Last Seen

by Rick Mofina

  “But he obviously wasn’t with Cal when you exited.”

  “No.” She shook her head and brushed her tears.

  “All right, I want to move on. Does Gage take any medication of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have any chronic illness or injury or condition?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ever needed or received counseling for any issues?”

  “No.”

  “Any problems in school?”

  “Academically?”

  “Start with that, yes.”

  “No, his grades are good. He likes school. He completes his assignments. He’s very bright. He told me he wants to be an architect, that he wants to design buildings and stadiums.”

  “What about peer pressure or bullying at school?”

  “No, nothing that I’m aware of.”

  Lang made notes while Faith glanced again at the camera up in the corner that was recording everything.

  “Has anyone moved in or out of your neighborhood recently?”

  Faith thought. “The Robinsons at the end of the block—they’re accountants. They retired and moved to Nevada about two months ago. A family—the Carrutherses, from Seattle—moved in with twin teens, a boy and a girl. They keep to themselves, pretty much. I think the dad works at O’Hare for United or Delta.”

  “Have you observed anyone taking special interest in Gage?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone acting suspicious around him?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about Cal, his personality. Just quick descriptors—would you say he’s calm or nervous?”

  “Calm.”

  “Overly suspicious or overly trusting?”

  “Well, he’s a crime reporter, so I’d say suspicious.”

  “Self-centered or a team player?”

  “I’d lean to self-centered.”

  “Heartless or compassionate?”

  “Depends.”

  “How?”

  “If he needs an interview with someone, he can be as compassionate as he needs to be. If he’s trying to beat his competition on a story, he can be heartless, ruthless even.”

  “Would you say your husband is a giver or a taker?”

  Faith considered the question for a moment. “A taker.”

  “A taker?”

  “He’s often at work, or with friends, or sources. Taking Gage to the fair was like a gift of his time to us.”

  “Would you characterize him as a workaholic?”

  She nodded.

  “Is that a source of tension for you and Cal?”

  She took a moment to respond. “No. We’ve adapted.”

  “Would you say Cal is solitary or needs to be with others?”

  She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Solitary.”

  “Deceptive or truthful?”

  “Truthful, unless he’s suspected someone has deceived him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he’s dealing with unsavory types for a story, that sort of thing, he’ll do whatever it takes to get at the truth.”

  “Would you say he was arrogant, or humble?”

  “Somewhere in between, I suppose.”

  Lang made notes.

  “All right. Now, Faith, prior to Gage’s disappearance, was there any significant event in his life and yours—a school problem, a relationship or family issue, something involving police, anything?”

  Faith began shaking her head. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Any recent stress in your family, say, with something financial, a death?”

  “Cal’s worried about losing his job at the paper.”

  “And what kind of stress has that put on you and Gage?”

  “We try to keep that from Gage, but I told Cal we could survive on my salary if we tightened up on things.”

  “And Cal’s reaction?”

  “He didn’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Faith, do you have any marital stress at all now, or in the past?”

  She swallowed and blinked quickly. “A few arguments here and there, like most married couples, but no.”

  “Aside from the workaholic thing, is Cal a good father?”

  “Yes.”

  “A good husband?”

  She nodded.

  “Faith, I have to ask these questions, but before you answer, you must understand that no matter what the truth is, all we care about is finding Gage, all right?”

  “All right,” she said, unsure of what was coming.

  “Do you suspect anyone of being involved in Gage’s disappearance?”

  “No.”

  “Are you involved in your son’s disappearance?”

  “No!”

  “Did someone help you to cause his disappearance?”

  “No, absolutely not!”

  Lang made notes, glancing at the time on his mini digital recorder.

  “Has Cal ever been unfaithful to you?”

  “No.”

  “How would you characterize his attitude toward infidelity?”

  “Oh my God, Detective, what do you think?”

  “You tell me. Is he indifferent to it?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Have you ever been unfaithful to Cal?”

  Faith clenched her tissue; her breathing quickened and she turned as if counting the cinder blocks in the wall.

  “Listen, Faith,” Lang said. “All we care about is finding Gage and to do that we need a foundation of honesty and truthfulness.”

  “No, Detective Lang, my answer is no.”

  He held her in his gaze for a moment, then made notes.

  “Good, that’s good.” He resumed looking at her with a hint of his warm smile. “You work as a public relations manager downtown at Parker Hayes and Robinson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe someone in your workplace would want to harm Gage?”

  “You keep asking me the same questions. The answer is no.”

  Lang was flipping back through the pages of his notes when there was a knock on the door and Detective Price leaned into the room.

  “Leon, something’s come up. We have to go.”

  “Okay.” Lang turned to Faith. “Excuse me,” he said to her. “We’re pretty much done.”

  In the hall beyond the detectives, Faith saw Cal and a uniformed officer.

  “What’s going on?” Cal said. “Will somebody tell me?”

  “Hold on, Mr. Hudson.” Price turned to Faith and said, “Officer Ramirez will take you and Cal downstairs so we can swab your cheeks for DNA and collect your fingerprints—all routine, I assure you. Then she’ll drive you home.”

  “Wait!” Faith saw men in the squad room pulling on jackets, talking on phones, heading out, the heightened activity signifying some sort of development. “What’s happened? Is this about Gage?”

  “Please.” Lang nodded to the uniform. “Carmen, would you?” Then to the Hudsons: “Please go with Officer Ramirez, she’ll get you home.”

  “Please tell us!” Faith’s eyes widened. “Did you find Gage?”

  Hands went to Faith’s shoulders to nudge her toward the elevator but she shook them off.

  “Why won’t they tell us anything? Cal, did they find Gage? Please! Somebody tell us! Did you find our son?”

  14

  A few miles from where the detectives had been questioning Cal and Faith, Officer Neil Peddet and his partner were searching for Gage Hudson.

  “What’s up, buddy? You got something?”

  Champ, his purebred German shepherd, was panting and wagging his tail, signaling to Peddet that he’d picked up the
scent again.

  “Was he around here? Are we getting close?”

  Champ yipped, as if to say, “This way.” Snout to the ground, poking here and there along the lawns and sidewalks of the postwar houses on Emerson Avenue, he pulled hard on the sixteen-foot line Peddet had put on him. He brought them to a gravel patch that led to a tired-looking, one-story strip mall.

  Champ was excited.

  All the signs were good, Peddet thought, while keeping his optimism in check. Champ had had the same reaction yesterday while they were searching the perimeter of the fairgrounds, picking up something on the other side of the fence. It had taken them deeper into the surrounding neighborhoods. But Champ kept losing it and Peddet knew that it could’ve been a false lead, another dog or a scent similar to Gage’s.

  It could’ve been any number of possibilities.

  But it could be Gage.

  They’d worked late into the night, before knocking off at midnight and returning in the hour before dawn, resuming their work using the scent on Gage’s unwashed hoodie.

  Deep down Peddet was hopeful.

  You’ve got to expect the unexpected.

  He knew that the evening and early-morning hours were usually best for tracking. This morning was also ideal because there was no wind, which could disperse a scent.

  Besides, Champ excelled at his job. Two months earlier he’d worked on a three-mile search to find a fifty-year-old female patient who’d wandered from the hospital. Before that, in the spring, Peddet and Champ had helped the state police search Big River State Forest near Wisconsin where a disturbed man had abducted and hidden his three-year-old cousin. Champ had tracked them to a lean-to shelter the man had built by a river.

  Pretty good, considering Champ started life as an underdog, abandoned and nearly starved to death as a pup before an animal rescue shelter gave him to the River Ridge police. “I got a feeling about this one,” a staff member had said. Champ was assigned to Peddet, whose previous dog had recently died of natural causes. They bonded and Champ was trained at the Illinois State Police K-9 facility in Pawnee. Now, he was a happy, affectionate, hardworking two-year-old who lived with Peddet and his family.

  Champ barked, a strong “this is it” kind of bark, practically dragging Peddet toward the rear of the strip mall, an aging building called Emerson Plaza. It had six units: a hair and nail salon, a florist, a tax office, a hardware shop and a corner store. One business was boarded up.

  It was still early and no vehicles were parked in the rear lot, which was unpaved and pocked with potholes. Empty liquor bottles, beer cans, a discarded suitcase and a rusting bicycle with the front wheel and seat missing were strewn about the dilapidated rear wire fence.

  Why don’t the tenants or the landlord take care of this place?

  The air reeked of dead cat and buzzed with flies and wasps, clouded in an ungodly looking corner of the lot where the grass and weeds were choking the fence.

  “Tell me you’re not interested in that cat,” Peddet said.

  Champ barked, tugging him instead toward the two large steel Dumpsters near the building. Both were overflowing with trash that had spilled onto the ground where two skinny dogs, spotted with mange, were rooting for food. Champ’s growl sent them running, one of them with what appeared to be a pizza slice in its mouth, the other with what must have been a rag.

  “Is that what’s got you revved up, those strays in the garbage?”

  Peddet reached for his phone to call animal protection when Champ rushed toward the Dumpsters. He ignored the first one, going to the second, rising on his hind legs, pressing his front paws to it, wagging his tail as if he wanted to climb into the container.

  “Oh, it’s this Dumpster?” Peddet put his phone away.

  Champ gave a little cry.

  “Okay, okay, hang on.” Peddet unclipped his heavy gloves from his utility belt and searched the ground, finding a discarded curtain rod to use as a poker. “It’s likely someone tossed out some food, or something smells like a treat to you, that’s what’s got you going.”

  Champ barked.

  “Hang on.”

  Peddet gripped one of the top doors and hefted himself up the side, standing on the steel sleeve, and looked in. The container was nearly full, crowned with plastic garbage bags. Some had split and were leaking swept-up hair from the plaza’s salon. The thing stunk with squadrons of flies strafing heaps of dead flowers and God knows what else.

  “Not much here, pal.” Peddet poked the rod into more garbage bags, cardboard boxes and magazines, cartons of rotting eggs, boxes of spoiled vegetables, plastic water bottles, cans, pizza boxes and rotting fruit.

  Champ barked.

  “I don’t know, buddy.”

  Peddet was about to poke a corner when he froze.

  He’d spotted it as if it were there waiting for him.

  Tucked in the far corner and easy to miss was the pristine sole of a small sneaker, almost glowing amid the garbage. Peddet’s pulse skipped as he braced himself, pulled off one glove, tucked it under his arm and fished his phone from his pocket.

  He’d done his homework, he knew the description, but wanted to confirm and scrolled through the full details concerning Gage Hudson.

  Peddet read quickly. Gage Hudson, four feet seven inches tall, between sixty-five and seventy-five pounds, wearing a blue Cubs ball cap, blue Cubs T-shirt with a mustard stain, light-colored shorts, SkySlyder blue sneakers, size five, with neon green laces in a zipper pattern. Soles are rubber with a diamond and sawtooth traction pattern.

  Before leaving that morning Peddet had obtained photos of the SkySlyder sneaker and its sole from the database. Now he checked them again on his phone, then looked at what was in the Dumpster.

  From what he could see, the shoe was definitely a blue SkySlyder, without question. He could see a hint of blue and green neon lacing, but only a hint. The shoe was encased in trash. The sole had the same pattern and the number five was encircled, indicating the size.

  “Good work, Champ, good job!”

  Peddet knew not to disturb a crime scene, to leave everything as he’d found it. But as he thumbed his supervisor’s number, a chill cut through him and he stared at the small sole.

  Is it just the shoe in there or, like the tip of an iceberg, is there a corpse beneath it?

  He had to know.

  Peddet leaned closer and gently poked the rod into the trash again as it dawned on him.

  If Gage was in there, he could be alive.

  15

  “You’ve got to relax, ma’am.”

  Faith struggled to keep her fingers from shaking for the fingerprint analyst. She still didn’t know why the detectives had moved out so fast.

  Maybe they found Gage. Was he okay? Was he hurt?

  They’d already swabbed the inside of her cheek for DNA. The processing unit was having trouble with its scanners, the analyst had explained, so they had to use the ink-and-paper method.

  “Okay, ma’am, we’ll try again.” The analyst, a heavyset woman with a crew cut, tossed the smudged card. “Just relax your arm and look away—don’t try to help me.”

  Faith pursed her lips and nodded, letting the analyst roll her index finger on the ink pad, ensuring her fingerprint pattern was evenly covered with ink. Then she rolled the finger from side to side on the card, making sure it was even and the pressure was sufficient to get a clear impression.

  “Good, we’ve got it.” The analyst smiled. “We’ll just continue with the other fingers.”

  Faith shut her eyes, battling the nightmare engulfing her.

  She should’ve been holding Gage’s hand. Lang’s questions kept playing through her mind. Are you involved in your son’s disappearance? Did someone help you to cause his disappearance? Now here she was in this room where they fingerprint criminals, while out there, somewhere, the
re may be a lead on Gage and no one would tell her.

  “All done. You’re free to go back with the others,” the analyst said. “There’s a citrus-based cleaner, a pumice stone and water at the sink to the left by the door.”

  Faith washed her fingers, scrubbing herself nearly raw, but the stains would not come out. Afterward, she joined Cal in the hall where he was waiting with Officer Ramirez. Faith looked at Cal, hoping for an update, but he shook his head.

  “No news,” he said.

  Faith noticed that Cal’s fingers looked like hers. The fingerprint ink was faded but obvious, as if she and Cal had been marked guilty of a horrible crime: parents who’d failed to protect their child.

  * * *

  During the drive, with Faith and Cal in the back seat of the car, Officer Carmen Ramirez had switched off the police radio and inserted the earpiece to her portable unit on the front seat beside her. She’s shielding us, Cal thought. She doesn’t want to risk us overhearing any transmissions.

  Whatever’s happened can’t be good. If they found Gage safe they would’ve told us, Cal thought. They should’ve told us. We deserve to know.

  Frantic, he pulled out his phone and used his apps to search his newspaper’s newsfeeds and databases for breaking stories. In seconds he’d scoured the Associated Press, Reuters, then Twitter, Facebook and Google News, bracing himself for whatever might surface.

  But there were no new developments. He kept searching before finally tapping Officer Ramirez’s shoulder.

  “Can you tell us what happened? What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I really don’t know.”

  Cal contended with the sickening sensation that something significant was unfolding around them. He looked at Faith staring trancelike out the window, gripping a tissue in one hand and the rosary Pam Huppkey had given her in the other.

  He started making a call to the Chicago Star-News to find out if his paper knew what had happened, but at that moment his phone vibrated with a text from Channel 77, a Chicago TV news station.

  Mr. Hudson, would you comment on the discovery?

  Discovery?

  Cal’s stomach rose and fell. God, what did they find?