The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  “I have some photos I’d like the two of you to look at.”

  He registered their nods of agreement and sat down facing them. Neither Eleanor nor Duncan inquired as to what kind of photos they’d be seeing, and Cheever didn’t tell them. Earlier in the day he had asked for the booking photos of all convicted sex offenders in the area. He had also asked for a wide array of noncriminal pictures—men and women who had never been arrested.

  As Cheever arranged his photos, he heard one of the search parties calling out Stella’s name. It was a desperate game of Marco Polo, thought Cheever, with no Polo.

  Light penetrated the closed curtains into the darkening living room. A news team was preparing to do a live spot from the Pierce front yard. Duncan had already appeared in a number of interviews. In a few of the broadcasts, Eleanor had stood by his side, but had not trusted herself to speak.

  Cheever watched as Eleanor raised her head to a woman’s voice crying: “Stella!” But it proved to be just another false alarm. The woman kept calling Stella’s name, and Eleanor kept trying not to flinch.

  “Most of the pictures you are about to see are not of criminals,” Cheever said. “They’re just everyday people. But there are also pictures of individuals booked for crimes.”

  Cheever didn’t tell them the booking photos were of registered sex offenders living nearby. Law-abiding citizens were always surprised by the numbers.

  “I think the best way to do this is for me to hold up a picture and allow you enough time to study it. When you’re finished, I want you to look away. Think about that face you saw. Does it set off any memory alarms? Maybe you’ll feel some inkling of recognition. Don’t worry about a name or a context. Given any possible glimmer of recognition, I want you to flag that photo for me. Are you ready to give it a go?”

  They both nodded. Cheever showed them the first picture. Eleanor and Duncan studied it and then looked away. The face didn’t look familiar to either one of them.

  They went to the next shot, and the next. Eleanor was glad she didn’t know who was guilty and who wasn’t. Was this man a monster? Did he target innocent children?

  The Pierces kept looking at faces. Dozens of pictures, but no face caused bells to ring.

  The detective lifted up a new photo. Even though it was just a picture, Eleanor could feel the man’s eyes bore into her. They were cold and unforgiving, and what was worse, they were somehow familiar. Neither of the Pierces turned their heads. Both kept staring at the picture. It was Duncan who found his voice first.

  “I think I’ve seen him before,” he said, and then his voice grew louder. “Yes, I’ve definitely seen him before.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I know that guy from somewhere.”

  Duncan was concentrating so hard his face was set in a grimace, and he clenched and unclenched his hands. He cleared his throat twice, then let out some pent-up air. “Maybe he’s just a look-alike.”

  “No,” said Eleanor. “I’ve seen him, too.”

  They reached for each other’s hands.

  Their suspect wasn’t smiling, but still managed to exude smugness. He had long, slicked-back, dark-brown hair, and his pupils appeared as black pinpoints. There was something in his appearance that made him look like a snake that had just eaten.

  “Where do we know him from?” asked Duncan.

  Eleanor bit her lip and shook her head.

  “Just relax,” said Cheever. “It will come to you in time, especially if you’re not pressing.”

  “Is he a criminal?” asked Duncan.

  “I think it’s better to not say,” said Cheever.

  “Maybe he just looks like a lawyer I know,” said Duncan.

  Eleanor was lost in the picture. She had this feeling of being caught in a spiderweb and not being able to break free. The man’s eyes had her tangled up. She remembered those eyes.

  “Pizza delivery,” she said.

  The man had been at their house at least twice during the past month. The last time there was something disquieting about the way he never met her eyes, even when she paid him. His attention had been behind her, where Stella was playing.

  “That’s it,” said Duncan, slapping the table. “He’s delivered pizza here.”

  “Suddenly I’m in the mood for pizza,” said Cheever.

  When Cheever heard the summons of the doorbell, he yelled, “Coming.” He was in a home one street over from the Pierce residence. It was a miracle they’d set up the sting as fast as they had, but every moment was potentially critical.

  Cheever didn’t open the door right away, but instead took a moment to survey the man through the peephole. Guy Wilkerson looked like a cleaned-up version of his booking photo. He had short hair and was clean shaven; he was wearing a polo shirt, dress slacks, and loafers. Dress for success, Cheever wondered, or dress to molest? There was nothing in his outward appearance that would make people think Guy might be a threat.

  Both his hands were on the pizza box. That would make it harder for him to reach for a weapon. Cheever looked past Wilkerson to a car parked in the shadows. He waited for, and then saw, a flash of light from inside the car. That was the confirmation he wanted.

  Cheever opened the door.

  “Large pepperoni and mushroom?” asked Guy.

  “Sounds right.”

  “Nineteen dollars.”

  Cheever reached for his wallet. “Been busy tonight?”

  “So-so,” said Wilkerson.

  “It’s been crazy around here. Bloodhounds, helicopters with spotlights, search-and-rescue teams. Everybody’s been thinking about those poor people.”

  “That’s nineteen,” repeated Wilkerson.

  Cheever started thumbing through his wallet. “Hey,” he said, “I was just thinking, those people could use this pizza more than me. Would you mind taking it over to their house?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “How about I give you thirty bucks, and you keep the change?”

  Wilkerson debated for a moment before saying, “All right.”

  “You got their name and address?” asked Cheever.

  “Pierce,” said Guy. “Fourteen twenty Ranchero Way.”

  “Good memory,” said Cheever. “You didn’t even have to think about it.”

  Wilkerson’s eyes narrowed, and he hesitated before responding. “The address has been all over the news,” he said.

  Cheever shook his head. “For once, the media’s been responsible. They haven’t released the street name. They’ve only given out the general area.”

  He displayed his wallet badge. “I’m Detective Cheever of the San Diego Police Department, and I’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Wilkerson.”

  The suspect rolled his eyes and sighed, acting as if he was being unjustly persecuted, but in the midst of his posing, he suddenly hurled the pizza box at Cheever and sprinted toward his car. He was fast, but hidden officers with drawn guns revealed themselves and started shouting.

  “Halt! Stop! Down! On the ground! Don’t move!”

  Wilkerson reluctantly dropped to his knees and raised his hands. He complied carefully; it appeared he didn’t want to dirty his clothes. Cheever came up from behind, cuffing him first and then patting him down for weapons. He found a hunting knife strapped to the guy’s calf and a sharpened screwdriver in his pants pocket. The detective’s discoveries didn’t seem to bother Wilkerson as much as Cheever’s greasy hands.

  “Parole violations, Guy,” said Cheever. “Not to mention assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon.”

  “I threw a pizza. I didn’t shoot you.”

  Half the pizza had escaped the tossed box. Cheever peeled some cheese away from his face. “When you burned me, you burned yourself, Guy.” He scraped some of the pizza from his blue blazer and sampled it.

  “Good pizza, though. Maybe I can take that into consideration, and we can work out some kind of deal.”

  Wilkerson was already shaking his head. “No deal. Don’t even tr
y. I want to talk with my lawyer. I’m not going to say a word without him present.”

  Cheever nodded. He wiped his coat, clearing it of tomato sauce. “Okay, since you’re so anxious to lawyer up, we’d best get moving. Let me give you a hand up.”

  Wilkerson recoiled from Cheever’s red and greasy hands. “No,” he said. “Keep your slimy hands off me.”

  “Oh, jeez,” said Cheever, “I didn’t notice. Would you look at that? I’m afraid my handprints are all over you. What a shame that you’ll have to do your walk of shame for those TV people. They’re going to think you’re some kind of slob, Guy. What was that word you used? Slimy—that’s it. They’ll probably call you Slimy. It’s funny how names like that can stick with you forever.”

  “Let me clean up.”

  “Can’t, Slimy. You’re a flight risk.”

  “I want to talk to my lawyer now.”

  Cheever sniffed the air, then wrinkled his nose. “He might not want to talk to you. What’s that I smell? Oregano? Garlic?”

  “Yeah,” said one of the uniforms. “He’s a regular Chef Boy-are-me.”

  “Guy Wilkerson,” said Cheever, “you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them?”

  “Yes. I want a lawyer. I’ll be suing for entrapment, battery, and false arrest, just for starters.”

  “And don’t forget I stiffed you on the pizza delivery and your tip, Slimy,” said Cheever.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The clock was running. It had been an all-nighter for Cheever. He took in the view from the downtown office building, looking out to the blue expanse of San Diego Bay. Who said crime didn’t pay? The criminal defense firm of Spiegel, Brass, and Towers seemed to be doing quite well.

  Barry “BB” Brass entered the conference room carrying a large mug of coffee. “Java, Detective?” he asked. “You’re carrying some heavy bags under your eyes.”

  “I’ll call a bellman,” said Cheever, shaking his head at the offer. His stomach couldn’t take any more coffee.

  The two men knew each other from other cases. Their relationship was amicable enough, given that each always wanted the opposite of the other. The lawyer wasn’t even in his chair before Cheever started pressing him.

  “Here’s what we got, Counselor,” said Cheever. “Your client was found with a sock monkey in his apartment. That same doll was positively identified by the Pierce family as belonging to their daughter, Stella.”

  “How are they sure it’s her sock monkey?”

  “Mr. Sparkles—that’s his name—has some telltale characteristics. He only has half a tail. There’s also a large and permanent grape-jelly stain on his chest. The doll missing from the Pierce home, the same doll found in your client’s apartment, fits that description perfectly.”

  BB scratched his beard, doing his best to look unimpressed. “What else do you have?”

  “It’s clear your client has more than a passing interest in Stella Pierce.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “He made the mistake of not erasing the memory cards in his cameras. Lo and behold, that’s where we found Stella. And guess where most of those shots were taken? Your client was in the vicinity of Sunrise Elementary, Stella’s school. Being that close to a school is another parole violation.”

  “My client is an amateur photographer.”

  “No,” said Cheever, “he’s an immature photographer. His subject matter is children under the age of twelve. And speaking of underage, we found your client’s child porn in his apartment, stashed in the hollow of a door. That illegal filth will get him at least ten years.”

  BB pretended he was covering a yawn. “As you know, we will be challenging the validity of your search.”

  “There’s a lot more you’re going to have to challenge. We’re digging into his tutoring business.”

  Pizza delivery wasn’t the only way Wilkerson got near children. He’d been working as a tutor.

  “If you’d like,” the lawyer said, “I can provide you with testimonials saying what a wonderful tutor my client is.”

  “I know two sets of parents who won’t be writing one,” said Cheever. “Those are the parents of children, a boy and a girl, who have come forth and told us that Wilkerson was working on more than books with them.”

  “What you’re saying is news to me. And since I don’t hear you detailing specifics, my guess is that you’re alleging peccadillo rather than major sin.”

  “What I’m talking is substantial jail time, BB. The only way we’re going to go light on these charges is if your client offers us information that secures the return of Stella Pierce.”

  “Are you offering us a deal?”

  Cheever nodded. “If Stella is alive and unharmed, we’ll waive everything but the kidnapping.”

  “Maybe you should go into the car-financing business, Detective. When they waive the first month’s car payment, they don’t mention the fifty-nine to follow. Basically you want me to go to my client and say, ‘I got a great deal for you. In forty years you’ll be out.’”

  “That’s not how I would sell it. I would tell Wilkerson we’re giving him the opportunity to be alive in forty years. If he doesn’t come clean now, you tell him that he’s looking at a date with some toxic chemicals.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “We’ll need an answer by noon. The offer will be off the table after that.”

  Cheever followed the lawyer’s lead and stood up. He tried to hide his exhaustion, but couldn’t. He had taken a half-hour catnap at three in the morning. That would likely be all the sleep he would see today.

  “May I speak off the record, Detective?”

  “Sure,” said Cheever. “This will be just between us.”

  “I have a daughter of my own,” said BB. “She’s only a year older than that girl. So believe me when I say I know the hell that family must be going through.”

  BB looked at his hairy hands. “I talked to my client a short time ago. I assumed you would be coming in with an offer, so I tried priming his pump. He told me he didn’t take the girl and said he knows nothing about her abduction. He admitted seeing her around, but said that is as far as it went. Most importantly, he says he doesn’t know where she is. I tried, Detective, I really tried.”

  “Try again,” said Cheever. “Stella’s life might be in your hands.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Even before Cheever opened his mouth, Duncan Pierce knew the news was bad. It was written all over the detective’s slumped shoulders and gray, unsmiling face. Duncan wanted to cover his ears, but instead he put his arm around Eleanor.

  Cheever shook his head. “He’s not budging from his story.”

  Duncan started swearing, spitting out every profane word he knew. He stopped only when Eleanor began weeping.

  “How does the asshole explain having Mr. Sparkles in his possession?” Duncan asked.

  “Wilkerson claims he picked the doll up from the sidewalk three nights ago,” said Cheever. “He said he was doing a pizza delivery at your next-door neighbor’s house when he swiped it. We confirmed he did the delivery. Is he right about the doll going missing at that time?”

  “He planned this,” said Duncan. “He took Mr. Sparkles as an alibi to confuse the time line.”

  “You might be right. But I need to know if that’s when the doll went missing.”

  Eleanor nodded while Duncan fumed.

  “The point is, this SOB stole Stella’s doll. Maybe he used it to entice her. Who gives a shit when he took it?”

  “We’re looking for holes in his story, Mr. Pierce.”

  “The man’s a convicted sex offender. You’ve got children in this town who say he molested them. You found pictures
showing he was stalking Stella. Isn’t that enough?”

  Duncan started pacing furiously around the room. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. The pervert could have locked her up somewhere. She could be gagged and bound at the bottom of some pit or hellhole. While they did nothing, she could be choking on her own vomit or dying of thirst.

  “I want to talk to him,” said Duncan. “Give me two minutes alone with him.”

  “I wish it was that easy. You’re a lawyer. You know he has his rights.”

  “What about Stella’s right to grow up, and her right to be a child, and her right to be our little girl?”

  Duncan’s words grew weaker and weaker until they faded out. His chin was trembling. He hated being reduced to this. He detested having to look weak. Their hopes had been raised when the animal was arrested, but now it was all turning bad.

  “Has he concocted some Valentine’s Day alibi?” said Duncan.

  Cheever shook his head. “He wasn’t working his pizza-delivery job on Valentine’s Day, but he did have three separate hour-long tutoring sessions. Wilkerson finished with his last student at eight o’clock. We confirmed that. After that, he said he watched TV.”

  Duncan wondered whether the bastard had been waiting in their house when they arrived home from the beach.

  “Maybe he had an accomplice in all of this,” Duncan said. “That could explain why you didn’t find more evidence in his apartment connecting him with Stella’s abduction.”

  “From all accounts, the suspect is a lone wolf,” said Cheever. “At his former workplace, he kept to himself. If he does have any friends, they never came around his apartment.”

  “What about some sicko he met in prison? Maybe he’s working with one of them.”

  “We have a whole team investigating his past. We’re looking at everything.”

  “What can I do? I’m going stir-crazy just sitting here.”

  Duncan couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice. Lately it seemed as if he and Eleanor spent all their time pacing. They shuffled from room to room. Neither of them could sleep or eat. Their whole world had been turned topsy-turvy.