“Clearly there’s a mistake,” Debbie said, her expression troubled.
“Ma’am, I haven’t even started yet. Let me tell you the rest, and then we’ll see if either of you can make any sense out of it. I sure the hell haven’t.” He sat in a chair across from them. “Hannah and Anna were the daughters of a single mother named Elizabeth Amiel who was viciously murdered on March 10, 2008, in Elm Creek, Nebraska.”
“My God, that’s terrible,” said Essie.
“I kind of figured the mother was gone,” Debbie said. “Did the father…”
Davenport held up a finger. “Hear me out,” he said. “Elizabeth Amiel came to America as an exchange student from Switzerland in 1997 and stayed with the Janssen family in Lexington, Nebraska. Kyle Janssen and Elizabeth fell in love during her stay, and Elizabeth returned in 1999, hoping to attend college and eventually marry Kyle. Neither of her hopes was realized. Kyle Janssen, Hannah and Anna’s biological father, died in a single-car accident on July…” He looked thoughtful for a moment and then corrected himself. “January 22, 2000, approximately a month after Hannah and Anna were conceived, and before Elizabeth knew she was pregnant. They figure he fell asleep behind the wheel. No alcohol or drugs in his system and no signs of foul play… which makes it even more tragic.”
“My God!” said Debbie. “Who killed Elizabeth? Who took the girls?”
“The Kearney Police report states that Elizabeth Amiel, as described by the few that knew her, was a loving and dedicated mother, but a bit of a lost lamb. She was naturally timid and still relatively new in America.
“Her boyfriend, Travis Ulrich, murdered Elizabeth while he was in a methamphetamine rage. You don’t want to know how many times he stabbed her. Ulrich was a local bad boy who developed a taste for crystal meth. Elizabeth’s body was discovered three days later by a friend named Linda.” He paused. “I’d say her last name if I could pronounce it. It has more letters than the post office. She was Hannah and Anna’s babysitter on the days Elizabeth worked late and was concerned when the girls hadn’t been dropped off after school. Elizabeth had not called to say otherwise.
“The police found Travis three days later in Elizabeth’s car, wasted to the point of unconsciousness on meth, alcohol, and a soufflé of other things. He had pulled the car off into some rugged terrain about three miles from Elizabeth’s home.”
“He was only three miles away and the police couldn’t find him?” asked Essie, astounded.
“Addicts aren’t known for making wise decisions. He had left and then returned to Elm Creek, which is mostly farmland with few places to hide. He couldn’t have been there long before the copter spotted him. There was blood all over the interior of his car… well, Elizabeth’s car. There wasn’t much use denying it. When he came down from his high and realized what a depraved son of a bitch he was, he sang like a bird.”
“What about Hannah and Anna?” asked Debbie.
The detective looked from one woman to the other, and shook his head as if he were trying to rattle the details out of it. “No sign of either.” He paused again, and then forged ahead. “Now, this is where it gets really… fucked up. The forensic team investigated Elizabeth’s body and found two sets of handprints on her… Travis Ulrich's and Hannah’s. The forensics team also noted the blood had congealed quite a bit between the time Ulrich murdered Elizabeth Amiel and the time Hannah touched her, and that Hannah only touched her on the face. They think Hannah had been there to witness her mother’s murder, maybe hid herself, and then checked back approximately two hours later to try to communicate with or rouse her.”
“Dear God, the pain she must be feeling,” said Essie.
“Oh, the poor, poor baby!” said Debbie. “How do they know they were Hannah’s handprints, and not Anna’s?”
“Good question,” Davenport said. “Elizabeth had Ident-a-Kid kits, photo and fingerprint ID cards, like little licenses…”
“I’m familiar with them,” Debbie said. “I hope the police took into consideration that the sisters are so identical it’s conceivable the Ident-a-Kid crew could also have mixed them up?”
“Don’t know. I’ll send them a note, but I’m not sure what difference that would make either way,” Davenport said. “Neither had been seen or heard from until Hannah popped up two days ago, more than two years later and fifteen hundred miles from home.”
Debbie and Essie were both stricken by this information.
“How?” Debbie asked.
“Someone had to have taken them, maybe a relative or neighbor?” Essie said.
Davenport spread his hands in a clueless gesture. “I’m open to suggestions. According to the reports, all relatives and the neighbors were checked, many of whom appeared more distraught about the missing girls than the paternal family. Ulrich was and is a suspect for both Hannah’s and Anna’s disappearances. He swears up and down that he never touched the girls, yet he’s never denied a thing about murdering Elizabeth Amiel.” The detective sat back in his seat and massaged at his temples with his thumbs.
“Maybe he was too tweaked to remember,” Debbie said.
“Maybe,” Davenport said. He shook his head at the wickedness of the whole situation. “The only relatives Hannah and Anna have, outside of Elizabeth Amiel, are an uncle, aunt, two cousins of similar ages, and an incoherent grandfather… all on the father’s side. The relatives on the mother’s side live in Switzerland and supposedly disowned Elizabeth when she returned to America against their wishes. The paternal aunt and uncle, who run a farm twenty miles west of Elm Creek, were reportedly quite upset by Elizabeth’s murder and Hannah and Anna’s disappearance, but the farm demanded too much of their time and energy for them to invest in the case. Some speculate that they weren’t all that torn up by it, and according to Linda the babysitter, Elizabeth wasn’t very fond of Uncle Bobby Janssen. One can only surmise.”
“Did they even look for the girls?” Essie asked, astounded.
“Got to milk the cows, you know! Can’t let the lives of silly little children get in the way of work,” Debbie said with cynical joviality. The single-mindedness of some people never failed to amaze her, but on the other hand, others have dedicated their lives to goodwill. Such was the balance of life.
“I didn’t say they didn’t look… just not as hard or as long as they could or should have. Once the hubbub settled down, so did uncle and auntie’s concern.”
“What if Hannah escaped from somewhere or someone?” Debbie asked.
“Yes, that is a possibility. There are a lot of what ifs and we are mulling them over, but Hannah showed no signs of physical abuse.” Davenport said stared at the floor for a moment. “Doctor Hiller, is it possible for a child not to grow, or to grow very little in two years? According to yesterday’s measurements she is about the same height and actually six pounds lighter than her NCMEC profile from 2008.”
Essie considered the question. “The effects of trauma on a person—especially a child—can be wide-ranging, from minimal to drastic, depending on the susceptibility of the victim,” she said. “I’ve heard trauma can stop the body’s growing process, but I’ve never seen it firsthand. People can start having seizures or their hair may go all gray after suffering shocking life events. I read of a man who allegedly grew ten inches taller within a year after watching his wife tumble over the edge of the Grand Canyon. I’d say Hannah may be solid proof that a severe shock to the system can stunt a child’s growth.”
Davenport nodded. “Let me add another twist. A number of Elm Creek residents claim to have seen the spirits of the little Janssen girls during the wee hours of the mornings.”
“I left my belief in the supernatural about thirty-five years behind me,” said Essie. “But it comes with the territory. Hannah already looks like a ghost. Consider what an overactive imagination can make of that milk-white hair and pale skin at three in the morning.”
Davenport nodded and looked down the hallway toward room 433. “If we hope to make any sense
of this, we need to find out where Hannah’s been for the last two years. Hopefully that will lead us to Anna.”
Chapter 14
Debbie steered her car into the parking lot at Riverside Plaza. It was Friday… payday… market day. She pulled her Accord into an open space, much to the chagrin of the woman whose car faced hers. Judging by her hand gestures and embellished mouth antics, the task of backing out of her parking spot was an insurmountable feat for this woman, as opposed to pulling forward, which was clearly her divine entitlement—one that Debbie so discourteously thwarted.
Debbie typically went to great lengths to avoid conflict, and for a moment considered moving to another parking spot, which she would have if it had been a man, such being the apprehension most men caused her. Instead, she shifted into park, turned the car off, and got out. She was determined not to let this woman intimidate her.
“I was about to pull out,” complained the aggravated woman around a thick wad of gum. She was mid-twentyish and far too severe looking for someone her age, and the pulled-back hair and fiber-thin, penciled-in eyebrows only heightened the effect. Debbie walked dismissively by the little sports car.
“Eat me!” spat the woman.
Just keep walking… rise above it, Debbie instructed herself, but her body disobeyed and she turned to face the woman seated below her… so close to the ground. Debbie stared defiantly at her and said nothing. She turned for the supermarket, ignoring the onslaught of profanity that spewed from the disgruntled woman’s mouth. Onlookers regarded the tirade with disdain, and Debbie strolled through the automatic door feeling a moment of pride at her rare display of defiance. The feeling was to be short-lived.
Her shopping routine usually consisted of a swift excursion through dairy, deli, meats, produce, and bakery—the perimeter aisles of the store—with infrequent diversions through the inner aisles when needed, though the end cap items often covered that. Today was no different. From the bakery, she chose a loaf of sliced artisan bread and for her weekly indulgence, a slice of blueberry ripple cheesecake, both of which white wine would complement nicely… if only Massachusetts supermarkets could sell wine. There was a small package in the same plaza, but in the past, the urge had never equaled the effort, and she simply would go home sans wine.
Debbie checked out of Market Basket, pleased to see that her insolent adversary wasn’t waiting for her wielding a hatchet, or had flatted her tires or keyed her doors. She loaded the groceries into the trunk, closed it, and glanced at the storefront about halfway along the plaza. Debbie neither knew the name of the store nor if it even had one. Aside from the customary neon signs in the windows, like Bud, Samuel Adams, Michelob, and ATM, there was nothing defining, except the word LIQUORS in large, lighted, red letters on a weathered, white background above the store.
She stood, indecisive, and finally said aloud, “I’m going to have some wine.”
Entering the store, once the door closed, the tinted windows and dim lighting gave one the impression that it was suddenly evening.
The wine section was central at the front of the store, which quelled some of Debbie’s anxiety. Coolers with glass-fronted doors lined the majority of the outer walls and the rear of the store. Two college-age men, one wearing a Tom Brady Patriots shirt, the other a Red Sox tee-shirt, stood before a cooler, laughing and debating over which beer to purchase.
Debbie found the white wines and started perusing the selection, picking up bottles, checking dates and replacing them on the shelves. She rounded an end cap where a display announced Kendall Jackson Chardonnay on sale, two bottles for $20. Bingo… good wine for a great price! She picked up two bottles and turned towards the rear of the store to see the two young men standing before a Miller High Life poster in which Angelica Bridges, wearing red hot pants and a snug white halter, displayed well-toned legs. Brady was sniggering goofily as Red Sox tickled the model’s upper thigh on the poster and comically dropped to his knees. “Red-headed Baywatch Babe! Save me!” he cried.
Noticing Debbie, Brady biffed him on the top of the head. “Get off the floor you nub,” he said. “You’ve got an audience.”
“Uh… hi,” said Red Sox, embarrassed and quickly getting to his feet. He smiled awkwardly at Debbie.
“Uhhh. Excuse my friend, please,” said Brady. “He has this thing for beautiful redheads… it decimates his IQ. Now that you’ve shown up, he’ll soon be a drooling imbecile.” He looked at Red Sox, shrugged apologetically and said, “Too late.”
“Dude!” said Red Sox. “That was the lamest pick-up spiel ever!”
Debbie smiled bashfully and started to turn away when she saw the St. Pauli Girl poster and it froze her in place. It was similar to so many promotional beer posters—beautiful, scantily clad women luring delusional men with a false promise and a lot of flesh—but this one sent a surge of abject terror coursing through Debbie that started at the base of her spine, and numbed every nerve. The two bottles of Kendell Jackson fell to the floor, one of them shattering.
“Whoa! You okay?” one of the men asked.
Debbie jerked her head towards him, her terrified eyes startling him.
“What the fuck?” said the other.
Want to fuck? The words reverberated inside of Debbie’s head in a distant, menacing voice.
Debbie shook her head, backing away.
“Watch your feet on the glass!”
Want your sweet little ass…
At the sound of breaking glass, the storekeeper rushed forward to investigate. “What happened? Is everyone okay?” he asked.
Seeing the man approach, Debbie turned his way and then backed from him, her mouth moving, but forming no words. He seemed so large to her, and the smell of his cologne seeped through her nostrils and into her consciousness.
Come here, Little Red. You’re going to like what I got for you.
“No!” Debbie cried and started coughing, trying to clear the cologne from her senses.
Just hold still so I can…
“Is she okay?” asked Red Sox.
At the sound of his voice, Debbie whimpered and faced him, her arms raised as if warding off blows.
The storekeeper turned on the two men. “What did you do to her? We have cameras here.”
“We didn’t do anything!” said Brady. “She was just standing there, smiling at us, and then she went all bug shit.”
Debbie slid along the shelf, bottles clinking together behind her as she sidled away from them and worked her way towards the door.
“Do you need an ambulance or something, lady?” asked the shopkeeper.
Ambulance? The thought horrified her. “NO!” Debbie shouted, and escaped out the door and into the daylight. The sun surprised her; she had thought it was nighttime. She stood on the sidewalk waiting for the slamming in her chest to subside.
Behind her, the door to the liquor store opened and the two men exited, each carrying a carton of beer. Neither of them acknowledged her, but she felt their eyes on her, making her feel exposed, as if she were standing naked for all to see. She needed to get to her car, separated… away from these people.
The storekeeper stepped outside and looked at her. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked.
Debbie unconsciously took a step away from him and nodded. “Yes,” she said, feeling confused. She remembered a breaking bottle and said, “I’m sorry. I’ll pay you for the wine.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a write-off,” he said, waving her off.
People milled around her, eyeing her with suspicion or concern, and the ground felt as if it were tipping. She reached out and steadied herself on the storefront.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Thanks,” Debbie assured him as she staggered forward, seeking the sanctuary of her car. She opened the door, dropped into the seat, closed the door after her, and retreated into the hazy surreal comfort of nothingness… feeling nothing… seeing nothing.
The extended bleat of a car’s horn brough
t Debbie back and chaperoned in her awareness to a cacophony of other sounds: shopping carts rolling across pavement; the slamming of trunks, hatchbacks, and doors; and occasional starting of a car engine. It was now dark outside and Debbie had the sinking feeling in her stomach that usually followed her episodes… but deeper this time.
What had happened in there?
She was no stranger to the visions, flashbacks, or whatever the hell they were. They’d been haunting her nights for more than two years, but they had always occurred at home. This was a first, and the truth of it was staggering. If she started having these manifestations in the public and during the day, where would she find asylum? There would be nowhere to hide from them. There would be no sanity.
Looking out her windshield, Debbie saw a familiar form sitting on the hood of her car.
Chirby-chirby-chirby-chirby-djou-djou, said the cardinal. He proudly flapped his wings as if to take flight, and then disappeared from sight.
I’m going thoroughly insane, she thought to herself. It was a common thought for her, but this time she wondered if it were the truth. She dug her phone out from her purse and started calling her therapist, Dolores Kearns, but ended the call. She’d been seeing Dolores for two years and it was only getting worse. Time for a different point of view, she figured. She scanned through her contacts and pressed Essie Hiller’s name.
Saturday
June 26, 2010
Chapter 15
Debbie pulled her Accord into a parking spot facing a squat, garish retro-Sixties office building, complete with white La Costa designer concrete blocks supporting porticos at the entryways. The Essex County Counseling Center was two stories of ugly.
Essie shared the lower floor with five other counselors whose names were followed by a salad of abbreviations like Psy.D. LICSW, and CCDC. Debbie depressed a button near Ethel Hiller, M.D. on an intercom box. Within seconds, the door lock emitted an angry, waspish buzz that would probably send neurotics to the deck.
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