by Lisa Gardner
Danicic went on to describe yesterday’s events in detail after painful detail. The deal the Daily Sun had struck to cooperate with the law enforcement task force: “Because a local paper is by definition part of the community, and thus must show restraint and compassion when a fellow member of the community is in harm’s way.”
The attempt at renegotiating the ransom drop: “A desperate move from a desperate task force, racing against the relentless drumbeat of time.” The kidnapper’s unexpected retaliation against Dougie Jones, and the letter left on the windshield of Danicic’s car: “I started to realize then that in the events that were unfolding, I might be called upon to play an unusual and unexpected role.”
But it wasn’t until this morning, Danicic assured his fellow members of the press, that he realized clearly what that role might be. Upon e-mailing his lead story directly to Owen Van Wie, the Daily Sun’s owner, he finally caught some badly needed sleep. Only to wake up to the sound of a doorbell and discover an envelope, addressed to him, sitting on his front steps.
“Ah shit,” Kincaid groaned.
“We should’ve locked him up last night,” agreed Lieutenant Mosley.
Quincy continued to study the screen.
“This note was typewritten, but similar in tone and content to the other letters, which I have been privileged to see,” Danicic reported. “I have no doubt of its validity, and that it came from the kidnapper himself. In this note, the kidnapper reiterated his desire to ransom Lorraine Conner and Douglas Jones for twenty thousand dollars. The writer of the note, however, declared that he no longer trusted the police task force and did not feel that he could work with them. He indicated that if this matter was not resolved shortly, he felt he would have no choice but to kill both his victims. As proof of his claim, he included this.”
Danicic held up a photo. The local network camera zoomed in. The picture was dark and distorted. The face of a small boy appeared in the middle, but the flash had bleached out the child’s face, making individual features hard to discern. The boy was holding something.
“This photo clearly depicts Dougie Jones. Note the boy’s fingers, pointing to the date on the top of the front page of this morning’s paper as he poses next to his own photo in the Daily Sun. I believe you can just make out the face of a woman, lying behind Dougie. I believe the woman is Rainie Conner, but the police will need to be the judge of that.
“To say the least, I was deeply disturbed to receive this photo and this note. My first impulse, of course, was to call the authorities, as I have done with all communications I have received. This note’s tone, however, gave me pause. Needless to say, I’m distressed to hear that the kidnapper feels he can no longer cooperate with law enforcement. Having seen firsthand what that kind of distrust can do—the abduction of an additional victim, a small boy, just yesterday afternoon—I am concerned about what this means for both Dougie and Rainie. Thus, I reached a difficult decision. I have decided I must handle this note in a different manner.
“I am bringing it to you, the public. I am standing here right now, in the hopes that my message will reach the person who is holding Rainie Conner and Dougie Jones. And I am offering my services as a negotiator.” Danicic turned slightly to peer directly into the camera lens.
“Mr. Fox,” he said solemnly. “Following is my cell phone number. I encourage you to call it anytime. And I promise to do everything in my power to assure that you receive your twenty thousand dollars. All I ask is that you do not harm Dougie Jones or Rainie Conner. Do not make innocent victims pay for the mistakes of law enforcement.”
Danicic rattled off his phone number. A few of his neighbors began to clap.
In the front lobby of Fish and Wildlife, Kincaid shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a particularly bad dream.
Mosley recovered first. “We need to hold our own press conference immediately. We will issue a statement that we are in contact with the kidnapper and are working with him to meet his demands. We need to say that while we appreciate any help the public has to give, it is crucial to give the task force time and space to handle this delicate case. We should also mention we brought in a professional negotiator; that will increase public confidence.”
“Let’s pick Danicic up,” Kincaid decided. “I want him and that note down at the Tillamook field office ASAP. Call the lab and get a scientist from QD up here to analyze the note, as well as some kind of expert on photos. And I want Danicic cooling his heels in an interrogation room. If the UNSUB does take him up on his cockamamie scheme, I don’t want to be hearing the details on CNN.”
Mosley nodded. Both men turned toward Quincy, who was still staring at the TV screen.
“You’re quiet,” Kincaid stated. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t really think we should work with him, do you?”
“What? No, no. That’s not it. Just trying to see the future.”
“Good luck to you.”
“He called at ten,” Quincy said abruptly. “The UNSUB fulfilled his promise from yesterday’s letter, and seemed to be setting up for the ransom drop by ordering three female officers to three separate pay phones. But at the same time he was doing this, he was also leaving a note on Mr. Danicic’s front door, claiming that he couldn’t work with the assembled task force. Why?”
Kincaid shrugged. “Confuse matters. Rattle our chains. Once more have a good laugh at our expense.”
“True. But it’s certainly no way to get rich. He hasn’t even made contact by pay phone.”
“You said it yourself: His primary motivation isn’t money.”
“He’s playing a game.”
“Son of a bitch,” Kincaid agreed.
“But all games have an end.”
“Theoretically speaking.”
“Then where is this game headed, Sergeant? What don’t we see?”
Kincaid didn’t have an answer. He shrugged, just as Candi appeared in the doorway.
“We have activity,” she reported.
“The UNSUB’s made contact?” Kincaid was already running for the conference room.
“No, but Trooper Blaney just radioed in. He’s at the Wal-Mart. He can’t find any trace of Detective Grove.”
“What?” Kincaid drew up short.
“He’s searched inside and outside the store,” Candi reported. “Best he can tell, Alane is gone.”
36
Wednesday, 11:13 a.m. PST
KIMBERLY WAS PACING IN FRONT of the pay phone when her walkie-talkie crackled to life. It was Mac:
“We got a situation at Wal-Mart. We need to rendezvous there, ASAP.”
“Contact with the kidnapper?” Kimberly jerked away from the phone and headed across the parking lot, already ramping up on adrenaline.
“More like Detective Grove appears to be missing.”
“Say what?”
“Exactly.”
Kimberly found her car, and headed for Wal-Mart.
Wednesday, 11:18 a.m. PST
A CROWD OF CURIOSITY SEEKERS had already gathered outside the Wal-Mart, blocking access. Deputy Mitchell chirped the surveillance van’s hidden siren three times, and the throng reluctantly gave way.
Following behind the van, Kimberly counted half a dozen patrol cars and three unmarked detectives’ sedans clogging the front of the lot. No reporters on the ground yet, but when she glanced up, she spotted the first network chopper in the air. The situation wasn’t about to become a media circus, it was already there.
Deputy Mitchell parked the van in the middle of a lane; Kimberly followed suit. As she climbed out of her car, she could see the deputy craning his neck and pointing up at the chopper.
“Is that what I think it is?” he was asking Mac.
“Yep.”
“Ah hell, that’s not fair. Most of us haven’t even had a chance to shower!”
Mac and Kimberly exchanged glances. They tugged on the tired deputy’s arms, navigating him to the front of the store. Sheriff Atkins was already there, in a
huddle with Lieutenant Mosley and a heavy woman wearing a red floral-print dress. According to her name tag, Dorothy was the manager.
“Yes, we have cameras all over the store. Of course you can check the tapes. I don’t see what could’ve happened though. I mean, it’s midmorning. I didn’t get any word of anything or anybody acting strange.” Dorothy was rocking from side to side, sending her red dress into billows of distress.
“I understand,” Shelly consoled. “But that’s the beauty of security cameras. They’re always paying attention, even on a routine day.” She spotted their approach and beckoned them closer. “Deputy Mitchell, this is Dorothy Watson. Dorothy is going to take you to the back office and show you the security tapes. I want you to check all the film starting at nine forty-five this morning and ending at ten-thirty. In particular, pay attention to the footage of the pay phones. I want to know when Detective Grove arrived on scene, and if we can catch any sign of where she went. Got it?”
Mitchell nodded. He was still eyeing the news chopper, tugging nervously at the collar of his shirt. Clearly, he didn’t feel ready to make his film-at-eleven debut. Sometimes, it was tough to be a cop.
As Dorothy and Mitchell disappeared back inside the store, Shelly brought Mac and Kimberly up to date. “We don’t know diddly,” the sheriff said bluntly. “Detective Grove arrived on time. Radioed Kincaid to provide a description of a man talking on one of the pay phones. Kincaid advised her that backup was on its way. And that’s the last we heard from Alane Grove.”
“What time did she radio Kincaid?” Kimberly asked.
“He logged it at ten twenty-eight.”
“And the backup arrived?”
“Well, that’s the bad news. It took Kincaid ten minutes to find an available officer, then another ten minutes for Trooper Blaney to get his butt over here. Upon arrival, Blaney didn’t see any sign of Alane or the gentleman outside, so he parked his cruiser and went into the store. It’s a big store. He walked it another fifteen minutes, before getting nervous.
“That point, he radioed back in to the task force. Kincaid advised him to initiate full lockdown. Blaney paged the manager, had Dorothy lock up the store. The employees and customers were lined up in the front. Then Blaney and Dorothy did a full-scale search aisle by aisle, including the employees’ lounge, rest rooms, stockroom, everywhere. There’s no sign of Detective Grove.”
“Her car?”
“Still in the lot.”
“Shit.”
“It’s a public relations nightmare,” Lieutenant Mosley spoke up. “Danicic just held a news conference reporting that our own ineptitude led to the kidnapping of Dougie Jones. If word gets out that the subject is now snatching members of the task force in broad daylight . . .”
“I’m sure Detective Grove isn’t thrilled about things either,” Kimberly snapped. “Let’s not lose perspective here.”
“The media controls perspective; that’s all I’m trying to say. Our UNSUB is playing to the media. A Daily Sun reporter is playing to the media. We are doing nothin’. How the hell many people have to be kidnapped before I get to do my job?”
Kimberly got a little wide-eyed. The color in her face rose alarmingly.
Mosley, however, refused to be rattled. He had his cell phone out and was working the numbers. “Look, you all set?” he asked Shelly.
“I think we can handle things here.”
“Fine, then I’m heading to the county field office. I might as well see if I can talk some sense into Danicic, or get really lucky and issue a formal statement to the press. We gotta start taking control of the situation. This kind of thing”—Mosley pointed up to the hovering chopper—“is bullshit.”
Mosley stalked off, cell phone glued to his ear. Kimberly worked on getting her blood pressure back under control.
“Can you believe—” she started.
Mac laid a soothing hand on her arm. “He’s doing his job. Just like we gotta do ours. So, first things first: Did any of the pay phones receive a call?”
“Not that we know of,” Shelly said.
“So the only person who reported any activity at all was Detective Grove, and now she’s vanished.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Gets the little hairs on the back of my neck standing up, too.”
A beep sounded at Shelly’s waist. She frowned, checked the digital display of her pager, then unclipped her police radio from her utility belt. “Sheriff Atkins,” she said.
The crackling sound of a police dispatch operator came over the airwaves. “We have a male caller, identity unknown, who is demanding to speak with you. He will not give us his name or reason for calling. Just keeps insisting you’ll want to have the conversation.”
Shelly arched a brow at Kimberly and Mac. “All right, I’ll bite. Put him on the line.”
Mac and Kimberly huddled closer. There was a moment of silence, then a male voice boomed over the airwaves: “I have information on the missing woman and child. I want to know what the reward is.”
“For being a good citizen?”
The man continued talking as if he hadn’t heard her: “I read in the paper ’bout a woman who got seventy thousand dollars for helping catch a cop killer. I got information on saving two people’s lives. I figure that’s worth at least one hundred grand.”
“Hal Jenkins, you miserable piece of shit,” Shelly said. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t recognize your voice just ’cuz you’re calling over the police radio?”
Long silence. Then Shelly’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
“Don’t suppose you were at the local Wal-Mart this morning, Hal? Perhaps wearing a blue flannel shirt? Think real hard before you answer; we got tapes from the security cameras.”
“Ahh shit,” Hal said.
“That’s what I thought. Let me tell you about reward, Hal. I’m sending a deputy to your house right now. You’re gonna get into the back of his cruiser without making a fuss. You’re gonna come straight here and tell me face-to-face what you know about those missing people. And you’re gonna tell me everything, Hal, or I’m going to rip apart your entire property stove by stove, brick by brick. I told you yesterday we weren’t foolin’ around, and I meant it.”
“I just want some money,” Hal retorted sulkily. “Other people get reward money. I don’t see what’s so wrong with wanting that.”
“Get out on your porch, Hal. Deputy will be there anytime.”
Shelly clicked off with Hal. Then she was back with police dispatch, ordering a deputy to ferry Hal to the Wal-Mart. After that she requested the county DA’s office, where she filled the man in on Hal’s extortion attempt and requested a search warrant for his property, due to his obvious involvement in the abduction of a known member of law enforcement.
Kimberly was impressed. “I thought you were going to spare his property,” she told the sheriff.
“I lied. By the time the search warrant goes through, Hal will have already told us everything we need to know. Right about then, it’ll be nice to have a little surprise for Mr. Jenkins. Besides, I’ve been wanting to search that farm for weeks now. I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
It took nineteen minutes for Hal to arrive at the Wal-Mart. In that time, Deputy Mitchell confirmed that Hal Jenkins had been at the second pay phone when Alane Grove arrived. On the security camera tape, Grove had disappeared inside the store. Shortly thereafter, Hal drifted off-camera in the direction of the parking lot. Grove reappeared briefly by the pay phones, then also disappeared into the parking lot. She never appeared on camera again.
“No camera angles of the parking lot?” Shelly asked grumpily.
“The only exterior cameras monitor the front of the store, plus the entrance to the parking lot,” said Mitchell. “In the good-news department, we have clear footage of every vehicle that entered the parking lot this morning, including license plates. In the bad-news department, it’s gonna take some time
to cross-reference all those vehicles, plus it wouldn’t include anyone arriving on foot.”
“We’ll take what we got. Let’s get the footage to Kincaid for delivery to the state crime lab. Someone’s gonna work a lot of hours tonight.”
Shelly was back on the radio to dispatch. Kimberly took the opportunity to call her father.
“How are you?” she asked quietly, moving away from the squawk of the police radio, the overexcited chaos of chattering onlookers, the constant thrum of the news chopper hovering overhead.
“We’re in trouble,” Quincy answered bluntly.
“We may have gotten a break. We know who was at the second pay phone. And he says he has information on Rainie and Dougie.”
“The subject should be on the phone demanding money,” Quincy told her. “He’s not even pretending anymore.”
“Mac said there was a photo on the news. It proves that Rainie and Dougie were alive this morning.”
“It proves Dougie is alive. Rainie is in the background of the photo. Lying down. Eyes closed. I know, I’m looking at the photo right now.”
Kimberly pressed the phone closer to her head, her other hand flattened against her ear to block the background noise. Her father’s voice was low, not at all like him. She could feel his anxiety in the flat tones, the heaviness of his despair.
A police cruiser arrived, tooting its horn as it muscled its way through the crowd. Kimberly had a glimpse of a man sitting in the back, hunched shoulders, scruffy cheeks, a blue flannel shirt.
“Hal Jenkins is here,” she informed Quincy. “Give me fifteen minutes, I’ll call you back.”
“You’re still wearing the GPS transmitter?” her father asked abruptly.
Kimberly frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
“I want you to promise me you won’t take it off.”
