And Then There Was One

by Patricia Gussin

  There was the matter of where to set up the exchange — money for kids — and since he’d already scouted out potential sites, he could finalize that in a hurry. The precious little girls for the big bag of money. But of course, he would not disclose that until the last possible moment.

  His last problem was what would happen next. He’d have to leave the country. He was no fool. With the FBI swarming all over this case, they’d find him one way or the other. By then he’d be in Portugal. He had relatives there, and he’d stay as long as he pleased. He wondered if he’d take up Portuguese. Probably not, he’d never been good at languages, not clever enough. Not even English, he’d been told. Fuck them all. They’d find out how fucking smart Cliff turned out to be. Or maybe not. If all went perfectly, maybe no one would find out at all.

  His cell phone rang just as he was about to pen another draft.

  “Yup.”

  A buddy reminding him that there’d be pick-up baseball at the park at five that night.

  “Be there,” he said. Once I get this fucking message the way I want it.

  CHAPTER 8

  Detroit Staggers Under the Recession and the Auto Industry Crisis

  — Auto Suppliers Aid Request Refused.

  — National Financial News, Monday, June 14

  Scott and Katie and Jackie had returned to Lucy’s townhouse in Auburn Hills. Throughout the day, relatives came and went. All trying to prop up Scott and Katie’s hopes, but with tears in their eyes signaling unfathomable grief. What could they do? Nothing but pray. Except for Scott’s sister, Monica, who could and would offer any amount of money for the safe return of her nieces. World renowned vocalist, Monica Monroe’s concert Saturday night at The Fox Theatre was the reason that Katie and the girls had been in Detroit. That, and the fact that Katie loved to spend as much time as possible with her mother, Lucy.

  When Scott carried Jackie upstairs and laid her down on a pile of comforters on the floor next to their bed, he and Katie had tried to rest, but neither drifted off to sleep. For each other’s sake, they each kept quiet, but they were too terrified for sleep. Too terrified for Sammie and Alex. Where were they? What was happening to them. Were they safe?

  Finally Katie sat up, followed by Scott. “There must be something that we can do,” she said. “We can’t just lie here and do nothing.”

  “It’s the helpless feeling,” Scott said. “I’m their father and I can’t protect them. All I can think is what might be happening.”

  Katie propped herself up on two pillows and leaned in close to Scott, relaxing just a bit as he stroked her hair. “We’re so used to being in charge, being in control.”

  “Mom? Dad? Did they find Alex and Sam yet?” Jackie stirred on the floor below them. Just hearing her voice tore at Katie’s heart. The triplets each had their own special way of speaking, but their voices sounded so alike.

  Both parents avoided Jackie’s question.

  “Let’s go downstairs and get a snack, Jackie,” Katie suggested as she and Scott climbed out of bed.

  Lucy turned up the volume of the television as the three of them came downstairs. “Here you are,” she said, “on TV. With all the commotion outside, I can hardly hear anything.” She pointed to the throngs of reporters staking out their ground, congesting access to the residential community. “I want to keep the door open for the spring air, but it’s so noisy out there.”

  All the Jones and Monroe relatives gathered in the living room paused, silent, as Katie and Scott and Jackie joined them just in time to watch the televised appeal.

  “Mommy, you did good on TV and, Daddy, your voice sounded so loud,” Jackie said after the reporter repeated the hotline phone number and Web site and the video cut to footage outside Lucy’s house. She walked over to the window. “Why don’t all those people just go away?”

  Scott blinked away a tear. How long had it been since any of the girls had called Katie “mommy” and him “daddy”? For years it had been just “Mom” and “Dad.”

  “They all want to find Alex and Sammie,” Lucy said, patting Jackie’s head. “They don’t seem to be stopping my neighbors from bringing over all that food. How are we ever going to eat all this?” Lucy drew Jackie over to a table laden with casseroles, cakes, pies, cookies, and pitchers of lemonade.

  “Katie, I wish you’d let Jackie come home with us.” Sharon joined Jackie at the window, putting her arm around her niece. “She could practice piano, swim in the pool, play tennis, get her mind off —”

  “Thanks,” Katie said. “but I think it’s best if we all stay here. We’re closer to the mall, should we get word —”

  All the while the talking head on the TV kept going on and on about the Monroe triplets, Jackie, who was safe, Alex and Sammie who were missing.

  “You want me to turn that off?” Lucy asked. “Or change channels?”

  “It’s okay, Lucy,” Scott said, getting up to turn down the volume.

  The story of the two missing triplets dominated the TV news, talk TV, sports TV, and the radio. At first Scott and Katie had tried to shield Jackie from the most dire of scenarios as channels out-hyped each other. Kidnapping “experts” filled the airwaves, titillated by the lack of a ransom note, the looming threat of racial prejudice, their Aunt Monica — an idol among music fans — Scott’s baseball notoriety, Katie’s work with the sleaze of society, the rarity of identical triplets, and the biology of such, and the fact that the three little girls were simply adorable. The fact that four-year-old Madeleine McCann had not yet been found. That the parents had been suspects, and that the mother’s name was Kate.

  “All that talk mobilizes volunteers.” Scott nodded at the flickering screen.

  “Lots of people are looking. Right, Dad?”

  “Yes,” said Scott, taking Jackie’s hand as a collage of his daughters danced across the screen. He wondered where all those images had come from. The triplets as infants, the triplets in white First Communion dresses, the triplets in their parochial school uniform, the triplets playing baseball. Their little friends had been interviewed, playing into the reporters’ hands as they described the three distinct personalities. Alex: shy, sweet, always in the shadow of the other two. Sammie: aggressive, opinionated, outspoken. Jackie: friendly, helpful, energetic. And endless speculation as to how Jackie, the safe child would fare.

  How could it be healthy for Jackie to see all this? Yet, how could they keep her away?

  “Mom, could I go home with Aunt Sharon?” Jackie had turned her back to the TV and was munching on an oatmeal cookie. “Danielle and I could play Monopoly and do other stuff. We could take some of these cookies.”

  Jackie’s innocent request made Scott cringe. He knew that Katie was not comfortable letting Jackie out of her sight. But was that fair to Jackie?

  “I think we’re going to need you today,” Katie said, accepting one of the cookies Jackie offered.

  “Katie, let’s not bring her to the bureau.” Scott gave Jackie an I’ll-take-care-of-your-mother look. “If you don’t want her to go with your sister, let her stay with Grandma.”

  Katie put down her half-eaten cookie and took both of Scott’s hands. “Baby, I’m so scared,” she said, her brown eyes brimming with tears. Can’t we keep Jackie close to us — just for now? Please?”

  Scott’s resolve melted. He want to say, “You’re scaring her. Let the family distract her.” But he kept his mouth shut, understanding her reaction, fright was overriding compassion.

  “We told Agent Streeter that we’d be back later tonight,” Katie said. “Can we get going?”

  Scott struggled, his spirits sagging. What good could they do? Hadn’t they told the FBI everything? Checking his watch, he felt his heart sink. Twenty-four hours ago he’d been at Yankee Stadium. Twenty-four hours ago Lucy had called from the mall. Twenty-four hours without a clue. Where could Alex and Sammie be?

  Then the cell phone that the FBI provided rang. The sound and vibration coming from his shirt pocket penetra
ted his skin and stopped his heart. For a moment he and Katie stood, paralyzed.

  “Scott, answer it!” she said, dropping her purse and Jackie’s hand to go to him.

  “Mr. Monroe, this is Agent Ellen Camry. I wanted to catch you, just to let you know. We don’t have anything specific for you here, and Special Agent Streeter asked me to call and ask that you come into the bureau tomorrow, not tonight. We’ll have a lot to go over once we finish tearing apart both yours and your wife’s hard drive and once we check out all the Florida leads.”

  “Katie and I are on our way. There must be something —”

  “You and your wife need some sleep, sir. She’s a doctor, so I’m assuming that you can get sleeping pills or sedatives if need be.”

  “I see,” said Scott, torn between the agent’s sensible advice, and wanting to be there to personally keep up the pressure to find Sammie and Alex. “Please do everything you can to —” He couldn’t finish, his mind flooded with images of Sammie and Alex, his two little girls. Where could they be? The possibilities were endless, each more horrific than the next.

  When Scott told Katie, she slumped against him. “Tomorrow,” she mumbled. “Another night. I don’t know if I can do this.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Detroit Red Wings Lose in Stanley Cup Finals:

  Pittsburgh Wins Two Major Pro-Sports Titles

  Already This Year — Penguins and Steelers.

  — Sports Radio, June 15, 2009

  At nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, Scott and Katie, Jackie between them, were ushered into the conference room adjoining Special Agent Streeter’s office. Scott noticed dark shadows under his eyes. Gone was the ramrod posture, the jaunty gait. He and Katie had had no sleep and he guessed that Agent Streeter had not, either.

  After an exchange of amenities, Streeter offered to have his secretary take Jackie for ice cream. Scott saw Jackie’s eyes light up.

  “In a little while,” Katie said, settling Jackie in the seat next to her.

  As other agents filed into the room, Streeter tried again. “Dr. Monroe, we need to focus on your contacts,” Streeter said, waving a sheaf of paper. “Hillsborough, Manatee, and Sarasota counties have put together a portfolio of people with motive to do something to — and something’s come up on your hard drive. Are you sure that you want your daughter to stay?”

  “Jackie will be just fine,” Katie said, pulling a tablet and a pen out of her purse. “Here, sweetie, draw some pictures.”

  Like that would hold her interest, Scott thought, bitterly resenting that Katie had not let the girls travel with their video games. Obediently, Jackie sat down, staring straight ahead at the bare wall.

  “You have my patient records?” Katie seemed incredulous at the array of folders spread in front of her. “But they’re confidential.”

  “Not what’s on public record,” Streeter said. “Where you’ve testified.”

  Scott stayed focused on Jackie. Afraid to confront her mother, he felt he’d let Jackie down, and his chest contracted when she looked up at him as if to say, “that’s okay.”

  The triplets were used to Katie’s protective nature, which bordered on paranoia. They all reacted differently according to their personality. Sammie, with her rebellious streak, would challenge her mom. Alex, would comply, no questions asked, and Jackie tried to reason everything out in her logical, practical way. Scott told himself that he didn’t have favorites, but truth be told, he felt closer to Jackie than the other two. He, rather than Katie, had always been Jackie’s confidant. She was so like him. Congenial, but capable of a certain toughness. She might sit here in submission, but she’d take it all in and ask him about it afterward. Scott had always understood how Jackie at times resented being a triplet. He knew that she longed to be more independent, to have her own friends. That’s why she and Sammie were always going at it. Sammie, so determined to corral the other two into a tight threesome clique.

  “This is not going to be pleasant.” Streeter scanned his five colleagues seated around the conference room and gestured for one to turn on the projector.

  There followed a parade of unseemly characters. Katie seemed familiar with them and the atrocities they’d committed. Growing up in the Grosse Pointe suburb of Detroit, Scott lacked firsthand experience with bloodshed and brutality. Hurting a child was beyond his comprehension.

  When Streeter projected a toddler with its naked torso scarred by cigarette burns, Scott stood abruptly. “Katie, give me Jackie. We’re going to get that ice cream.”

  This time, without protest, Katie nodded her assent. Scott took Jackie by the hand and left the room.

  “Dad, did you see those pictures?” Jackie asked once they were out in the hall. Her voice shook and a trickle of tears appeared. “Of those kids who were hurt? Is that what’s happening to Sammie and Alex?”

  Scott flinched, horrified. Of course, what else would a smart child like Jackie deduce after exposure to Katie’s mutilated patients? “No,” he said as firmly as he could.

  “Dad,” she said, “where do you think they are? I keep thinking and thinking. We know not to talk to strangers. You and Mom are always telling us that. So where did Alex and Sammie go? Why can’t you find them?”

  Scott had to swallow hard to choke down the surge of acid. The anguish in his daughter’s voice, her fear for her sisters was destroying him. “We’ll find them, Jackie.” He felt he would gag on the promise, but he had to be strong for his daughter’s sake. “Now let’s find those vending machines.”

  Once Scott and Jackie left, Katie sat straighter in her chair, steeling herself to focus on her former patients and their abusers as Streeter continued the slide show, a parade of her forensic career. Those men and a few women whom she’d testified against in child abuse cases dating all the way back to the early nineties when she’d completed her residency at Columbia University, left New York City, and started a pediatric psychiatric practice in Tampa. She hadn’t intended to do forensic work, but the need was there and she had boards in pediatrics and psychiatry. Katie pressed her fingers against her temples. Why hadn’t she declined? Why had she let her professional ego drive her to these high-profile challenges? She’d taken a break after the triplets were born. But once they started kindergarten, she’d jumped back in.

  And why had she overstepped a professional ethical boundary in trying to help the Cutty boys? She couldn’t help thinking that Maxwell Cutty was behind this. He had taken Sammie and Alex away from her to prevent her testimony, preying on the worst fear of a mother. Wasn’t this the only scenario that made sense, what with no ransom demand?

  When Streeter left the room to take a call, Katie rested her head on the table. Exhausted, terrified, she just couldn’t shake the image of Maxwell Cutty locking her daughters up — or worse. Wading through her professional knowledge, she tried to determine whether he would sexually abuse Sammie and Alex or whether they’d be protected by his preference for young boys.

  Then there was the lingering specter of Keith Franklin. She’d intended to tell Agent Streeter about him last night, but she’d been too exhausted. Why after so many years had he sent her that e-mail? Naturally, she had not responded, but could his ego have become so fragile that a rebuff could have set him off? Triggered an act of retribution of such drastic proportions? Could her old boyfriend have Sammie and Alex? His email had said I’ll take care of your daughters.

  Katie’s head stayed down until Agent Streeter returned. She had no choice. She had to tell him, and in doing that, she’d have to disclose to Scott the only secret that she’d ever kept from him. How he would react she didn’t know, but the lives of their daughters were hanging in the balance.

  “You okay?” Streeter he asked.

  “Agent Streeter, I have something to tell you.” She nodded at the other three agents still in the conference room. “Just you, please, and Scott?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Monica Monroe Cancels European Tour to Be With Family.

  —
USA Today Tuesday, June 14

  Early Tuesday morning, two FBI agents pounded on the front door of the Franklin home on the east side of Detroit. Keith himself came to the door. He looked his age, fifty, had skin a shade darker than the tan coveralls he wore, sleeves rolled up to emphasize impressive biceps. The agents had approached the home cautiously. Could this be the lead they so desperately needed? Through an open window, they heard the canned laughter of a sitcom rerun interspersed with the strident shouting common to marital combat.

  The feds had tracked Franklin as he left his job at central sanitation. He’d put in his eight-hour shift, driving the truck, helping to wrestle garbage cans, a messy job, not a pleasant one. No wonder he followed his shift with a beer or two at a local bar before heading home.

  “Mr. Franklin, we’re from the FBI,” the senior agent announced, hand on holster. “We would like you to come down to the field office. We have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

  A woman inside, whom the agents assumed was Penny Franklin, his wife, was still shrieking expletives nonstop.

  Franklin stood slack jawed and mute and opened the door more widely.

  “What’s it about?” Franklin asked as a slender, attractive woman, several years younger joined him.

  “What are they doing here?” The woman tossed her hair and pointed to the two agents in suits.

  “Mr. Franklin, we need to question you about the Monroe children,” came the response. “You need to come with us.”