The Last Time She Saw Him

by Jane Haseldine

  Navarro finally slows down and wipes away a few beads of sweat that are beginning to glisten on his forehead. He tosses his jacket on a chair, and begins to hunt through his coat pocket for his security badge.

  “What an idiot I am to wear a black suit coat in the noonday sun,” Navarro says, and fishes his plastic ID out of his breast coat pocket.

  “Will’s been missing for fourteen hours now. We’re running out of time. Come on. You can’t shut me out.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid? I trusted you, and you sold me out. You made me look like an ass in front of my boss, not to mention the fact you may have leaked critical information about the case,” Navarro growls.

  “The more information the press has, the better. They need to know the details. You work the press to your advantage.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Journalists are all about transparency, but you need to get your head out of your ass and realize we don’t tell you things for a reason. I hope you don’t find this out the hard way.”

  “It wasn’t about transparency. And I’m not a journalist right now.”

  “Yes, you are. Once a journalist, always a journalist. You’re lucky we have a suspect in for questioning, or you would be in deep shit.”

  “I’d tell you I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m desperate, and I don’t know what other stops I can pull out here.”

  I realize I’m playing the sympathy card, but I don’t care about being manipulative in this situation. And my move seems to be working. The crease between Navarro’s brow gives, and his expression softens just enough for me to know I may have found my way in.

  “Okay. Just don’t pull any more crap like that again,” Navarro says. “But let me be clear. No watching the interview. There’s no way I’d let you do that.”

  “What’s the suspect’s name?”

  “You’re going to continue to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you? You get nothing more from me unless I have something concrete to tell you or I need you to verify something this guy says.”

  “What about . . .” I start.

  “Nothing,” Navarro replies. He turns his back to me and waves his security badge in front of the thick glass door leading into the precinct’s inner sanctum, where the suspect waits.

  “Navarro,” I plead, but my voice gets muffled as the security door automatically closes behind him.

  I pull out my phone to text David to let him know I may be a while. Before I can hit the send button, Pamela Murphy, the records clerk, walks into the lobby fresh from her lunch break. Pamela is a good-natured woman in her mid-fifties with an outdated Farrah Fawcett hairdo shellacked in place by superior hold hairspray and a grating voice like Betty Boop’s. For someone who works in a police department, she is surprisingly trusting, of me at least. Pamela inadvertently leaked to me information on numerous stories in the past, and I surely didn’t stop her. I watch Navarro through the glass partition as he disappears around the hallway corner to the interview room and realize if I ever needed to work Pamela, now is the time. As she approaches, I stand directly in front of the door so she can’t help but notice me.

  Pamela stops in her tracks when she sees me and leans in close as she gives me an unsolicited and equally uncomfortable hug.

  “Julia, honey. Oh my goodness, I’ve been so worried about you,” Pamela says in her whiny soprano, as she thankfully pulls away. “You and your family have been in my prayers. If there’s anything I can do, you just let me know.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ve been waiting on Navarro for almost half an hour. He was supposed to get me the suspect’s file in my son’s case. I’m afraid he got caught up in the interrogation and forgot.”

  “Everyone is busy trying to find your little boy.”

  “Right, but Navarro said it was important I look at the file to see if I can recall anything about the suspect. My older son, Logan, is at home, and he’s just beside himself without me there so I need to take care of this as quickly as possible. Is there anything you can do to help me? I won’t take long. I promise.”

  “Well, if Navarro was going to get you those files, then it should be just fine, sweetheart. Tell you what, you can sit at my desk and look at the file on my computer.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for someone to call my bluff until we pass through the security door and head down the first hallway to Pamela’s office. I search for Navarro but feel reassured I should be able to slip in unnoticed since he’s already in the interview room drilling the suspect.

  “Now you just sit right down here and rest your weary bones,” Pamela says and pats the seat of her office chair.

  I finally exhale and sit down at Pamela’s desk, which is cluttered with framed photographs of a bedraggled-looking schnauzer wearing a set of antlers and a red holiday sweater.

  “That’s my Bernie. Isn’t he cute? Let me just log in, honey. They made us change our password recently,” Pamela says as she clicks the keyboard with her acrylic, French-manicured fingernails. “There you go. Take your time. I’m just going to go down to the break room and get myself some coffee. How about I bring you back a cup?”

  “No thanks. This is a huge help, and I’m sure Navarro is going to appreciate it.”

  “Glad to help. I don’t have kids myself, but I can only imagine what you’re going through.”

  “Can you do me one more favor and shut the door behind you? This may be emotional and I’d like some privacy.”

  “Of course. You just tell Pamela here if you need anything else,” Pamela answers and closes the door behind her.

  I swing the chair around toward Pamela’s computer and realize my palms are sweating in anticipation. I rub my hands across my pants and try to steady them as I click on the suspect’s file.

  “Who are you, you bastard?” I ask as a mug shot of Archie J. Parker pops up on the screen.

  Just from the photo, I can tell Parker is the type of guy who would make a mother go on high alert if she saw him anywhere near her child. Parker is a seedy-looking man on the other side of middle age with a greasy, dirty-blond comb-over and pitted skin, probably from a combination of acne and years of chronic smoking or addiction. I try and scrutinize every detail and nuance of his picture, from his small, close-set, brown eyes to a jagged scar that zigzags across his chin. But no matter how hard I study Parker, I can’t place him from my past or my present.

  The only thing I do recognize is Parker’s current address. South Lakeport is just a ten-minute drive away from my house. My breathing begins to quicken as I search through Parker’s file, mining for any clues or connections that could link him to Will and my brother.

  I hunt through the basic information first. Parker is fifty-eight years old, five-foot-ten, and a hundred and eighty pounds. He goes by the alias A.J.

  “What are your priors?” I ask Parker’s mug shot and then flip to the next tab in the file, which shows Parker worked up quite a sizable record, starting out with nickel-and-dime drug charges and then graduating to the hard stuff and crimes against minors. In 1972, Parker was arrested in Port Huron for possession of drug paraphernalia. By 1974, he’d served time for drug possession and indecent exposure. In 1975, he racked up more drug charges for methamphetamine and heroin possession and lewd and lascivious acts with a child under fourteen. Parker completed parole in 1976, the year before Ben was taken.

  I sift through the remaining files and notice a big gap following his ’76 parole. From there, Parker was under the radar for sixteen years, doing God knows what. His next arrest wasn’t until 1992 for drunken driving, drug possession, and four counts of improper photography or video recording of a minor. The victim, a boy, was nine, the same age as Ben when he went missing.

  I stare back at Parker’s mug shot with unbridled rage. “I swear to God, if you did anything to my son, I’ll kill you.”

  My threats halt as a pair of high heels clicks down the hallway in my direction.

  “She’s right in my office,” Pamela says from just outsid
e her office door.

  I realize she’s got to be talking to Navarro and he’s going to throw me out of the police station if he doesn’t kill me first. I fumble to grab the computer mouse, but in my haste, I accidentally knock it to the floor and the computer screen simultaneously freezes with Parker’s mug shot plastered across it. The office door swings open, and Navarro storms in with his hands on his hips like some old-time western where the sheriff is about to pull a gun on the bad guy, and this time, the bad guy is me.

  “I was just . . .” I stammer, having no idea what I’m going to say next.

  Navarro glowers at the frozen computer screen and Parker’s mug shot, and shakes his head. I brace for impact, but Navarro throws me a surprise curveball instead.

  “Come with me. I need your help,” he says.

  * * *

  Navarro leads me to an empty office across from the interview room and gestures me to sit. He holds a manila envelope under his arm.

  “I see you’ve already familiarized yourself with the suspect,” Navarro says.

  “Archie Parker.”

  “That’s right. He goes by A.J. Real dirt bag. He’s been out of trouble for a while until now,” Navarro explains. “It’s too much of a coincidence—this guy comes from Sparrow like you did and now he lives just a couple towns away from your house and your boy going missing.”

  “If this A.J. did take Ben and Will, what’s the connection besides me? Like you said, why would he come back now after all these years?”

  “Good question. We searched Parker’s house. There’s no sign of Will, but Parker could’ve stashed him somewhere else as a precaution. We did find some kiddie porn and a bunch of photographs of kids hidden in Parker’s closet.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t worry. We didn’t find any photos of Will. The pictures are old Polaroids. From the condition of the pictures and the outfits the kids were wearing, I’d say the shots were taken sometime during the 1970s.”

  Navarro extracts the manila envelope from under his arm and places it on the desk in front of me. “I need you to take a good look at these pictures and tell me if you recognize anyone or anything. Are you up for this? These are pictures of kids.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve been a cop for almost fifteen years, but I still have a thin skin when it comes to crimes against children,” Navarro says and pushes the envelope across the table in my direction.

  I stare at the yellow rectangle and grapple with a reporter’s fascination and a mother’s dread of what awaits inside. I pull back the edge of the envelope slowly and remove each photo, one by one. I place them face down on the table in front of me until all eight are lined up in a row like playing cards in a game of solitaire.

  I breathe out hard, drag the first Polaroid across the table, and turn it over. The first Polaroid is a color photo of a little girl posing on the beach next to a sandcastle. The girl is smiling. She has red curly hair and is probably around seven years old. The redheaded girl is missing her two front teeth and she wears a turquoise and white polka-dot two-piece bathing suit.

  I look up at Navarro and shake my head as a sense of relief washes over me. I steady myself, feeling a bit more confident, and turn over the second picture. But my instincts are wrong and my hands tremble as I clutch the image before me. The second photo is a picture of the same little redheaded girl, but this time she’s naked and holding a Raggedy Ann doll, which she uses to try and cover up her genitals. The redheaded girl stands frozen against the backdrop of a mirrored closet, her eyes are wide, and she bites her lip as if she is trying to keep herself from crying. In the mirror, I notice a reflection of a man who is holding a camera in one hand and his erect penis in the other.

  “Do you know her?” Navarro asks.

  “God. No.”

  “Keep going.”

  “I hate this, Navarro.”

  “I know.”

  I force myself to turn over the next picture. Polaroid number three is a photo of a little boy who is maybe ten. The child’s hair is white blond against his summer-tanned, freckled skin. The little boy rides atop a white carousel horse with a bright blue and yellow saddle. The child waves to the camera with a shy, reluctant smile.

  “You recognize that boy?” Navarro asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Okay. Five more photos,” Navarro says. “Let’s go.”

  I feel for a second like I’m playing some kind of perverted Russian Roulette, not knowing if the next image is going to be a blank or a bullet. I feel a sickness grow in my stomach as I slowly turn over the next Polaroid.

  Picture number four is a bullet. It’s the same blond, lanky boy. His skinny bare limbs look fragile and posed as he lays naked on a thin, dirty mattress that sits across what looks like a concrete basement floor. The blond child looks away from the camera this time, probably praying to God that his parents will arrive any minute to rescue him from Parker’s hell. The Raggedy Ann doll is back in this picture and the toy rests against the bottom of the boy’s stomach. The Raggedy Ann has been turned upside down and its stringy red hair splays across the child’s penis. I let the photo slip from my fingers and look away toward the door.

  “Do you know the boy in the picture?” Navarro asks.

  “No,” I answer and begin to stand up. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Navarro rests his hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me back down.

  “Take your time. I need you to do this. And you know you need to do this, too.”

  Polaroid number five. I softly run my fingers across the back of the instant-still image. I count to ten and turn the Polaroid over, and my breath leaves my body. Captured forever inside the tiny square, a boy and girl walk in the distance along a boardwalk. The two children stand at the entrance of a large building with a giant picture of a white-faced clown with a tiny hat sitting cockeyed on top of its bald head. The boy in the picture is tan and lean. He has jet-black hair and wears a bright red short-sleeved shirt. The boy is holding the hand of the younger girl, who is wearing a thin pink and white striped jumper.

  “Who are these kids?” Navarro asks.

  “God. It’s Ben and me. We were at Funland. I don’t have a picture of the two of us. My mom and dad either lost any old photos or threw everything away when they left,” I respond in a barely audible whisper.

  Navarro realizes I am veering toward the razor-thin edge of a breakdown. He leans down behind me, and I can feel his face brush against the back of my neck.

  “You can do this, Julia. I know you can.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where is Funland? Is that in Sparrow, where you grew up?”

  “Yes. When we were kids, Ben and I thought Funland was the greatest place on earth. We never had any money growing up—Ben would pick up odd jobs over the summer. He was such a scrappy kid. He’d go door to door, asking if anyone needed any chores done. If he got any jobs, he’d take all the money he earned and treat me to a day at Funland. That day was the last time I went there.”

  “How old are you in the photo?”

  “Seven. Ben is nine. I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was Labor Day, 1977.”

  “Are you sure? That was thirty years ago.”

  “I know that as a fact. That was the day Ben went missing.”

  “Good, Julia. Real good. Three more photos to go.”

  “If there are any pictures of Ben naked like those other kids, tell me now. Don’t put me through that.”

  “I’m not trying to do anything to you. Just look at the next picture. Please.”

  Photo number six. I drag it across the table and turn it over and feel a rush of relief and a pang of bittersweet sentimentality. This Polaroid is a photo of Ben and me playing skee-ball at Funland. Ben has a determined look on his face, like he will be damned if he doesn’t get the ball to land in the mouth of the highest scoring hole. I stand at Ben’s side, staring at him with rapt admiration.

  “That photo
is from the same day?” Navarro asks.

  I nod in silent affirmation.

  Navarro pushes the last two photographs directly in front of me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  My right hand trembles slightly, and I flex my fingers over the seventh Polaroid until the shaking stops. I flip the picture over quickly and stare at an image of Ben and me standing in front of the library on Michigan Avenue. I shudder as I watch the worst day of my childhood unfold like stills of a movie through Parker’s eyes.

  “That’s from the same day. We stopped in front of the library. We were running away from this bully who tried to pick a fight with Ben at Funland. If these came from Parker’s house, he was following us,” I realize.

  “Excellent. Last picture.”

  Polaroid number eight. I flip it over and immediately recognize Beach Boulevard. In the photo, our backs are to the camera as we walked along in the distance.

  “My brother and I were walking home along Beach Boulevard that afternoon.”

  “Do you remember anything unusual about that walk home? Did anyone approach you?”

  “Yes. I was tired. A man in an old Cadillac pulled up next to us and asked if we needed a ride.”

  “The man in the green Caddy,” Navarro repeats, remembering our conversation from this morning.

  And then a thirty-year-old memory finally clicks in place.

  “I know who A.J. Parker is. I need to watch the interview.”

  * * *

  Navarro leads a path to the other side of the interview room and leaves to retrieve Parker. I realize Parker hasn’t been formally charged yet, but I can’t muster an ounce of objectivity, especially after seeing the Polaroids of Ben and me and the other children whom he obviously abused. I stare through the two-way mirror at the interview room, and a shiver runs through me as a memory of my time on the other side of the glass comes through.

  “You’ve been drinking, Mrs. Gooden?” a moonfaced, young detective asked my mother, who was slumped next to me as we sat side by side along a cheap plastic table in the St. Clair Sheriff Department’s interview room.

  “Just a glass of wine with dinner, that’s all,” my mother slurred. “I’m just so tired. Is it all right if I lay down for a minute?”