Girl Missing, #1

by Kate Gable

  I don't believe them.

  When I look at my mom's face with the desperation and the general absent-mindedness that I see there, I know that she'll never be the same and we'll never be the same.

  "This is different from Dad," I say definitively.

  If I am confident enough in it, it will be true, but she doesn't respond.

  She doesn't fight me and she doesn't try to convince me otherwise. She just stares into space, just like she did that day when we found him.

  She does that a lot. She could've stopped me from seeing him that way, but she didn't.

  That's why she was standing there burning the eggs, lost in a trance, as if she’d entered some other world from which she couldn't escape.

  She's like that now, so definitive and final about Violet.

  Suddenly, I hate her.

  I hate her incompetence.

  I hate her impotence.

  I hate the fact that she just makes these decisions and proclamations and she assumes that everyone's going to go with it.

  "Violet is not Dad," I say, grabbing her hand and forcing her to her feet. "She's not gone."

  "I'm not saying that Violet committed suicide," Mom says quietly and another pang of anger rushes through me. "I'm just saying that I feel like she's no longer with us. You don't have to feel that way, but as a mother, I know."

  "As a mother, you know nothing," I say, pointing my finger in her face. "I'm your daughter. You let me walk to that bedroom and you let me find him that way. How dare you? How dare you take my childhood away from me like that?”

  I turn around and storm off into the back bedroom, just like I’d done millions of times before in my life.

  “You were twenty!” Mom yells after me as if that was supposed to make me feel better.

  There's something about being in your childhood home that makes you act like a child.

  It takes you back to that world where you had no power, no control, and no life.

  I walk past their bedroom again, the one that she has remodeled at least three times since his death. I don't blame her for that.

  If it were me, I'd probably sell the house the first opportunity I got and move clear across the country.

  What I do blame her for is not protecting me.

  What I do blame her for is believing that he had committed suicide.

  Yes, that's right.

  I don't think that he did, but she does and so do the police.

  There are no leads, I have no proof, and I don't know if I'll ever find out the truth.

  I sit on the edge of my bed just like I did when I was a kid and I bury my head in my hands. I hate being here.

  I hate being in this little house with all of its demons and all of its darkness.

  I hate the fact that Violet was only two-years-old when he died, and she has no real memories of the wonderful man that he used to be.

  He loved her so much. He played with her, he took care of her, he changed her diapers, and he spent every waking minute that he could with her.

  I probably sound like I'm just a daughter who can't accept the fact that her father committed suicide, but it's more than that.

  It's the two shots in the abdomen.

  It's the fact that men who commit suicide rarely shoot themselves in the guts and the fact that, if you are shot in the stomach, it takes a very long time to die.

  How long was he dying for in this room before we all came home?

  Why would anyone do that to themselves, even if they did want to commit suicide?

  There's a knock at the door and I see my mom in the doorway. The vacant expression on her face is gone.

  She's present and connected.

  She sits down on the bed with me, crosses her legs, and drapes her arm across my back. The warmth that is emanating from her wraps me up as if in a thick, plush blanket and for a moment everything feels okay again.

  I want to apologize, but I can't bring myself to do it.

  "I'm sorry," she says quietly, her voice not so much tense, but full of sorrow. "I'm sorry I went to that place again. I don't really have much control over it, you know that, but it's still no excuse. I'm your mother and I have to be here for real."

  I nod and lean my head into her shoulder. She holds me tighter.

  "I love your sister very much. You know that. I know that hope is very important and we have to keep looking for her, but... I don't know. It was just this feeling I got. This cold, vapid gust rushed through me and suddenly, I felt like I did when I found your father. Like there's nothing to be done."

  I nod.

  She's talking now, explaining herself, and I feel a kinship toward her. I swallow hard.

  "I know that in situations like this, we can give up hope or we can carry on hoping despite all evidence to the contrary, but she hasn't been gone that long and we can't give up yet.”

  “At no point am I saying that we're giving up," Mom says, shaking her head. "Not at all. I'm just feeling a little lost. A little sad. A little out of control. It just swept over me like a wave."

  "I'm sorry for yelling at you," I say. "I know that you feel like that and I just... That's fine, but I don't want to hear it in the future."

  She looks at me and her eyes get very big.

  I nod and repeat myself, "I don't want to hear it. She's my sister. I'm going to keep looking for her. I'm going to find her, no matter what, and I just can't make space for this kind of negativity in my life. Not when it comes to her. I have to find the answers, you know?"

  "Yeah, I know.” Mom nods and we hold each other for a little while.

  Nothing is different, but everything has changed.

  21

  Later that evening, I drive back to my apartment in LA. I don't want to leave, but I have another case that I'm working on and the other detectives assigned to it can only do so much.

  I don't want Captain Medvil to take me off the case and there's still so much that I have to do to figure out what happened to Courtney Reynard.

  I get back home to my dusty, poorly lit apartment around eleven at night and fall dead asleep. The following morning, I wake up at six and am one of the first people in the office.

  Captain Medvil calls me into his office as soon as he comes in with his Dunkin' Donuts coffee cup. He quit eating donuts earlier this year when he went on what feels like his tenth diet in five years, but this time, he's actually stuck to it and managed to lose thirty pounds.

  "Courtney Reynard, where are we with that?" he asks as soon as I walk in.

  "Unfortunately, I don't have much of an update. I haven't talked to her friends and I haven't found out too much more from her parents."

  "I know that you're distracted with your sister. Pellegrino and Ross are working on it, so get caught up. Otherwise, I can take you off and you can do some paperwork while you're here."

  "No, I really want to be of use."

  He nods and I walk out of his office.

  Dale Pellegrino is a big-chested kid from Iowa who was one of the only Italians in his class and who moved out west as soon as he turned eighteen. He likes to go hiking, surfing, and being as Californian as possible, but his big, ruddy cheeks and his flaxen hair betray where he's really from. I find him and Rosalie Ross, who made detective about the same time I did, sitting in the break room, nursing their big cup of coffee and watching a YouTube video.

  Ross keeps her hair cut short, right below the ear, and she's a fan of Sephora. You should see her when she does all of her makeup and gets dolled up for real. The fluorescent lighting in this place does not do her justice, but she could honestly be a movie star.

  She's from East LA from a family of cops. Her father, her grandfather, and her two brothers are all police officers all over southern California. It was the only thing she ever wanted to do when she was a little girl. She has no problems with confrontation, being vocal and pushy, something I occasionally struggle with.

  I take a seat next to them and they catch me up. I try to apologize
for not being here earlier, but they've heard about my sister and they tell me not to worry.

  "So far, no fingerprints and not much physical evidence," Ross says.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee, lukewarm and bland, but it feels good to have something in my hand.

  While we chat, I sit across from them at the Formica table and give them my full attention.

  "Had she been sexually assaulted?" I ask.

  Pellegrino shakes his head and admits, "I'm surprised about that, but she hadn’t."

  "She was found there fully clothed, but still that is a bit of a surprise," I agree.

  We don't say anything for a few moments. It's rare to see a case like this. Most of the time a thirteen-year-old girl found dead almost always has been sexually assaulted in some manner.

  * * *

  "We talked to her friends," Ross says. "A few of them. No leads. No suspicions, really. I doubt that it's any of the ones that we spoke to."

  "What about anything on her computer?"

  "Actually, yes.” Pellegrino nods. "She's been talking to strangers on various social media sites. She was using a lot of fake identities."

  "Really?" I ask.

  “Yeah.” He shakes his head and bites into his sandwich. “She was going by different names, pretending to be much older, pretending to be in college. At one point, she said she was twenty-five.”

  "Wow. So, what do you think that means?” I ask.

  "Well, about a week earlier, she had a meeting with one of them."

  "One of the people that she was talking to?"

  "Yep. Twenty-four-year-old truck driver. From the looks of his page, it didn't seem like he was lying about much of what he was. They met up already and they were talking about meeting up again. That night, actually, at eight."

  A shiver runs down my spine as I ask him for a clarification.

  "They met up already?"

  "According to the text messages, yes,” Ross says. "We haven't talked to him yet. We were just about to head out to do that."

  "I'd like to come."

  "Of course,” they say in unison.

  I don't know Ross and Pellegrino very well, but they have been friends for a while. So, when we get into their vehicle to drive to see the trucker, they banter back and forth, poking fun at each other's differences, starting with what they eat for breakfast, what kind of women they like.

  I sit in the back and my thoughts immediately return to my sister. She's haunting me now. I think about her day and night. I know that's not the best thing for a detective, especially one who's supposed to be investigating the case of another thirteen-year-old girl, but I can't help but be distracted.

  Perhaps I should step down, and remove myself from this active investigation, but I look at the two people sitting in front of me and I think wherever I fall short, they won't. Even if I don't take the lead on this one this time, someone is going to pick up the slack. We're going to find who did this to Courtney Reynard.

  I know in the deep recesses of my mind that this is a terrible thing to think. Everyone working on this case has to give it their one hundred percent attention; otherwise, the killer will go free. But the truth is that this job is like any other.

  On TV, detectives are portrayed like either degenerate drunks or superheroes, and we're a bit of both. Drinking is definitely a big problem and many have a huge superhero complex to boot.

  The reality, however, is that we are just people with flaws, families, and distractions. I may not have a drinking problem, but I have a missing sister problem. My thoughts are consumed with where she is right now, much more than they are on finding the killer of that dead girl.

  "You seem distracted,” Ross says, turning around to face me.

  I hadn't realized it, but they were talking about the Reynard case again.

  I catch myself looking out the window and get embarrassed. I didn't want it to be so obvious. Of course, I thought that maybe approaching them in the break room, catching up on the case, and being more involved would fool them, but they are two detectives after all.

  "Listen, we're taking the lead on this,” Pellegrino says, "and we'll cover for you. It's not a problem. So, if you can't be here right now, it's totally fine."

  It would probably be easier if I weren't here. They are partners, friends, and they know how to do the interview dance together.

  One is the good cop. The other is a bad cop. So, what am I exactly? The third wheel?

  “No, I like to participate. I'm on this case and there's nothing more that I can do right now for Violet.”

  I use her name because I don't want to call her my missing sister. I don't want to give her that adjective.

  "Are the cops letting you in on it?" Ross asks. "Or is it the usual small-town politics?"

  “They're actually being very nice about it. I interviewed a number of her friends, got a few leads, but nothing substantial. There's one guy, the most popular kid at school, the jock, the future asshole of America. He kind of looks suspicious and his alibi is shaky. He said that he was with his girlfriend, but she said that he wasn't. Anyway, he seems to be lying. Probably is. I just have no idea if he had anything to do with Violet's disappearance.”

  "How long has it been?" Ross asks.

  "Two days," I say. “My mom is organizing a press conference. I just hope that we can get enough news stations to show up, or any at all. This is Big Bear after all.”

  "What does Violet look like?" Ross asks.

  I show her a picture.

  She nods approvingly.

  It's a terrible thing to say, but the truth is that pretty girls get looked for a lot more than less attractive ones. Not by cops necessarily, but by the media.

  When was the last time you saw a girl in the news who was missing, who wasn't that perfect fit for the standard American beauty; white, blonde hair, big eyes, with the occasional breathtaking brunette thrown in?

  It's one of the reasons why there are so few cases of teenage boys that get picked up by the mainstream news. People assume that they're runaways. It's hard to get the reporters to report on them, but the truth is that they go missing at approximately the same rates as teenage girls.

  A few minutes later, we get to Jesse Broward's house. It's a small, dilapidated apartment or cottage, if you can even call it that, in the back of a four-plex. It actually resembles something like a shed that has been converted into very modest living quarters. The paint is peeling and the walls look like they're made out of paper. Out front, there's a red Camaro, waxed, cleaned, and practically licked to perfection.

  Pellegrino knocks on the door while I stand behind on the walkway leading up to the porch. There isn’t enough space for all of us up there. It's basically a five-by-five square with a rusting railing, which could fall over with one dirty look.

  "Jesse, come out," Pellegrino says in his booming voice.

  About ten knocks later, the door creaks open and a man with an extreme hangover answers. His hair is long and falling shabbily in his face. His skin is so white it practically looks see-through. I can smell last night's beer on his breath when he coughs without covering his mouth.

  "What are you doing here?" he demands to know.

  "I told you we would be stopping by," Pellegrino says, surprising me.

  It's not normal police procedure to notify people of us showing up. They tend to clam up when you do that or call lawyers.

  "No, you didn't," Jesse says. "Who are you?"

  We all flash our badges and Pellegrino asks if we can come in.

  We can only enter with a warrant or an invitation, and luckily Jesse offers the latter.

  Walking into the studio apartment, I see a mattress lying on the floor in the corner. The bed is unmade and there's no bottom sheet or even a pillow.

  "Is this your permanent address?" Pellegrino asks.

  "Yeah. So what?" He plops into an expensive gaming chair in front of an enormous, curved computer screen.

  There's nowhere else to sit and
we wouldn't sit anyway. I stand in the doorway, looking around, taking it all in. The only window is a single pane and heat is streaming in through it. It's covered up by two short black curtains, just long enough to cover the glass. Instead of a curtain rod, the curtains are held up by pins and one looks like it's about to let go.

  "Yeah, I live here," Jesse says.

  "For how long?"

  "I don't know. Couple months. Why?"

  "Have you been in contact with a girl by the name of Courtney Reynard?"

  "No."

  "Does she look familiar now?" Pellegrino pulls out his phone and shows him a picture of her.

  "That's Mary-Anne."

  "Mary-Anne?" Pellegrino laughs. "Who the hell is named Mary-Anne anymore?"

  "I don't know. She is. Why does it matter?"

  "Well, it matters because this girl's real name is Courtney Reynard, and she was found hanging from a tree."

  "What? What are you talking about?" He gasps and stands up.

  This is the moment.

  This is what we look for, the reaction.

  A person who has committed a murder reacts in a very different way from a person who is pretending to have never heard of this girl.

  I’m thrown off a bit by Pellegrino’s approach. Usually, the way to do this is to ask a few questions, see if the suspect trips up and refers to the victim in past tense. How would he know that she was no longer with us if he wasn't the one that took her out? That sort of thing.

  But in this case, I think Pellegrino played it right.

  Jesse looks genuinely surprised, taken aback, and shocked by the fact that Courtney's dead.

  "No. You guys are shitting me, right? Mary-Anne is not dead."

  "Yep. D-E-A-D,” Pellegrino spells it out for him. "Now, why don't you tell us what you know about that?"

  "I don't know anything. Apparently, I don't even know her real name."

  He shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, but not in a guilty sort of way, more like he is surprised and uncertain as to what to do next.

  "When was the last time you saw her?” Ross asks.