by Laurel Dewey
Jane felt outside of herself. “What?”
“DES. It’s a synthetic estrogen that was used between the 1940’s and 1971. Women were given it to prevent complications, especially with a history of premature labor…”
Jane tried to push herself back into her body. “I’m the oldest. She wouldn’t know if she had a predisposition to premature labor so why would she take the drug?”
The doctor pursed her lips. “She could very well have taken it if there were complications during the pregnancy…”
Jane’s head was spinning. “There were no complications when she was pregnant with me.“
“How do you know?”
“I would have heard about it. Trust me,” Jane responded curtly.
The doctor took a breath. “DES-exposed daughters have an increased chance of developing dysplasia in the cervix, usually around twenty to thirty years of age.”
The strange, wraithlike heaviness sunk around Jane’s body, almost demanding to be acknowledged. “And I’m thirty-seven,” Jane stressed.
“It’s not absolute. Since you don’t fit into the profile completely, all other mitigating possibilities should be considered.”
“She didn’t take the drug.”
“She didn’t take it because you know she didn’t or because you don’t want to believe she took it?” In an unconscious, almost trance-like manner, Jane gently brushed her fingertips across her forehead, repeating the motion continuously. “Are you all right, Jane?” Jane stared into nothingness, her hand continuing its soothing rhythm across her forehead. “Do you have a headache?”
Jane suddenly noted the odd, uncharacteristic movement of her hand. She crossed her arms tightly against her jacket, a slight disconnect engulfing her. “I’m fine.” She was aware of how distant her voice sounded.
“It’s absolutely normal to feel anxious.” The doctor reached for her prescription pad. “I can write you a script. It’ll take the edge off.”
Jane let out a hard breath, struggling to ground her scattered senses. “Doc, I came out of the gate with an edge. I’ve selfmedicated for years to take the edge off and the result has been an extremely sharp point that almost cut the life out of me.” She could feel that comforting, familiar grit return as she stood and faced the doctor. “I’ll take a pass on your happy pills.”
Jane stormed out of the parking garage in her ’66 ice blue Mustang and was met with a battering mixture of rain and snow pattering across the windshield. Checking the car’s clock, it was 6:30 pm. In a little over twelve hours, she’d be back at the doc’s office with her feet in the stirrups as they sliced another chunk of tissue out of her. A few years ago, her plan of action would have been simple: go home, get piss drunk, pass out, wake up, nurse the hangover and plod through her day. She may have given up the bottle, but Jane hadn’t given up her need to escape.
She gunned the Mustang onto I-70, easily passing three cars before stationing in the fast lane. Tomorrow was Friday. Next week was spring break. Perfect. She hadn’t taken any time off save for the two days when her younger brother Mike got married barefoot in Sedona. Yes, yes, she thought. The escape plan was coming together perfectly. Jane unconsciously reached for her American Spirits, deftly lifting one of the slender cylinders out of the pack with her teeth as she changed lanes to pass a truck going the speed limit. Slamming the car’s lighter into place with the heel of her hand, she continued to formulate her unplanned temporary departure. She’d wake up tomorrow, get the biopsy done, go to the market and stock up on enough food and DVDs to last a week, then return to her house and hole up like the old days—sans booze—until she got the phone call with the test results the following Thursday. She liked her plan. It was a classic Jane Perry mixture of fuck you revolt and sanctioned hooky. The car’s lighter clicked. Jane pressed the pedal to the floor, passed an eighteen-wheeler and slid back into the fast lane. She drew the lighter to the tip of the cigarette when the reality of the moment came into focus. “Fuck,” she whispered, and her plan quickly deflated.
It was only right that she leave a note for Weyler at DH. It also didn’t hurt that it was 7:15 pm when she squealed into police headquarters at 13th and Cherokee. Weyler was certain to be home by now, feet propped up on his ottoman, watching whatever PBS had programmed.
Getting off the elevator on the third floor, Jane quickly entered the homicide department and took a sharp right into her office. She snagged a blank sheet of paper out of the fax machine, scribbled a few sentences and signed her name. Before turning off the light, she grabbed a stack of paperwork from her cluttered, dusty desk, tucking it under her arm. Goddamned Protestant work ethic, she scolded herself.
A quick look around the Department showed no one. She walked into Weyler’s office, placing her letter in the center of his pristine, uncluttered desk. It would be a stealth departure, Jane assumed, until she spun around and smacked into the 6’ 4” frame of Sergeant Weyler.
“Jane,” Weyler said with ease. “Just the person I’m looking for.”
CHAPTER 3
“Boss!” Jane stammered. “I thought you��d left.”
Weyler sidestepped his way around Jane and crossed to his chair. “I was on a long call to an old friend.” He slid a yellow pad filled with handwritten notes across his desk and spied the folded sheet of paper. “What’s this?” he asked, unfolding Jane’s letter.
Jane never planned to be standing in the room when he read her hastened note explaining her abrupt weeklong leave. “It’s…a…” It was uncharacteristic for her to stumble like this. She respected Weyler too much to bullshit him but she also wasn’t in the mood to explain herself in person.
“’Boss?’” Weyler rejoined, reading the heading on her note. “Why do you keep calling me boss?”
“Habit, boss,” Jane said, distracted, and feeling like the proverbial fish in a bowl that was about to be shot. “Let me explain about the note…”
Weyler slid the letter onto his desk in a nonchalant manner. “Sorry. Can’t give you any time off now.”
Jane’s back went up. A second ago she was hesitant. Now she was pissed by Weyler’s offhand attitude. “I have more time on the books than anyone in the Department! I’m just asking for a week…”
“I’ve already committed you to a case. Well, both of us, actually.”
Jane felt the walls caving in. That all-too-familiar edge began to creep up. God, a cigarette would taste damn good right now. “I really need this time off…”
“Is someone dead or dying?” Weyler stared at Jane, waiting for her answer.
For a moment, Jane wondered if Weyler could read her mind. Dying. His words yanked the freshly formed scab off the news she’d received just an hour earlier. “I…” She was at a loss for words.
“Because someone else is,” Weyler stated, taking a seat in his plush, leather office chair and motioning for her to sit across from him.
Jane reluctantly sat down. “We work in homicide. Someone’s always dead or dying.”
Weyler drew the yellow pad toward him. “But this one is way outside the norm. Goes against the statistics.”
Jane hated the fact that Weyler knew how to play her so well. She loved cases that dwelled outside the box and made her think. She took the bait. “What stats?”
“A fifteen-year-old boy was kidnapped…after what appeared to be his attempted suicide.”
The thought briefly crossed her mind that some poor kid was having a worse day than she was. “He tried to kill himself…”
“By hanging. On a remote bridge.”
“And then someone kidnaps him? What are the odds of that?”
“Million to one.“
“Make it two million to one, given his age. Fifteen-year-old boys don’t get kidnapped. They’re full of testosterone and attitude…”
“His name is Jacob Van Gorden. He goes by Jake.’ Even though he’s fifteen, he’s small for his age,” Weyler offered, checking his notes.
“So what? He’s fifteen! He
’s a boy! Fifteen-year-old boys run away, hop a train…”
“Hop a train?”
“You know what I’m saying. The suicide wasn’t real. Jacob…Jake obviously set it up and ditched town.”
“That’s what everyone thought. But here’s where it gets interesting. The family and police are being sent odd clues as to the boy’s disappearance.”
“Asking for ransom? Come on! The kid’s in on it. He’s pimping his family to get attention and some money.”
“No request for money, Jane…just odd deliveries of statements to the family.”
The day was quickly catching up with Jane. She pinched the skin between her eyes. “You said a remote bridge? Didn’t know Denver had any of those left.”
“It didn’t happen in Denver. This occurred up in Midas.”
Jane let out a tired puff of air. Midas, a town of less than 10,000, was located about 90 minutes northwest of Denver. “That’s a tad out of our jurisdiction!” She was preparing to volley another lob for a week off when Weyler spoke.
“They’ve got their eye on a local guy…Jordan Copeland. Name ring a bell?” Jane shook her head. “Way before your time, I guess. It was a huge tabloid story back in the summer of 1968.” Weyler filled her in on one of the more infamous murder cases of the late 1960s. It had “sensational” written all over it. Copeland was eighteen and found guilty of killing his next-door neighbor, a mentally retarded, thirteen-year-old boy, Daniel Marshall, in the backyard of his home in Short Hills, New Jersey. For no particular reason, Copeland shot the kid in cold blood with his father’s rifle and then hid the boy’s dead body under his bed for several days before the smell gave him away. “He did thirty-four years hard time,” Weyler added. “Got out of prison seven years ago and settled in Midas about two years back.”
“If they think Copeland did it, then why are we getting involved?”
“They don’t have enough evidence to hold Copeland… even though his behavior is pretty damn strange. They took everything they needed from him before letting him go—handwriting sample, blood, hair, DNA. Bottom line…time’s ticking away. This all went down five days ago. The family didn’t jump on it because they thought it was a suicide.”
“With no body?”
“Figured he slipped out of the noose and fell into the river. But the day after the disappearance, the family started getting the strange notes.”
“How come no news coverage?”
“Family insists on keeping it low key. So does the town.”
“Wait a second. What happened to whoring yourself across primetime TV to get help? Maybe Copeland dumped the kid across state lines…”
“This is Midas, Jane. People don’t move to Midas, Colorado to get attention. They move there to blend in and live a quiet, unexposed existence. The family and the police chief want to respect those wishes. The last thing they crave is a goddamned media circus. Can you blame them?”
Jane certainly had been part of media circuses. Too many times, she’d reluctantly played a pivotal role in high-profile cases and had the spotlight directed her way. She hated it and rejected all offers to cash in on her celebrity—except once, almost two years ago, when she agreed to an appearance on Larry King Live. The owner of the local coffee joint still gave her a free refill for that. “If they like this Copeland asshole for it, why don’t they have some cops sit up on him to watch his moves 24/7, harass him, see if the weird notes stop arriving and then pummel him into a confession?”
“They’re short staffed. You have the police chief, his secretary and a few deputies.”
“Midas is one of the wealthiest small towns north of Denver. They can certainly afford to hire out extra help.“ Jane noted Weyler’s expression. “Oh, shit. We’re the extra help?”
“I pulled this file on Copeland.” Weyler stated, ignoring Jane’s annoyance and handing her a slim, olive green folder. “We’ll learn more when we get there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I told Bo I’d be there tomorrow.”
“Who the hell is Bo?”
“The police chief. We’re old friends. Came up together on the job as rookies,” Weyler slightly hesitated. “I owe him this.”
“Owe him what?”
“Long story. Bottom line is…he’s retiring in less than two weeks and he’d like to leave his job with this case put to bed. Suffice to say, he’s calling in his chips and I’m going.”
Jane had never heard Weyler talk like this. “Chips?” What connection could an urbane, refined Black man like Weyler have with some small town police chief to make him jump so fast to his tune? “Boss, what in the hell’s going on here?”
“File this case under mutual aid, Jane.” His tone was succinct and unwavering.
Jane’s understanding of mutual aid was that if an outside jurisdiction had information on a case or could help through means of better equipment or manpower, they could be brought in to work with the acting police department in charge of the case. Midas had plenty of money, thanks to the scores of wealthy people who flocked to the mountain town and paid hefty taxes on their multimillion-dollar homes. “So, what do we have that they can’t get somewhere else?”
“Me,” Weyler declared. “And you,” he quickly added. “But mostly, me.”
Weyler’s evasive tone was unusual. Jane was quickly piqued. “Getting back to my week off…”
“This is something I need to do, Jane, and you’re coming with me.”
“For what? Shits and grins?”
Weyler leaned across his desk. “Because I need someone who can think outside the box while I’m working inside it. But I’m also bringing you along for your inimitable tact, composure and sweet demeanor.” He smiled and stood up, latching the yellow pad under his arm.
The day was just getting worse for Jane.
The trip to Midas was set in place, but not without a few choice omissions on Jane’s part. If Weyler insisted on keeping secretive about why a two-bit police chief was “calling in his chips,” she figured she’d keep her Friday morning doctor’s appointment a secret from him. Before leaving his office that night, Jane arranged to pick up Weyler at Headquarters the following day and drive her Mustang to Midas. He balked at the idea, preferring the comfort of his roomy sedan that blended into the scenery rather than visually shouting its arrival. But Jane’s classic coupe won the coin toss.
Until then, Jane had pressing business to attend to back at her house on Milwaukee Street. She cleaned every cigarette pack out of her Mustang, emptied the ashtray and shook the butts off the floor mats. After collecting more packs from her leather satchel and backpacks, she zoomed around the house and found every cigarette in and out of sight, and stuffed the heap into a plastic trash bag. Just to make sure she wouldn’t cheat, she hauled the bag down two blocks and deposited it into an alley Dumpster. Yeah, that would solve her problem—like she couldn’t get in her car and drive five blocks to the store and buy another carton. Jane knew it was just a game, but the fact that she was making up the game’s rules somehow made her feel in control again. That all went out the proverbial window when she got home and found a single, unwrapped pack of fresh cigarettes in a kitchen drawer.
She set the single pack on the dining room table and plopped down on the couch. The overhead light shone down on the cellophane wrapping, allowing the pack to take on a heightened sense of appeal. She looked at the clock. It was 8:30 pm. When did she smoke her last cigarette…5:30 pm? It was right before she headed into the doctor’s office. She wished she could remember it more clearly so she could have the sweet, nostalgic memory to fall back on when she was desperate for a hit of nicotine. How long had she previously gone without a cigarette? Maybe eight hours. But, of course, she was asleep during those eight hours. Jane stole a glance at the clock again. 8:31 pm. God, this is torture.
Jane tossed together a quick shrimp stir-fry, the entire time stealing furtive glances to the solo, alluring cigarette pack on the table that had taken on a provocative l
ife of its own. This was her demon and she had to fight it. In order to push the emotion of the moment to the back of her head, she turned to logic and the comforting “If/Then” scenario. It went like this: If you do this, then that will happen. If you bang your head on the wall, then your head will hurt. The “If/Then” association always gave Jane a modicum of reassurance, offering a black-and-white action /reaction she could rely on. If you smoke cigarettes, then you get cancer. If you take care of yourself, then you live. Jane added more extra virgin olive oil to the stir-fry and stirred the over-cooked shrimp with greater vigor. But what if you only really started taking care of yourself at the age of thirty-six? Then what? Then…you might live. “Fuck,” Jane muttered. She hated nebulous equations. The reliable “If/Then” had always made her feel safe. But now there was a rupture of grayness—a defined flaw in her black-and-white presumption.
Jane carried the searing fry pan to the dining room table, slapped a newspaper down as an impromptu placemat and set her laptop in front of her. The opened computer served to temporarily obstruct the view of the still-tantalizing cigarette pack. Drawing the slender green file on Jordan Copeland closer, she tested a bite of the stir-fry and opened the folder.
The top document was a black-and-white mug shot of Copeland, dated July 7, 1968. The stats showed Copeland to be eighteen years old, by only a few days. Although the photo wasn’t in color, Jane easily determined that Copeland had pale, blue eyes—the kind of pale blue that almost appeared iridescent. Penetrating…almost hypnotic. In reading one of the many esoteric books she’d inherited from her friend, Kit Clark, Jane recalled a passage that referred to the psychic eye. Supposedly, there were people born with a distinctive eye that was described as intense and enigmatic. It was an eye that couldn’t be ignored and drew one in to its gaze without the least effort. Jordan Copeland had such an eye. The paleness of his eyes was even more defined against his dirty, olive complexion.
