by Roger Hayden
One Year Later
Detective Dwight O’Leary was at a standstill. His nights, as of late, were haunted by images of nine-year-old Jenny Dawson, missing for more than a year. O’Leary had been one of the first investigators assigned to discover her whereabouts. Weeks turned to months before it became more apparent that Jenny would never return. Many in the department were hoping to at least find her remains. Nothing, however, had turned up.
O’Leary had scoured the records for previous child abduction cases. No such crime had occurred in Palm Dale in seven years. The last case involved an estranged, divorced father taking his son across state lines. The boy was soon safely returned to his mother. She opted not to press charges.
Jenny Dawson had vanished. The abduction was random. There were no suspects remaining. And no closure for the family. Her parents, Ted and Patricia, clung to the hope that she would return. It was all they could do. O’Leary had made a promise to them, albeit foolishly, that he would solve the case and get them the answers they desperately desired.
In his ten years as a detective, he had honed his skills and, since Jenny’s disappearance, had dedicated himself to the case, using every resource at his disposal. But finding Jenny soon became a test not just of his ability as a detective, but as a measure of his overall worth.
It was Tuesday, and he woke in the middle of the night with a dry throat and headache. In a cold sweat, he tossed the blankets off him and reached for a glass on his nightstand, only to find it empty. Next to the glass was a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey. Things started to come back to him. It had been another night of drinking himself to sleep.
Too tired to move, he lay in his bed as raindrops beat against the nearby window, providing some odd sort of comfort. He looked at his alarm clock: 3:11 a.m. He was supposed to meet the Dawsons that day and let them know that their daughter’s abduction had recently been categorized as a “cold case.” He wasn’t looking forward to it. Perhaps it was time to move on. There were other cases on his plate too. It had been a rotten year so far, and O’Leary needed a win to change the tide.
By morning, rain had turned to drizzle. Outside, daylight glowed behind the thin, transparent curtains. O’Leary opened his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. It was ten after nine, and he was due at the Dawson house in one hour.
He turned over and sat up, wearing only boxer shorts. His modest bedroom was littered in files, newspapers, photos, take-out boxes, and empty soda cans. He stepped onto the carpet and hobbled over to his bathroom to throw some water on his face. A nice hot shower would do the trick. Some coffee would get him started too.
He splashed water on his stubbly cheeks and cooled his forehead. Living in a one-bedroom apartment following his lengthy divorce had its perks. He never had to wait for the bathroom. The apartment had become a second office of sorts. His job was his life, but lately it seemed that everything had slowed down. He’d grown stagnant, and at thirty-nine years old, the thought was terrifying.
A shower and a cup of coffee later, O’Leary felt refreshed and energized. He grabbed a left-over drumstick and devoured it as local news played on a nearby radio. He threw on a white dress shirt, blue tie, and black slacks, ready to go. His badge rested on top of the dresser next to his holstered 9mm pistol and dark-gray jacket.
Before leaving, he took one last look at himself in the mirror. His short, thick hair was showing some noticeable gray. Never one to shave regularly, he still had a good deal of stubble along his square jaw and high cheeks. He just hoped that the Dawsons wouldn’t take notice of that, or his worn and slightly bloodshot eyes. He walked back into the bedroom and put some case files into his briefcase. His ID hung by a lanyard over his tie. His gun was holstered at his hip. Ready for the morning, he left with time to spare.
After a twenty-minute drive down State Route 44, O’Leary’s green Ford Taurus arrived at the Dawson home, marked by a long, circular driveway. The luxurious two-story brick house was shrouded by large bushes, covering most windows. Marbled steps led to a pair of elegant double doors. The Dawsons were an affluent family, well known throughout town. Ted owned a chain of appliance outlets, and business had been good over the years.
One look at their thick, weedy front lawn, neglected home, and rusty surrounding fence gave a clear indication that it hadn’t been a good year. O’Leary rolled past the front door and parked a few feet from the garage.
The front doors opened, and Patricia Dawson walked out—her silver hair pinned back. She was wearing a red long-sleeved blouse and jeans. A look of perpetual worry consumed her pretty face as always. O’Leary stuffed a piece of Juicy Fruit into his mouth, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out of the car.
“Good morning!” he said with a wave.
“Morning,” Patricia replied. Nothing in her neutral tone belied what she might be thinking.
Thunder rumbled beyond the dark, rolling clouds above. The smell of rain was in the air.
“Better come in before it gets nasty,” she said, gesturing with the bottle of V8 juice she was holding.
O’Leary walked up the steps leading inside. She closed the door behind him and asked for his coat. He handed her his jacket, and she offered him a drink.
“Sure. Scotch on the rocks,” he said with a smile.
She smiled back. “I was thinking more along the lines of OJ, detective.”
“Of course. Orange juice would be fine, thank you.”
She led him to the living room, a spacious and oddly furnished room with a dusty, old hotel look. It was clear that the Dawsons were living in a time warp of trauma and emotional toil. She pointed to a burgundy leather sofa in the center of the room. A deer’s head, mounted on a long board, hung above the sofa, incongruous among framed paintings of tranquil valleys and ridges. A snake skin, massive in size, hung across the other end. O’Leary took a seat and set his briefcase on the glass table.
“Ted will be out in a minute,” Patricia said as she turned toward the kitchen, leaving him alone in the room.
He looked again at the strange taxidermy collection, but he had seen it before and wasn’t taken aback as he had been the first time he saw it. Dawson fancied himself some kind of sportsman.
O’Leary opened his briefcase, ready to break the news. How they would respond to their daughter’s disappearance being classified as a cold case, he didn’t know. Moments passed, and then he heard a bedroom door open down the hall, followed by the sound of flip-flops shuffling across the tile floor.
In the kitchen, Patricia also seemed to have heard her approaching husband. “Honey,” she called, “Detective O’Leary is here.”
“I know,” his tired voice said from the hall.
He shuffled some more and then reached the living room. Ted Dawson slouched forward. Pale, with stringy dirty-blond hair, he nodded and tipped his coffee mug at O’Leary. “Morning, Detective.”
“Good morning, Mr. Dawson.”
He had on a bathrobe, tank top, and boxers, looking as though he’d just rolled out of bed, but apparently not. He already had coffee. His gaunt, bushy face showed little emotion.
“Yep. So to what do we owe the pleasure of this hastily planned meeting?” he asked, shuffling toward the matching loveseat at the end of the sofa, forming an L shape.
“I just wanted to have a face to face. Share the latest.”
“Super…” Ted said, lowering himself on the couch as though it took effort. Patricia joined them with a glass of orange juice for O’Leary.
He took the glass and thanked her as she sat next to Ted. “How have you guys been?” he asked them.
They nodded and feigned smiles. “It’s going,” Patricia said. “Alex starts tenth grade next year. Pretty excited about that.” Alex was their son and now, without Jenny, their only child.
“Great to hear,” O’Leary said. “How’s the business holding up?”
The couple looked at each other with uncertainty. Patricia turned to O’Leary, partly smiling. “Ted’s bro
ther, Steven, has been running things for a while.”
“Things could be better,” Ted added. “But we’re glad to see you. Hoping that maybe you have some good news to share.”
O’Leary took a deep breath and took a case file out of his briefcase, laying it on the table. “I have news, neither bad nor good. But it’s news, nonetheless.”
Ted gestured with his hands. “Might as well just come out with it, then.”
“Now, Ted,” Patricia said, patting his shoulder. “Detective O’Leary didn’t have to come out here, you know.”
O’Leary cut in. “It’s fine, Mrs. Dawson. Your husband’s right. I’ll get to the point.” He leaned toward with his hands folded. “This past week, our department has officially classified your daughter’s abduction as a cold case. Meaning that it’s been over three hundred sixty-five days.”
Ted took the folder as both parents sank into the couch, expressionless.
“It varies. Sometimes it can take as much as two years for that to happen,” O’Leary continued. He held out a hand, trying to raise their spirits. “This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. New investigators can jump on board now. They’ll reexamine all the evidence. Reanalyze everything.”
Ted sighed and leaned forward, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “How is it that in a town of two thousand people, no one can find our daughter?” Ted looked up, realizing the weight of his words. “Not like you haven’t tried, Detective. We appreciate that. Can’t we bring in the FBI or something?”
“We could,” O’Leary said. “I’d have to talk to our captain on that.”
“Christ, they should have been brought in from the beginning,” Ted lamented, rocking back on the couch.
“Perhaps,” O’Leary said.
“It’s not their fault,” Patricia said. Our own private investigator has come up empty-handed so far too. You know that.”
O’Leary narrowed his eyes. “Your own… private investigator?”
Ted held both his arms up, defensively. “What was I going to do? Sit around on my hands? We have to try all avenues. A year later and you’re still chasing this Snatcher fellow.”
“He is our most likely subject,” O’Leary said with conviction.
“And where the hell is he?” Ted asked. Patricia touched his shoulder, trying to calm him.
“I’ve narrowed the list of suspects down to one man,” O’Leary began. “But we have no evidence, and there’s no—” He stopped suddenly.
“No what?” Ted asked, his eyes livid. “No body? Is that what you were going to say?”
O’Leary looked away, unresponsive. Patricia looked as though she was fighting back tears.
Ted then pointed at O’Leary, jabbing the air. “Until that happens, we’re going to believe that she’s still alive. Understand?”
“Yes,” O’Leary said. “And with new investigators on this case—a fresh set of eyes—I’m confident in the outcome.”
Patricia placed her face in her hands and cried. “But you promised us… you can’t just walk away now.”
“I know. Like you, I was confident in the outcome. I was confident that everything pointed to the Snatcher and that it would only be a matter of time before we caught him.” He took a deep breath. “I was wrong…”
Ted scratched the scruff of his beard, lowered his head, and took a change in tone. “Look, I know I can be an asshole sometimes. I’m frustrated, and I’ve had enough. My wife and I can’t handle this fucking nightmare much longer.”
“That’s why I’m going to recommend a new investigation team. One that specializes in cold cases.”
“No!” Patricia said, reaching out as if to touch his shoulder. “You have to stay on the case. We don’t have time for everything to start all over again. You can’t do that to us!”
“I’m sorry,” O’Leary said, rising. “I had my chance. It’s time for someone else.” He placed his files in his briefcase and stood and nodded at the couple. “Thank you for your kindness and trust. I’ll keep you posted to every last detail.”
Patricia grabbed his arm as he tried to walk by. He stopped and looked down. Her face was awash in tears and desperation. “Please. Let me show you something first.”
“Mrs. Dawson…”
“Just one minute!” she cried out.
O’Leary nodded in understanding. “What is it?”
Patricia rose as Ted watched them both, looking confused. “Follow me.”
Though he was eager to leave, O’Leary begrudgingly followed Patricia toward their long hallway, leaving Ted sitting on the couch, staring ahead blankly—clearly in his own world.
The darkened hall had three doors on each side. Framed family pictures of happier days adorned the walls. Jenny was in many of them, blond hair to her shoulders, sparkling eyes, and a white smile. In many of the pictures, her parents looked unrecognizable. Their faces were full of life and vigor—Ted smiling at the barbecue grill, with Alex at his side; Patricia and Jenny with their arms around each other at a school dance recital. O’Leary wondered how they could even stand to look at those pictures, but when they reached the second door on the right, the answer became clear.
Patricia opened the door and stepped aside. “Here, Mr. O’Leary. You might be familiar with this room.”
O’Leary looked in. He was. It was Jenny’s room, untouched since the day he had first searched it for clues nearly a year ago. A plush pink blanket covered her bed in the corner. A mountain of dolls crowded the pillows. Some posters on her wall were typical of a nine-year-old girl, others weren’t.
She had unicorns and Frozen characters, but also Beethoven and Albert Einstein. From what O’Leary had heard, she was a bright, promising student. Her dresser, bookshelf, and computer desk were untouched. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. Someone, most likely Patricia, was keeping the room tidy. He went to step inside but stopped.
“Why are you showing me her room?” he asked.
“Because this is where she belongs.” Patricia stopped and took a deep breath, closing her eyes in anguish. She opened her eyes and spoke calmly. “The fact that her clothes still hang in the closet. The fact that I still haven’t looked in her diary after I came across it months ago. The fact that I haven’t changed this room one bit. This means that I still believe in finding my daughter, which means that I still believe in you.”
O’Leary opened his mouth then paused. “Mrs. Dawson… I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you should consider the reality here.”
She shook her head in response. “I want you to go into her room. Go in there for one minute and tell me what you feel.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Please… It’s all I ask,” she said, holding back tears.
He reluctantly entered the room and looked around as she waited in the hall. The beige carpet was freshly cleaned and all the surfaces polished. He approached Jenny’s bookcase, where several 3 × 5 framed photos were displayed on the shelves. More family pictures. Pictures of Jenny and her school friends. Pictures of Jenny in her dancing outfit. Pictures of Jenny in the honor club. Trophies and medals sat behind the pictures. O’Leary glanced past the bookcase, not wanting to be in the room any longer.
But then something hit him—a sudden rush of hope and optimism that he hadn’t felt in some time, as though she was still out there, waiting for him to finally bring her home. The sudden rush of hope that flowed through him didn’t feel misguided. It felt completely genuine.
Patricia leaned against the door frame and spoke. “What’s your verdict, Detective?”
“I’m staying on,” he answered. “Can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she smiled. “Thank you.”
She stepped aside as he left the room. He thanked her for the orange juice and walked out the front door, unsure of what had just transpired. He was aware of a newfound vigor, but he couldn’t do it alone. He needed the assistance of the only person, to his kn
owledge, who had encountered the Snatcher; a person who had long disappeared from the public eye.
It had been some time, but he was determined to find her and talk to her. He got into his green Taurus and exited the Dawson estate through the squeaky automated gate. It was time to go to the office and check with Records. He needed an address and was certain that they still had her on file, and he would find her, wherever she was.
