Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  “You think he’s hiding something, don’t you?” I say.

  Bob looks at me and nods. “Why else would he be such a hardhead about a visit from the police? Though to be honest, he didn’t really say no until I mentioned that we wanted to look at some areas on his property.” He lets out another sigh. “You were right, Hildy. I think that footbridge is significant somehow. We just have to figure out how and then find a way to get to it.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” I ask, secretly thrilled that he’s using a plural pronoun when discussing future endeavors, and hoping he means me when he does so.

  “We have a couple more boys we need to talk to from that frat house,” Bob says. “But I think this time we need to take a different approach.”

  I assume he’s driving us back to Madison but then he exits the highway we’re on and heads for Sorenson.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Back to the station. We’re done for today.”

  I frown at him, wondering if he’s being honest or simply trying to dump me. “I thought we were going to go back to the frat house,” I say. “Hit up the boys we didn’t catch earlier.”

  “Oh, we will,” he says. “But not today. We’re done for today. Let’s let the folks at the frat house think they’re rid of us, give them some time to relax and get back to normal.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we pull off a sneak attack. But we’ve got a bit of homework to do first.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When we arrive back at the station, Bob parks in the secured lot, gets out, and walks toward the rear entrance without a word to me. Since he hasn’t told me goodbye, get lost, or go away, I follow along, assuming I’m invited. My assumption is confirmed when he holds the back door for me, letting me pass beneath his arm into the station break room.

  I glance around the room, enjoying the fruits of my labor as I take in the clean table and countertops. The linoleum-covered floor, however, is still scuffed and covered with crumbs and other debris, enough of a distraction to kill my brief buzz. If Bob wasn’t in such a determined go-mode, I’d seriously consider trying to clean the floor.

  Instead, I follow Bob down the hall to the front of the station, through the doors to the evidence garage and processing area, and down the stairs to the floor below, each step a tiny bit of leg muscle torture. He makes a call on his cell as we enter the second area. There is no one here, a disappointment for me, as I was hoping I might get to see Jonas again.

  “Hi, Jonas,” Bob says, pausing in the middle of the room. “I need to look at the cell phone we found on Toby Cochran. And I’d like to peruse his social media activity. Can you help me out?” He listens for a moment, then says, “Thanks,” and hangs up. “He’s going to come down and help us,” he tells me. “In the meantime, we can look through the cell phone. It’s in the storage locker. Jonas is going to access the database from his home computer, look up the location number, and text it to me. That way we can get the phone and start looking through it while we’re waiting.”

  “Okay, sounds good,” I say, though I’m not sure why we’re doing all of this. “What are you hoping to find on the phone? Haven’t the calls and text messages already been gone through?”

  “They have,” Bob says, walking toward the far end of the room, where there is a locked door with a keypad next to it. “But when the team looked through it, they didn’t know what we know. I think a new perspective might reveal something useful.”

  I don’t know if he’s being deliberately vague or not, but I can’t figure out what it is he’s hoping to find. I don’t want to look too stupid and clueless by continuing to ask, and I figure I’ll find out soon enough anyway.

  Bob punches a four-digit number into the lockbox, standing in a way that hides it from me. He opens the door to reveal a dark cave, though the moment he steps over the threshold, there is a flicker of light from above. Seconds later there is a blinding brightness as long rows of fluorescent lamps come to life.

  “Holy cow,” I say, staring at the sight before me. “How big is this area?”

  “Sixty feet wide and one hundred feet long,” Bob says. He glances toward the ceiling. “And I believe it’s twenty feet high. All of this front area is filled with shelving, but in the back, there’s room for storing larger items that won’t fit on a shelf or in a box. There’s also a cargo door there that opens onto the street.” His phone dings, and he takes it out and looks at the screen. “That’s Jonas’s text,” he says. After taking a moment to access and read the text, he then points to the first shelf area, which is filled with boxes of various shapes and sizes, each one carefully labeled with names and numbers to identify their contents. Each portion of shelving is also labeled with a letter and a number. This first area is marked as A-1.

  “Every piece of evidence that is stored in here is labeled and marked,” Bob explains. “And it’s assigned a specific shelving area, which is recorded both in our computer database and in a catalogue book. The books are kept over there.” He points to the far-right corner, where I see a desk area backed by a wall of metal filing cabinets. “I could have located the cell phone using the catalogues, but I knew Jonas could find it a lot faster.”

  “Impressive,” I say, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as I view this orderliness.

  Bob looks again at his phone and says, “We need to go to area G-thirty-eight.” He heads off down the rows, which are labeled A through M. When we reach the one marked G, he turns into the row and heads for the back of the building. It takes us a good thirty feet into the row before we reach the number we are looking for. There I see a box bearing Toby Cochran’s name, a string of digits that I assume is some type of case number, and a date—the date of his death.

  Bob takes the box down from the shelf, sets it on the floor, and opens it. He doesn’t have to look far; there is a surprising and depressingly small amount of stuff in the box, a sad summation of Toby’s cruel and untimely death. I see sealed and labeled bags that contain clothing, a watch, a pair of running shoes, and several small, paper envelopes that I can’t see through, though the label on one tells me it contains a syringe. The cell phone is there, contained inside a clear evidence bag, neatly taped closed and labeled. Bob removes it from the box and is about to put the lid back on when I see another small envelope whose label I can read.

  “Hold it,” I say. “There are keys in there?” I point to the envelope in question.

  Bob looks at the packet, shrugs, and nods.

  “It just hit me,” I say. “How did Toby get around? Did he have a car?”

  “He did.”

  “Where is it? Did you guys look at it?”

  “It’s at an impound lot in Madison. It’s a junker, an old car with over 160,000 miles on it. We looked through it but there wasn’t anything of interest in it.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “It was parked on the street by his house. His mother wasn’t interested in keeping it, and there wasn’t anything in it she wanted.”

  “Any chance anyone tested the inside of it for drug residue?”

  Bob makes a face. “Doubt it. It wouldn’t serve any purpose.”

  “Any drug paraphernalia in it?”

  “No.”

  “Seems odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps,” Bob says a bit irritably. “In retrospect.” He replaces the lid and returns the box to its spot on the shelf. I follow him out of the evidence room and back into the main processing area. Bob sets the phone down on a side table, takes out a pocketknife, and slices the outer seal open. The phone doesn’t have a cord to go with it, and when Bob tries to turn the device on, nothing happens. He moves a little farther down the table toward an outlet strip mounted on the wall. Above the strip is a pegboard, and several different types of charge wires are coiled around pegs. Bob examines the ends of a couple of them, comparing them to the port on Toby’s phone, and selects one. He uncoils the wire and plugs one end into the
outlet strip and the other end into the phone.

  “That’s better,” he says, as he turns the phone on and it scrolls through its startup screens. I wonder if this will be password protected the way the laptop was, but as soon as the main screen is showing, Bob is able to start tapping and swiping. He opens the photo gallery and starts sorting through the pictures.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  “The picture he sent to Lori. It came from his phone, and that means it might have been taken on his phone. If we can find it, we should be able to tell when it was taken, and maybe, with a bit of luck, where.”

  “I see,” I say. “You’re hoping we might be able to connect that picture to Sheffield’s house.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the reason you want to peruse Toby’s social media is to see if he might have posted that picture, or others, and perhaps tagged the people in it, thus giving us the mystery man’s name.”

  Bob shoots me an approving look. “You catch on fast, Hildy.”

  The door to the room opens then and Jonas comes in. He’s not alone. Walking just ahead of him is a little girl who looks to be around seven. She’s dressed in green and blue pants with a floral design and a pale yellow top. She has her father’s dark brown eyes and dirty blond hair, though hers falls over her shoulders in a wavy curtain of curls, whereas Jonas’s is straight. Her overall features don’t resemble Jonas’s, however, and I gather she takes after her mother. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing Sofie along,” he says. “My mother couldn’t take her on such short notice.”

  “No skin off my nose,” Bob says.

  “Sofie, this is Detective Richmond,” Jonas says, kneeling beside the girl. “I work with him a lot.”

  “Hello,” she says with an adorable smile.

  “And this,” Jonas goes on, gesturing toward me, “is Hildy Schneider. I’ve not worked with her before today, but she’s going to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “Hello, Sofie.” I say. “How nice it is to get to meet you.”

  “Are you a cop, too?” Sofie asks, checking out my clothing with a skeptical expression.

  “No, I’m a social worker.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, social workers wear a lot of different hats. We can be counselors, planners—”

  “How come you’re not wearing a hat right now?” Sofie says staring at my head.

  “Not real hats,” I say with a smile. “I meant pretend hats, like the kind that tell you what job someone has.” Sofie frowns and I look to the two men for help, but they seem to be enjoying my unsuccessful attempts to explain things. “I help people figure out ways to solve their problems,” I say finally.

  Sofie considers this, her head cocked to one side. Her feet are adorned in a pair of bright red sneakers, and I see one of her feet start drawing circles on the floor as she contemplates me and my answer. I wonder if she picked out her own outfit or if Jonas did it.

  “If you help people with problems, can you help me with my homework?” Sofie asks. “My teacher gave me math homework. I don’t like math.”

  “I could,” I tell her with a smile. “But I’m betting you’re smart and you can do it yourself. I don’t think you need any help.”

  She lets forth with a coy smile, shrugs, and skips over to the desk. She opens one of the drawers, removes a coloring book and a box of crayons, and climbs into the chair. Clearly this isn’t the first time Jonas has brought her along to work.

  “How far have you gotten?” Jonas asks Bob.

  “Not very. The kid had a lot of pictures on here.”

  “Maybe if you look at them by date,” I suggest. “Lori said Toby sent her the picture just days before breaking up with her. And according to his mother, that was around spring break. Look for pictures taken around the middle of March.”

  Jonas nods agreeably, but Bob just frowns. “How do I find a date on here?” he says, staring at the phone screen. I look, realize he has the photos expanded, and do a gimme gesture with my hand. Surprisingly, he hands it over. Then he positions himself over my shoulder and watches as I exit out of the expanded view to the main gallery with its thumbnails and dates. I don’t have to scroll far to find the date in question, and soon I see the picture. I tap it, making it larger.

  “Here it is,” I say, showing it to both men.

  “Yep, that’s the one,” Bob says. He takes the phone from me and hands it to Jonas. “Can you see if there’s any GPS data embedded in this picture?”

  Jonas takes the phone from Bob, messes with it for a few seconds, and then hands it back. He walks over to a table with a computer on it, wakes it up, logs in to his email, and downloads the photo to the computer’s desktop. Then he hovers over the picture with his cursor and right clicks his mouse.

  “There’s your GPS info,” he says, pointing to a series of numbers.

  “Latitude and longitude?” Bob says, clearly disappointed. “I thought it would be more specific.”

  “Oh, that’s very specific,” Jonas says. “I think what you meant is that you were hoping it would list out an address for you.”

  “Something like that,” Bob admits with a grumble.

  “Hang on, ye of little faith,” Jonas says. His fingers fly over the keyboard and I watch the monitor screen, enthralled. I see a satellite picture of the earth appear and then Jonas quickly zooms in to North America, then Wisconsin, and then the area surrounding Sorenson to the north and west. As he zooms, I recognize Viking Park, which includes a large fenced-in dog park located on a river that provides several beaches where dogs can swim. I’ve taken Roscoe there many times, as he loves the water and socializes well with other dogs.

  Jonas taps again and before I can say abracadabra, the screen shows an aerial view of the footbridge. I realize then that it’s only about three miles beyond the Viking Park perimeter, not far from one of the trails outside of the doggy area that I’ve hiked with Roscoe. It’s just the other side of the woods that border the trail.

  “Is that Warren Sheffield’s property?”

  “It is,” Bob says.

  “Is it enough to get a search warrant?” I ask hopefully.

  Bob shakes his head. “Probably not, but we’re getting warm. And we’re not done yet.” He looks at Jonas. “Can you pull up Toby’s social media for me?”

  “Sure can. There’s some of it here on his phone, but it will be easier to see and access on his laptop. Let me go get it.”

  Jonas disappears into the huge evidence room, leaving Bob and me with Sofie, who seems oblivious to our presence as she colors a picture of a unicorn. Then she surprises me by revealing just how tuned in she really is.

  “So you want to date my father?” she says, not looking up from what she’s doing.

  I open my mouth but have no answer at the ready as I’m searching my brain for the best response. No spontaneity here. Apparently seeing my hesitancy, and perhaps my discomfort as well, Bob jumps in and answers the child.

  “Nah, he’s cute and all, but he’s really not my type.”

  Sofie spins around in the desk chair and looks up at us, giggling at Bob’s answer. “I wasn’t talking to you, silly,” she says to Bob. She shifts her gaze to me. “I was talking to her.” She points at me in a disturbingly accusing manner, eyes narrowed, arm thrust out straight, and with a very serious expression on her face.

  “To be honest, Sofie, I don’t know if I want to date your father. I don’t know him. We just met for the first time today. But I like him, and he asked me if I’d have dinner with him, so I said yes. After the dinner I might get a better idea of whether or not I want to actually date him.”

  Bob shifts uncomfortably where he’s standing, clearing his throat. Sofie has dropped the accusing hand back into her lap, but she’s still staring at me, gauging me.

  “How do you feel about your father dating?” I ask Sofie. “Does it bother you?” I have no idea what the family situation is with Jonas and Sofie. Does he share c
ustody of the child with her mother? Are he and the mother divorced? Or did they have a child together outside of wedlock? Is there animosity between them, or do they get along? And perhaps more important than Sofie’s feelings about her father dating other women is how Sofie’s mother feels about it. Was I about to step into the middle of a soul- and life-sucking emotional quagmire?

  “My dad doesn’t go on dates much,” Sofie says with a shrug. “He says he doesn’t have time and that some girls don’t like that he’s a package deal.”

  “A ‘package deal’?” I repeat.

  Sofie gives me an exasperated look. “Yes,” she says emphatically. “A package deal. A family. We’re a family.”

  Just who she is including in this description is uncertain. “You and your father, you mean?”

  “Of course, silly,” she says, looking at me like I have less intelligence than her box of crayons. “Who else?”

  I hesitate a split second before deciding to dive into the deep end of this pool. “What about your mother?”

  Sofie’s forehead wrinkles slightly and she looks away for a moment. Then she straightens herself, takes on a very grown-up looking expression, and says, “She ran away.”

  “I don’t have a mother anymore, either,” I say. “She died when I was about your age. That was a long time ago, but I still miss her a lot.”

  I’m hoping this line of conversation might get Sofie to reveal something more about her mother without me coming right out and asking. But it leads her in a slightly different direction instead.

  “Did your dad go on dates, too?”

  I smile at her. “I didn’t have a dad,” I say. “At least not one I know of.”

  Sofie looks stricken. “No mom or dad?”

  Bob is standing off to one side, looking at some papers on one of the countertops. Though he is trying to look like he’s engaged in reading, I know he’s listening in on our conversation. I know I need to tread carefully here because I’m getting into some awkward territory with any explanations I give Sofie. How do you explain to a seven-year-old that your mother was a prostitute and you don’t know who your father is? You don’t, my voice of reason tells me.