The Silent Child Boxset

by Roger Hayden

  Their eyes scanned the pictures, seemingly clueless about their significance as she pointed to the photos, one after the other. “All three of these vehicles belonged to the individual or individuals responsible for the kidnapping of three local girls five years ago. You may remember the case.”

  Kenny squinted and then looked up, nodding. “Yeah. Girl got kidnapped the other day. It’s the same person?”

  “We’re pretty sure of it,” Harris said.

  Jason grabbed the picture of the Oldsmobile and held it up. “I remember this car. The parking lot explosion. That was just yesterday!”

  She was glad they both knew about the case. It would give her less to explain. “Yes. All those vehicles are linked to the same persons. The Cadillac was blown up by an improvised explosive five years ago. The Oldsmobile suffered the same fate just yesterday. The van, as far as we know, is still intact and was last used as a getaway vehicle from the Try ‘N Save.”

  “Interesting taste,” Kenny said, staring down.

  “We believe they are using stolen plates to get around, and in some cases, no plates at all,” Harris said. The father and son appeared intrigued by the case. With their attention on her every word, she hoped to get some help. “To your knowledge, have you ever had any of these vehicles in your salvage yard?” They both looked at each other and scratched their chins in unison, thinking.

  “I’m sure we’ve had plenty of Cieras come through here,” Kenny began. He then brushed back one side of his parted hair. “Opened our doors in 1982. I can’t remember every clunker that’s been through the property though.”

  “I’m talking about the past six months to a year,” Harris said. “Has anyone sold or purchased a red Ciera and blue van with stripes from your yard?”

  Kenny took a puff of his pipe, politely blowing the smoke over his shoulder. “Not that I know of.”

  Great, Harris thought. Wasted my time. The junkyard was just one of the places she wanted to visit in her hunt for the vehicles. She collected the pictures just as Jason’s expressive eyes widened with excitement. “Wait. I remember something,” he said, holding a finger in the air. “Bill Simmons. A friend. He had a van he recently sold this guy. Described him as a real weirdo. That’s how come he told us about it. Said the guy would only pay cash. Was in a real hurry and didn’t even want to drive it.”

  Harris gripped the counter, steadying herself and not wanting to look too excited. She opened her satchel, searching for her audio recorder. She couldn’t find it through the mess of files. She took out a notebook instead and began jotting. “Who’s Bill Simmons?”

  Jason snapped to, as though just realizing that the name wasn’t familiar to just anyone. “Oh. He’s a mechanic who works at a place off 44. He’s on my bowling team.”

  Harris scribbled wildly as the first real break in the case seemed rear. “When did he sell this van?”

  “About three weeks ago.”

  Harris slammed the notebook onto the counter, startling Jason, who jumped back a step. “Are you kidding me? Three weeks! Get me Bill’s phone number and address right away. I don’t have a moment to spare.”

  Kenny then snapped his fingers. “Come to think of it, I know who bought that van.” He paused, saying the name proudly after a deep breath. “Bill Avery.”

  Jason rolled his eyes with a sigh. “No, Bill Avery didn’t buy a van. He got that Firebird from the yard. Says he was going to fix her up.”

  “You sure?” Kenny asked.

  Jason cut his hands across the room, dismissing the idea of Bill Avery. “Yes, I’m sure. Bill Simmons told me about the weirdo who bought his van just the other day.”

  Harris stopped writing and looked up, frustrated. “Gentlemen, please.” She then pointed to Jason. “Do you have Bill’s number?”

  Jason reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Once in hand, he scrolled through the numbers on his screen and read it out to her. “His cell service is spotty, so hopefully it works.”

  “And where does he work?” Harris asked.

  Jason closed his eyes. “Uh… It’s just some little mechanic shop down 44.”

  Kenny slapped Jason’s shoulder and gave a small laugh. “You’re thinking of Shelly,” He then looked at Harris with a smile. “Shelly’s Auto Repair, that is.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about these vehicles?” she asked, trying hard not to be impatient.

  Both men shook their heads. “No Ciera or Cadillac came from this lot,” Kenny continued. “I can tell you that. Some detective came around here years ago asking the same question.”

  “What detective?” she asked.

  “Some guy. Forgot his name,” Kenny said. “He only asked about Cadillacs. Told him the same thing. No working Cadillac ever came from this lot.”

  “What about stolen?” Harris said. “Any vehicles ever stolen?”

  Laughter erupted from Kenny as he slapped the counter. Jason turned away, hiding his own smile. Harris waited patiently until Kenny caught his breath, apologizing. “You gotta understand, Detective. We get jerk-offs trying to break in here all the time. Some of them are after the same copper wire they’ve traded in. But Razor usually chases ‘em off.”

  Jason looked at Harris to clarify. “She’s our Rottweiler.”

  “The best guard dog,” Kenny added.

  Harris nodded politely as Jason leaned against the counter with a nervous smile. “Hey, so I can take you to Shelly’s if you’d like.”

  “I’ve got my own car, thank you,” Harris said.

  She suddenly saw discomfort in his face. “I meant,” he said, “you could follow me there. I know exactly where it is. It’d be no problem, really.”

  Kenny then looked kindly at his son as though he had made a blunder. “I think our detective friend here can find her own way.” His attention returned to Harris. “That is, unless you could use the help?”

  “That’s fine,” Harris said. “I’m okay.” She noticed the disappointed look from Jason but didn’t want to give any false hope. He seemed nice enough, but her complete focus was on the case. “I do appreciate your help,” she continued, placing her card on the counter. “Please contact me if anything else comes to mind. Crystal Parker’s life depends on it.” Before leaving, she had one more thought. “For your own safety, please don’t mention I’ve been here to anyone.”

  They wished her a good day through the screen door as she left the trailer. She walked down the steps into the dirt lot with the endless sounds of machinery around her. With a quick glance at the office behind her, she saw Jason watching her through the blinds. He quickly stepped away as if embarrassed. Harris shrugged it off and quickened her pace toward her car. Its green exterior was already dusty from all the activity in the lot. She got inside, noticing the ganders of a few nearby workers at the crushing station.

  From their curious expressions, they seemed to know she was law enforcement. They looked away once she started the engine with a quick turn of the ignition. She backed out and drove through the gate, leaving endless rows of junk cars in her rear-view mirror. Kenny’s Auto Salvage had a friendly enough veneer, but something about it left her with an uneasy feeling of suspicion. It wasn’t going to be her last visit. That much she was sure of.

  19

  The Blue Van

  Halfway toward the mechanic shop, Harris received a call from the station. Surrounded by other vehicles, she slowed and turned into a CVS parking lot. Sergeant Gibbs was on the line. Harris held the phone on speaker and asked her to repeat herself over the failing signal.

  “I’m on the other side of town, you’ll have to speak up.”

  “Did you ask Detective Knight to come to the station today?” Gibbs continued.

  Harris was surprised to hear that she knew. “Yes. Earlier. He was supposed to come in this afternoon.”

  Gibbs moved away from the loud chatter of the offices. “Well, he just got here, and he’s looking for you.”

  Harris lowered the phone as street tr
affic zipped past the parking lot. The sky had grown cloudy for some time now. A few drops of rain hit her windshield, earlier than usual. Florida showers were guaranteed each day but usually in the afternoons.

  She sat with the car idling, trying to figure out why Detective Knight had come in so early. Was it a good omen, or bad? She had hoped Knight would call her before making his way to the station. It had only been an hour or so since their meeting. Perhaps his early arrival showed a certain eagerness to assist in the case. She could only hope. “Is he there with you?” she asked Gibbs. “Can I talk to him?”

  “Um. I think he’s in the captain’s office,” Gibbs said. “A lot of people wanted to talk to him. I think he’s a bit occupied.”

  Harris couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. Tell him I’m just following up on a lead right now. I’ll be at the station as soon as I’m done.”

  “You got it, Detective. We’ll see you then.”

  Harris thanked her and then hung up, placing her cell phone on the middle console. As pleased as she was to know that Knight had decided to go to the station, she felt worried about what he might tell the captain. No plan had been run past her superiors, and the task force assigned to investigate the bombing were likely to have their own ideas. The van purchase was a huge lead, and she fully intended to follow through.

  Her eyes watched the road beyond her windshield as each vehicle passed. The kidnapper could be driving around anywhere and planning to leave another trap for them in his wake. No vehicles so far matched the van that Louise had described leaving the Try ‘N Save, but that didn’t stop Harris from seeing it on every corner. She soon left the parking lot, jetting down the four-lane road. Just past the traffic lights ahead, she saw a sign on the right for Shelly’s Auto Repair. She’d found the place, tucked away among a small string of shops and a check cashing business. Harris drove through the bumpy, pothole-laden lot and arrived at an open garage on the corner with several cars parked inside.

  Mechanics in blue jumpsuits were busy at work, bending into open hoods and under cars on their wheeled boards or overhead lifts. Harris parked near a tiny office on the side of the garage and shut off the engine. She turned and observed the garage, looking around for Bill Simmons. If her streak of good fortune were to continue, she’d find him here.

  She had no idea what to expect as she got out of her car and walked toward the garage, badge in hand and pistol concealed under her blazer. The four mechanics in view were too busy to notice her approach. Their drills and hoses and air pumps, compressors, and hydraulic jacks set a kind of background hum. She stood under the open rolling door of the first bay for a moment before turning toward the office. A tall mechanic with long, skinny arms called out to her from a monitor station near the entrance.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he said with a Southern accent. “Sorry, we can’t have people in the garage.”

  His sleeves were rolled up, exposing oil stains and tattoos. He wore wrap-around goggles and a red bandana on his head. Harris approached him, relieved to be talking to someone but hesitant to state her business. She subtly displayed her badge and asked to speak with the manager. Any one of the mechanics could be Bill Simmons, maybe even this guy, and she wanted to stay low-key and avoid speculation. “No one is in trouble,” she said. She simply needed information.

  “The manager?” the man said, pausing to scratch his side. He looked around the busy garage and then through the office window. “He’s around here somewhere. Anything I can help you with?”

  Harris decided to get right to the point. “I need to talk to one of your employees about a very important matter. Is Bill Simmons here?”

  The man paused, not wanting to disappoint her maybe. “Bill? Man, I haven’t seen him around here in days.” He then turned toward the office and knocked on the window. A pudgy man in a work polo shirt glanced up from his desk and pointed to the phone he was holding against his ear.

  “That’s Frank. He’s the shift manager,” the man continued. “He should be able to help you out.”

  “I’m Detective Harris by the way, and you are . . .?”

  The man pointed to himself. “Me? I’m Rick.”

  Harris pulled out her pocket notepad and pen. “Rick, when was the last time you saw Bill Simmons?”

  He hesitated for an answer as other mechanics began to look over. The shiny badge clipped to Harris’s belt always caused speculation. “Last week I think I saw him. Then this week I thought he might be on vacation but wasn’t sure.”

  “It’s my understanding that Bill owned a blue van he recently sold. Do you know anything about that?”

  Rick shook his head just as the manager made his way into the garage, wiping his sweaty forehead and looking concerned. He appeared tired and overworked. Harris hoped that he wouldn’t be put out that she’d talked to Rick first, but Simmons not being at work for a week was concerning enough.

  “I’ve got this,” Frank said, and Rick looked back toward the garage but stayed put. The manager turned his attention to Harris. “Yes, how may I help you?” he said, extending his hand.

  “She’s asking about Bill,” Rick said, cutting in.

  Harris smiled after shaking hands and noticed the manager glance down at her clipped badge. “Nothing serious,” she assured him. “I had some questions for Bill about the sale of his van.”

  Frank thought to himself, hands on his hips, and sighed. “Well, I haven’t seen Bill all week. What’s today, Wednesday?” Harris nodded. Frank turned to Rick. “Was he here last week?” Rick shrugged. Harris couldn’t believe the confusion among the staff. One of their own mechanics were MIA, and they didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Is he here today?” Harris asked, knowing the answer.

  Frank shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen him. But he’s not on shift, anyway. He’s supposed to come in tomorrow.”

  “I need his address and phone number,” Harris said as she scribbled into her notepad. “It’s very important that I speak with him today.” The manager seemed apprehensive about whether he could disclose such information, but Harris set the record straight. “I’m going to get it somewhere, so I’d appreciate you saving me an hour.” Frank and Rick exchanged glances. “It’s perfectly fine,” she continued. “He’s not in any trouble, I assure you.”

  “She was asking about a blue van,” Rick said to Frank. “You know anything about it?”

  Frank placed his fingers over his chin as another mechanic moved closer and began to watch them. “He used to drive one, yeah. Sold it a couple of weeks ago.”

  The pieces were beginning to come together. “Do you know to who?”

  “Nah,” Frank said dismissively. “Never mentioned anything to us.”

  Satisfied enough, Harris proceeded to ask again for the address. If Bill wasn’t at work, she was going to find him somehow. Frank shuffled back inside, offering to call Bill first and see if he was home. Harris followed him, thanking Rick as she passed. She waited patiently at the counter with customers seated nearby in a small lobby, reading dog-eared auto trader magazines and watching TV.

  Frank came around through another door and sat in front of a computer, presumably to search for Bill’s information. He picked up the office phone and made a call as Harris watched. It was strange that neither the manager or a co-worker hadn’t seen or talked to Bill in days. She considered walking through the garage to inquire further with the other mechanics, but she wanted to see what a phone call would garner. Frank sat on the phone for a minute and then began speaking.

  “Hey, Bill. It’s Frank. Could you call us back here ASAP? It’s important. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and swung his office chair around to face Harris. “Voice mail. I know he likes to sleep in.”

  “What’s the address?” Harris asked, cell phone in hand.

  Frank squinted at his monitor screen. “5512 Piedmont Drive. That’s what it says here.”

  She typed the address as her GPS searched for results. Simmons’s house was a fifteen-
minute drive from the shop. There was no reason to hang around any longer. Harris thanked the manager and Rick and promptly left through the lobby exit, hurrying to her car. Before she got in, she again noticed the stares from mechanics who had stopped working to look at her from their stations.

  Rick stood in the middle of the bay, eyes shifting toward the ground. Word must have gotten out that she was looking for Simmons. If he wasn’t home, then she planned to return to the shop to ask more questions. For now, the clock was ticking. How amazing would it be, she thought, if I solved this thing without any help from that fancy task force? The idea propelled her further as she hopped inside her car, started the engine, and sped off to find another piece of the elaborate puzzle.

  The green Taurus coasted down the narrow street of a quiet neighborhood. Old homes were obscured by trees and brush on both sides. Harris neared a small, elevated yellow home on her left with a chain-link fence surrounding it. The mailbox at the end of the oil-stained driveway was clear enough: 5512. There was a classic aqua Chevy Camaro parked just outside the closed garage. As she slowed and turned into the driveway, Harris saw that the otherwise glossy, refurbished car was covered with twigs and leaves from an overhead oak tree. She examined the house from behind the wheel.

  There were two windows in the front with the blinds closed. There were three concrete steps that led to the door, four newspaper rolls atop the first step. All the signs were there of something unusual. Harris turned off her engine and got out, closing the door lightly. She felt her stomach tighten.

  She watched the curtains for anyone watching but saw no movement. Stepping back, she approached the mailbox and opened it. The inside was stuffed with mail. She looked down both sides of the street and didn’t see any cars coming. The quiet air made her nervous. She hoped that Simmons was there. Turning back to the house, she walked up the driveway and opened the chain-link fence gate. She followed a cement walkway to the front door. Her eyes remained on the windows, but there was no movement, no shadows behind the curtains. Perhaps Simmons was sleeping.