Revelations

by Laurel Dewey

  Jane was floored by his arrogance. “We’re here about your son…Jake?”

  “We’ve already talked to Bo in great detail,” Bailey stated, his self-importance rising. “I don’t understand what you can offer us.”

  “Sir,” Weyler interjected in his warm, congenial tone that never failed to ingratiate, “Police Chief Lowry requested our help from Denver to speed the safe recovery of your only child. We’ll only stay a short while.”

  Maybe it was Weyler’s 6’ 4” stature or maybe it was his amenable manipulation of a quickly deteriorating situation, but Bailey let out a low sigh and showed them inside the house.

  “Who called?” Carol asked her husband as Jane and Weyler closed the massive door behind them.

  “Nobody. Probably wrong number,” Bailey said, preoccupied. “It rang twice and then nothing.”

  “You’re not getting calls from the media, I hope?” Jane asked.

  “Of course, not,” Bailey responded in the most dismissive tone he could muster. “Our number is unlisted.”

  “Right,” Jane said with a half-smile. “That usually stops them.”

  “We’ve had no calls from the media,” Carol offered in a weak, wispy voice. “Just the occasional call from a friend checking in.”

  The domed entry of their palatial house could fit a medium-sized fishing boat and small truck. Jane looked up at the glass dome above her head that splayed diffused light across the eggshell walls and dual polished stairways that led to the second floor. How in the hell do you clean that? she wondered. To her left was another arched doorway that was closed. Straight ahead, across the black-and-white checkerboard floor, stood a massive archway in the center of the double staircases that appeared to lead to an obscenely large family room and kitchen. On either side of the front door were two marble-topped tables, both holding large ivory pillar candles. Jane noted that the wicks were clean, having never been burned.

  “Let’s sit in the living room,” Carol suggested, pointing to the right of the front door.

  Jane and Weyler followed Carol and an obviously irritated Bailey into a room that ate up 1,200 frivolous square feet of real estate. The centerpiece for the room was the obligatory stone fireplace that was large enough and deep enough to cremate several human bodies simultaneously. As Jane noted the floor-to-ceiling cathedral window that overlooked the mountain ranges to the north behind the de rigueur dark leather couch with thick brass inlay buttons, she privately ticked off another requisite overdone feature of these styles of homes. Jane took a seat next to Weyler on the couch while Bailey and Carol sat across from them in matching leather wing chairs. A highly lacquered, burl slab coffee table created the necessary, weighted distance between them. Sitting atop the table was a graduated candleholder that cradled five medium-sized ivory pillar candles. Again, Jane noted, none of them had ever been lit. The place was starting to feel more like one of those model homes than an actual place where people kicked off their shoes and relaxed.

  “Quite a little place you got here,” Jane said, doing her best to remain professional.

  Carol smiled. “Bailey designed everything.”

  “You an architect?” Weyler asked.

  “No,” Bailey answered, again with the indifferent tenor. “I dabble in high-end real estate.” He crossed his legs and smoothed his already unwrinkled jeans. “I do have an artistic touch, but I designed this place to show others what could be done if they were serious about crafting the lifestyle of the Rockies.”

  Jane had only known Bailey Van Gorden for less than five minutes and she hated him. Who in the hell “dabbles” in high-end real estate? And the crack about “crafting the lifestyle of the Rockies” just about sent her looking for a place to puke. What did this East Coast snob know about the Rocky Mountains? As far as Jane was concerned, “crafting the lifestyle of the Rockies” had more to do with ripping open a bag of greasy corn chips, pouring a jar of salsa into a bowl and watching a Broncos game.

  Weyler saw that Jane was getting ready to cast a wisecrack. He quickly spoke up. “You should have your home featured in a Colorado magazine or television show.”

  “Bailey has a great video he made of the place,” Carol offered with pride. “He put it up on YouTube and has gotten over three thousand hits…”

  Bailey waved off his wife’s comment. “Carol, it’s not important.”

  For a guy who seemed so into showing others how to craft that ol’ Colorado lifestyle, Jane was perplexed by Bailey’s throwaway remark. “Three thousand hits is impressive. I’ll have to check it out,” Jane insisted. “What’s it listed under?”

  Bailey eyed Jane with a guarded glare. “Bailey Van Gorden,” he said in a rushed manner. “Listen, I thought you were here to talk about Jake.”

  “Yes, sir,” Weyler stated and proceeded to fill in the Van Gordens on everything that Bo knew about the case, excluding specifics on the clues that came directly to Lowry.

  “Copeland is who you should be talking to!” Bailey stressed. “It’s obvious that fucking nutcase is involved! Little shit!”

  Jane detected a slight smirk creasing into Bailey’s mouth when he said “Copeland.” While she couldn’t be certain, her attention to body language and the tells it generates, gave her the impression that Bailey was either not believing what he was saying or smugly disapproving of Jordan with an errant facial sign. However, when he uttered, “Little shit,” the tenor was completely different. Her heightened auditory sense heard a shift in his thoughts; as if Jordan Copeland was completely separate from the “little shit.” It was also accompanied by a defined sneer that Jane always read as a sign of superiority mixed with profound contempt. “Little shit” was an odd tag, Jane surmised. Jordan Copeland was a big man—to refer to him as “little” made no sense to her. The uneasy thought crossed her mind that Bailey was, in fact, referencing his own son in a less than benevolent manner. Jane’s eyes drifted to Bailey’s left foot that was crossed over his leg. He was twirling it back and forth in an aggravated gyratory motion. She also couldn’t help but note his sudden flushed face and clogged sinuses. “You got a cold?” Jane asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re stuffed up. Look feverish.” Jane said, offhandedly.

  Carol turned to her husband. “Are you getting sick?”

  Bailey looked somewhat trapped by the question. “I don’t know. It’s probably allergies. You know…springtime?” He jutted his tanned jaw toward Jane. “You fall off a roof?” His tone was insolent and purposely meant to shift the conversation.

  Jane glanced down at her rust-stained shirt and mud-splattered jeans. She wanted to reply, “No, asshole. It was a bridge. The same fucking bridge your son tried to hang himself from because he couldn’t stand listening to your arrogant pie hole any longer.” But she didn’t. “No, sir,” she replied with teeth clenched. “What was your son wearing when he disappeared?” Jane decided it was time for her to purposely shift the conversation to suit her objectives.

  Bailey glanced at Weyler and then back to Jane as if he suddenly didn’t understand English. “How the fuck should I know?”

  Jane looked at Carol. “Any ideas?”

  Carol seemed equally baffled. “He might have been wearing one of his vintage shirts,” she carefully said in measured beats.

  Jane noted how Bailey turned away, seemingly disgusted. “Vintage?” Jane asked.

  Carol looked at Bailey who was still turned away. “Uh, yes.” Carol looked apprehensive. “He’s been favoring these retro shirts lately…”

  Bailey quickly popped back into control. “You know, he was probably wearing his normal outfit…black jeans, a dark T-shirt and black jacket.”

  “Was Jake into the Goth scene?” Jane asked.

  “No.” Carol looked at Bailey as if to double-check her feelings. “I don’t think so.”

  “He wasn’t into Goth. But I’m sure he had one of those fuck you t-shirts on,” Bailey offered with a roll of his eyes.

  “What’s a
fuck you T-shirt?” Jane inquired.

  Bailey let out a long, tired breath. “You know? What the fuck you lookin’ at? What part of shut the fuck up don’t you understand? Dude, you’re fuckin’ with my mellow!” Bailey raised his eyebrow. “Fabulous, articulate statements such as those.”

  “So, Jake is a pissed-off fifteen-year-old,” Jane offered.

  “Isn’t that a redundant observation?” Bailey replied with a narrowing of his eyes.

  “So, you were a pissed-off fifteen-year-old.” Jane stated unequivocally.

  Bailey shifted his steely eyes to Weyler. “Excuse me?”

  Weyler gently raised his hand. “Sergeant Perry is trying to discern what might have precipitated Jake’s disappearance. If he was depressed or angry, there’s a chance he might have gone online and attracted a predator…”

  “Predator, yes!” Bailey exclaimed. “But not online. The predator is one mile away and his name is Jordan Copeland!”

  “There wasn’t enough to hold Mr. Copeland,” Weyler offered.

  “For Christ’s sake…” Bailey touched his gelled hair. “Bo Lowry couldn’t find enough evidence to hold Hitler!” He leaned forward, both feet planted on the floor and posturing a show of aggression. “Look, Jake has been gone now for five days. First, I had to wrap my mind around the idea that he attempted suicide. Then, I start getting these goddamn crazy clues in my mailbox from the fucker who grabbed him off the bridge. So now I have to wrap my head around a kidnapping scenario. It’s been nonstop around here!” Bailey rubbed his forehead. “The walls are closing in on me. The last time I was out of this house was six fucking days ago when I went to the gym at lunch…”

  “Is that where you were headed when we showed up?” Jane interrupted.

  Bailey was taken aback. “Ah, yeah. Exactly. I’m just… fuck….” He ran his fingers through his hair, but Jane noticed that he had so much gel in his locks that he could only move his hand halfway. “The fucking walls are caving in on me! So, if I appear anxious to you, I think I have a goddamn right to be that way!”

  “Of course, you’re anxious,” Jane interjected. “That’s to be expected.” She felt it was time to drop some pabulum, if only to make Bailey feel like she had compassion. The truth was that Jane had no compassion for the man. It was the way he interminably kept referring to how this family crisis was affecting him. He could have easily used “we” instead of “I” to at least create the appearance of desperation for himself and Carol. But Bailey’s arrogance was so deeply ingrained, that he wasn’t able to emerge from it—even briefly—to give the impression that he gave a shit about his wife or his son. Jane factored that living with this son-of-a-bitch was like living with a two-year-old on steroids.

  His Stepford wife suddenly spoke up. “It’s not just our son’s disappearance. Bailey’s mother, Louise, is terminally ill with liver cancer. She lives back east where Bailey grew up and it’s tough being so far away…”

  “Carol, they don’t need to know about mom.” Bailey’s tone bordered on rude.

  “Where’d you grow up?” Jane asked.

  “Why does it matter?” Bailey snapped, defensively.

  “Just…curious…”

  Bailey paused. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know the town.”

  Jane turned to Weyler with a smile. “Yeah, we don’t get out of Denver much. Farthest we travel is the stock show every January.” Weyler shot Jane a look of censure. She turned back to Bailey. “But try me.”

  Bailey regarded Jane with an uneasy stare. “Wentworth, New Jersey.”

  Jane noted that Carol’s eyes seem to freeze momentarily. “Never heard of it,” Jane declared.

  Now it was Bailey’s turn to smile mockingly. “As expected.” He shifted in his chair. “It’s a small town. Prosperous, though.”

  It was obvious to Jane that Bailey wanted to make sure that “small town” didn’t mean he grew up in the hillbilly hills. Money and stature ruled this guy. Jane was about to ask another question when Weyler took the words out of her mouth.

  “Were you and your son having any problems?” Weyler asked.

  “He’s fifteen. What do you think?” Bailey’s voice was brimming with anger.

  “Was Jake depressed lately?” Jane quickly asked.

  “Jesus! We already answered these questions…”

  “Good. Answer them again,” Jane demanded, her patience wearing thin.

  Bailey regarded Jane with complete disdain. “Hey, Sergeant, I don’t like your attitude! My world is completely imploding right now. Do you understand that?”

  Jane was tired of Bailey’s me-centered rhetoric. “I understand that your son was so despondent about something that he took a rope to a bridge and was planning on hanging himself! I’d like to know what drove him to that desperation…”

  Bailey’s already flushed face glowed an even darker shade of crimson. “I don’t have a fucking clue!” he said, pounding his tanned fist on the burl table.

  Weyler leaned forward. “Mr. Van Gorden, Sergeant Perry is direct with you because time is of the essence.”

  Carol brought a shaky hand to her mouth, stifling her grief as tears rolled down her face. “What are the odds after five days of our son’s safe return?”

  “There are no hard and fast rules, ma’am,” Weyler offered. “The fact that the kidnapper is still engaged in sending clues, however abstract they are, is a good sign.”

  Bailey seemed to perk up. “Bo got another clue since that, ah, that goddamn drawing we got with the tied up kid?”

  “Yes,” Weyler affirmed. “Two more.”

  Bailey looked at his wife briefly, a look of angst clouding his countenance. “What…what are the clues? What are they saying?” His voice was rushed.

  “We can’t divulge the content of the clues being sent to Lowry,” Jane said.

  “But you know,” Bailey replied, his tone searing.

  “I know what the clues say, but as Sergeant Weyler informed you, they are as abstract in nature as the rest. I mean, we’ve got a book that you received that features George Webber and his adventures…”

  “Excuse me?” Bailey interrupted, his eyes narrowing.

  “The first clue you got in your mailbox? You Can’t Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe? The main character is George Webber.”

  Bailey’s breathing became shallow. “Really?”

  “Does that mean something, Mr. Van Gorden?” Weyler asked.

  Bailey looked off to the side, lost in a moment, licking his lips. “No…I never read the book.” He shook himself out of his daze. “Jesus! This whole goddamn thing is so fucking out of left field. So…vengeful.”

  “Yes, sir. Vengeful.” Jane said, studying Bailey carefully. “Well, you know what we do with any crime is tick off the possible motives. And, believe it or not, it really just boils down to three: money, sex, and gettin’ even. Like you said, vengeance. Revenge.”

  “We can eliminate money,” Weyler interjected, “because there’s never been a request for ransom, especially given your obvious financial acumen. If money was the motive, it would have been the first thing mentioned.”

  “So, that leaves sex and getting even,” Jane declared in an offhand manner.

  Bailey seemed strangled by the choices. “There’s got to be other motives!”

  “No, they basically all fall under those big umbrellas,” Jane insisted.

  Bailey sat back in his chair. His face was still flushed and his nose clogged but he had a grey aura around him. “Well… I… I just…don’t know what to make of it…” He shook his head. “There have to be other motives!”

  Jane thought for a second. “Okay, maybe there are.”

  “What?” Bailey quickly asked, grasping at straws.

  “Control,” Jane stated.

  “Control?” Carol repeated, meekly. She snuck a guarded look toward her husband.

  “Yeah,” Jane was still building the premise in her head. “It’s kind of connected to revenge but it has its own flavor. The
criminal does whatever he does in an effort to control the victim or the family of the victim.” Jane wasn’t sure how she was channeling this presumptive theory, but she let it flow. “The criminal has lost his ability to feel validated and so his action, whatever that might be, seeks to control a situation that he feels he is powerless to contain.” She stared at Bailey. He swallowed hard and turned away. Jane had witnessed this reaction many times in the interrogation room. It was always a sign that the individual was responding with a deep, almost visceral validation of what they were hearing. It was the proverbial bingo of body language; a signal that an individual is connecting in an emotional way to whatever is being said. The turning away was an attempt to run or escape because of fear. Jane replayed in her head what she had just said. The criminal does whatever he does in an effort to control the victim or the family of the victim. Why was this striking a chord with Bailey?

  “Control.” Bailey thought about it. “That little shit,” he whispered to himself. Jane heard the sudden shift in Bailey’s voice before he even spoke. “Focus on Jordan Copeland!” he exclaimed.

  Jane looked at Weyler. “Well, yeah, of course, we’ll look into him. But are you saying your son has a connection to him?”

  “Who knows? Jake’s in his own world! He’s either up in his room with the door closed or wandering around town. But the point I’m making is that Jordan Copeland is a known child predator. And the bridge? The bridge is right there on the edge of that asshole’s property! If Jake frequented the bridge, then this pervert Copeland had to have seen him and…and…what’s going through the asshole’s head? You tell me…”