The Last Time She Saw Him

by Jane Haseldine

  “Jason’s a nice kid,” Bill says without turning around. I always thought true newspaper people harbored a sixth sense—either that or they are brilliant at making smart deductions based on the human psyche, ego and all. “I’d move him over to the business desk in a heartbeat if I could convince you to come back here.”

  I let Bill’s offer go unanswered. He ushers me into a vacant room that used to belong to the former copy desk chief, Andy Whittington.

  “Andy and twenty other poor bastards got axed when corporate decided we had to downsize again because of declining revenues,” Bill says and pulls out a cigarette from his back pocket and tucks it behind his ear. “Newspapers are dying and no one cares enough to save them. You took a sabbatical at the right time. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Bill instantly realizes his faux pas and smacks the top of his bald head with an open palm.

  “I didn’t mean you’re lucky. Your son is missing. Ah, geez.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You got your tape recorder?’

  Bill pulls out his old-school notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket instead. I begin to feed him the story about Ben’s abduction, and Bill scribbles furiously until each page of his notebook is full.

  “Remember, I’m an unnamed source close to the family, right?” I remind Bill.

  “Got it. The cops are being tight-lipped with details again, huh?”

  “Yes, call it Navarro’s filter from hell,” I say.

  Navarro insisted the cops will control the message at the press conference and answer all questions about the case, but I need to be sure there is full transparency, as long as it doesn’t jeopardize Will or the investigation. I know the fine line I need to straddle. I can’t let the cops mess this up with the press. My gut tells me Navarro is going to try and spoon-feed the media a bunch of useless non-information spun to the point that it means nothing at all. When that happens, the press will find a way around it and write their own story.

  I need to be sure I write this one.

  * * *

  I climb back inside the car, and I can already feel the tension from David, who is heated and flip-flops between gunning the engine and slamming on the brakes as he bobs and weaves through city traffic.

  “You said you’d be ten minutes, and you were in there talking to your old boss for almost half an hour,” David snaps. “We can’t be late to the press conference. How would that look?”

  “Like we didn’t give a damn about our own kid,” I answer. “We won’t be late. We’ll get there right on time. I just needed to share something with Bill. You need to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You can’t keep me in the dark about things.”

  “I told Bill about my brother. I knew if I leaked the possible connection, it would make the story bigger. The bigger the story, the more people who know about Will.”

  David sighs, and his level of being pissed off at me seems to ease down by a few notches.

  “You’ve got good instincts with the media. I trust you on that.”

  I stare at the scene outside the car window and realize my dad inadvertently taught me the fine art of the con. Three blocks away from the police station, the streets are starting to line up with media vans. It’s becoming a full house, including reporters from CNN, the Detroit Free Press, Fox News, The Detroit News, and TV crews from other major networks. My gamble paid off. A missing child’s story is big. But the news of Ben’s abduction that Bill posted on his paper’s website just twenty minutes earlier elicited an immediate frenzy and added even more drama and interest to the news hook, leaving the other members of the press scrambling to cover the story.

  “Thank God Kim is at home watching Logan,” I say.

  With a big story, most reporters would do anything for an exclusive with a member of the grieving family, including cornering a scared eight-year-old if need be.

  Detective Russell spots David and me and waves us toward the podium, where a dozen or so television, print, and radio reporters are jockeying to set up their microphones and digital recorders. The TV cameramen and photographers line up like an army of diligent ants on either side of the stage and fight for a position to nab their best shot.

  “Remember, don’t answer any questions, Julia,” Detective Russell says. “Any member of the press asks you a question, you defer to Navarro or the chief. Got it?”

  Now that his marching orders to us are delivered, Russell barrels toward the stage, and David and I fall behind.

  “That’s Julia Gooden. She’s the mom, and the man in front of her must be the missing kid’s father. See if you can get the shot of them walking in before anyone else gets it,” a local anchor from Channel 3 calls out to his cameraman.

  David grabs my arm and starts to steer me away. I turn my face from the news camera and move quickly toward the podium. I reach the stairs of the police precinct when a familiar voice from the crowd makes me pause.

  “Julia, wait!” I turn my head toward the voice, which rings distinctive against the din of the crowd, and spot a woman who is elbowing her way in my direction.

  “Come on,” David calls out. “This place is a madhouse.”

  I ignore David’s directive and do a quick study of the female trying to get my attention. From a distance, she is very pretty, but as she approaches, I can see she is aged a bit beyond her years, probably from too much hard living, a telltale look I know all too well from the drunks and addicts I encounter routinely on the police beat. I start to turn back to the podium but freeze in place when I finally recognize the stranger.

  “Please, Julia. Wait! It’s me, Sarah.”

  I stare back at my sister, my feet feeling like lead weights, as she nears. It’s been eight years since I last saw Sarah. And I vowed at the time I would never see her again.

  “Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you, but you won’t return my calls,” Sarah says as she pushes her way to me and tries to lean in for a hug. “I’m so sorry about your baby. Will is his name, right? I’ve just been sick to my stomach over what you’re going through. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  My body stiffens against Sarah’s attempted embrace.

  “No. If you’ve come to ask for money, I’m not going to give you any this time.”

  “That’s not why I came,” Sarah protests. “I wanted the chance to apologize for what I did. And then I found out about your boy. My trip here obviously happened for a reason. Everything happens for a reason, don’t you think? Let me help you. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  “I don’t think everything happens for a reason. Things are either random or carefully calculated, and I’m betting, with you, it’s the latter. I don’t need your help and I don’t know why you’re here. But this is not the time or the place for your dysfunctional reunion.”

  “You can’t say that. I’m your family.”

  “I have my own family now, and they won’t hurt me.”

  “Please. You just need to give me a chance. I’m different now.”

  “I remember what you did. Get out of here, Sarah, and don’t come near my family or me again. That’s the last warning I’ll give you.”

  Sarah continues to stare back at me as her fingers clasp a gold cross necklace that plunges deep into her scant cleavage. I break our uncomfortable tableau, turn my back on my sister, and climb up the precinct stairs.

  “Over here,” David calls and beckons me to the center of the stage.

  I follow in his direction and notice the talking heads are starting to gather at the podium, including Navarro. We lock eyes, and he barrels past the police press secretary in my direction.

  “How’re you doing?” Navarro asks.

  Navarro has changed into a dark suit and tie instead of his usual attire of jeans, motorcycle boots, and well-fitting, long-sleeved T-shirts pushed up to his elbows.

  “I’m fine. We’ve got a good crowd here. Let’s do this.”

  Chief Linderman strides through the front door of the police station we
aring a blue pinstripe suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Linderman pulls the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and squints at the almost noonday sun.

  “I always say not to hold a press conference at this time of day because the damn sun gets in my eyes. But we can’t have the sun to our backs because it will mess up the lighting for the photographers and TV camera crews, right, Julia?” Linderman asks.

  “Something like that, Chief.”

  “I hope you and David and Logan are all right.”

  “Yes, sir, we are just focusing on getting our boy back,” David answers.

  “Well then, let’s get started. Here’s how this is going to go down. I’ll debrief the press and then Navarro and I will take any questions. Being a reporter, I know your instinct is going to tell you to talk to the press, Julia, but let us handle it. We don’t want to do anything to jeopardize the investigation. If we put out too much information, it could backfire, and I know you wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  Once Linderman lays out the foundation, he takes his place of authority directly behind the podium. David and I move to the far right of the makeshift stage, and Navarro flanks Linderman on his left.

  “Good morning, everyone. As most of you know, last night at approximately ten p.m., a two-year-old boy was abducted from his home. The boy’s name is Will Tanner,” Linderman starts.

  A picture of Will, blond and smiling with the prominent gap showing between his two front teeth, pops up on a screen behind us. It’s the same picture from the Amber Alert. The photo tears through my heart, but I look away so I won’t break down. David grabs my hand, and I close my eyes tightly for ten seconds and then force myself to open them.

  “Will Tanner has blond hair, weighs approximately thirty pounds, and is thirty-two inches tall. He has a birthmark that looks like a strawberry on the back of his head,” Linderman continues. “He was last seen wearing a pair of yellow pajamas with a giraffe on the lapel. The police department is working hard to bring Will back to his family, and we’re asking anyone to come forward with any information they may have regarding this child’s disappearance.”

  As anticipated, a few reporters look my way, and I can hear the rapid snap of cameras clicking, the photographers behind the lens hoping to capture the shot of the grief-stricken mother breaking down.

  “We’re offering a reward,” I blurt out, the announcement unexpected even to myself.

  Linderman turns around and raises one “what the hell are you doing?” eyebrow at me. Navarro and I hadn’t discussed anything about a reward, and I know I am breaking protocol, but I don’t care. I need to up the ante.

  “My husband and I are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who can give us information that leads to Will’s safe return,” I say.

  Linderman clears his throat loudly and starts again. “As I was saying, we’re asking people who know anything about this child’s disappearance to come forward. We have a tip line for anonymous callers who don’t want to be identified. Now, are there any questions?”

  An audience full of hands flies up.

  “I’ll ask the officer in charge of this case, Detective Raymond Navarro, to join me for your questions,” Linderman says.

  “Chief, was this a home invasion?” the reporter from The Detroit News asks.

  “We can’t comment on that right now,” Linderman answers.

  I open my mouth to say something, but David squeezes my hand and I reluctantly stay quiet.

  “Julia Gooden, you’re a reporter, correct?” a CNN reporter asks me directly.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I answer.

  “A local media outlet is citing an unknown source who confirms your brother was also abducted when he was a child. Your son’s abduction last night marks the thirtieth anniversary of your brother’s kidnapping, according to the source. Are there any leads that indicate these two cases are related?”

  Navarro shoots me a sideways glance of death that I don’t acknowledge.

  “We can’t comment as this is an ongoing investigation,” Navarro says.

  “Do you have any suspects you’re locking in on? How about family members?” the reporter from USA Today asks.

  “As we’ve said, we can’t comment on that right now as this is an ongoing investigation,” Navarro answers.

  Navarro’s bullshit no-response makes it sound like David and I are involved. The cops always look at family members first, and now so will the media. I gaze out at the crowd of press and notice they seem to stare at David and me with greater intensity.

  The Detroit Free Press reporter goes next. “Julia, I understand you paid a visit to Reverend Casey Cahill in prison today. Can you verify this and tell me what your meeting was about?”

  Navarro looks back at me again, and I hold his stare. I didn’t leak this. It must have been the prison guards, but the more the press knows, the more information will go out about Will’s abduction. So as far as I’m concerned, Navarro can screw it.

  “As Detective Navarro and I have mentioned, any interviews or specific activity relating to this case cannot be commented on since it’s an ongoing investigation,” Linderman replies.

  I inch in closer to Linderman until I am sure the media can hear my voice loud and clear.

  “Thank you for coming out today. My name is Julia Gooden. My married name is Tanner, and I am Will Tanner’s mother. Last night, at approximately 10 p.m., at least two people broke into my home and took my son. I was downstairs at the time and Will was asleep in his bed. By the time I got upstairs, the intruders were gone. They took my child.”

  “Julia,” Navarro barks and begins to move toward me. But I won’t be censored.

  “Whoever broke into my home left evidence at the scene, including a hard-pack box of Marlboro Lights cigarettes. The police are conducting a DNA analysis on a hair found at the scene and analyzing other personal effects of Will’s that may have been handled by the intruders. To answer your other questions, yes, my brother Ben, Ben Gooden, was abducted in 1977. He was nine years old at the time. We lived in Sparrow, Michigan. His case remains unsolved, and the police are looking into whether there is any kind of connection between the disappearance of my brother and son. One significant link is an Indian arrowhead. Police discovered an arrowhead under my brother’s bed thirty years ago and an Indian arrowhead was also retrieved under my son’s crib last night.”

  Navarro has a hold of my arm now, but I keep going.

  “To answer the Detroit Free Press reporter’s question, yes, I did pay a visit to Casey Cahill today. The former reverend contacted the authorities claiming he had information about my son’s abduction. The police are determining whether or not these claims are valid. Cahill says he received letters from an anonymous person who could’ve been a member of his congregation. These alleged letters name me specifically, and it sounds like the author has a vendetta against me.”

  Navarro is now digging his fingers deeply into my arm, and it hurts like hell.

  “We don’t know if these letters are even legitimate yet,” Navarro interrupts.

  I ignore him and keep on going.

  “I am asking, as a mother of a beautiful little boy who was snatched from his home and his family, that if anyone has information regarding this case, they will come forward,” I say and then stare straight directly into the TV cameras. “And if the person who took my son is watching, know this. I will find you.”

  The crowd of reporters begins to bark questions in unison as Navarro locks his arm around my waist and steers me away from the podium and toward the police station entrance. Linderman is close behind, saying choice words intermingled with my name under his breath, and the police press secretary is left at the podium to play clean up.

  We arrive just outside the doors of the police department lobby and then Navarro erupts.

  “What in the hell are you doing? You can’t give the press too much because it’s going to blow the case,” Navarro yells. “Jesus Christ.”

&nbs
p; “What am I doing? What are you doing? What was the point of your press conference if you had no news to share? That was the lamest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I should’ve known you’d pull something like that,” Navarro answers. He opens the right side of his suit coat and extracts his cell phone from his hip as it begins to buzz.

  “I’m not through with you,” Navarro growls and puts the phone to his ear.

  Navarro keeps a firm grip on my arm as he listens to the caller on the other end of his phone. His grasp eases slightly as he seems to possibly get an answer he wants.

  “He’s on the way down to the station? Good work. I’ll get the search warrant for his property. But if you detect any signs of the kid, just move, understand?” Navarro tells the caller before hanging up.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “We picked up a sex offender. The guy lives in South Lakeport, just a couple towns over from your lake house. Turns out he lived in Sparrow when your brother went missing. I had a feeling the cases were connected, and I’m betting we just found the guy who took your brother and son.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I hasten my pace to keep up with Navarro’s fast-moving trail through the police station reception area, which is filled with a few defense-attorney-looking types who wait impatiently to get buzzed inside to buffer their clients.

  “Hold on,” I call out, but Navarro just keeps moving. “Let me be there when you talk to the suspect. I could be an invaluable resource. If this guy did take Will and my brother, no one is going to know the backstory, or if he is lying, better than me. Why waste the time?”

  “Not a chance,” Navarro answers. His back is still to me as he moves toward the glass security door that will lead him into the heart of the police station, where I need to be.

  “You’re making a critical mistake. You try and sweat the guy for what, an hour or two, and you get nothing. I don’t have to be in the interview room with you. I can be on the other side of the glass, confirming what you need to know. You need my help.”