of psychiatric help. It was a wonder how he ever gained the credentials to become a licensed therapist and criminal psychiatrist. Miriam had to remember that some people were good at faking it. In her experience, the most sociopathic personalities were often the best actors. It was time to bring Trudeau’s twisted game to an end.

  Miriam reconvened upstairs with the detectives as police officers continued their search of the house, taking pictures and video of every square inch. The downstairs cellar where Tara and April had been held was dusted for prints and marked with numbered yellow placards along the trail of blood leading downstairs and straight to April’s empty bed.

  The kitchen floor was still a mess of broken dishes and silverware, scattered over a puddle of Trudeau’s blood and the shell casings from Miriam’s pistol. A forensic team had arrived to collect blood samples and other pieces of evidence. Spread thin, Ector County PD was pulling double shifts at two different crime scenes: Trudeau’s house and the site of the van explosion, approximately three miles south of the barren road through the outskirts of Pleasant Farms.

  Men and women, uniformed and plain-clothes officers, detectives, and forensic teams alike moved throughout the house, passing Miriam in a blur. She sat at the dining room table, providing her statement to a crew-cut Odessa police officer with a nametag that said “Wilcox.” She recognized a few faces and could only imagine how busy the formerly empty house was going to be once the FBI showed up, which Hayes had all but guaranteed.

  “So, at what time, approximately, did you arrive at Dr. Trudeau’s residence to ask him some questions, as you put it?” Sergeant Wilcox asked her, scribbling across the official witness statement form on his clipboard.

  It already felt as though she had recounted the story a dozen times, every step, every word, and every suspicious glance from Trudeau as he slipped back toward the kitchen ostensibly to pour some wine. If only she had been certain before then, he might not have gotten away.

  “I saw the blood leading into the pantry during our conversation and tried to arrest him on conspiracy charges,” she explained to the officer. The scrapbook and note ledger rested on the table under her arms. She had only flipped through them, barely scratching the surface of their contents.

  A new theory had formed in her restless mind: his name was an alias; an identity concocted by a man with a hidden life. He operated in secret, and everything about him was a careful façade. In talking with some of the officers about Trudeau, most had first met him around the same time two years ago, without one person recalling him before that. Even Hayes’s and Shelton’s recollections of the doctor were from a year ago at most. The answers, as far as Miriam was concerned, were rooted in his mysterious past.

  As a detective, Lou was an expert in finding people. Backgrounds checks were his forte. If there was anyone who could help her delve into Trudeau’s past, he was that person. Miriam watched the room, considering making the call back home while they young sergeant fill out different blocks of his paperwork.

  Miriam caught a glimpse of Tara seated on the living room couch as the paramedics attended to her. She was a girl who reminded Miriam of her own daughter, and to some degree, herself at that age. Tara looked over and noticed Miriam. They waved to each other just as Miriam flagged down a busy uniformed officer who was passing by the table.

  “Excuse me, Officer. Have Tara’s parents been contacted yet?”

  “Yes,” the gray-haired, mustached officer said, looking distracted, his eyes darting beyond her into the distance. “We’ve contacted the parents and let them know that their daughter is safe.”

  He began to walk away as Miriam reached her arm out, talking loudly. “Any chance she can talk to them herself? She’s been through quite an ordeal and hasn’t spoken to anyone in the past two days.”

  The officer paused and studied Miriam. “I’m sorry, ma’am. And you are?”

  “Lieutenant Sandoval,” she said, standing up, “Phoenix PD.”

  “Phoenix?” he said, confused.

  “I joined the investigation as an advisor a few days ago.”

  Sergeant Wilcox turned to the other officer as though he needed help, and said, “You remember the Snatcher case, right? She’s the one who caught him.”

  The mustached officer narrowed his eyes and then nodded, extending his hand. “Yes, of course. Lieutenant Miriam Sandoval. I’m Master Sergeant Hicks. We’ll be on the horn with her parents in no time, as soon as the paramedics are done.”

  “Thank you,” Miriam said.

  Hicks lowered his hand and took a step back, eyeing Miriam with a hint of suspicion. “Hey… Did you know this guy or something? He mentioned you in a couple of letters, right?”

  Wilcox suddenly interjected, half rising from his chair. “With all due respect, Master Sergeant, I’m gathering the lieutenant’s statement right now.”

  Hicks shrugged and walked away, rejoining other officers in the kitchen. Miriam felt unknown, virtually a stranger to most of the twenty cops moving throughout the house. Few seemed to even know her involvement, which was a good thing. She felt more comfortable out of the spotlight, as if she could breathe again. Hayes and Shelton had kept their word, not announcing her involvement in the investigation. Those who knew, knew for a reason. The Snatcher case was still on a lot of people’s minds.

  “We’re going to need to get you checked out,” Sergeant Wilcox said, rubbing his chin.

  “What are you talking about?” Miriam asked.

  “You said he fired a beanbag round at your chest. Knocked you square on the ground. The paramedics here will take a look at it for you.”

  Miriam delicately guided her hand across her chest along the sliver of pain just waiting to erupt. She knew that the bruising had to be bad.

  “I’m sure I just need an icepack or something,” she said, dismissing the extra attention.

  “We’ll let them decide,” Wilcox said, almost like a determined father, though Miriam was sure she was twice his age. He then looked down at the clipboard, flipped through the report, and marked several blank lines. “I’ll just need you to sign and date along a couple of these blocks once I’m done.”

  As he continued making his last couple of marks, Miriam opened Trudeau’s dusty scrapbook again to take another look at the photos glued or pasted to each page, just as in any old photo album. There were pictures of a family: Trudeau, a woman, and a little girl. Each photo looked about ten years old, maybe older. They were outside at a park with desert hills in the background. Trudeau looked younger, early twenties perhaps, with brownish hair slicked back, slightly parted in the middle, and a mustache.

  He was squatting in one picture, polo shirt and white teeth exposed in a youthful smile, with a little girl in his arms and a woman at his side, who was slender and pretty with long, blonde hair. Miriam could see wedding rings on both his and her ring fingers, so she assumed they were married. The girl looked to be about six years old, wearing a bright summer dress and with long strawberry-blonde locks down to her shoulders. Her smile was joyous and wide, and Miriam couldn’t remember seeing a happier family photo
in some time. Trudeau had never mentioned a wife or child. The author’s flap of his books hadn’t indicated a family either.

  She looked up, mind wandering completely from whatever Sergeant Wilcox was talking about, and searched the room for Hayes or Shelton.

  “Here you are, Ma’am,” Wilcox said, handing her a pen, but her attention was elsewhere.

  “One moment please,” she said, flipping through the scrapbook’s thick, sticky pages. The headlines: Authorities Continue Search for Missing Girl, Vacationing Girl Goes Missing, Connecticut Family Continues Search for Missing Daughter, set alarm bells ringing in Miriam’s head. The date of the articles spanned June to August, 1995. When Miriam read the top of the article, she saw the publisher’s name written in small letters at the top, together with the date and page number: The Midland Post. Midland was only a few towns over.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” Wilcox asked, noticing the look of distress on Miriam’s face.

  She nodded, reading one of the articles from the beginning:

  “Authorities continue their search for young Anabelle Turner, the six-year-old who vanished from an Odessa mall while vacationing with her family from Connecticut. Her parents claim to have last seen Anabelle while waiting in line to get lunch at the Food Court. It was then, her parents said, that their daughter went to use the restroom, never to return.”

  Miriam looked up again, noticing Wilcox’s curious glance in her direction. Both hands on the table, she stood up and tried to find either detective in the blur of investigators spread throughout the house. She wasn’t sure what the article meant exactly, but there was a definite connection.

  “Ma’am?” Wilcox said, still holding his pen.

  Her eyes jumped from the open scrapbook to Wilcox. She leaned in closer, speaking with intensity. “How well did you know, Dr. Trudeau?”

  Wilcox brought the pen to his lips, thinking. “Well, it’s hard to say. I’d seen him around the station once or twice, dropping off patient files. Might’ve said hello to him a couple of times.”

  “When did he first start coming around the station?” she asked, unblinking.

  “Well…” Wilcox said. “Just about the same time everyone else is saying. Two, maybe three years ago.”

  “Those books he wrote,” Miriam said. “Are they even real?”

  Wilcox returned her question with a blank stare, clueless what she was referring to.

  Suddenly, Shelton approached from the side of the table and touched her arm, startling her. “You okay?” he asked after she jumped.

  “Yeah… Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, taking Wilcox’s pen and asking him, “Can you give us a minute?”

  Wilcox looked around as though she was talking to someone else. When he realized it was him, he stood up, embarrassed. “Oh… Yes, of course, ma’am. Just review your statement and sign as soon as you’re ready.” He walked away to the kitchen where other police were gathered, searching through drawers and cabinets.

  Shelton sat down beside Miriam and moved closer with concern in his tone. “You look pale, Miriam. Like something really spooked you.” It was the second time he’d slipped up and addressed her by her first name, but she didn’t mind.

  Miriam pushed the open scrapbook closer to him and pointed at the newspaper clippings. “Do you know anything about a girl who vanished from the mall in Odessa about sixteen years ago?”

  Shelton examined the articles with considerable interest but made no connection. “Whose book is this? Trudeau’s?”

  Miriam pulled the book closer to her and flipped a few pages back, revealing the photographs of a younger Trudeau and an apparent family. “Did he ever mention a family to you? Did you ever meet either one of these people?”

  Shelton rubbed his forehead, thinking. “He did mention an ex-wife at one point.”

  “But no daughter?” Miriam said.

  “What are you getting at?” Shelton asked. “Maybe he has an estranged family. Are you surprised?”

  Miriam turned back to the news clippings, flipping through page after page of the similar headlines and articles detailing a missing girl. “His own daughter kidnapped,” she said. “Anabelle Turner was her name. Do you think he did something with her?”

  Shelton leaned back, looking appalled at the notion. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s a connection,” Miriam said, her voice getting louder and her finger trailing along the articles. She stopped at one sentence, leaned closer, and read it to Shelton. “The parents, Desmond and Patricia Turner, thanked the community for all their help in searching for Anabelle despite their failure to locate the missing girl.” She paused and looked at him for a response. “You see? Nicholas Trudeau is an alias. His name’s Desmond Turner.”

  “Okay. We can add that to the APB as an alias,” Shelton said. “But do you think that’s going to make it easier to find him?”

  “Yes,” Miriam said, bluntly.

  She flipped to the next page of his scrapbook, revealing the same family park photo now printed above an article with an inescapable headline: Family’s Vacation Turns Tragic after Small-Town Stop.

  “See,” she said, pointing. “Something bad happened to him. Something involving his daughter.”

  Shelton leaned closer, examining the article, when suddenly something clicked. His expression changed with the realization of what Miriam had discovered in the old, dusty scrapbook. Suddenly, the kitchen phone rang, startling most of the officers nearby. An electronic pulsating sound emitted from the phone, gained additional attention from everyone in the dining room. Miriam stood up quickly, closing the scrapbook and marching purposefully toward the kitchen. At last, she could get some answers from Lou.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “It’s for me.”

  The police exchanged suspicious looks as Miriam reiterated that she was expecting a call from her husband. “It’s okay,” she said, extending her arm as if to push people away and revealing the blue latex gloves on her hands.

  She picked up the phone on the fourth ring and said hello, barely able to hear the voice on the other end. After a crackling pause, a sinking feeling swept over her, as though she had been in this position before, except that when the voice again began speaking, there was no distortion, not like the call she had received from him while she was in Walter Browning’s house.

  “You must be pretty proud of yourself, huh, you little bitch?”

  The signal suddenly dropped and the voice went in and out. Fearing she’d lose the call, Miriam rushed toward the patio door behind the dining room, receiving curious looks from the roaming police as she sped by. She stepped outside onto the deck and looked up into the night sky, hoping that his voice would come through.

  “Hello?” she said. “Dr. Trudeau. Are you still there?”

  She heard the rumblings of a car engine being pushed to its extreme and pictured him driving like a maniac through the rolling hills with a defenseless girl at his mercy. He grunted and groaned with a venomous spit into the phone. “I can’t believe you shot me!”

  “Dr. Trudeau. Where are you? Where are you taking April?”

  The sliding glass door behind her opened, and she turned to see Detective Shelton stepping outside to listen, followed by Detective Hayes.

  “You need to slow down,” she said into the phone. “You shouldn’t be driving in your condition.” She turned around again to look at the detectives. Covering the mouthpiece, she spoke to them with soft intensity. “It’s him. He’s on the road.”

  Hayes then tapped Shelton on the arm and signaled back inside. They went back in, presumably in search for their call tracer equipment, leaving Miriam in the vast emptiness of the desert night.

  “You called all your buddies?” Trudeau asked. “Yeah, I know you did.”

  “Please, Dr. Trudeau. You have to end this. April is just an innocent child in all of this.”

  “How many detectives did I kill?” he asked. “Two, three? Maybe five.”

 
“I don’t know, but you’re going to have to end this now. Where are you?”

  Strained laughter erupted on the other end followed by pained wheezing. “Just like the other day when we talked. Clueless Miriam. Didn’t expect you to show up on my doorstep. I was hoping to keep you running in circles. Then one day, you’d eventually know the truth.”

  “Let me talk to April,” she said.

  “Sorry. Can’t talk,” he blurted.

  She could hear his voice drifting and knew that she had to say something before their call ended for good. “Desmond Turner. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  He went silent, leaving the faint roar of his engine as the only sound to be heard.

  “What happened to your daughter?”

  With this question, the line went dead, and a dial tone was the only sound she heard. The sliding glass door slid open in a hurry and out rushed Detectives Hayes and Shelton, both holding a small, box-like gadget, the kind that traces phone calls to their locations.

  “What happened?” Hayes asked in disbelief.

  “He hung up,” she said. “I’m sorry. I tried.” She didn’t admit that maybe she had blundered, shocking Trudeau by using his real name.

  For a moment, the two detectives and one former detective stood there quietly in their disappointment, contemplating their next moves. A dusty breeze blew past the house, stirring the dry air that nestled among the hills of sand and rock.

  The Morning Of

  Parked inside Walter’s garage after a long trip, Trudeau assured his exhausted passenger that things were going to turn out exactly as planned. Natalie remained asleep in the back, though her constant movements and whimpering had Walter on edge.

  “This is your moment, Walter,” Trudeau said. “Natalie will be yours to watch until the next phase of our plan.”

  “I don’t know,” Walter said, shaking his head. “This is all happening so fast. I don’t want it to get caught and go to prison.”

  “We’re not going to get caught, understand?” Trudeau said, turning the ignition off.