“Next morning was a Saturday,” Roger said, “and I slept late. Jase was pretty good about amusing himself when I was working shift and his mother wasn’t around. He had his Gameboy, a little TV in his room, and his train set. I got up around ten and went to his room to see what he wanted for breakfast. When he wasn’t there, I figured he was downstairs. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fixed himself a bowl of cereal or an English muffin. So I went down to check on him.”
Roger hung his head and went on.
“That moment, when you realize your child is missing, really missing...I can’t even begin to describe it. It was as if my insides had turned to ice and started to shatter, one chunk after another breaking off until there was nothing left and I was running through the house shouting his name, knowing he’d answer if he heard me but getting angry anyway, thinking that if he was playing games with me I’d ground him until he was thirty. Praying that he was.
“Whoever took him came in through a basement window. I saw the busted pane on my second run around the house, thinking Jason might have forgotten the rules and gone outside while I was sleeping, still hoping it was something that could be remedied with a good talking-to. When I saw the broken glass, that was when it really hit me. My son was gone and someone had taken him.
“By noon that day the entire neighborhood was in an uproar. Cops everywhere, evidence teams, K-nine units, hundreds of volunteers combing every square inch in a ten-block radius. The media were on top of it right away, showing Jason’s picture on national TV, interviewing anybody who’d talk to them. At the time I wasn’t aware of the statistics, but I found out later that the victims in more than half of stranger abductions are dead within the first three hours. A couple of those dogs were what they call cadaver dogs; I found that out later, too. Trained to sniff out human remains.
“One of the investigating officers was a guy I play hockey with, Bernie Eklund. Good guy, really helped me through those first few days. He was the one who sat with me when I made the call to Ellen. What a nightmare that was. I mean, what are you supposed to say? ‘Hi, hon, how’s the business trip going? By the way, someone kidnapped our son out of his bed last night and I slept through the whole thing.’
“Ellen really lost it. She wanted to drive home right away, but Bernie got on the phone and told her not to. Told her he’d set up a ride for her with a cop friend of his down there. Guy brought her up in a cruiser. It was a good thing, too, because I’m sure she would’ve had an accident trying to get back here on her own. I’ve known my wife a long time, Peter, but I’ve never seen her that shattered. That...cold. She blamed me; still does. And I know that even if she lives to be a hundred, she’ll never forgive me, not even if Jason comes walking down that street right now. It’s torn our lives apart.”
Roger took a ragged breath. “Every second that passed, I could feel him getting farther away. It was the most horrible sensation, wanting to take an active part in the search but not wanting to budge in case the phone rang. The cops set up a special line in case there was a ransom call, but no one really thought it was about money. I’m a miner, you’ve seen my house.
“By ten o’clock that night, you could already see them starting to give up. Don’t get me wrong, they were great, all of them. But you could tell that somewhere in that twelve-hour period they’d gone from hoping for a living child to expecting a dead one. Most of the rest of it’s a blur to me now. I have no idea how many nights I went without sleep, afraid that if I risked it, some break in the case might come along and I’d miss it.
“It wasn’t long before searching turned to hopeful waiting and even that didn’t last very long. Pretty soon I started feeling like I was on my own. After the first few weeks, Ellen decided she couldn’t stay in the house any longer and moved in with her mother. A friend of mine set up a website for me, findjasonmullen.com. At first the site generated hundreds of hits a day—well-wishers mostly, people promising to keep their eyes open for Jason, some of them wanting to know where they could send donations—but that tapered off pretty quick, too, just the nutcases using the site after that. People calling themselves psychics, claiming to know where Jason was, offering to trade the information for cash. Religious types sending prayers, even a few sick bastards claiming they had Jason and were writing to let us know, in detail, exactly what kind of perverse shit they were doing to him every day. The cyber cops managed to track down a couple of these whack jobs—one out West and another down in Texas—but neither of them had Jason. Just heartless assholes with nothing better to do. One of them was arrested and charged with something under the Child Pornography Act.”
Roger looked at Peter now, his eyes red but dry. “Eventually,” he said, “after Ellen left for good and the investigators made it clear they were moving on to other things, the whole bubble of hope and pointless action I’d built around myself—the posters, the website, the days spent out looking for him on my own—it all just collapsed. I started drinking heavily, screwing up at work, flying into fits of rage. If I hadn’t found the group, I can’t say where I’d be right now, but I’m betting it’d involve either a rubber room or a casket. It’s gotten to the point where any fresh hope is like a knife in the heart, because you just know it’s going to end in disappointment. And you begin to wonder why you were given such a gift in the first place—this beautiful life, this sweet boy you love with every fiber of your being, whose safety you’d happily trade your life for—only to be singled out to have it all taken away.
“So this thing last night, Peter, the way I reacted. I wanted you to understand—”
“Of course I do,” Peter said. “And you were right, I was way out of line.”
Roger touched Peter’s shoulder. “That’s not what I meant. What I was going to say is, I wanted you to understand that in the end, I’ll do anything to find my son. Alive or dead. There’s nothing else in my life but that. And I would do anything to rain justice down on the one responsible. So what I wanted to ask you was...what you said last night...do you really think you saw the person who took my boy?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Peter said, sick to his soul in the face of what this man had endured. “But when I stepped into your son’s room, the sense that I’d been there before was overwhelming. I went up that ladder like a robot, and when I lay down I could almost smell David, that sick, medicinal smell that was always on him towards the end. And, Jesus Christ, when you came through that door, I thought it was the guy. It really freaked me out.”
Roger swatted a fly off his arm, “You talked to Erika about it.”
“How did you know?”
“I called her this morning. She told me how bad you felt.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“She said you’re not crazy. She said neither of us is. She thinks what you saw was real. She said there’s dozens of examples of psychics helping police solve crimes and that in a way, you have that ability now.”
“Come on.”
“It’s what she said.”
“Better buy some lottery tickets, then.”
“I know, it sounds wacky. But what if she’s right? If you actually saw this guy and there’s even half a chance you can ID him, shouldn’t we go for it?”
Peter agreed that they should. “But what can we do?”
“Call my cop buddy, Bernie,” Roger said. “He could show you some mugs shots, maybe. Have an artist do a composite.”
“It was just a glimpse, Roger. A big scary guy. It was dark, I was terrified. I don’t know.”
“Would you be willing to give it a shot?”
“Sure, I guess. What are you going to tell your friend?”
“I haven’t worked that part of it out yet,” Roger said. He stood. “Can I use your phone?”
“You’re going to call him now? It’s Saturday.”
“Cops work weekends. Got anything better to do?”
Peter said he didn’t and brought Roger inside, leading him to the phone in the family room.
Roger managed to get Staff Sergeant Eklund on the line and, after a brief explanation, arrange an appointment for a half hour from then.
On the way out to the car, Peter said, “You were a little evasive with the guy about why you wanted to see him.”
“You said it yourself,” Roger said. “What am I going to tell him? Let’s get our foot in the door first, then play it by ear from there.” He caught Peter’s arm, leading him toward the street. “Let’s take my rig,” he said. “I don’t think I could stand another ride in that sardine can of yours.”
The two men climbed into Roger’s black Suburban and headed downtown.
* * *
Sudbury Regional Police headquarters stood on the corner of Brady and Minto, a beige five-story structure annexed to the provincial government building. At Roger’s request, the officer in the reception booth paged Sergeant Eklund to the lobby. A few minutes later, Eklund came through a door to the left of the booth, wearing casual clothes. He and Roger shook hands and Roger made the introductions.
“Bernie, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Doctor Peter Croft.”
Eklund shook Peter’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Croft.”
“Same here, Bernie, but please, call me Peter.”
“Peter, then. You guys want coffee or anything?”
When both men declined, Eklund led them through the door next to the booth, then down a short hallway to a bank of elevators. He thumbed the UP button, the doors slid open and all three stepped aboard, Eklund selecting level four. “We’ll use my office,” he said. “It’s quiet and there’s a computer in there.” On the way up, he and Roger bantered about the old-timers hockey league they played for, Eklund asking Roger if he planned on coming out again in the fall, Roger saying that he did.
On the fourth floor, a series of short corridors took them to Bernie’s office, an angular space with an oversized desk, a crammed bookcase, and a computer table, most of the available wall space plastered with wanted posters.
Sitting behind the desk, Eklund told them they’d picked a good day to drop by, business being quiet at the moment, then invited them to sit down. There were a couple of metal chairs facing the desk, and the two men settled in.
“So, Roger,” Eklund said, “you were a bit vague over the phone. How can I be of help to you?”
In the beat of silence that followed, Peter glanced at Roger, wondering if Roger felt as awkward about this whole thing as he did. Sitting here now, in front of this sober-faced police sergeant, Peter felt himself cringing inside, sweat breaking out in his armpits.
Roger said, “Peter here lost his son David to cancer a few months ago.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Eklund said, and Peter nodded his appreciation.
“As it turns out,” Roger said, “David and Jason knew each other from daycare, and I guess they got pretty close. Around the time David died, Peter had a...what would you call it, Peter? A vision?”
“That’s as accurate a description as any,” Peter said, grateful to Roger for avoiding the more extreme details of that day.
“Anyway, in this vision, he found himself and his son on the top bunk of Jason’s bed.”
“How did he know the bed was Jason’s?” Eklund said.
“He didn’t at first,” Roger said, going on to explain that Peter had seen Jason’s room for the first time the night before and had made the connection then. He said that in the vision, Peter got a glimpse of the kidnapper’s face. He said he knew it sounded crazy, but that they’d been told by someone who knew about such things that when all else failed, the police sometimes used psychics to help solve certain crimes, and though Peter wasn’t a psychic per se, they were hoping that if he were allowed to see some mug shots, maybe, or get a sketch done by a police artist, he might get lucky and make a hit. The whole thing came out in one breathless rush, and Roger was red-faced by the end of it, clearly glad to have it over with.
At first there was no discernable reaction from Eklund, then he nodded and turned his attention to Peter, who found the man’s gaze uncomfortably intense.
“You look familiar,” Eklund said. “What part of town do you live in?”
“I’m over in Moonglow,” Peter said, the question, in view of what Roger had just told the man, tipping him off balance. “Gemini Crescent.”
Eklund was nodding again. “Nice area up there. Peaceful. The wife and I have a place out in Lively. It’s a bit of a commute, but the kids love it.”
Peter returned Eklund’s nod, saying nothing.
“So tell me, what kind of doctor are you?”
“I’m an anesthesiologist.”
“You put people to sleep.”
“Yes, that’s part of it.”
“Stressful work, I gather.”
Peter said, “At times, yes,” wondering where he was taking this.
“How did you and Roger meet?”
“Roger chairs a bereavement group I joined recently. We met there a couple of weeks ago.”
“Yeah, your boy. How long was he sick?”
“Three months.”
Eklund frowned, suspending the proceedings for a moment in what Peter decided was a show of regret. Then he said, “Okay, gentlemen, I’ll do what I can for you.” He swiveled his chair toward the computer monitor and clicked on an icon, bringing up a screen broken by a series of narrow horizontal boxes used for inputting data. “Believe it or not,” he said, “I was the lead investigator in a case that involved a psychic, indirectly at least, and her advice turned out to be not only helpful, but dead-on accurate.” He said, “Peter, why don’t you come around here.”
Peter moved around the desk to stand behind Eklund, looking over his shoulder at the screen.
“This is what we call the Niche system,” Eklund said. “It taps into a nation-wide criminal data base. If there’s a bad boy in this country who’s been charged with anything more serious than jaywalking, you’ll find him in here. Using the program is dead easy. Just type in as many of these descriptors as you can. Peter, your guy was what, short, tall? Heavy set?”
“Tall and very big,” Peter said. “Solid, like one of those old-time strongmen.”
Eklund keyed the information into the appropriate boxes, then asked for more: race, hair color, eye color, a half dozen others. Peter was beginning to feel foolish, answering so many of his questions with, “I’m not sure,” or “It was dark,” realizing how little detail he’d actually registered.
When they were done Eklund struck the ENTER key and the computer began crunching data. “With a description this vague,” he said, “we’re likely to wind up with hundreds of hits.” He stood, giving Peter his chair. When the first picture came up—a huge, dark haired Caucasian with deep set eyes and prominent cheekbones—Eklund said, “We call this a photo line-up. Scroll through them to your heart’s content. If you come across anything that strikes a chord, I’ll be in the outer office.”
“Thanks, Bernie,” Roger said, shaking the man’s hand.
“I hope it helps,” Eklund said. “Why don’t you drag your chair over and join your friend. This could take a while.” He paused at the office door. “The sketch artist we use is in today. If you’re still interested, we can take a run down to her office when you’re through here.”
Peter heard Roger say thanks and pull a chair up behind him, but he paid no heed. He was already busy scrolling through mug shots, one sullen-looking face after another.
* * *
An hour later Peter was still clicking through photos, the whole process degenerating into a blur of mean eyes, bitter mouths and crude, jailhouse tattoos. Earlier, during the drive downtown, he’d been thinking about that missing farm kid, Clayton Dolan, and his strange reaction to the boy’s photograph, wanting so badly to find him, and it occurred to him then that perhaps what he should be alert for here might have less to do with recognition than with any similarly unexpected response; but he’d already flipped through better than three hundred files—nearly the entir
e batch his vague description had generated—and not a single face had triggered a reaction.
And through it all Roger sat quietly behind him, watching over his shoulder. Peter could feel his frustration, could hear it in the quickening rhythm of his breathing.
Discouraged himself, he leaned back in the chair and stretched, trying to work a kink out of his back. It was Roger who said what they both were thinking.
“This is pointless.”
Peter swiveled around to face him. “There’s still a few more to go,” he said, knowing Roger was right but reluctant to quit. “And if this doesn’t pan out, maybe we can approach it from a different angle, ask Bernie if he can thin these guys out according to the type of crime they committed or—”
Bernie knocked once and came in. “How’s it going, fellas?”
Roger stood, twisting his neck, irritated. “Piss poor.”
“I told you it could take a while. Listen, the reason I came in, the sketch artist has to leave in about an hour. If you still want to take a shot at that, it’ll have to be now. She works a circuit through the north and won’t be back in town for a couple weeks.”
Roger said, “Peter, what do you think?”
“I’d like to give it a try.”
“All right,” Roger said, “but if you don’t mind, I’m going to wait here.”
“That’s fine,” Eklund said. “Sara prefers to work alone with the witness anyway.”
Peter turned back to the monitor to flip through the last few mug shots and Eklund said, “Sorry, Peter, we gotta go.”
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