Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  It was with this fact in mind—and his desire to stay under Collins’s radar—that Jack seriously considered locking Replacement in the car.

  She must have read his mind. “I won’t say anything.” The fight had gone out of her, and she seemed downcast.

  “You want to wait here?” he asked hopefully.

  “No. I wanna come in.”

  Great. “Okay. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.”

  The security office was a small building, only a few rooms. They walked up the cement ramp and could see the large main desk through the windows.

  A woman with an immense hairdo greeted them before the little bell over the door even finished ringing. “Why, good morning to the both of you,” she chirped. “How may I be of help today?” It was hard to tell how old she was, considering the layers of makeup, but the smile seemed genuine.

  “Good morning to you, too. I’m looking for the…” He searched for the right word but drew a blank. Sometimes security people tried to match police titles, and would get their feelings hurt when you used the wrong one. At the mall in town, they referred to each other as “officers,” and loved it when he did, too.

  “Registration office?” the woman finished, trying to help him out.

  “Um, no. I’m looking for the person covering right now.” Jack figured the generic phrase would pay off.

  “Certainly.” She pushed back in her chair, away from her computer, and wheeled it over to the phone. She dialed, and after a short pause, a phone rang in one of the offices. “Neil, there’s a nice couple here to see you.”

  A second later, an older man, in one of the whitest shirts Jack had ever seen, stuck his head out of the office and gestured to them. “Sure, c’mon in.”

  “Okay. I’m going to run and get a bite,” the woman announced. “Do you want anything?”

  “Where are you going?” Neil asked.

  “Debbie Sue’s. Want your usual?”

  “Sure. Thanks, May. You kids all set, or can May pick you up something?”

  Jack was hungry, but he didn’t want to take the time. “Thanks, we’re all set.” Shooting Replacement a No, you can’t have a muffin look, Jack walked over and shook Neil’s hand.

  “Jack Stratton. I just have a couple of questions, and we’ll be out of your way.”

  “Neil Waters.” Neil held the office door open. “Come on in.”

  “I’ll wait out here.” Replacement’s sad face was back.

  Jack nodded approvingly, while Neil’s inner monologue, if he was having one, seemed to tell him not to question the nice young couple’s regrettable decisions not to have a muffin or come in together. Which was just fine with Jack.

  Neil’s office was as clean as his shirt. Everything in its place and a place for everything. Neil gestured to a comfortable chair as he moved behind the desk. “What did you say your name was again?” Neil ran his fingers through hair almost as white as his shirt.

  “Jack. Jack Stratton.”

  “Now I remember. You helped with traffic during the alumni benefit.” Neil folded his hands, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.

  Great… he remembers that I’m a cop. Nod. Don’t alarm him. “I’m here… as a family friend of a student. Michelle Carter.”

  Neil nodded. “You still haven’t been able to get in touch with her?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “That’s too bad.” Neil straightened up in his chair, and Jack could see him gather his thoughts. “We talked to her roommate, and she told us that Michelle transferred to Western Technical University out in California. I called Western Tech myself and spoke to the registrar. Nice group out there. Anyway, they said that Michelle had transferred there. It’s all in the computer.”

  “Did they say she’s there now? Has anyone seen her or confirmed that she got out there?”

  “They couldn’t recall her specifically. Everything is electronic now anyway.”

  “Do they have an address for her?”

  “No. According to her transfer records, she planned to live off-campus. It could be she just hasn’t gotten housing yet. She hadn’t started classes, but she was good to go.”

  Neil was trying hard to express reassurance with his body language, but maybe he needed a few more acting lessons.

  “She hasn’t started classes? Did they say why?”

  “Well, classes haven’t started. They’re between semesters now. Maybe she just took a little time to herself, and she’ll check in?” Neil leaned in and put his arms down on the desk. “Kids do that. She might be blowing off steam. These heavy schedules are murder on these students.”

  Jack stood up and handed Neil his card. “Yeah… thank you, Neil. I appreciate it.”

  Neil shook Jack’s hand, and they walked back out to the lobby, where Replacement was sitting with her hands folded in her lap.

  Jack looked back at Neil. “One more question: can you tell me where the psychology center is?”

  Neil’s smile faded. “Neuropsychology. It’s in the old nature center, just outside campus. I checked with them too—Michelle quit.”

  “I’ll just see if anyone’s heard from her,” Jack said.

  Neil straightened his tie. “Okay. I’ll write you directions. There’s a couple of visitor spaces at the front of the lot. Be sure to use those. I can give you a pass to hang up in your car.” He cleared his throat. “I was planning on following up with them this week. To be thorough.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said again, hiding a whiff of sarcasm. “I appreciate the help.”

  Ten minutes later, as light snow began to fall, he drove past an old open gate at the top of a hill and pulled into a small, empty parking lot.

  The large, two-story, circular structure looked as though it was constructed in the 1960s. The quiet but important-looking lettering on the modern sign at the front of the building announced that they had arrived at the White Rocks Eastern University Neuropsychology Center.

  Replacement’s face contorted. “I already checked here. They said she transferred, but that’s crap.”

  “I’m just covering all the bases. Wanna come in?”

  Replacement shook her head and turned her face away.

  Jack got out of the car and headed for the entrance. A student walking out held the large glass door for him.

  Inside, a gray carpet with black and red flecks covered the floor. Light oak staircases with clear-plastic-and-metal railings led up on both the left and right. Jack liked the look: modern, but with a natural feel. The place even smelled new.

  A young, bored-looking girl sat behind the big reception desk. She looked up from her phone. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for someone who works here. Michelle Carter.”

  “Do you know what department she’s in?” The girl’s finger traced down a phone directory.

  “Computers.”

  The girl drummed her fingers on her mouse. “Michelle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, yeah. I think she works for Dr. Franklin.” She walked over to the door behind the counter on the right and gave a light knock.

  “Come in,” a man’s voice called.

  The girl opened the door, revealing a spacious office, where Dr. Franklin sat behind his large wooden desk: in his early fifties, tall, with sandy brown hair that was on the long side but pulled back into a short ponytail. Tweed jacket, jeans, and round wire glasses finished off the professor look.

  “Do you need something, Carrie?” Franklin said, leaning back in his chair.

  “This man is looking for Michelle Carter. The computer girl.”

  “Black, tall, slender?”

  Carrie nodded.

  “She’s not under me. She works for Dr. Hahn.”

  “Sorry to bother you.” Carrie turned to walk out. Dr. Franklin’s eyes followed her with a leer that wouldn’t have been appropriate at a singles’ club, let alone, Jack would have thought, in the hallowed halls of neuropsychology.

&
nbsp; “Thanks,” Jack said on his way out, again opting for the safest part of Thanks for nothing.

  There was no answer to Carrie’s knock on the second door. She looked a little harassed but she bravely smiled at Jack and said, “One sec,” then scissored efficiently over to the reception desk and picked up the phone.

  “Brendan? Is Dr. Hahn in? No.” She smiled apologetically up at Jack and shook her head.

  “Who’s Brendan?” Jack asked.

  She covered the receiver with her hand. “Dr. Hahn’s assistant.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  She spoke back into the phone. “Do you have a second? A gentleman is out here.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Thanks.” She hung up. “He’ll be right down.”

  A minute later, a young man walked down the staircase to the left. He was tall, just over six feet, with blond hair and blue eyes. He wore khaki pants and a white shirt. He waved and then shook Jack’s outstretched hand. “Brendan Phillips.”

  Manicured hair, muscular, handsome, and preppy—a combination that reeked of privilege and always rubbed Jack the wrong way.

  “Jack Stratton. I’m trying to get in touch with my foster sister. Michelle Carter.”

  “Michelle? I thought she transferred out.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Jack said. “She didn’t say anything about it to her family, and no one’s heard from her for two weeks.”

  Brendan held up his hands. “Wait a second. She didn’t tell her family she was transferring either?”

  “Either?” Jack asked.

  “Michelle didn’t give us any notice. She just sent an email saying she was quitting and going to school in California. I never would have expected it from her. She was always very professional.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Not personally. She reported to Dr. Hahn and I’m his assistant. It’s part of my graduate work. It sounded like she was offered an amazing opportunity and had to jump on it. I mean, she should have given some type of heads-up, but you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  “So you haven’t heard from her since?”

  “No. I emailed her but she hasn’t written back. I figured she just felt bad about leaving so quickly. Hahn was really mad.” A bell rang and students started to stream down both staircases. Brendan glanced at his phone. “I’m sorry, I have a class to get to. Um, is Michelle all right? I didn’t really know her, but it seemed out of character. She was a really hard worker.”

  At last, someone who seemed genuinely concerned. Jack took out a business card. “I’m looking into it. If you hear back from her, please let me know.”

  Jack jumped into a stream of about a hundred students out to the parking lot. When he got in the car, Replacement said, without looking up, “They just said she transferred, right?”

  “Yeah.” Jack started the engine.

  “It’s not true.” Replacement’s breath made the corner of the window fog.

  They pulled out of the parking lot as a campus police car was coming in. Jack couldn’t see the driver’s face, but from the white hair and whiter shirt, he was thinking Neil Waters.

  Looks like he’s being thorough now.

  Both were thoughtful as they left the university behind them, looking to hit a diner for the long-deferred muffin and coffee on the way out of town.

  She finished classes and headed out west? Just took all her stuff and didn’t tell anybody? That’s something I’d do. Not Michelle.

  “Did Michelle have a car?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. A blue Honda Civic. I told the brainiac detective, and he said he’d put an alert out for it.”

  Stupid. I should have asked her about it first. I’ll have to run it when I get home.

  “Should we check with all the hospitals and police stations between here and California?” Replacement said. “Just in case? But I know she didn’t go out there.”

  Jack opened his window and let a blast of cold air sweep into the car. It was a good idea but naive. A monumental interstate search like that would keep even a well-run police database busy for weeks.

  “When did Michelle decide to go to college? She was a lot older than the usual freshman.”

  “So what? I told you, she always wanted to go to college. She loved computers, school, and learning. She just couldn’t afford it. She was saving up for it, and then she got that scholarship.” Replacement looked at her feet and shook her head. “She was so happy when she found out.”

  “Where did she work before college?” Aunt Haddie always made the kids work if they were still with her in high school.

  “McDermott Insurance. She did computer security. She taught me.”

  “What do you do for work?”

  Replacement shrugged. “I have some… computer jobs. A little website stuff now and then. I’m sort of on call. Michelle said I should get some certification, so I took an online security class. Michelle…”

  Replacement’s knuckles hammered on the door panel in frustration. Jack tried not to watch out of the corner of his eye as she welled up. She looked up at the ceiling of the car and the tears began to fall.

  Jack pretended to concentrate on driving, thinking back to one of his first criminal justice classes, Psychology of the Victim. The instructor’s words haunted him now.

  “When a crime is committed, who is the victim?”

  Hands shot up all over the room, along with one brave voice. “A person who suffers harm or death from another person or from some adverse act.”

  “And, using that definition, who is the victim in a missing person case?”

  “The missing person?”

  “Wrong.” The teacher brought both hands crashing down on the podium. “What about the mother? What about the poor little brother? The uncle, father, sister, teacher, lover?” He fired down the list; his words hung in the air, suspended on the silent response to his question.

  “And… if the victim is one who suffers harm or death from another person or from some adverse act, what about you? Do you think a law enforcement officer doesn’t lose any sleep wondering what happened? Do you think you won’t pore over the facts again and again and re-interview all the shell-shocked people who have no idea what happened?

  “‘Where is our loved one?’ they ask. They’ve turned to you for help, but you have no answer. You look at them with pity, but you turn the accusatory question inward, on yourself: Why can’t I find them? And then your wife or husband grows tired of asking, ‘What are you thinking about?’ Your little child asks, ‘If I got taken, would you find me?’ and you want to reassure them and say, “I’ll never let anybody hurt you.’ But you know that’s a false promise.”

  The professor’s final words hammered in his brain. “For those of you who want to wear the badge of a police officer, you must know this: You will be a victim. And you will know pain.”

  The exit to downtown disappeared behind them on the highway.

  “Where are we going?” Replacement asked forlornly.

  “I’m taking you home. You still live in Fairfield, right?” Jack assumed she would remain close to the town where she had grown up with Haddie, and she didn’t contradict him.

  “Aren’t we going to keep looking?”

  “I’m going to look. And you can’t come back to my place.”

  Replacement pouted.

  “Look, my landlady’s ticked off. My girlfriend’s off-the-rails crazy, I only got a few hours’ sleep, and I’m tired.”

  “But—”

  “And I’m working tonight. I’m taking you home.” He felt bad—she’d been right. All the official responses had been useless—but he needed to get some rest before his shift. “Look, my head’s too overloaded to ask the right questions now. You’re going home. That’s it. Where is it?”

  “Marshall Ave.”

  That ended all conversation for the remainder of the forty-five-minute ride to Fairfield. When they crested the last hill, just before the small town came into view, Jack felt the cl
osest to happy he’d been all day.

  Jack’s hometown. It wasn’t where he was born or where he’d spent his first seven years, but it was his home, with Haddie and Chandler and Michelle.

  It hadn’t changed much since he’d last been there, and it hadn’t changed much since the seventies, when a large influx of artists came to round out the population of paper workers, loggers, retirees, and outdoors types who had earlier gravitated to the beautiful area nestled in the hills.

  Jack didn’t know whether Haddie couldn’t have children of her own, but he did know she was married once. Alton was his name, and the only picture she had of him was a wedding picture she kept on her nightstand in an old, ornate frame. But there were lots of other pictures. Over her bed, a large portrait of Jesus. It was one Jack liked because it made Jesus look like a real guy. And the wall opposite her bed was covered with photos of smiling kids. He couldn’t guess how many had gone through her care over the years.

  Her kids. That’s what she always called us.

  The first time he’d headed down this road, he’d just been thrown away like a piece of trash—abandoned by his mother, picked up by the police, tossed into the foster care system. Seven years old; his birth mother a whore. That was the word he used. There was no other way to describe her. “Prostitute” covered up her sins and sounded too kind.

  Jack hadn’t thought about her for a while, but as the buildings and surroundings became more familiar, questions flooded his already overloaded brain.

  Why?

  Why keep a kid for seven years and then give him up?

  “You should have taken that right. Take a right up here.” Replacement pointed with a frown.

  She thinks I’ve forgotten the town. She thinks I forgot about them. I haven’t. I’m just remembering too much.

  Hennessey’s, the little bait and tackle, Bob’s Coffee, the old candy store… It was almost all the same, yet everything had changed.

  He turned down Marshall Avenue and slowed down.

  “Right here is fine.” Replacement’s hand was already on the door handle as he pulled over. “Here.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. “Read it when you get home.” She hopped out and ran up into an apartment building without a backward glance.