by Roger Hayden
“Is Captain Vasquez here?”
“You know it,” he said. “What happened out there tonight? We’re hearing all kinds of crazy things.”
She glanced at his worried eyes and wanted to tell him everything, but she was short on time, and Vasquez would be searching for her soon enough. “I can’t go into it right now. It’s not good. Sergeant Bennett and the others are okay. Others weren’t so lucky.”
Predictably, his eyes widened in shock. “What? You have to tell me!”
“Keep your voice down,” she said. “I’ll explain everything later. You’ve got to get me in.”
Taylor’s eyes shifted down as he went quiet. He signaled her inside the dark storage room and led her into an adjacent hall where she could see the busy station floor from several tiny windows. Ector County detectives filled the desks, sleeves rolled up and many of them on the phone. She caught a glimpse of Vasquez, looking as livid as ever, and kept moving.
“This way, Ma’am,” Taylor said as they reached a closed door marked “Records.” He unlocked the door with a key ring on the belt of his uniform and opened the door for her.
“You might need a flashlight,” he said.
Miriam smiled and held hers up. “Way ahead of you.”
“I’ll stand outside and wait. Please hurry.”
“Sure will,” she said, placing a hand on his cheek. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. His politeness and loyalty reminded her of herself at his age. “Thank you, Corporal Taylor. I won’t forget this.”
He smiled and nodded as she crept inside and closed the door. Once in, she was met with a sight of a large oak desk with chairs and over ten filing cabinets on the other side, each drawer alphabetized. It was a start. She went to the cabinet marked “T” and pulled it open, thumbing through each file folder with care. She could sense his file without even seeing it. He had to be here.
Coincidentally, she saw it right after Corporal Taylor’s file, the label affixed to a brown manila folder saying “Trudeau, Nicholas S.” At that moment, she couldn’t have been happier. She pulled the folder out and set it on the desk behind her, opening it to reveal a few documents fastened inside. There was a resume and some other credentials, but what interested her the most was the personnel information form fastened on the other side of the folder. She shined her flashlight onto the paper and examined it. Typed clearly across the document was his name, phone number, place of residence, and emergency contact information.
In the residence column, there were two addresses: a home in Midland and another house off in Pleasant Farms, on the outskirts of Odessa—the same area they had discovered the van. The discovery was uncanny.
She jotted down both addresses in her pocket notebook and took a picture with Hayes’s phone. A light knock came upon the door, signaling her to hurry. She closed the file and placed it back into the top cabinet drawer in the same spot. In a dash, she searched through the drawer marked “F” and found Ken Frohman’s file without issue.
A quick glance of his record showed a misdemeanor and fine for reckless driving. Most interesting of all was a single-page psychiatric evaluation signed by none other than Dr. Nicholas Trudeau. She had everything she needed.
Miriam closed the drawer and moved swiftly toward the door with a light knock of her own. The door opened, and Corporal Taylor stood there, relived.
“They’re calling for me. I have to go.”
“No problem. I got what I needed. I’ll explain everything soon. Thanks so much.”
“I just hope it helps,” he said with somberness. “I don’t like what I’ve been hearing so far. Something about an explosion.”
Miriam moved past him without a response and then waved as she moved down the hall and out the back door to the safety of the shadows. She vaulted toward the Land Cruiser, unseen by anyone by Taylor, so she hoped. Finding Trudeau’s second address wouldn’t be quite so easy. The cell phone signal in that area was nonexistent. She’d have to navigate the old-fashioned way, with a little help from the GPS app one her phone.
She climbed inside and shut the door, leaning toward the glove compartment, hoping to find a map. She searched through it in the dark and found one, which indicated that a bit of fortune was still on her side. She leaned back and entered the secondary residence into her GPS: 20 miles away, estimated time of arrival 23 minutes.
With her pen, she drew a line on the road map, matching the overhead direction on the GPS route. Everything was nearly in place. Her remaining hope was that he was there. She turned the ignition and turned around, re-circling the station parking lot and leaving everything temporarily behind. She felt like she had little choice in the matter. They had enlisted her assistance in the case for a reason: to do the things that needed to be done.
She drove back through town, heading in the same direction she had come from. As the town lights became less frequent, she merged onto SR 385 to a black sky and barren, mountainous desert where secrets were buried and few ventured after dark.
House Call
Twenty minutes into her trip, the GPS signal went out, leaving her with the map as a guide. She had turned down several dirt roads where no house or dwelling could be seen for miles. She focused on driving as the bumpy road curved and ascended, her headlights the lone source of light in the isolated darkness. The location was an ideal area for those who appreciated seclusion, or perhaps those who had something to hide. It could easily be both.
Miriam followed the upward slope, hands gripping the wheel, as an old-fashioned log fence came into view. Slowing down, she passed the front and continued along the side of the fence where a vast field lay beyond. Her heart jumped at the sight of an elevated ranch house ahead with lights in the windows.
She passed a sign attached to a mailbox pole with the address of the house in black lettering: 1515 Keely Drive, the very same place she was looking for. As the house pulled closer into view, she flipped off her headlights, just to be sure. She needed him caught by surprise and rattled.
The more she saw of the house and its elegant design, the more she began to realize that it would be the perfect place to hold kidnapped victims. Did he have a family? His file certainly didn’t indicate any, and his book jacket made no such mention. Did he really choose to live out here all by himself?
She pulled the Land Cruiser to the side and parked a safe distance from the house to where he wouldn’t be able to hear the engine. The rest of the trip would be on foot. She’d appear at his doorstep as a ghost. Her only hope was that he was home. Interior light glowed through the closed blinds. Someone was there.
She wiped her face with a cloth, cleaning the grit the best she could despite the crusted blood along her forehead. She stepped out, closed the door softly, and crouched low while keeping an eye on the house. The silence in the air was unsettling. The night sky was a blanket of tiny blinking bulbs.
The ranch house was shrouded in darkness with a mountainous silhouette in the horizon. Unseen coyotes howled in the distance. Absent was the sound of a single vehicle engine, siren, or person afoot. She was completely alone and completely responsible for everything that was to happen from then on.
Her pistol was at her side. Her satchel hung from her shoulder. Inside were contents she wanted to present to Dr. Trudeau. Her flashlight was in her pocket as a backup as she didn’t plan on using it. From the hood of the Land Cruiser, she held up her binoculars and carefully scanned the house from side to side.
There was a front deck that stretched from one side of the house to the other with a few empty chairs along the way. The modernized exterior of the house was all wood-paneled with an arched roof and brick chimney. There were no vehicles parked outside, but Miriam suspected Trudeau’s silver Mercedes was parked inside the garage at the left of the house.
The dirt road ended at a cement driveway that circled the front of the house where the yard was trim and green. It took money to live in a place like this. Trudeau was a criminal psychiatrist and published auth
or, but that didn’t explain the wealth he appeared to have and the suspicious aura shrouding the secluded ranch house. Miriam wondered what else he was into.
She stopped at the end of the driveway and knelt next to the fence bordering the land. She scanned the house again through her binoculars, searching for motion lights or anything that would alert Trudeau to her presence. Her circumstances felt oddly familiar. Just that morning, she was outside Walter Browning’s house, searching for a way to sneak in undetected. Her approach that evening was going to be decidedly different. For a moment, alone in the darkness without any indication how things would turn out, Miriam bowed her head and quietly prayed. For her, there was no going back.
She rose, took a deep breath, and ascended the driveway, running along the grass and toward the four long, wooden steps of the front deck. A sudden urge of patience swept over her as she slowed near the house and took a moment to observe her surroundings again. The house was still, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard. There were lights on in the foyer and behind the white, elegant curtains of a large window ahead of her. Her breathing steadied as she gathered her composure. A brief walk up the steps, and she’d be at his doorbell.
Her hand patted the pistol at her side while she placed her binoculars inside her satchel. A rehearsal of words passed through her mind, what she’d say to Trudeau and how she’d compose herself. Her mere presence would raise suspicion, and she was counting on that. Trudeau would have to be a fool to think otherwise. There was no sense in stalling any longer. Miriam braved the steps and creaked along the front porch, stopping at the turquoise door with its fancy door handle and vertical glass pane that allowed her to see inside. The porch light was on, and she wasn’t going to be able to remain concealed for much longer.
Inches from the door, she looked in and saw a blurry figure walk by in the distance. Someone was there, and she was betting that it was Trudeau. Her finger hesitated at the doorbell as she listened for any sounds that would indicate anyone else in the house. It didn’t seem likely. He lived out here on his own for a reason, and she was prepared to get a better understanding of why.
Her index finger pressed the glowing button, and a series of chimes followed. She looked through the window as the blurry figure entered the frame and stood there for a moment, probably stunned beyond words.
She rang the doorbell again as the figure rushed toward the door and moved out of her view. She could sense him watching her through the peephole. Her hands remained at her sides as she looked down and waited. The door unlocked and opened a crack as Trudeau’s shocked face marveled at her presence.
“Lieutenant Sandoval?” He paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “What are you doing here?”
She smiled in response as though she just happened to be in the neighborhood. “Hello, Dr. Trudeau. I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I need your help.”
His eyes shifted to the side and back to Miriam as he stuck his head outside the door and looked towards his courtyard. “I didn’t even hear you pull up. How did you get here? Who told you where I live?”
“I can explain everything,” she said. “Can we talk inside first?”
He moved back inside, holding the door at a careful stance. “Who else is with you?”
“No one,” Miriam said. “I’m here alone.”
His slight irritation seemed no match for the curious expression on his face. Could he really turn her away? “Is there some reason your department didn’t call me ahead of time? Frankly, I find your unexpected presence concerning.”
Miriam exposed her hands to dispel the notion that she meant any harm. “We’ve reached a crisis, Doctor, and you’re the only one I think can help us.”
He remained guarded, holding the door at a careful crack while bringing a finger to his chin. “What happened?”
“Something terrible.” She paused and looked around. “Could we please talk inside?”
Trudeau thought to himself for a moment and then exhaled loudly. “No offense, Lieutenant, but I don’t want to be any part of some rogue operation you have going on. As you know, I’ve assisted the department many times, but there are boundaries.”
“I understand,” Miriam said. “I’m not asking you to do anything beyond five minutes of your time. The department doesn’t know that I’m here. No one knows that I’m here. I’ve come on my own to reach out to you.” She paused and looked into his eyes with sincerity. “At this point, Dr. Trudeau, I believe that you’re our only hope.”
His reservations evident, Trudeau thought to himself again as Miriam waited in anticipation.
“Five minutes,” he said with a finality in his tone. “I’d like to make it as brief as possible.”
“Fair enough,” Miriam said with a smile.
He backed away and opened the door, inviting her in. She walked inside and glanced at his scraggly appearance. His cheeks were adorned in gray stubble and his slicked-back hair was frazzled and messy. He wore a blue bathrobe tied tightly at his waist and a white undershirt exposed at the chest.
Miriam almost felt bad for keeping him up, but she then remembered that he could very well be a part of the conspiracy. For a moment, she considered the evidence before her: he hadn’t been more forthcoming with Ken Frohman. His book had made several references to a bomb, figurative as it was. And the very same book had been recovered from the explosion. At the moment, she didn’t have enough to convict him, but that could change depending on what she found inside.
Trudeau led her into his spacious tiled-floor living room where mounted deer heads hung high on the wall. A bearskin rug lay in the center of the room below a shiny wood-stained table with National Geographic magazines spread across its surface next to a television remote and coasters. A leather sofa centered the room with two recliners on both ends. There was a musky, wood smell in the air like being in a cabin.
A large flat screen television was mounted to the wall above the fireplace. Along the entire wall sat a bookcase filled with more books than Miriam had ever seen on display in one person’s home. It was obvious that Trudeau chose the living room to entertain guests for a reason. It seemed to be a room that displayed his wealth and sophistication like no other. She wondered what she could find in the other rooms. Before Trudeau had blocked her path, she had noticed a table in the dining room behind him with an open wine bottle and glass filled halfway. Did he have cause for celebration? She wondered if she had interfered.
A tall black floor lamp in the corner lit the entire room as Miriam paced on the spotlessly clean tile floors of a house that she believed held more secrets about Trudeau than it offered in its sophisticated front.
“Please have a seat,” Trudeau said, signaling to the center couch. He leaned against the fireplace and watched Miriam as she hesitated. “You don’t have to worry. The furniture doesn’t bite.”
From the bookcase, she turned to him with a smile, not wanting to appear impolite. “I was just admiring your book collection. It’s quite remarkable.”
“Thank you,” he said, clearly flattered. “Reading is a necessary pastime of mine.”
Miriam made her way to the couch and sat directly in the middle across from him with her right hand to her side and close to her pistol, just in case. “Do you live alone?” she asked, hoping to tweak him just a tad. The less she pretended not to know about him, the better.
“I do, yes,” he said. “And while it may seem odd to live in a house this size all by myself, I assure you, every inch is utilized in a productive manner.”
“I think it’s fantastic,” she said. “I’d love to live out here surrounded by nature. It must be very calming.”
Trudeau nodded, exposing a smile. “It is, I can assure you. After my divorce, my wife tried to take this house. We had originally moved here with the intent of raising a family. But… things didn’t work out that way.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Miriam said. She was pleased to hear his openness, even if only a little bit. It showed
that he trusted her. She hoped to get him to say more.
“I’m sorry,” he said, slicing the air with his hand. “Would you like anything to drink? A glass of water? Soda?” He paused with a smile. “A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sitting down.
“Well then,” he said as he clasped his hands. “What can I help you with, Lieutenant?”
Miriam set her satchel next to her, prepared to present the burnt copy of his bestseller, recovered at the scene and charred beyond recognition, but refrained from doing so. She imagined that Trudeau would have an explanation. A copy of his book found at the scene of terrorist attack didn’t prove his involvement. He wasn’t responsible for the actions of people who bought his books.
The message to Miriam, “Hope you have a blast,” was just words, she tried to tell herself. He didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, her copy of the book had been lost in the explosion.
Miriam brushed back her shoulder-length black hair to the side, covering the cut on her forehead. “We’ve reached a standstill on this kidnapping case. I sought out Walter Browning’s friend, Ken Frohman, just like you advised. Unfortunately, it appears that Mr. Frohman committed suicide.”
Trudeau covered his mouth in shock, falling back against the brick fireplace behind him. “Oh no. That’s terrible. What happened? I mean, how did you find him?”
Miriam leaned forward, hands on the dusty jeans of her knees. “We found his address and went to his home to question him. He was dead when we got there. His wrists were slit and a suicide letter was waiting for us. None of this has been reported yet.” She hoped by telling him things about the case no one knew yet that she could earn his trust even further.
Trudeau shook his head as though Frohman’s suicide personally pained him. “That’s sad. I didn’t know Mr. Frohman, but in my field, a suicide is a mark of failure upon our profession.”
Miriam thought long and hard before proceeding as she concluded that she was done listening to Trudeau feign awareness. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about first, Doctor. There seems to be some inconsistencies in your relationship with both men. Do you know that Mr. Frohman was a fan of your work?”
