by Roger Hayden
***
Hours later, Miriam sat across from Chief Walker in his office, with Captain Porter seated next to her. Her detailed report was sitting on the police chief’s desk as he scanned it with quiet interest. The room was quiet, but much commotion could be heard from outside. Chief Walker, a black man with a shaved head and slender build, had a strict, no-nonsense demeanor. He hadn’t dealt with an officer killed in the line of duty in his entire career with the department, which was more than ten years. Such a crime occurring in Palm Dale was as rare as a bank robbery or drive-by shooting would be. He was as shocked and perplexed as everyone else. He placed Miriam’s report down on the desk and studied them both with his dark, inquisitive eyes.
“I’ll go ahead and state the obvious. We’re dealing with a very dangerous individual,” the chief began in his gravelly voice.
He placed a palm flat over the report and then gestured at Miriam with his other hand. “Your details account for most of everything, and it’s nothing short of tragic.” He tensed up and balled a fist. “A sad day for our department. I spoke to the mayor earlier, and he’s already ordered the flags at half-staff for the entire week.”
Miriam stared back at him, nodding. She was cleaned up from earlier, and her face was stone-like, emotionless. Inside, however, she was torn apart.
“A search of the area hasn’t yielded a thing,” the chief said solemnly. “An APB has been issued and proper channels notified. Mayor’s even talking about a curfew.”
Captain Porter cut in. “Sir, it’s quite possible our suspect found a home or some kind of temporary sanctuary to hide in. I still believe it’s only a matter of time.”
“I appreciate your optimism, Captain, but the media are going to have a field day with this either way.” He then turned to Miriam. “Sergeant Castillo, your report is vague on descriptions. You mentioned long blond hair. What can you tell us?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “The vehicle came up on the report as being registered to Mrs. Betsy Cole. Assuming that was the driver, Deputy Lang approached the driver’s-side door”— Miriam stopped and rubbed her eyes—“to let Mrs. Cole know that she had a taillight out.”
Chief Walker took a deep breath. “What we know is that Mrs. Cole’s station wagon was reported stolen outside the Dollar General parking lot at approximately 2:05 p.m. as she was leaving her shift from work. An hour later, that same blue station wagon was seen leaving the parking lot of Windcrest Elementary School by a janitor. A nine-year-old girl, Jenny Dawson, was subsequently reported as missing by her mother after not being there after school. A gift bag given to her by her teacher was the only thing recovered at the scene.”
“Just terrible,” Captain Porter said, shaking his head.
“As shocking as this is, it gets worse,” the chief said. He leaned forward and produced a sheet of paper, handing it to Captain Porter. “This isn’t the first time.”
The captain turned his attention to the paper. It was a copy of a newspaper story from the year before. He studied the sheet then handed it to Miriam.
The headline, SNATCHER STRIKES CLEARWATER, grabbed her immediately. Her eyes moved down the sheet to a second story copied from another newspaper: CHILD GOES MISSING OUTSIDE OCOEE MALL.
“What is this all about?” she asked the chief, gripping the paper—though part of her already knew.
“For the past five years, a child has vanished from surrounding municipalities in similar fashion. In each case the circumstances have been the same. The victim, usually six to eight years old, vanishes and the case goes cold. The latest abduction in Palm Dale leads me to believe that we’re dealing with a serial predator. And I believe it’s this serial predator who murdered Deputy Lang in cold blood.”
Miriam’s sadness subsided with rage and a sense of vengeance. She didn’t say a word.
“Don’t worry,” Chief Walker said to her, folding his hands. “We’re going to find him.” The assumption that it was a man just came naturally, despite Miriam’s claim of long blond hair.
“That’s what I keep telling her,” Captain Porter added.
“In the meantime, I need to address our team,” the chief said. “The media are going to want a statement too.” He looked at Miriam with a veiled look of pity that made her feel even worse. “Why don’t you take a few days off? Get your head together. We have to get with the Lang family and… assist with the funeral arrangements.”
“Yes, sir,” Miriam said in a low tone, staring ahead, dazed. Her head was pounding. She stood up with both hands balled up at her sides. “Requesting permission to join the search.”
“Request denied,” Chief Walker said not skipping a beat. “Go home, Sergeant Castillo. We’ll take it from here.”
She turned and left the office, not saying a word. She closed the door lightly and walked out and onto the busy floor, where a number of workstations and cubicles were aligned in tidy rows.
Detectives and patrol officers alike moved about the stations, talking on cell phones and with each other, completely immersed in their work. A few of them paused when they noticed Miriam walking through. She continued without making eye contact, even as the police chief came out to address them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please.”
The room grew quiet, with only a few pockets of activity still going on. Miriam passed through the floor and came to a long hallway leading out of the building, where portraits of past commissioners adorned the wall.
“As of 3:45 p.m., Deputy Lang has been reported killed in the line of duty by a single gunshot to the head. The shell casing indicates a .44 magnum round. As of now, the suspect is reported at large, armed and dangerous.”
The chief’s voice trailed off as Miriam made it down the hall, to the lobby, and past the front desk. The desk officer barely got a word out before she pushed open the double doors and went out into the night air.
Her black Honda Accord was parked quite a way from the building, in a lot across the street. News vans were approaching in the distance, getting close to the station. An avalanche of media, swarming the department for the latest scoop. The “Snatcher” was back in the news.
She quickly crossed the street and made it to her car without looking back at the station. She fell into the driver’s seat, unable to muster the energy to so much as put the key in the ignition. Instead, she put her head against the steering wheel and cried in silence.
