The Abducted Super Boxset: A Small Town Kidnapping Mystery

by Roger Hayden

  Stacked boxes and clutter surrounding them, barely provided the Mercedes enough room to park, but Trudeau had managed. No one seemed to have noticed them pull in on Walter’s quiet neighborhood street. Trudeau opened his door to a pinging sound and then pulled his keys out. “You have that bed railing, right?”

  “Yeah,” Walter said.

  “I have a pair of handcuffs. Lock her in the bedroom. Keep her cuffed to the bed. Put some padding on the windows and towels at the bottom of the door in case she starts screaming.” He paused, then turned his head to examine the sleeping girl in the back seat. “She’s still out. Let’s get moving.”

  Walter nodded and stepped outside without arguing. Though his compliance was a relief, Trudeau had doubts about his abilities to kidnap their next girl. He then held a finger to his lips and told Walter to wait. Trudeau had chosen this unsettled moment to deliver some unexpected news.

  “What is it?” Walter said, opening the back-seat door.

  “I want Ken to do the next one.”

  “Ken?” Walter said, looking surprised and almost hurt. “Are you sure he’s ready?”

  Trudeau walked around to the rear of the car, squeezing through boxes and stopping inches from Walter’s face, his large blue eyes glaring. “We have to make it look like we’re everywhere at all times. The police are looking for one man, okay? We need no less than the three of us working in unison to make this work. Understand?”

  Walter thought to himself and responded without objection. “Yeah. Makes sense. I’ll call him over after we get her inside.”

  With that, he leaned into the car and pulled Natalie out, holding her as though she were his own child. But her slight squirming and flickering eyes indicated that they didn’t have much time left.

  ***

  Reports of a suspicious blue van were all over the news. Initially irked by this, Dr. Trudeau decided to use it to his advantage. His contacts at the police station had earlier verified Miriam’s arrival in town the day prior, and Trudeau thought the news nothing short of miraculous.

  She had shown up, and all he’d had to do was mention her name in a letter. He had Walter staked out outside the police office and following her movements with the other detectives. They had stopped at a diner and checked her into the Sand Spur Inn, the hotel Trudeau himself had stayed at the day before, to ensure easy access around town.

  So much had happened in the past few days, Trudeau had to try his best to stay on top of it. Keeping Walter and Ken in line and active was tasking in itself, and planning Miriam’s next move was more mentally challenging than any chess game he had ever played. He sat in his Mercedes across the street from RC’s Used Car Lot, prepared to go inside. Walter had been tailing Miriam and the detectives, while Ken was looking for a new girl to kidnap.

  Trudeau understood that everything could fall apart in one instant if they weren’t careful. He held his GMRS two-way radio in his gloved hand, waiting for an update. Miriam had left the hotel not too long ago and was currently at the station. But Trudeau knew that she wasn’t going to be there for long.

  He was counting on her to visit RC Used Car Lot with questions about the blue van. Had it been purchased from the lot or possibly traded in? He had been studying her for months, researching her career and her seemingly constant habit of evading police procedures to solve cases on her own. She was a loner, just like him. He was counting on those habits resurfacing as his heart beat with anticipation, listening to Walter’s transmission.

  “She’s alone. I see her leaving the station now.”

  “Are you sure?” Trudeau asked as cars zipped by the road between his parked Mercedes and RC’s Used Car Lot.

  “Positive,” Walter said. “Now I’ve got to get home and get ready for work. Can you tail her now?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Just follow her for a bit and tell me where she’s going.”

  “10-4.”

  In his ball cap and glasses, Trudeau leaned back with cool air blowing from the vents into his face. He secretly watched as the teenage boy he had paid pedaled his bicycle into RC’s parking lot with the sealed envelope in his hand. The letter to Miriam was being delivered right on time.

  ***

  Several car lengths behind, Trudeau followed Miriam as she coasted through downtown behind the wheel of one of the detectives’ Crown Victoria. She had taken the bait, fully and without question. It was easier than he had thought it was going to be. She hadn’t called for backup and was following the instructions in his letter to meet at the Food Mart alone.

  Old habits die hard, he thought. Good, predictable Miriam. Oh, I’m sorry. Lieutenant Sandoval.

  Up ahead, he saw her shift into the left turn lane at the intersection of Main and Duvall, which entered the parking lot. A news update on the radio discussed local reactions to the Ector County police captain, Elian Vasquez, and the concerns currently plaguing the community. He had passed several police cruisers while following Miriam, most strategically parked aside every major street in town.

  The police presence had grown in the past few days and he assumed it was going to get increasingly difficult to conduct another kidnapping. Perhaps Midland, the next town over, would suffice. He’d float the idea to Ken. For now, he had a different fish on the line in the form of an eager former detective, fiercely determined to rescue two girls.

  Trudeau drove through the intersection just as Miriam turned in. The south entrance would be better. She was no doubt aware of the possibility of being followed, and he didn’t want to alert her. They hadn’t met yet, but that would soon change if everything went as planned. The streets were eerily quiet that morning without much traffic. His silver Mercedes circled around to Food Mart’s south entrance and turned in, left blinker clicking. He drove past a couple of parking aisles, slowing to let pedestrians pass, when he saw the same dirty Crown Victoria parked ahead. Trudeau turned down the next aisle to keep his distance.

  Once parked, he fished his compact binoculars out of the middle console and then looked ahead, catching a glimpse of Miriam walking toward the store, darting in between vehicles. It was just the two of them. With the tranquillizer in his glove compartment, he pondered approaching her then or waiting as planned. The parking lot was ultimately too risky. There were people everywhere. He could always draw her out to a location she couldn’t resist: the very home where Natalie Forester was being held.

  Excited, he grabbed the notebook resting on his passenger seat and scribbled a message in haste. He never ceased to be impressed with how fast his mind could work sometimes. The plan was easy. Provide another clue, dangle another carrot, but not too obviously. He didn’t know how much she knew about the case yet or what her theories were, but he did know that he could tantalize her by mentioning specifics, like a red Datsun, a clue that had led her directly to Walter Browning’s house where Trudeau would be waiting.

  ***

  With just enough time to conduct reconnaissance, Trudeau had first made sure that Walter was still home. The red Datsun was parked in the driveway and its owner was inside, passed out on a recliner in the living room. Trudeau almost felt guilty sneaking inside and seeing the dog-tired, disheveled man. He had been pushing Walter hard the past couple of days and had left him exhausted and defenseless. Walter’s unlocked front door amused Trudeau after so many times of reminding Walter to be careful.

  He had, however, kept Natalie locked in the guest bedroom as promised. Trudeau had surveyed the scene and slipped outside just as Miriam arrived, much to Trudeau’s pleasant satisfaction. He had been waiting for her for some time and again she was alone. He had left the front door open a crack, just enough to entice her further. All the pieces were falling into place for the next phase of his plan. But for now, he would wait.

  Ducking behind the air conditioner on the side of the house where the neighbor’s privacy fence began, Trudeau waited and watched as Miriam walked up the driveway with her right hand close to the holstered pistol at her hip and her eyes alert and r
eady. He had never seen her so up close before and could practically smell her scent.

  Trudeau ducked lower as she approached and gripped his tranquilizer pistol with its long barrel. His ambitious next steps involved an ambush once she tried to make an arrest.

  It was a peaceful, sunny morning that gave no indication of the danger that awaited Miriam as she got closer to the house. Trudeau listened as he heard her knock on the door and call out for “Mr. Browning.” He then moved from behind the air conditioning unit and along the side of the house, where overgrown weeds and patches of grass comprised an unkempt sandbox of a yard.

  He crept to the side of the garage, waiting as Miriam called for “Mr. Browning” again. He looked around for any onlookers. There was a house across the street, but no one looked to be home. Tranquilizer pistol at his side, he peeked around the house and saw Miriam enter.

  Playing the role of puppet-master filled him with immense joy, though he remained cautious. Even a snake charmer could underestimate the snake at times, and he knew Miriam to be just as venomous. He waited, listening carefully over the sound of a distant motorcycle. As he inched toward the door, he heard footsteps from inside, and for a moment all was quiet. Suddenly, he heard Miriam, shout, “Freeze!” followed by a confused Walter demanding to know who she was. Trudeau moved swiftly toward the front door just as a gunshot rang out from inside the house, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  “Shit…” he muttered. That wasn’t part of his plan. He turned and ran to the side of the house again for cover. Someone fired, but he didn’t know who. Miriam’s voice then rang out, asking Walter why he didn’t listen. There was no response.

  “Holy shit,” Trudeau said, crouched down. “She shot him.”

  His plan momentarily thwarted, he frantically tried to devise his next move. Miriam was in the house with Walter, whose condition was unknown. She cried out as though she had killed him, which Trudeau then realized might just work in his favor. She’d find Natalie soon enough, but the case was far from closed. She’d have to explain to the detectives what she was doing there in the first place.

  There’d be so many questions, and Trudeau then decided that he’d add to the confusion with a simple phone call. But first he had to put some distance between himself and the house. Staying low and keeping close to the side fence, he half-ran until he hoped he was a safe distance away, squatted against the wall of a house he’d seen earlier, empty and for sale. He pulled his cell from the pocket of his dress slacks as his red tie swayed like a pendulum. He scrolled through his contacts for Walter’s home phone, called the number, and covered his mouth to distort his voice. After a few rings, Miriam picked up and a new plan was set in motion.

  ***

  Ken Frohman paced the red carpet of his darkened living room, frantic and inconsolable. Walter Browning’s name was all over the news. He’d been shot resisting arrest. Natalie Forester had been found held captive at his house, though April Johnson was still missing. Trudeau sat on the couch with one leg folded over the other, exuding a calm Frohman found baffling.

  “I want her out of my house now!” he shouted as his thin face dripped with sweat. “We’re finished, you hear me,” he said, spinning around to face Trudeau. “It’s only a matter of time. They got Walter, now they’re coming for us!”

  Trudeau took a sip of ice water and then held his hand out for calm. “Relax, Ken. They don’t know anything about us.”

  Frohman threw his arms down in protest. “They don’t know anything about us yet! But they will.” His pacing resumed as he neared a pair of thick curtains by the front door and peeked outside. “What if someone saw my van like they did with Walter? He told me what you guys did with it. Chucked it into Razor’s Chasm. Just brilliant!” He moved away from the living room, circling his coffee table as Trudeau observed him from the couch.

  “It’s unfortunate what happened to Walter, but he must have done something to bring attention to himself. It’s a terrible loss. He was my patient and your friend.”

  Frohman turned to Trudeau with his long finger pointed accusingly. “Spare me, Doctor. I don’t want anything to do with this anymore. I want that girl out of here, and I don’t want to see you ever again.”

  Trudeau reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather wallet.

  “And you can keep your money!” Frohman shouted in defiance.

  “You sure about that?” Trudeau asked, leaning forward with his wallet in hand.

  Frohman stammered and looked at the ground.

  Trudeau said gently, “You got the girl. You and Walter left the van where I told you to. At least take the money for that.”

  “Yeah, but that was my van. They’re going to find it now, and then link the kidnapping directly to me,” Frohman said in a wavering voice.

  “That’s impossible,” Trudeau said. He then set his water down and leaned forward, looking Frohman directly in the eye. “They’re never going to find the van because no one is ever going to know where it’s at.” He then began fishing through his wallet, pulling out a wad of bills. “So, it’s seven hundred for the van, like I promised, and another five hundred for the girl.” He held out a thick stack of money, beckoning Frohman to take it.

  Frohman stared at Trudeau with contempt and then lunged forward, snatching up the bills. “Fine. A deal’s a deal. Now get this girl out of my house and leave.”

  “Did you tie her up?” Trudeau asked.

  “Of course she’s tied up!” Frohman snapped. “I used the chloroform just like we discussed. She’s sleeping like a baby in the other room.”

  “What’s her name?” Trudeau asked.

  Frohman shook his head, frustrated. “I-I don’t know.”

  Trudeau then leaned back on the checkered couch, with its holes and 1980s aesthetic, and pushed his wallet back into his pocket. “There’s big money to be made here. Millions of dollars from the right family. Are you sure you want out?”

  Frohman ran his hands though his thick, greasy hair and looked around the living room, struggling to decide. “It’s not going to happen,” he said. “There’s no millions to be made. They’re going to close in on us, just like they did with Walter. Don’t you understand that? You sit there, trying to play it cool, but I know better. This whole thing has gone too far.”

  Trudeau rubbed his chin and nodded as though Frohman’s frightened words had resonated. “Well, Ken. This is going to be hard for me, but keep in mind that it’s entirely necessary.”

  Then without warning, he pulled out his tranquilizer gun and fired a shot directly into Frohman’s neck. Frohman stumbled back and fell into a corner table, sending a lamp crashing onto the floor. He pushed himself up, back against the wall, and stood, stunned and disoriented. He yanked the long metal dart from his neck and tossed it on the floor, with a vengeful look in Trudeau’s direction.

  “You…” Frohman said, with his eyelids flickering and body rocking unsteadily.

  Trudeau remained calmly seated with the tranquilizer gun in hand. “This is where our partnership ends, unfortunately,” he said, and then rose and approached Frohman, whose eyes flickered with wavering consciousness.

  “You’ve become a liability,” Trudeau continued, stopping within arm’s reach. “But it’s okay. You can sleep now.”

  “I’ll kill you…” Frohman slurred.

  With one last desperate gasp, he lunged forward to attack, only to collapse onto the floor, unconscious. His head lay inches from Trudeau’s shoes, mouth open and drooling onto the carpet. Hands on his hips, Trudeau looked around the dimly lit living room, thinking to himself. His gaze fell on the empty beer cans cluttered on the coffee table next to a blackened marijuana pipe and rolling papers. The blank TV screen reflected the small dining room table and its three chairs behind him, suddenly giving him an idea.

  For a moment, he pitied Frohman. The loneliness within his meager home’s nicotine-stained walls was apparent from the minute Trudeau walked in. Who would grieve for Frohman? In a way, Tru
deau could relate. He couldn’t think of many who would grieve his own passing. In fact, he couldn’t think of any at all. Walter Browning and Ken Frohman had served their purpose well. Though initially baffled, the authorities wouldn’t have a hard time believing that the two aimless men had conspired together. Trudeau was now prepared to put such a theory into action and end the search for the missing girls for good.

  He turned and looked toward the hall where the girl was being held behind a closed door. She could wake up at any moment. The effects of Chloroform varied in length. He’d have to move fast to get her out of the house before she woke. He crouched down and lifted Frohman up under his arms and heaved, lifting the unconscious man and dragging him across the carpet toward the table in the other room.

  He was heavier than he looked, and Trudeau could feel his back about to give out as he dragged the man across the vinyl flooring of the foyer and onto the shag carpet near the table. He dropped Frohman at the foot of a chair and stood up, stretching. Sunlight beamed through cracks in the horizontal blinds. The table was nearly clear, with only some mail scattered on the surface. Trudeau stared at Frohman’s sleeping body, delaying the inevitable. For the plan to work, Frohman would need to be seated.

  Trudeau then took a moment and peeked through the blinds. His silver Mercedes was in the driveway, but no one was around to see it. There was always a possibility that a witness could attest to seeing his car, but at this point, Trudeau wasn’t concerned, and besides, he had no choice. The quiet neighborhood seemed to be almost deserted, no traffic, no dog walkers, and no children outdoors. Nonetheless, he wanted to get away as fast as he could.

  He approached Frohman, took a breath, and hoisted him up with a painful heave. Frohman’s head bobbed like a rag doll as Trudeau held him from behind. With the tip of his dress shoe, he pushed the chair farther out and plopped Frohman onto the seat with great relief. It was a beat-up kind of captain’s chair with arms, which made it harder. He then held Frohman against the seat to keep him from falling over. Frohman’s head drooped down, chin touching his chest. Trudeau circled around the chair, holding him at the shoulder, and pushed it closer to the table to hold him in place.