by Laurel Dewey
CHAPTER 23
A headache-inducing medley of chemicals, silently offgassing from the hoards of new plastic-encased equipment, computers, furniture and recently installed carpeting, hit Jane square between the eyes. Her heightened senses were getting to be a pain in the ass.
Instead of your typical small-town, musty and dank library, the Midas branch was one of the most modernized small-town ones she’d ever seen. It was true. Money did buy a lot of stuff and in this case, it bought state-of-the-art workstations and an incredible amount of printed resources for the townspeople.
The only inhabitants were Jane and the beleaguered librarian. The poor woman, who Jane guessed was in her late fifties, wore a pair of glasses on her head and another on her face, attached with a black cord that had a ceramic book dangling from the neckpiece. She was busy opening boxes and reading through technical manuals for the newly installed computer system. The stress was evident on her face as Jane approached the counter and laid down her satchel.
“Oh, you know, we’re not supposed to be open today.” The woman removed her glasses and secured them on top of her head, next to the other pair. “This is one of my last days to go over all the new systems before we get rid of the old ones.”
Jane knew a gentle but pointed approach was needed. She casually unbuttoned her jacket to reveal the Glock in her holster. “I was hoping you’d have microfiche files available? I’ll stay out of your hair. I promise.”
The librarian sized up Jane. “You’re one of the Denver cops up here about Jake?”
“You got it.” The woman silently observed Jane once more. God, it was like she was asking to see the Dead Sea Scrolls and this woman had the golden key. “Look, I’ll just tell Bo you were too busy.” Jane grabbed her satchel to leave.
“No! No!” The woman walked around the counter. “This way.”
Obviously, the townspeople knew that when Bo Lowry needed something, they jumped. They walked to a windowless backroom where Jane found stacks of boxes, all marked Microfiche with the corresponding years noted. A lone microfiche viewer and printer sat unplugged in the corner. The librarian explained that everything had been packed up and would soon be shipped to a lab for digital transfer—just another example of Bo Lowry’s town jumping feet first into the Twenty-First Century.
The librarian left Jane alone in the room and she went about the arduous task of locating the box that held microfiche for the New York Times for July through October of 1968. After an hour, Jane finally found what she was looking for. She brought out the printed material from her satchel, quickly reviewing the exact dates. Plugging in the microfiche viewer and printer, she slipped the film sheet under the glass viewer, slid the glass under the machine and sharpened the image using the focus button. The microfiche screen was scratched and stained with ink in places, but it magnified the forty-one-year-old publication with fairly good clarity. Jane spent another ten minutes painstakingly going from page to page in the August 10th edition that corresponded to the article that was in Jordan’s information file. She located the large photo above the story that showed a cleaned-up eighteen-year-old Jordan moving through a crowd of reporters on the courthouse steps, accompanied by his horribly harried parents. When she looked at this same photo four days prior, Jordan Copeland was just another convicted killer doing the perp walk in court. Now that Jane knew more about his splintered family life, the boy in the photo appeared more lost. He had a vacant, dissociative look in his eyes. Jane wasn’t sure if it was shock or post-traumatic stress. Whatever it was, it pervaded his young body.
Jane scanned to the next page of the story, which had been missing from the file. She skimmed the text.
Mr. Copeland’s son sat quietly in the courtroom, looking up only to address the judge with short ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers…The teenager appeared thinner than his first court appearance last month and seemed to be exceptionally withdrawn from his counsel…
Jane skipped further down in the article.
When Jordan Copeland entered a plea of ‘Guilty,’ the judge asked him to speak louder. After repeating the words, the teenager sat down and buried his head on the table in front of him, clearly distraught. Defense attorney, Ira Cornett, told reporters outside the courthouse, “It’s clear that Jordan Copeland is wracked with guilt over what he has done. It would serve the best interest of everyone concerned if we could bring this case to a speedy conclusion and allow the Copeland family to retreat from the spotlight and let the family of Daniel Marshall grieve in peace…”
Jane checked the index listings for articles pertaining to Jordan Copeland in the large book near the microfiche viewer. One titled, “Scene of the Crime in Millburn Township” from Time magazine piqued her interest. It took her half an hour to locate that microfiche file but it was well worth it. The first line of the article was chilling: Murder has never come this close to Millburn Township. It featured an aerial illustration of the Copeland’s neighborhood in unincorporated Short Hills, indicating with a circle where Daniel Marshall’s body was purportedly shot on the Copeland’s property. From what Jane could determine, it looked like it was just inside the back fence at the rear of the property—near the half-acre stretch of wooded ground that Jordan described to her. It was also the same spot, Jane surmised, from where Jordan stood and had his mind-reading conversations with the mysterious child named Red six or more months previous to Daniel’s murder.
Jane peered closer at the page. She wasn’t certain how accurate the artist’s illustration was, but it looked like the Copelands’ back fence was linked in a straight line through the forested area with the back fence of the house located directly on the other side. This had to be the house where David Sackett lived and whose number was spoofed by the kidnapper. Jane dug into her jean pocket and brought out the crumpled piece of paper that held Sackett’s phone number and Warwick Road address. Warwick Road was indeed directly behind the Copelands’ house. The illustration inferred that the only way into this forested spot was either through the private fences of the two homes or by jumping the fence that lined the streets where the wooded area extended in the other directions. Jordan mentioned that he’d hear kids playing inside the area, building forts and running around.
Jane connected the printer and attempted to print out the illustration. Unfortunately, the clarity of the copy was streaked and blurred, but it gave her something to hold and analyze. For whatever reason, Jane kept being drawn to the house on the opposite side of Copelands’ property. It had to have value or the kidnapper wouldn’t have taken the time to spoof the number that belonged to that house. Jane knew Daniel Marshall didn’t live in the house since it had been stated before that the child resided next door to Jordan. Sackett lived in that house since February of 1968, five months before Jordan killed Daniel. Jane stared at the printed page and circled the house on Warwick Road with her pen. If her theory that the kidnapper was telling a story with his clues, then perhaps the house attached to the spoofed phone number was also part of the story. She dialed Sacket’s phone number and he picked up on the second ring. Jane introduced herself again and he remembered her through fitful coughing spells. It was obvious the elderly gentleman couldn’t linger on the phone, so Jane cut to the chase.
“Mr. Sackett, I need to know who you bought the house from in February of ’68.”
“It was a couple in their late forties. I forget their name.”
“Did they have children?”
“I can’t remember…Let me think…My wife and I were only at the house when the family was there a couple times.” Sackett thought about it. “Yeah, they had a daughter. She was in her late teens.”
“Did they ever mention why they were moving?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t know. We’re talking forty-one years ago!”
“I know, sir. But anything you can remember could be really helpful to us.”
Sackett hung on the phone in silence, trying to bring up a useful memory. “I can tell you it was a quick sale. We were
the first people to see the place and make an offer and they took it right away. They wanted a thirty-day escrow and they were packed up and gone in three weeks.”
Jane figured that even high-priced executives who get transferred suddenly and have to move don’t usually vacate a house that quickly. “Do you think their behavior had anything to do with Jordan Copeland?”
“Jordan? Oh, I doubt it. I didn’t know Jordan existed until he shot that little retarded boy that summer. Besides, Jordan was into boys, not girls. And, like I said, this family had one child and it was a teenage girl.”
Jane stared at the circle she drew around Sackett’s house. It had to have significance. “Mr. Sackett, are you absolutely certain there were no other children living at that house? We understand that young boys played in the wooded area behind your house…”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I forgot about that. Hang on, now. Wait a second…” Sackett coughed hard and then returned to the phone. “Christ, I hope this cancer kills me soon.” Jane winced at his comment. “Yeah…there was a boy… He lived in the back house with his mother. She was a Russian immigrant. Single mother, I suppose. I think she was the family’s live-in maid.”
Jane felt her heart race. “Did he have a shock of curly red hair?”
“Yes! Yes, he did. Short kid. Little red-haired kid. About eight years old… I only saw him once though. They were packed up and gone by our second visit to the house.”
Jane thanked Sackett for his help and hung up. A quick sale of a house and the speedy disappearance of the live-in maid and her eight-year-old red-haired son—Jane knew that child killers don’t usually start with murder. They work up to it slowly. And those who target children, typically start with stalking or seemingly innocuous chatting in order to gain the child’s trust. Once the kid feels comfortable and even safe, the criminal has a better chance of luring them into the net. Perhaps this Red who lingered by the Copeland’s back gate was Jordan’s first conquest? Jane recalled Jordan’s disturbing description of the boy he called “Red.” “He was very confused and angry…” Jordan told her. At least, that’s what Jordan claimed the boy told him telepathically. “Nobody helped him. He cried like a baby. He screamed and no one cared… He stands at that fucking gate and stares at me and tells me how much pain he feels. ‘Listen to me!’ he keeps screaming. ‘Why won’t anyone listen to me?!’”
“Shit,” Jane said out loud as Jordan’s voice echoed in her head. Something happened to that kid. The boy’s Russian immigrant mother felt victimized and fled with her son. In turn, the family decided it wasn’t the safest neighborhood for their own daughter. But you don’t leave your comfortable house because of simple harassment. You get the cops involved first and only when a criminal act is committed do people often make the decision to leave the area. Looking through the file on Jordan that Jane carried in her satchel, it was clear that he had no prior criminal history or complaints against him. “So what scared you people?” Jane asked the illustration in front of her.
Jane checked the clock. It was past ten o’clock and she had another stop to make. But before she left the library, she sauntered over to the librarian. A sign above her head beckoned everyone to Read the 20th Century Classics.
“Do you have a list of classics you recommend?” Jane asked with another intention forefront in her mind.
The poor, overwhelmed woman looked at Jane through her thick glasses. “Huh?”
Jane motioned to the poster. “The classics?”
The woman stood up and shuffled through a stack of paper. “Here.”
Jane took the page—a list of Top 100 titles. She hoped it would be on there and it was. “Ah, Thomas Wolfe’s, You Can’t Go Home Again. Great book. Is it available?”
“We’re really not open today…”
“This is about police business,” Jane said with a serious tone.
The woman nodded and checked the computer. “It’s available.” She looked at Jane. “I suppose you would like to get a list of people who checked it out.”
“That’s private information, last time I checked. And I don’t have the required subpoena.”
“Right. You do need that. Unless, of course, it’s a matter of Homeland Security…” The woman arched an eyebrow.
As much as Jane wanted to see the list, she was damned if she was going to play the Homeland Security card or trot out the ever-popular Patriot Act to muscle information from someone. Jane shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m not going there.”
The librarian appeared to have newfound respect for Jane. “Well, I need to visit the ladies room…way over there…and I’ll be gone for about five minutes.” She smiled and walked away.
Jane caught the not-so-subtle message. Moving around the counter, she scrolled down on the computer screen to view the history of names and dates when Wolfe’s book was checked out. Not once, but twice on the long list, Jordan Copeland’s name appeared. The earliest date was one year before with the latest date just three months ago—another nail in his coffin.
The second service was still underway at the Methodist Church when Jane snuck in the door and quietly sat in an empty pew. Aaron stood in the center of the altar in a cream-colored frock and, without notes, was in the final minutes of his heartfelt sermon to the rapt congregation.
“And so, my friends, we can’t escape from the things we fear… especially our greatest fear of death. But we can build a bridge between fear and faith. Whether it is our faith in Jesus Christ or the faith in each other that gives us the strength to carry on, in the end it is always faith that will persevere against the diabolical manipulation of fear.” Aaron paused, reflecting on his words with purpose. “As I said at the beginning, the words of my wife’s grandfather who endured great uncertainty… Who…” Aaron paused again, looked at Sara in the front pew and carefully formulated his words. “Who understood fear, but who rose above it and who stated so beautifully an affirmation that we can all repeat whenever we feel lost. ‘I will be all right and one day I will die.’ Death is inevitable. Loss is inevitable. I can believe the first part and it calms me to the inevitability of the second part. ‘I will be all right…and one day I will die.’”
The words hit Jane as hard this time as they did when she first heard them in the backyard. As the music swelled and the congregation streamed out of the church, Jane made her way toward the altar.
“You joined us after all!” Aaron said to Jane with a friendly smile.
“Just for the dramatic finish. Can I talk to you privately?”
The cheerfulness dimmed. “I usually greet the congregation on the way out.”
“They’ll understand,” Jane replied, moving Aaron toward the side door of the church.
He agreed to talk with her in his office. It was a small room with a bank of narrow windows. His desk was cluttered with books, Bibles and handwritten notes. A needlepoint plaque on the wall declared:
What I tell you in the darkness, speak in the light, and what you
hear whispered in your ear, proclaim upon the housetops.
(Matthew 10:27)
“In the light,” Jane re-read out loud. “Light a candle in the darkness,” she murmured. “My light? Isn’t that what your wife found out the name Liora means in Hebrew?”
Aaron’s face froze momentarily. It was the same look he had in the backyard when Jane asked him about the red photo album. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, removing his ministerial frock and hanging it in the narrow closet.
Jane glanced around the office. She spotted an old book on the far right of his desk. At first she thought it was an antique Bible, but a closer look showed it was a battered edition of the Talmud. “Wow! You Methodists are a liberal bunch.”
Aaron swallowed hard. “Oh, that’s not because of Mollie’s interest in Judaism. I read many tomes of various faiths.”
“Really?” Jane took a closer look at the old book. “That book is well-read.”
“Yes, I picked it up in an old bookstore in De
nver.” Aaron casually moved toward the Talmud and covered it with a few pages on his desk. It was the same unconscious gestural extension of shame he had done with the red photo album when he slid it under the backyard bench.
“I guess that photo album of yours did the trick, eh?”
Again, he froze. “Excuse me?”
“You said the photo album gave you inspiration for your sermons when you were stuck.”
He nodded and smiled, nerves still evident. “Ah, yes. It does.”
“Well, it worked. You had the audience’s full attention with those heartfelt words of Sara’s grandfather. He must have been quite an influence on you.”
“I only met him and his wife a couple times but…” Aaron appeared momentarily lost. “They were the epitome of courage.” He looked at Jane. “But something tells me you’re not here to discuss my wife’s grandfather.”
Jane smiled. “No. I’m here to discuss your daughter’s boyfriend’s father.”
“Bailey?” Aaron licked his lips as his mouth grew dry.
“Yeah.” She folded her arms in front of her. “I need to know what he said when he strong-armed you on the street and convinced you to get Mollie to break up with Jake.”
Aaron sat down at his desk chair, flustered for a moment. “Ah, I can’t… I can’t reveal those conversations. They fall under the minister’s privilege of privacy…”
“Oh, give me a break, Aaron. It was on the street, not in the church. Not in a confessional…”
“And it was between a minister and a…”
“Is he a member of this church?”
“No…”
“So, did he make a generous contribution to the church?”
“Of course not! It’s nothing like that.”
“Then it doesn’t fall under the ministerial privilege.” She leaned closer to him. “Aaron, if you push me, I can legally compel you to speak. We have a missing boy who you care a lot about, and there may be some germ of information in what Bailey said to you that could help us out.“
