The Last Time She Saw Him

by Jane Haseldine

  “Where the hell is it? I’m about to go into the five o’clock editorial meeting. Don’t think I won’t bury your story inside the local page. I can’t guarantee it will even make it on the website if you just recycled the news from yesterday about the kid’s abduction.”

  Primo is just being a bully. He knows this is a front-page story. In fact, it’s the story of the day.

  “Of course you’ll post it. The story got picked up on the national wire. People care about this little boy,” I say, calling his bluff.

  Primo parts his lips as if he’s about to unleash a snarling tirade. Instead, two strings of thick white spit pool in the corners of his mouth. Primo’s endless supply of spit always seems to accumulate in mass quantity right around deadline.

  I look away in disgust and so does Primo. He grabs his phone and turns his back to me as though I am dismissed.

  But I still have a card to play.

  “The cops found a body. They think it’s Donny Boyner.”

  Primo swivels his chair toward me with renewed interest and drums his long fingers together as he weighs his options. “When are they going to have an ID? You need to work your sources to get them to confirm it’s the Boyner kid. We need to have the story before The Detroit News gets it. I will not get beat on this. Understood?”

  Primo had long ago crossed the line from ethical journalist with a sense of duty to a full-blown viper.

  “I don’t know why I expected a humane response,” I answer.

  “If you care so much, become a social worker. Your job right now is to get the story. You can feel all you want when you’re done.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m leaving.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m taking a leave of absence. I need some time.”

  Primo’s rubbery lips contort into a patronizing sneer, and a dribble of built-up spit escapes from one corner of his mouth.

  “You don’t get time. This is a newspaper. The news doesn’t stop, remember? Journalism 101.”

  “I’ll write the story on Donny Boyner, but then I’m gone. I’ll contact HR. If you have a job for me when I’m ready to come back, fine. If not, I’ll reach out to The Detroit News. Either way, it works for me.”

  “Get an ID on the Boyner kid and get your ass back here. You’re a veteran, ten years in at the paper. Don’t tell me you’re getting soft. The death of another kid in the projects is going to make you give everything up? He’s just a throwaway kid who would’ve wound up selling drugs on the corner in four years anyway. Things are tight right now. We’ve already shed a hundred jobs, thirty in the newsroom in the past six months alone. You’re lucky to still be on the payroll.”

  I hold Primo’s gaze until his hard, dark eyes dart away first. The spider then buries himself back into his beloved computer, where he begins to troll for new stories.

  “That’s why I need to get out. I don’t want to wind up like you.”

  I launch the insult like a grenade and hustle out of Primo’s office before I can give him the satisfaction of being a captive audience to his caustic comeback.

  I thread my way back to my corner of the newsroom and ignore the barbs from the guys at the sports desk ribbing me about my New York Yankees’ loss to the Detroit Tigers in last night’s blowout game. I instead concentrate on Laveeta Boyner and the guilt that will undoubtedly squeeze the life out of what is left of her once she IDs her grandson.

  But at least she will know.

  At least Laveeta Boyner will have an answer.

  I grab my reporter’s notebook and tape recorder before I head out to the crime scene. I gather my scant personal effects off my desk. Easier to do it now without explanation than after deadline when someone might notice and ask questions. I hate questions unless I’m the one asking. I stuff the photo of Logan and Will in my duffel bag, reach into my bottom desk drawer, and carefully retrieve an overstuffed red binder.

  I make my way through the parking garage, adrenaline flowing, as I chisel down the list of questions I will pose to the police about Donny Boyner. As I slide my key into the ignition, I calculate the fastest route through rush-hour traffic to Mount Elliott Street. Only a mile away, the usual five-minute drive will now take me half an hour in gridlock traffic. There’s still time though. There’s always time.

  I unzip the duffel bag on the passenger seat and gently pull out the red binder, now cracked and faded with age to a muted shade of pink. I open the cover and run my hand over the first yellowed article, safely protected through time by a thin sheet of plastic that holds the newspaper story firmly affixed to the first page.

  I know it by heart.

  Sept. 6, 1977

  Nine-year-old boy disappears in resort town

  By Karen Quantico

  DETROIT (Associated Press)—A nine-year-old boy remains missing one day after he disappeared from his bedroom in the usually quiet resort town of Sparrow, Michigan.

  Ben Gooden, who was to join the rest of his incoming fourth-grade class at Willow Glen Elementary today, was reported missing by his seven-year-old sister, Julia Gooden, who called 911 at approximately 12:30 a.m.

  Police would not comment on whether the mother, Marjorie Gooden, is a suspect or will face child endangerment charges, although sources close to the case claim witnesses saw Mrs. Gooden drinking heavily with an unidentified man at a local bar around the time the boy disappeared. Police are trying to locate the missing child’s father, Benjamin Gooden Sr., who was reportedly out of town at the time of the boy’s disappearance.

  “Right now, we’re looking at this as a missing persons case, not a criminal investigation. Let me reiterate that Sparrow is a safe town for our visitors and locals alike,” said Deputy Michael Leidy of the St. Clair Sheriff’s Department. “However, when a little boy suddenly goes missing from his bed in the middle of the night, we want to assure the public that the police will do everything in our power to bring him home safely.”

  Police confirmed there was no sign of forced entry, but the sliding glass door leading from the outside courtyard into the boy’s room was found wide open. Police also found a crushed package of Marlboro Lights cigarettes outside the home in addition to an Indian arrowhead discovered under the boy’s bed.

  A neighbor, who asked not to be identified, said the Gooden family had just moved to the North Shores neighborhood.

  Principal John Derry of Willow Glen Elementary School said the students and staff started the day with a moment of silence for Ben’s safe return.

  (Photo caption: Julia Gooden, the missing boy’s younger sister, sits alone on the front steps of the family home and clutches her brother’s baseball against her chest.)

  Detective Navarro is true to his word. The early-evening sky is free of any TV news choppers circling overhead, and the Mount Elliott block where the body was found is void of any other media buzzing around like vultures, ready to pick apart any crumb of new news they can find.

  I drape my press pass around my neck and head toward the charred shell that was once a building on Mount Elliott Street. I dodge under the yellow tape and make my way up three cement stairs a tagger spray-painted in blue and orange letters, THUNDER13. The officer who is supposed to be playing babysitter to the street must be in the back of the house securing the scene, so I continue on inside. If no one is there to tell you no, they might as well be saying yes. As my eyes adjust inside the dark hallway, the smell hits me, and I instinctively begin to breathe through my mouth. It’s not the stench of urine and feces left behind from a rotation of homeless squatters who most likely called this place home. It’s the smell of death.

  I make my way through what was once most likely a living room and toward a sliver of light shining under a doorway.

  “Hey, what’s she doing here? No press. Get back outside!”

  I’ve been made known. I turn on my heels to see if I know the officer who spotted me so I can try and talk my way into staying. The door with the light underneath it bangs
open and the dark hallway is flooded with blinding white light. I shield the tops of my eyes to try and make out the details of what I assume is the crime scene. Portable high-powered lights are set up in the four corners of the cramped space, which was probably once used as a bedroom. I know I have seconds before I am physically escorted out, so I do a quick scan of the contents of the room. Filthy mattresses stained with plumes of yellow and brown are stacked up against one wall, and the floor of the room is littered with cardboard and discarded fast-food containers. Directly across from me is the room’s sole window, affixed with a set of rusted safety bars. Underneath the window, Navarro huddles on the floor near a slight, crumpled shape someone tried to conceal with a frayed rug. I take two steps closer and see a brand-new set of gleaming blue and yellow sneakers poking out from beneath the rug. The adrenaline of getting the story instantly leaves my body, and I freeze in place. The shoes are small. Little boy’s shoes. The shoes Laveeta Boyner said she bought Donny as a reward for bringing up his math grade from a C to a B.

  A meaty hand wraps around my upper arm and yanks me backward. “I told you, no reporters. What do you think you are doing in here?”

  I look up to see Detective Leroy Russell, Navarro’s partner and a thoroughbred jackass. His Mr. Clean bald head shines like a lit globe against the backdrop of the heavy lights. Russell is pushing fifty, but is built like an aging linebacker who still has a few good bone-crushing games left in him. Since I’m five-foot-seven and a hundred and fifteen pounds with my shoes on, Russell easily spins my body away from the room and pushes me toward the front door.

  I don’t try and argue my way into staying. I know technically I shouldn’t be there, at least as far as the cops are concerned. But more than that, I don’t want to see the body of the little boy once the rug has been pulled back. I tried to train myself long ago to emotionally detach from the people I wrote about. I can get lost in the juice of the moment as I chase the story, but once it’s written, once I’m alone, their stories, their faces always come back to me. They never let go. Especially when the victim is a child.

  I drop on the broken front step of the house and wait for Navarro as a steady stream of neighborhood gang-bangers drives by, idling curiously until they catch sight of police officers filtering in and out of the crime scene.

  “I thought you would put up more of a fight.”

  Navarro stands in the doorway, his tall and muscular frame almost filling it up. Navarro is hardcore Jersey, even though it’s been at least fifteen years since he moved from his hometown of Newark. Navarro runs his fingers through his thick shock of dark hair and gives me a nod.

  “Didn’t feel much like fighting today. That’s Donny Boyner in there, right?” I ask.

  “Pending ID from his grandma, yes. Come on. Let’s take a walk to your car.”

  The police know Navarro is my best source, but he at least wants to appear discreet, so I wait to drill him for information until we have some privacy. He opens my driver-side door, and I slide across the front seat of my SUV. I roll down the window and Navarro leans inside.

  “What can you tell me?” I ask.

  “Off the record or on?”

  “Both. Let’s start with off for background, and then we’ll take it from there. What do you think happened?”

  “We found the kid’s backpack tossed in a Dumpster two blocks from here. We think whoever took Donny lured him into a car on the way to school. Probably someone he knew. There were no defense wounds or bruising, which means he didn’t try to get away. Whoever did this most likely killed him somewhere else and then dumped the body. Pending an autopsy, it looks like he drowned.”

  “Drowned?”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s a new one. We’re checking every public swimming pool in the city to see if anyone saw Donny, but more likely, he was probably killed in someone’s home.”

  Navarro’s gaze moves down to the steering wheel, which I suddenly realize I am holding in a death grip. Embarrassed I’ve lost my poker face, I quickly drop my hands in my lap. When my hands start to tremble, I shove them under my legs so Navarro won’t notice. But my attempt at a last-minute save is too late.

  “You all right?” Navarro asks, his rough voice softening to a raspy hum. “Anytime the victim is a kid, it’s hard, even on us.”

  “I’m fine,” I answer and try to redirect his attention elsewhere. “You’re not going to see me around for a while. I’m taking some time off. I’m going to the lake house for the summer with the boys.”

  “Your place in Decremer?”

  “Yes. There’s a story I need to work on too.”

  “Like a freelance assignment?”

  “Something like that.”

  “If you get in a jam, let me know. Just because you’re not officially on the beat doesn’t mean you can’t call me if you need some help,” Navarro says.

  Navarro’s deep-set hazel eyes fixate on my face for a beat too long.

  “Why don’t you call me after you file your story? I’ll be here for a while, but maybe we could meet up later and grab something to eat. I remember you used to like that hole-in-the-wall diner that was open all night over in Greektown.”

  “You’ve got a good memory. I forgot about that place,” I answer. “Thanks, but I need to get back home to the kids when I’m done.”

  “Just a friendly offer.”

  “I didn’t think anything otherwise,” I answer.

  “Fine then. Just take care of yourself, Gooden,” Navarro says. He raps hard on my car’s roof with his knuckles and heads back inside the house to the crime scene and the little boy who will never get the chance to grow up.

  I decide to file my last story from my home in Rochester Hills. I know Primo will be pissed off, but I don’t care. I look off into the distance at the Detroit skyline. Ribbons of pink and orange clouds hang low on the horizon, looking bright and hopeful as they silhouette the Ambassador Bridge. I put the car in drive and hit the gas hard. I want to get out of the city as fast as I can.

  CHAPTER 2

  Donny Boyner wasn’t the tipping point that drove me out of Detroit. Or Ben. Or what the psychiatrist said. It was all of it, but especially Logan and Will. I felt the boys would be safer at the lake house, far removed from the dangers of the city. When I was still on the beat and driving home to the suburbs after a day of writing about murderers, thieves, drug dealers, and pimps, I never felt secure as I watched Detroit disappearing in my rearview mirror. I knew the drill. The bogeyman doesn’t just lie in wait behind Dumpsters in alleyways or in shadowy corners of graffiti-infested tenements of the city. He’s also lurking with a crowbar in the bushes of your middle-class cul-de-sac next to a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign, just waiting to make his move to your back door after you and your family fall asleep. No place is immune from danger, but I was confident the lake house would provide us a safe haven.

  Decremer is a tiny, “don’t blink or sneeze or change the radio dial or you’ll miss it” kind of town along Lake St. Clair. David and I bought the house in Decremer as our weekend vacation retreat two years ago, right before Will was born.

  I pulled the U-Haul into the gravel driveway of the lake house in late May. Three days in, I didn’t think I could take it anymore. I missed the buzz of the newsroom and the juice I got from the beat. But after a while, we fell into routines of subdued normalcy and the comfort of simple daily routines. The boys and I spent every day down by the lake. I never took my eyes off them as Logan perfected his rock-skipping technique, and Will stuck to his big brother and mimicked his every move until I thought Logan was going to lose it.

  At some point, the constant longing for the newsroom eased as the muggy Michigan afternoons passed without notice and I learned to slow down. And then Labor Day quietly arrived without warning, heralding along with it unwanted responsibilities: my upcoming return to the paper and Logan’s first day of third grade.

  Six-thirty a.m. The alarm wails like a hateful siren. I slam the off button and roll toward the
edge of the bed, instinctively expecting David to pull me back. But those were happier times. I get out of the empty bed and hurry to the bathroom, slide on my jeans, and put on a white button-down, fitted shirt. I use my fingers as a makeshift hairbrush through my thick, dark hair until it is somewhat tamed and curtail any other maintenance besides a dab of lip balm out of the sheer necessity of time. I do a quick inspection of my face for any wrinkles, which I’ve been able to ward off so far. But at thirty-seven, I know it’s just a matter of time.

  I leave my vanity behind in the mirror and fixate instead on my morning journey with the boys. I head to the kitchen and begin to load up breakfast on the run, DVD players, and other necessities to survive the ride to Target, where I’ll join other last-minute parents as we paw through the slim available pickings in the dreaded back-to-school aisle.

  I fight off a kamikaze deer fly on the front porch, snag the newspaper, and give the front page a thorough look, starting with the dateline: Monday, September 3, 2007. The color piece above the fold is the mandatory Labor Day story. This year it’s a parade with workers from the Big Three, Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler, waving flags and offering pointed predictions that the automotive industry could be headed for a major downfall. I give the paper a final, quick scan until I am satisfied it doesn’t include the byline of the freshly minted and hungry college grad from Syracuse University who temporarily replaced me on my cop beat.

  I pause in the hallway and listen for movement or groans or other little boys’ just-waking-up sounds. But Logan and Will are still fast asleep, which is just what I was hoping for. I need to make my annual call before I wake them up.

  Like some sort of dark holiday tradition, I’ve called Detective Michael Leidy every Labor Day for the past thirty years. Leidy was just a few years out of the police academy when he took Ben’s missing persons case, and Leidy has since risen to the ranks of director of the unit’s cold case division.