Abducted

by Brian Pinkerton

  Anita admitted them inside. They were big men and filled the foyer—add Dennis to the mix, and Anita felt miniature. Anita saw the guns in their holsters, the handcuffs hanging from their utility belts. For a split second she could imagine them drawing weapons on Pam’s frail figure, slapping cuffs on her skinny wrists. It was such a bizarre picture, it didn’t make sense. But none of this made sense.

  The officers introduced themselves. Improbably, the black one was Sandburg, the white one was Johnson.

  “Our son is missing,” Dennis began. “His name is Tim, he’s two years old.” Johnson had already pulled out a pen and started filling out a report. “He was here with the nanny and now they’re both gone.”

  “When did you last see them?” asked Sandburg.

  “Around 8:00, 8:10. Before we left for dinner,” answered Anita. “Tim was asleep in his crib.” She remembered pulling the blanket down over his bare feet, which had a habit of poking out defiantly.

  “When we came back from dinner, the house was empty,” said Dennis. “Her car was gone. Her name is Pam Beckert.”

  “When did you return to the house?” asked Sandburg.

  “About an hour ago,” said Anita.

  Sandburg raised an eyebrow. “An hour ago?” he said, and she immediately understood his tone to imply Why did you wait so long to notify the police?

  “We thought she just…took him somewhere…had a reason,” said Anita. “She’s never done this before. She’s been our nanny for a year and a half. We trusted her.”

  “We realized something was wrong when I found the money missing,” said Dennis. “We had some cash upstairs in a drawer that she knew about.”

  “How much?” asked Sandburg.

  “Five, six hundred. I kept it under some shirts,” said Dennis. “In an envelope.”

  “I take it you’ve searched the house for your son?” asked Sandburg. Apparently, he was the talker and Johnson was the one who wrote everything down.

  “Inside and out,” said Dennis.

  “And this nanny, she didn’t leave a note?”

  “Nothing,” said Dennis.

  “She has a cell phone,” said Anita. “We’ve been calling every ten minutes. But I don’t think she has it turned on. We tried her apartment, too.”

  Sandburg asked, “Do either of you have any relatives that may have come by and picked them up for any reason?”

  Anita and Dennis shook their heads.

  “Has she ever disappeared with your son like this before?”

  “Never,” said Dennis.

  “Well, once, sort of,” corrected Anita. “I came home and they weren’t here, but they were at her apartment, and it was like six o’clock in the evening, not like this.”

  Anita looked down at her watch. 12:30 a.m. It was a new jolt to her heart. There could be no harmless, innocent reason for their disappearance at this hour. No trip to the park or walk for ice cream. This was serious and bad. Where the hell were they?

  More than anything in the universe, she wanted Tim in her arms right now. She wanted to feel his warm, soft little body, safe and sound.

  “Do you know if your nanny has any criminal background?” Johnson spoke up this time.

  “No. I don’t think so. I mean, we ran a background check when we hired her,” replied Anita.

  Sandburg said, “We’ll run a check.”

  Johnson flipped to a new sheet on his clipboard. “Here’s what I need,” he said. “I need a description of your son, and the nanny, and the nanny’s vehicle, that we can send out over the police radio. Let’s start with your son.”

  Anita and Dennis detailed Tim’s every statistic. There was something chilling and clinical about Tim being reduced to numbers and colors. Thirty-six inches…twenty-eight pounds…blue eyes…blondish hair…green one-piece pajamas.

  “And his bear,” Anita added, choking on the words, suddenly seeing an image of Tim being dragged off somewhere, confused and cold, clutching his bear for security, when what he really needed was his mother…

  The police read Tim’s description back to her, adding “male Caucasian,” which sounded strange, like an object.

  While Dennis went upstairs to retrieve photos of Tim and Pam for the officers, Anita described Pam Beckert to the best of her ability. Age about thirty-eight Hair auburn, straight, usually pulled back, lots of forehead. Thick glasses. Height maybe five-three? Weight…110? What was Pam wearing? Jesus, what was it? Something drab, always something drab. A plaid sweater vest over a white blouse. Grey polyester slacks. Or was that yesterday?

  When Dennis returned, he helped describe Pam’s car—a blue Toyota Corolla at least ten years old—but neither one of them knew her license plate number. Jesus, thought Anita, I don’t even have my own license plate number memorized.

  “It’s OK,” said Johnson. “We’ll get it through the DMV.”

  Anita heard a car door slam. “Oh, thank God!” she exclaimed, moving swiftly.

  But out front was a car she did not recognize, a white sedan. Two men climbed out.

  “Our detectives are going to take it from here,” said Sandburg. “Like I said, I’m going to put the information out on the radio. I will also contact the California Highway Patrol.”

  “OK, thank you,” said Anita. “Thank you so much.”

  Sandburg left the house with Johnson. On the way to the patrol car, they stopped to talk to the detectives on the lawn.

  Anita put her arms around Dennis and held tight. She could feel his heart pounding. She could feel her own sweat sticking to her clothes.

  “I can’t take this,” said Anita. “I’m going to be sick.” The pleasant, soft buzz she had during the car ride home from three glasses of wine was gone, obliterated by adrenaline. Her stomach felt knotted.

  “We’ll find him,” said Dennis, but his voice wavered.

  When we get Tim back and he is sleeping in our bed, Anita told herself, I’m never going to let him go. And I will never let Pam near him again.

  The detectives entered the house slowly, wearing dark, plain clothes. They introduced themselves as belonging to the Oakland Police Bureau of Investigation. They were older guys, which somehow reassured Anita. The patrol officers had looked too young…too disinterested…too something. They probably didn’t have kids of their own yet. How could they relate to the terror of a missing child?

  Lieutenant Mike Calcina was probably fitty, his age mostly revealed by the gray in his hair that was balanced equally against the brown. He had warm eyes and a tight, square jaw that worked over some chewing gum. His partner, Sam Segar, was a leaner, balding man with a thick black mustache and large bags under his eyes. The exaggerated mustache made him look like a foil in an old silent comedy.

  Sam’s eyes began probing the house, like a bloodhound sniffing for clues, and it was apparent that his feet were anxious to follow.

  “If it’s alright with you, Sam’s going to take a look around the house,” said Calcina.

  “Fine, fine,” said Dennis.

  Sandburg returned inside the house with the police report. Calcina took it, studied it.

  Dennis nudged Anita. “Try her again on the cell phone.”

  Anita had forgotten the phone was still gripped in her hand. She quickly dialed and got an immediate voicemail message. No change. She punched a button to end the call. “She’s shutting us out.”

  Calcina looked up from the police report. “She has a cell phone?”

  “Yes, we bought one for her,” said Anita.

  “What’s the number?” he asked.

  She told him, and he wrote it down. There were new police faces in the house. He went over to one of the men, gave him the number and instructions. When Calcina returned, he said, “Do you have someplace we can sit and talk?”

  “Any place,” said Anita. “The living room?”

  They went into the living room and found seats. Anita and Dennis sat together on the couch.

  The conversation began by covering much of the
same ground as their dialogue with Sandburg and Johnson, but probing deeper. Dennis told Calcina about the missing money, and Calcina started asking about Pam’s financial state. It became apparent that he was expecting a ransom.

  “I don’t think she did it for money,” Anita finally said. “She wants Tim. She doesn’t want to be separated from him. It’s like she thinks she’s earned him.”

  Dennis told Calcina about returning to the house for his wallet and finding Pam in tears in the kitchen. They talked about Pam’s strong bond with Tim, the termination of the nanny arrangement, her lack of any outside social life.

  “Has she ever alluded to taking Tim like this? Even facetiously?” asked Calcina.

  “God no,” Anita said.

  “Is she on any medication that you know of?”

  Anita looked at Dennis, shrugged, then shook her head.

  “Does she drink?” asked Calcina. “A heavy drinker?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said Dennis.

  “Any strange or unusual friends?”

  “Not that I know about,” replied Anita.

  “Has she ever…” Calcina paused. It was the first time he had broken the pace in his rapid fire questioning. “Has she ever acted in an inappropriate way toward Tim?”

  “She’s not a molester,” said Dennis firmly.

  “How do we know?” shot back Anita. “Did we ever think she’d steal him?”

  Dennis just looked at the floor. “This was probably an impulsive action. She freaked out. I have to think she’ll come to her senses. She’s not insane.”

  Calcina said, “We take a missing child report very, very seriously. These first few hours are critical. I want you to think hard, identify every possible place they might go, anyone they might visit, anywhere they may have gone in the past. Your nanny must have left here with some kind of destination in mind.”

  “Well, there’s her apartment,” said Anita. “We called…”

  “We have a patrol car heading there,” answered Calcina. “Does she have family in the area?”

  “Yes, a brother.” Anita relayed the information, describing her recent call to Roy, and added, “I don’t think they’re all that close, but he is… a little odd, I guess.”

  Calcina stood up, crossed the room, and spoke to one of the new police officer faces. When he returned, he said, “OK, we’ve got an officer going over to talk with the brother. Anybody else? Her parents?”

  “Her parents are in Florida,” said Anita.

  “Do you know where in Florida?” asked Calcina. “Do you know their names?”

  “No, but the brother could tell you. She didn’t really talk about them.”

  “Anybody else? Aunts, uncles, anything? Friends?”

  Dennis just shrugged.

  “What about enemies?”

  Anita thought it over. “I never heard anyone say anything bad about her.”

  Segar walked over. “There’s no sign of forced entry,” he said. He looked at Dennis and Anita. “Have you looked through the house to see if there’s anything unusual or out of place?”

  “I did,” said Dennis. “The only thing I noticed was the missing money.”

  “You didn’t find any doors unlocked, windows open, that kind of thing?”

  Dennis shook his head.

  “Do you have an attic?” asked Segar.

  Dennis and Anita exchanged glances. “Yes,” said Dennis.

  “Can you show me where it is?”

  “Sure,” said Dennis. “But I don’t think—”

  “We just want to make a clean sweep of the house. If you could come with me…”

  Dennis looked at Calcina. Calcina nodded in agreement. Dennis rose and left with Segar.

  What could be in the attic? wondered Anita. Pam and Tim hiding? Playing hide-and-seek?

  She checked her watch. 1:17 a.m. It sent shockwaves through her body. Don’t look at the time anymore, she told herself.

  “Mrs. Sherwood,” said Calcina. “Where did you say you went for dinner tonight?”

  “Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “No, I mean the name of the restaurant.”

  “Sea Breeze.”

  He wrote it down. Why was that relevant?

  “What time did you arrive there?”

  She told him.

  “What time did you leave?”

  She told him, her voice gaining an edge.

  “And who were you having dinner with?” asked Calcina, pen poised to record every name.

  She gave him the names of her coworkers, the name of the company they worked for. In a sudden instant, she realized: he’s going to check into my story. He had isolated her from Dennis. Dennis would probably have to answer these same questions… and Calcina would check for inconsistencies.

  “Am I a suspect?” blurted Anita.

  “This is standard procedure,” said Calcina.

  “So I am? We are?”

  “We always look at the family as possible suspects. You don’t want us to rule anything out, do you?”

  She shook with disbelief. “What is this? You think I killed my son and stashed him in the attic?” The JonBonét Ramsey news stories flashed before her.

  “Please,” said Calcina. “Don’t get alarmed. Just answer the questions to the best of your ability. Did you call home from the restaurant, or did the nanny contact you?”

  “No,” Anita said, slumping back into the sofa. “Tim was in bed when we left, we figured everything was fine. We had no reason to—”

  “You arrived home at quarter past eleven, and you contacted the police after midnight,” said Calcina. “Why the delay?”

  Anita felt dizzy. The world was spinning out of control. On top of everything, they wanted to accuse her of doing something sinister to Tim? Why was he doing this? Why wasn’t he out looking for him? Tim was out there, somewhere, lost and confused. These questions about her dinner were a waste of time.

  But she knew if she protested, it would just make her look guilty, like she had something to hide. Did she need an attorney?

  Anita heard the front door opening and closing. More investigators.

  “Do you have family in the area?” asked Calcina.

  “No,” said Anita.

  “What about your husband?”

  “His parents live in Kansas City. Why?”

  “Any brothers, sisters, aunts, or uncles?”

  “I want to call my father,” said Anita abruptly.

  Calcina softened his tone. “We need to keep the phone line open in case someone tries to reach us about Tim.” His eyes were gentle, but serious. “Don’t be offended by the questioning. We just want to rule out the possibility that you or Dennis had anything to do with this. We want to get that out of the way.”

  “OK,” said Anita. “Call the restaurant. Call my coworkers. You’re just wasting time.”

  A policeman with a round gut approached them. “We interviewed the neighbors on either side and two across the street,” he said. “There’s a Mrs. Bowman at 1732 who thinks she saw the nanny’s car leave about 8:30.”

  You woke up my neighbors? thought Anita. She started to look at her watch, then stopped herself. She pictured her bewildered neighbors coming to the door in their pajamas and robes.

  She could hear the heavy footsteps of police roaming the house. She wanted all of them out; she wanted Tim inside. This madness had been going on for much too long and she was coming unglued.

  “We’ve contacted the FBI,” said the cop with the gut.

  Anita looked up. The FBI? Was it this serious already? On a level with terrorism?

  Calcina could sense her concern. “This is a requirement in cases like this,” he told her. “We have what appears to be a kidnapping.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t you want every possible resource at your disposal?” asked Calcina.

  Anita rose from her chair. Her throat was dry, tightening up. “I need a glass of water,” she said. Calcina said nothing.

&n
bsp; Anita moved through the various strangers in her house. They barely even looked at her, as if she was not even relevant to the case. She felt the weight of her body hanging off her frame. She was exhausted, limp with shock.

  In the kitchen, heading for the sink, Anita caught a glimpse of one of Tim’s fingerpaintings stuck to the refrigerator door with alphabet magnets. Cheery rainbow colors splashed across the paper. She could recall his proud, beaming face as he gave it to her. Like a gate bursting open under pressure, an avalanche of emotions spilled out.

  Anita dropped to her knees and started sobbing.

  IV

  “Pam’s great,” said Barbara Roeber, standing in the frozen foods aisle of the Albertsons grocery store.

  Tim was six months old and Anita, feeling the pressure to return to work from both Maggie and the Sherwood bank account, had officially started her nanny search. She had made the leap from considering the concept to accepting it: She was researching nanny agencies, au pair services, reviewing the local classifieds, and spreading the word among her friends.

  Talking to Barbara Roeber had been near the top of her list. Bumping into her in the grocery store just made it happen sooner. Barbara, who lived down the block, had a nanny. Maybe Barbara could share some advice? Maybe her nanny knew other nannies?

  “Even better,” Barbara told her. “My nanny is available.”

  The nanny’s name was Pam Beckert. Barbara had hired her about a year ago, when she was pregnant with her third child, Charlie. Charlie was going to be a big baby and created havoc on Barbara’s spine, ultimately causing a herniated disk in her back.

  Mostly bedridden, with a three-year-old girl and one-year-old boy gleefully tearing up the house, Barbara had hired a nanny to help with the kids and housework.

  The arrangement had worked extremely well, but now, with Charlie a few months old and the back healing, Barbara was ready to go solo again. Pam would be concluding her nanny term at the end of the month.

  Barbara first heard about Pam through a woman at her church who used her to babysit and had sung her praises.

  “Pam has been a godsend,” said Barbara in her mile-a-minute baby voice. “She couldn’t have been nicer to the kids. She’s real quiet, but she’s reliable and we never had any trouble with her. The kids love her and she’ll do anything to help out. She was doing the laundry, the cooking.”