by Roger Hayden
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 in 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.
A door awaited him in the darkness. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had fed the girls sandwiches earlier. He unlocked and opened the door, walking down the creaking stairs as he was met with a hushed silence. The girls had been talking to one another, that much he was sure of. He reached the bottom of the stairs and listened closely as the fan in the center of the room whirred.
“Hello, girls,” he said, wine glass in hand. “Let’s talk.”
***
With Hayes at the wheel of his Crown Victoria, they sped past the Sandspur Inn and closer to their destination. Miriam stared at the GPS navigation on the cell phone as it indicated a right turn in eight hundred feet. 513 Sandspur Lane was only a half mile away, and the mystery of Ken Frohman would soon be solved. Or so she hoped. The case was now riding on the identity of Walter Brown’s friend. The assistant manager seemed to retain little details of either employee.
“Mr. Browning was a good worker,” he had told her. “Never said much. I had no idea he would be capable of such a thing.”
Miriam believed that to be the idea. Browning and whomever he was working with were certainly not going to advertise their plans. Most predators never did. She could only imagine how long Browning had probed the parking lot for a young girl to kidnap.
The blue van still mystified her. Had it ever really existed? She half expected to see the van parked outside Ken Frohman’s house. Would he be so careless? Miriam and the detectives weren’t undercover. One look through the tinted windows of the Crown Victoria and its suited passengers with pistols at their hips would easily alert a criminal to their presence.
“Are you going to pass the house?” she asked Hayes. “Do a little recon first?”
“I plan to,” he said, taking a left onto Sandspur Lane.
The residential street was lined with similar-looking homes, flat roofs, and cracked and oil-stained driveways. Hayes slowed as they passed a woman walking a Golden Retriever. The neighborhood looked quiet and peaceful with the lowering sun in the horizon illuminating the sky in an orange hue. They passed several homes, their dry and sandy front lawns bereft of grass. The street looked as ordinary as Walter Browning’s residence. It chilled her to think of the kind of people who managed to stay anonymous in such communities.
The GPS indicated Frohman’s house in a quarter mile. Miriam’s heart rate increased as they passed mailboxes and trailed down the long road, getting closer to their destination.
“So, is this a courtesy visit, or are we going to take this guy in?” Shelton asked.
Miriam looked at Hayes for guidance, but he offered no answer beyond an uncertain expression. They hadn’t discussed exactly what they were going to do. Part of Miriam doubted if Frohman would even be home.
“Easy,” Hayes said, eventually speaking up. “We knock on his door and ask him some questions. I think it’ll be clear by his demeanor whether he’s involved.”
“And if he runs, that’ll say everything we need to know,” Shelton added.
Miriam recalled the letters the man had written. He wanted her to find Walter Browning. He had counted on it. But why make the call? Why tell her that Browning wasn’t working alone? It then became clear to her that they were playing a game much to the satisfaction of the man they were pursuing. They found Ken Frohman’s address without any outside help, then it dawned on her that they hadn’t pulled the name out of thin air. The therapist had mentioned him.
“I should have asked him more questions,” she said under her breath.
“What’s that?” Hayes asked.
“I was just thinking about Dr. Trudeau. If Frohman turns out to be a dead end, we need to call him back to the station immediately.”
“You think he’s hiding anything about Browning?” Shelton asked from the back seat.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He was helpful but a little eccentric. Gave me a signed copy of one of his books.”
Hayes scoffed. “Well, I’ve never heard of him before. Guess anyone can write a book.”
“We need to reach out to anyone else who knew Browning,” Shelton said. “Surely he has family somewhere.”
“He has an ex-wife,” Miriam said. “And a record.”
“Heard he had assaulted a girl,” Hayes added.
/> “The charges were dropped,” Miriam said. “And he never had to register as a sex offender, according to Dr. Trudeau.”
“We pulled his record,” Hayes said. “There’s a charge for assault and battery but nothing else.”
“A bar fight, supposedly,” Miriam said. “What do we know about Ken Frohman?”
“Nothing yet,” Hayes said. “Except that he may have known the assailant.”
Shelton placed his hands on the back of her seat and leaned forward. “Did Browning say anything before he took his shot?”
“He stared at me as though I were a ghost,” she said. “Then he fired.”
“We’re still searching for a next of kin,” Hayes said, shaking his head. “This guy was a real loner.”
Sad as his life may have been, Miriam felt no remorse. He had terrified an innocent girl, possibly scarring her for life. Who knows what he would have done to her had Miriam not intervened? The residence in question came into view three houses ahead. There were two trash cans flipped over at the end of a narrow, empty driveway. The garage door was closed. The small house was painted in light green with the address numbers posted near the front door. The two front windows had their blinds drawn—a familiar sight to Miriam. Walter Browning’s home looked just as unoccupied save the red Datsun in the driveway.
Could a blue van fit inside Frohman’s garage? She supposed they would find out soon enough. She planned to ask about the van as soon as they made his acquaintance.
“There’s our house,” Hayes said, slowing down. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
“The assistant manager said that Frohman worked the night shift,” Shelton added. “Maybe he’s sleeping.”
I don’t know, Miriam thought with increasing doubt. Something’s not right here.
Rather than passing the house, Hayes stopped at the end of the driveway. Miriam then turned to him, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”
“Let’s just go talk to him,” he said. “We’ll find what we need to know either way.”
She glanced at the lonely house and wondered if it was truly the dwelling area of a demented mastermind. Decorative rocks were sporadically spread throughout the desolate yard. She kept an eye on the windows to see if anyone was peeking out. Hayes shifted into Park and then grabbed the hand microphone to the dashboard police radio.
“Dispatch, this is Hayes. We’re at the residence of an acquaintance to Walter Browning. His name is Kenneth Frohman, and he’s at 513 Sandspur Lane. Just going to have a few words.”
After a bit of crackling, Corporal Taylor’s voice came through. “Roger that. Still a madhouse at the station. Keep us posted on what happens on your end.”
“Over and out,” Hayes said. He hung up the mic and glanced at Shelton behind him. “They have that kid doing everything. Even manning the radio.”
Shelton smiled and opened his door. “It’ll look good on his promotion packet, that’s for sure.”
Miriam cautiously followed his lead and stepped outside of the car. Hayes turned the ignition off and leaned out with a groan. “Damn back hurts.”
They turned to the house and walked up the driveway together. Miriam scanned the area with every step and then stopped near the shade of the garage. “One of us should go around back, just in case he tries to run.”
“Is that what you wanted to do at Browning’s place?” Hayes asked.
“Yes,” Miriam said. “But I was certain he was the one.”
“I’ll go,” Shelton said. “You’ll look less threatening as a duo.”
“Good thinking,” Hayes said, adjusting his shirt collar.
“Wait…” Miriam said, nearly grabbing Shelton before he walked off. He turned and waited, sunglasses covering his eyes, as she studied the house before them. “Just… be careful. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here.”
Shelton gave her a nod and walked toward the backyard enclosed by a chain-link fence. Frohman’s residence had neighbors on both sides, both of which didn’t appear to be home. Miriam felt confident that they weren’t drawing too much attention to themselves just yet. Shelton flipped up the latch on the fence gate and entered the backyard, moving slowly out of sight.
“You ready?” Hayes said.
“Sure,” Miriam said as she stepped toward the cement walkway leading to the front door. Near the door was a lawn table with two chairs and an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarettes. Miriam approached the door as Hayes followed. She stopped inches from the tattered doormat where a pair of flip-flops rested and immediately noticed something strange. The front door was opened just a crack. She held her index finger to the doorbell and hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Hayes asked.
“Door’s open,” she said.
Hayes moved in for a closer look. “Hm. All the windows shut, blinds closed, but door open. That’s strange.”
Miriam balled her fist and knocked instead, tactically pushing the door open along the way. She peered into the foyer and took in the stale cigarette-smelling air inside. There were no lights on and not a sound could be heard. She looked at Hayes, not wanting a repeat of her encounter with Walter Browning. This time, she hoped to do everything by the book.
“Call for him first,” he said, sensing her apprehension.
“I think I see something,” she said, voice trailing. She slipped her head inside and could see the back of a man’s head sitting in a chair right past the corner of the hall.
“Hello?” she called out. “Mr. Frohman?”
There was no response or movement from inside. The man remained perfectly still like a mannequin. Miriam further sensed something off about the situation and went for her pistol.
“What are you doing?” Hayes asked. He, of all people, certainly didn’t want a repeat of the Browning incident.
She kept the pistol pointed down and turned back to reassure him. “Just a precaution. I’m going in. Watch my six.”
Hayes stuck his head inside and called out, voice echoing down the hall. “Mr. Frohman, we’re with the Ector County Police Department, and we’d like to ask you some questions.”
But again, there was no response. “Mr. Frohman!” he repeated in his loudest tone yet.
“I’m going in,” Miriam said as she ducked down and pushed the door open. Hayes moved in behind her, drawing his pistol as well. She kept to the wall with careful movements forward across the plush carpet, passing a closet that had mirror doors. She glanced at her reflection and could see the back of the man’s head in the corner. She paused at the end of the hall and could see a darkened living room to the right and a dining room where the man was seated at a table, facing the opposite direction.
“Mr. Frohman?” she asked. His strange lack of response or movement was unsettling. Miriam could feel it the moment they had set foot on his property. Something wasn’t right. Hayes crept up beside her and peered into the dining room.
“Is that him?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. On closer inspection, she saw that the man’s head was tilted downward and his arms were hanging at his side. “Keep an eye on my three. I’m going in.”
“Hold on,” Hayes said. “We could be dealing with a break-in.”
Miriam moved around the corner, crouched low, and took a careful step forward with both hands on her pistol, aiming ahead. She studied the man seated five feet in front of her with a full head of black hair, a white T-shirt, sweat pants, and bare feet. He could have been sleeping, but Miriam suspected something else. There were large red stains on the carpet just below his hands. Miriam neared the man as her breathing intensified. “Detective Hayes? How are we looking back there?”
“I don’t see anyone,” he answered from the living room. “Just a bunch of beer cans and ash trays in here.” So far, the two-bedroom house didn’t appear to resemble a fortified lair for kidnapped children. It looked as unkempt as a college dorm room with an open empty pizza box on the dining room table. Miriam kept the pistol aimed direc
tly at the man’s back. She called for him again, wishing that they had a picture of Frohman to reference. Whoever the man was, he made no indication of their presence.
She quickly circled around and faced the man. His face was blue and pale. His eyes were closed and a trickle of dried saliva was evident on his chin. He appeared to be unconscious, but Miriam feared far worse. Her eyes studied the man from top to bottom, stopping at his wrists, which were both slit vertically. The red stains on the carpet were all too clear.
“Hayes. Get over here!” she said.
He rushed over from the living room and circled around the table, aiming his pistol at the man. “What is it?” His face dropped at the clear situation in their midst. A sharp razor lay on the carpet next to the blood. On the table, next to a whisky bottle, was a sheet of notebook paper with a sloppily written message. The pencil presumably used to write the message rested on the table, covered in blood marks.
“A suicide?” Hayes said. “Is that him?”
“I don’t know,” Miriam said, looking at the note.
Hayes moved forward and lowered his pistol. “We have to call an ambulance. Shit. We shouldn’t even be in here.”
Miriam could feel the situation spiraling out of control and held her hand up. “Wait. Let’s just think about this for a moment. Could be a suicide, sure. It could also be a homicide.”
Hayes whisked past her and into the living room. “I’m going to search the rest of the house. Please get Shelton and call it in.”
She could hear the panic in his tone with the onset of a literal dead end in their investigation. Miriam’s eyes stayed on the man’s seated, lifeless body. She leaned down to read the note, careful not to touch anything.
“First room clear!” Hayes shouted from afar. She heard him shuffle around, moving between rooms and then verifying the same findings in the second room.
Damn, Miriam thought. No girls. A complete bust.
But was it though? Something had certainly happened here. The man’s death was no coincidence. As she scanned the note in disbelief, the man’s hastily written words provided answers that she was unwilling to accept.
