The Only Witness

by Pamela Beason

  Finn stood up, his knees popping. "Detective Finn," he said, pulling out his shield.

  "I seen you on television." She sucked on the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke out of the side of her mouth. "Can I help you?"

  He thought about it for a minute. "Do you know Charlie Wakefield?"

  She shook her head. "Am I supposed to?"

  "He works for Jimson in Cheney."

  She shrugged. "It's a big company. We got branches all over the place." She blew smoke rings as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  When Finn stepped out of his car at the station, a reporter quickly thrust himself between Finn and the employee entrance.

  "Reporter Joel Burnby," he said into his own microphone before thrusting it in front of Finn's nose. "Are there any new developments in the Ivy Morgan case?"

  The kid looked all of seventeen. So clean cut, so damn eager. "The investigation is ongoing," Finn said. Then he shouldered the reporter aside and pushed open the door.

  "But is there any progress?" the reporter shouted behind him.

  Finn wished he had an answer to that one. He printed out hard copies of the photos of the Jimson logo and Neema's paintings.

  As Finn was leaving the printer room, Dawes entered. "Got something?" he asked, glancing toward the pages in Finn's hand.

  "Don't know yet," Finn said. "How about you?"

  Dawes said, "Today I'm on the rock-throwing out at Bart Quillan's. Looks like it might have something to do with the school board debate."

  "Really?"

  Dawes shrugged. "Quillan's the science teacher, adamantly opposed to teaching intelligent design. He has one of those dinosaur stickers on his car. The rock that came through his front window had a cross painted on it."

  "Nice Christian gesture," Finn remarked. "Ask him what The Dinosaurs Died for Our Sins means."

  "Already did. He said the kids made it up; they thought it made as much sense as the debate over creationism. He thought it was funny, had some bumper stickers printed and he's been handing them out to anyone that wants one."

  "Hence the rock."

  "Yep. It's a crazy world." Dawes rubbed the back of his neck. "Any new leads on Morgan? I heard about the tip and the videotape."

  But not about the gorilla, Finn hoped. "You know tips; most of them are nutcases. But I'm following a couple of new threads. I'll let you know if they lead anywhere."

  "You got the clinic robbery, too, right?" Dawes asked.

  Finn checked his watch. Two hours before his scheduled interview at the clinic. "Yes, that one's mine, too. Gotta fly."

  He jumped into his car and pulled out his cell phone as he started it up. It took eight rings for her to come to the phone.

  "Grace, I have something I need to show Neema."

  "What is it?"

  "It's a photo of a company logo."

  "She doesn't usually recognize letters or numbers."

  "It's more of a graphic. It's important. I'm on my way."

  As he drove out of the department parking lot, he saw a black Neon pull out and swing into traffic behind him. Damn reporter. He sped up to fifty in a thirty-five mile per hour zone. The black Neon was stuck, flashing its lights at an old pickup turning left ahead of it. Finn spied the marked car up ahead in the regular speed trap, stepped on the brake and spun the wheel hard, turning right into a parking lot. He watched in his rear view as the Neon zoomed past and the black-and-white pulled out behind it, siren wailing and light bar flashing.

  Finn grinned as he drove around the block. Then he stuck the flasher on top of his car and drove like a NASCAR racer out to Grace's compound. A quarter mile away, he killed the sound and light show so as not to panic the humans or apes inside.

  Grace met him at the door of the study trailer. "Is it something about the kidnapping?" she asked.

  "We'll see," he said.

  Neema stood watching him, balanced on one fist and her hind legs, looking a little ridiculous with a feather duster in her hand. "House cleaning?" he asked.

  "Neema loves to dust," Grace said. "She's good with a sponge, too."

  The gorilla sat down, dropped the duster, and made a couple of gestures.

  "Cat dog," he and Grace said simultaneously. Grace laughed. He groaned. "Hello to you, too, Neema."

  He turned to Grace. "Okay to show her the photo?" He held it up.

  Grace glanced at it and raised an eyebrow. "I don't think it'll mean anything to her, but sure, go ahead."

  "Can you film this, just in case?" He handed her the department camcorder.

  "Okay," she said uncertainly, turning on the camera and flipping open the screen. "Ready."

  Finn held the photo of the Jimson Janitorial logo in front of Neema. The gorilla stared at it for a moment, then grabbed it from him and set it on the floor in front of her black toes. Curling her hands to her chest, she hooted softly for a second. Then, her gaze still focused on the photo, she signed.

  "Baby go snake," Grace translated as she watched through the camera. "Cucumber bad snake baby go cry. I don't understand—"

  "Keep the camera rolling," Finn said.

  Neema scooted to the corner and picked up her baby gorilla toy. Finn reached down and picked up the photo, showing it to the camera. "This is a photo of a Jimson Janitorial Service logo," he said for the microphone. "I'm Detective Matthew Finn, Evansburg Police Department. It's October 2nd at 11:30 a.m." He paused briefly before saying, "Now you can turn it off."

  "How did you know?" Grace asked.

  He showed her his photo of Neema's painting. "Don't sell that painting on E-bay."

  She swallowed. "It's on auction now."

  "Well, stop it. Take it down. We may need that painting."

  "Okay," she said. "Will it help find the baby?"

  "It better. This is the first damn breakthrough I've had in this case." He stuck the photos back into his folder, grabbed the video camera from Grace and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "Gotta run, I'm going to be late for an interview." He headed for the door.

  "Matt!" Grace followed him out. "Please don't show that video around without letting me know. Please don't tell the media without talking to me first."

  He turned. Her face was tense with anxiety. "You have no idea of what can happen when people find out about talking apes," she said.

  "Actually, I think I do." He walked back to her, stuck the folder under his arm and then put his hands on her shoulders. "I checked you out, Grace. I read about Spencer. I'm so sorry. I promise I will keep you informed."

  Finn called Dawes as he was driving back to the station. "Hey, Perry, did you get any weird vibes from Jimson Janitorial in Cheney?"

  "Nope. Charlie's boss seemed normal enough. But he didn't lay eyes on Charlie that night and he confirmed that nobody else was working with the kid on that job. He kept showing me the timesheet Charlie filled out and signed the next morning. I found one guy who worked across the street from the Ward Building. He saw a white Jimson van parked there, but he didn’t see who was using it. Why are you asking?"

  "The anonymous witness called again," Finn lied. "She mentioned that the green car in the parking lot when Ivy disappeared had a Jimson logo."

  "The only Jimson vehicle that Charlie checks out is a company van, and it's white," Dawes said. "As a matter of fact, all the vehicles owned by the Cheney branch are white vans."

  "Maybe Charlie has a friend who drives a green car with a Jimson sign. I'll get a list of employees with vehicles."

  "Charlie Wakefield and Jimson Janitorial connected to the high school and a Jimson vehicle seen at the Evansburg Food Mart," Dawes mused. "They are a huge organization. It could just be coincidence."

  "We'll see," Finn said.

  Brittany set up her sewing machine in the place her laptop would usually sit. She'd already cut out the pieces on the floor, and now she threaded the sea-green velvet under the machine foot. It felt so good to be creative again.

  Her mom came into her room, carrying a glass of some gl
op. "I made you an eggnog. You didn't eat enough at dinner."

  "Thanks," Brittany murmured. She pulled the threads through the cutter at the back of the sewing foot, clipping off the ends at the bottom of the seam.

  Her mother set down the glass on her bedside table, and then came to hover over her shoulder. "What are you making?"

  Brittany tapped a finger on her sketch. "It's a Halloween costume for Ivy. I already made the wings." She pointed to the silver-green creations on her bed. She was especially proud of the gold and black eye shape in the center of each wing.

  Her mother looked at the wings for a long moment, then finally said, "A butterfly?"

  "A luna moth." Brittany looked up at her. "Remember when we found that one at Gran's in Kansas? Remember how huge and magical it was?"

  Her mother squeezed her shoulder. "I do. It was magical."

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs. "Oh, here you are," her dad said lamely as he walked in. He focused on the wings on the bed.

  "Brittany's sewing a luna moth costume for Ivy," her mother told him in the same tone she used to report absurdities like 'Our son says he wants to be a vampire when he grows up.'

  Brittany focused on rearranging some pins. She could feel her dad staring at her. He started, "Oh, Britt, do you think that's—"

  She cut him off. "It's for Halloween." She pushed the sea-green velvet under the sewing machine foot again. "Because Ivy will be home by then."

  She heard him walk closer, but she didn't look up from the seam. "What is that?" he said.

  "Mom told you," Brittany said. "It's a luna moth costume for Ivy."

  "No," he said, grabbing her right arm. "I mean, what is that?" He turned her forearm over.

  Her mother gasped. "Brittany?"

  For a long minute, they all stared at the gauze pad taped to the inside of her wrist. A few dots of blood had oozed through the white fabric. Her father was frowning and her mother had a hand clamped over her mouth like she might throw up. Shit, what did they think, that she'd cut her wrists? If she was going to do that, she would have done it the right way, the effective way, down the arm through the veins so nobody could tape them closed afterwards.

  She ripped off the bandage. The tattoo of three ivy leaves was still swollen and raw.

  At lunchtime, Joy had given her some X. "To cheer you up," she said, pressing several pills into Brittany's hand. "It's not just for parties, you know, and now that you're not nursing… It'll make you feel better."

  She'd swallowed one and put the other two in her pocket. Joy had been right; the pill gave her courage. And strength. Ecstasy was so much more helpful than those stupid anti-depressants. It was not just helpful; it made her feel hopeful. After school, she'd gotten the tattoo.

  She stood up and gave her parents a hug. "Don't look so worried," she said. She held out her arm and admired the design. "It's what soldiers do," she explained. "To show loyalty to each other and to the cause they're fighting for. I'm a warrior for Ivy."

  "More gravy, Matt?" Dolores gestured at the white pitcher on the tablecloth.

  "Thank you." He poured an artery-clogging brown river over his roast beef and mashed potatoes. "And thanks so much for cleaning the house and mowing the lawn the other day. You didn't have to do that."

  Dolores made a dismissive gesture. "We have time on our hands, dear. And we know you don't right now."

  He'd finally given in to his ex-in-laws' requests for dinner. The atmosphere was awkward, but the food was good. He was sick of frozen dinners; the whole chain of events required for cooking took too long; and he couldn't subsist on takeout hamburgers alone.

  The Mankins left the television on in the living room while they ate. It was a habit that Finn generally found annoying, but he was able to ignore the sound for the most part. Until he heard his name, and then all three of them turned around to watch the news.

  "We called Detective Matthew Finn to ask about new developments in the Ivy Rose Morgan case," the reporter said earnestly into the microphone. "He did not return our call."

  The County Executive's face replaced the reporter's. "It's been over a week now since that baby disappeared, and the police are still chasing shadows," Travis Wakefield said. "We are disappointed that Detective Finn has not been able to deliver any results."

  Scott jumped up and snapped off the television. "Asshole," he grunted, sitting back down at the table.

  Finn stared at the blank television screen. Was he about to be fired? He had really dived off a cliff when he agreed to move here with Wendy. Now he'd been ditched by his wife and soon would be canned from a podunk department … at this rate, pretty soon he'd be living in his car.

  "Ignore that, Matt," Dolores said. "Everyone knows you're working hard. Let's talk about something else."

  Finn shoveled more roast beef into his mouth. Something else. "Is Wendy still working at the college?" he asked around a mouthful.

  A pained expression took hold of Scott Mankin's face, and he brushed a finger across his silver mustache. Dolores rearranged the green beans on her plate.

  Finn swallowed. "It's okay, I can talk about her."

  Dolores nodded and speared a bean. "She's still there, at least for now. She and Gordon are planning to…er…start a family."

  Damn. If that didn't show how screwed up the universe was. He'd moved here because Wendy said she wanted to raise kids in a small-town environment. Too bad she'd neglected to mention that the kids she wanted to raise were not Finn's.

  "They're moving to Pullman at the end of the year," Scott told him. "Wendy says it's just too hard to start a new life in a small town."

  "Good," Finn said. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about running into them at the Food Mart or the post office any longer. Then he remembered where he was. Dolores and Scott were losing the daughter they'd been reunited with less than a year ago. "I mean, it's good for me."

  "Well, I guess we're back to reality." Dolores patted his fist on the tabletop. "How is that Morgan case going, dear?"

  He took a breath, unclenched his fingers, picked up his fork again. "We're still waiting for a breakthrough."

  Scott wiped his moustache with his napkin. "I always thought the FBI handled kidnappings."

  "But it might not be a kidnapping," Dolores said. "Right, Matt? Otherwise, why would the police have searched all the garbage bins?"

  Scott frowned. "You've been reading too many mysteries."

  Dolores made an irritated noise.

  "We have to check out all possibilities," Finn said. "The FBI has all the relevant data on their website. We're keeping them informed. They're waiting for us to generate leads."

  The conversation stuck there for a long minute, mired in muck, just like his case. The Mankins had lived in Evansburg most of their lives and knew everyone and everything about the town—what could he tell them that wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass?

  They know everyone and everything about this town, his tired memory repeated. Pick their brains, you idiot. "We've talked to all Brittany's friends, to the alleged father of the baby…"

  "Charlie Wakefield?" Dolores asked. Her cheeks pinked when Finn turned toward her. "Well, word gets around, you know."

  "Believe me, I know," he said. "Is there gossip around town that Charlie could have taken the baby?"

  Dolores appeared confused. "Why would he do that? He didn't even acknowledge the child, as I understand it." Then she blanched. "Oh. Oh, no."

  "Crapola," said Scott.

  "There's no proof of anything," Finn quickly said. "And I mean that literally. We've talked to all the parents, to Brittany's teachers, the grocery store clerks, the janitors at the school. Speaking of which, I noticed they work for Jimson Janitorial Service. And I recently found out that Charlie Wakefield does, too."

  "Really?" Dolores perked up. "Charlie Wakefield working as a janitor? Isn't that interesting; I wonder what happened to all those smart investments that Patricia Wakefield always gloated about."

  Uh-
oh. "The Wakefields are kind of sensitive about Charlie's job. Please keep that to yourself," Finn told her. "It might be the only thing that keeps me from getting fired."

  "I'm sure you're exaggerating," Dolores said.

  "I'm sure I'm not. Do either of you know anything about that Jimson company?"

  Scott leaned forward. "It's a huge outfit, got offices and contracts all over the place."

  Dolores sipped iced tea from her glass. "Isn't that one of those New Dawn companies?"

  Finn swallowed. "New Dawn?"

  "New Dawn Agency," she said. "From the New Dawn Church."

  "Bright Dawn Church," Scott corrected her. "New Dawn Agency. The New Dawn Agency was the brainchild of Abram Jimson, the founder of Bright Dawn Church—there's about a dozen of those churches around the state. Abram Jimson lives in Spokane, but we've got one of the churches here in Evansburg."

  "The Wakefields belong to that church," Dolores contributed.

  "So maybe that connection helped Charlie Wakefield get a job," Finn guessed.

  "Could be," Scott said. "The church's basic message is that all sinners deserve a second chance to make things right."

  Finn quirked an eyebrow. "So they run a janitorial service?"

  "Among other things," Scott said. "Jimson's a big believer in ministering to reformed addicts and alcoholics, and to the biggest batch of sinners in the state: the prison population. Bright Dawn preachers hold services at all the prisons. But even if the preachers managed to save their souls, the prisoners had no place to go after they served their time. Businesses wouldn't hire them, neighborhoods blackballed them, you know how it goes—"

  Finn nodded and lifted another forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth.

  Scott continued. "They served their sentences but then had no way to turn their lives around. Like most states, the recidivism rate here in Washington was astronomical. Hell, ex-cons were committing crimes to get three squares and a bed again. Then along comes Jimson. He proposes creating the New Dawn Agency and gets a government grant to do it. New Dawn teaches basic skills a lot of these people were missing."

  "Like speaking proper English and looking people in the eye." Dolores sat back in her chair and smoothed her short ash blonde hair against her neck. "Not to mention cleanliness and politeness and getting to work on time."