The Genesis Files

by Gwen Richardson

  Ed liked to brag about how well connected he was to the rich and famous, even though he wasn’t one of them. It made him feel superior.

  “I want you to talk to her and get more details on this black boy who took her baby,” continued Ed. “I want your story filed by three o’clock today, and I don’t want any more lip from you. Is that clear?”

  Lloyd wondered if Ed was using the term “boy” because he had information about the approximate age of the alleged kidnapper, or if it was a Freudian slip of the tongue. Lloyd was about to explode inside but had learned over the years not to show his emotions at work. “Yes, Ed. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 11

  The River Oaks section was not far from the Ledger’s downtown headquarters, and Lloyd arrived at the Pauley home within about fifteen minutes. There were multiple police vehicles in front of the large circular driveway. The three-story house had a red brick exterior with ivy growing on both sides of the front door.

  The white columns that Ed had mentioned were prominent at the front of the house. The lawn was beautifully landscaped with tulips and begonias planted out front. Lloyd rang the doorbell, and a middle-aged Hispanic maid answered.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I’m Lloyd Palmer with the Houston Ledger. I’m here to ask Mrs. Pauley a few questions about the kidnapping.”

  He showed the maid his identification badge. “Come in, Mr. Palmer,” she said with a thick accent. “Mrs. Pauley is anxious to speak with the reporters.”

  Lloyd thought that was odd. If his daughter, Bria, had been kidnapped, the last thing he’d be interested in would be talking to reporters. The police, yes, but reporters, no. He’d be so consumed with anxiety that finding her would be the only thing on his mind. That made him even more suspicious about the veracity of Mrs. Pauley’s claims.

  The maid led him into a room that appeared to be the library. An attractive woman in her mid-thirties was sitting on the couch with tissues in her hands. She appeared to have been crying.

  “Mrs. Pauley,” said the maid, “this is Mr. Palmer from the Ledger and he would like to ask you a few questions.”

  Mrs. Pauley extended her hand to Lloyd. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Palmer. Please have a seat,” she said, as she pointed to the area beside her on the sofa. Lloyd sat down.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on you during your time of crisis, but our readers will want to know what happened,” said Lloyd. “Can you describe how your son was kidnapped?”

  “Well, I was taking little Hunter for his morning walk like I usually do. I go a couple of blocks east and then make a complete circle back to the house about four days a week. I get some exercise, and Hunter gets some sun before the mid-day heat sets in,” said Mrs. Pauley, as she took a handful of tissues and blew her nose.

  “I was in the middle of my walk when a black SUV stopped at the curb beside us. A dark-skinned black man got out, pointed a gun at me and said, ‘Give me the baby.’

  “I pleaded with him not to take Hunter, but he was pointing the gun at me the whole time. He loosened the stroller strap, removed Hunter from the stroller, put him in the back seat and pulled away.”

  As Lloyd listened intently, he noticed that there were more holes in Mrs. Pauley’s story than there were in a package of Swiss cheese. He could not believe the police had taken her claims seriously, but he let her continue.

  “After the car sped off, I screamed for help. I had my cell phone with me and called 911. The police arrived shortly after that.”

  “Mrs. Pauley, can you give a more detailed description of the man who took Hunter? So far, all you’ve said is that he was dark-skinned. Can you give his approximate height, weight or age? Did he have any distinctive marks, like tattoos or scars? What was he wearing?”

  “It all happened so fast. Let’s see, he was medium height, maybe five feet ten inches tall. He was very muscular and was between twenty and thirty years old, I think.”

  “I wasn’t really looking at him that closely because I was very frightened,” she continued. “After all, he was pointing a gun at me.”

  To Lloyd, she seemed to be making things up as she went along. “Can you describe the make or model of the SUV he was driving? Was it a Ford Expedition, a Ford Explorer, or an Escalade? Was it a foreign make, like a Mercedes or a BMW?”

  “I really don’t know much about cars, but I believe it was a Ford. It was big and black and had tinted windows.”

  “Was anyone else with him or was he acting alone?”

  “When he opened the back door, I didn’t see anyone else inside, so I guess he was acting alone.”

  Lloyd continued with the barrage of questions. “Can you think of a reason why someone would kidnap your child, Mrs. Pauley? Did the kidnapper ask you your name or did he ask for the child’s name?”

  “We didn’t carry on a conversation, if that’s what you mean,” she replied.

  “Mrs. Pauley, what I mean is has he called to make a ransom demand?”

  “We haven’t received any calls yet, but I’m assuming that he kidnapped Hunter for ransom. We River Oaks residents are constantly targeted by criminals of one sort or another,” she said with an air of superiority. “My husband and I just want Hunter back,” she said, as she again sobbed into the tissues.

  “The only thing is, Mrs. Pauley, how did the kidnapper know who you were? Since Hunter is only two months old, his picture probably has not yet been circulated and, at that age, babies look very much alike.”

  “I have no idea. He could have been following me and keeping track of when I come and go. As I said, I take Hunter for our neighborhood stroll about four days a week.”

  “Did the kidnapper have a car seat in the back?”

  “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

  Lloyd could tell that Mrs. Pauley was beginning to get nervous about all of the questions he was asking, another clear sign that she was indeed hiding something. The normal reaction from a mother whose child was missing would have been periodic outbursts of tears coupled with complete cooperation.

  “Well, a two-month old baby cannot sit up in the back seat of a car. How did the kidnapper transport Hunter if he didn’t have a car seat?”

  “I didn’t look in the back seat, but he could have laid Hunter down in the back.”

  “Was Hunter asleep at the time of the kidnapping?”

  “No, he was awake, Mr. Palmer. He was playing in the stroller.”

  “And he didn’t cry, scream or show any signs of distress when the stranger picked him up from the stroller and put him the car?”

  “Well, Hunter is a very quiet baby, and he doesn’t cry that much.” She paused and looked at Lloyd intently. “You certainly ask a lot of questions, Mr. Palmer. The police officers didn’t ask all of these questions. They just wanted a description of the man who grabbed Hunter, and they’ve asked me to work with a professional sketch artist so they could circulate a picture of him to all of the law enforcement departments in the area.”

  “Well, Mrs. Pauley, I’m a reporter, and that’s how we develop the details of our stories. We ask a lot of questions. By the way, Mrs. Pauley, where is your husband?”

  “He’s overseas on a business trip in London closing a major real estate deal. I called him as soon as this happened, and he’s on his way back to the States now. His plane should arrive this evening,” she said as she blew her nose, once again, into the wad of crumpled tissues in her hand.

  “He flies in a private jet, you know; one of the perks of being a top executive at the company.”

  “Mrs. Pauley, do you have a recent picture of Hunter that I could have so we can include it with the story?”

  She perked up a bit then. “Yes. We had some professional photos of Hunter taken a couple of weeks ago, and I’ll get one for you.”

  She stood up and casually strolled out of the room as Lloyd looked around the library. As were most homes of the we
althy, the room was filled with expensive carvings and art. The built-in walnut bookcases included what appeared to be the classics and many first-edition books. Original artwork hung on all four walls. There were a number of Persian throw rugs and a Louis XIV desk.

  The police were probably intimidated as soon as they walked in the door. It had been Lloyd’s experience that law enforcement officers were trained not to ask the wealthy too many questions when they arrived at a crime scene.

  With the political connections the rich possessed, aggressive questioning by a police officer could result in a reprimand, demotion or even a dismissal. No officer wanted to risk losing his pension to cast doubt on a well-connected Houstonian who, even if guilty, could afford high-priced legal representation and beat the rap.

  Mrs. Pauley returned with the photo. “Here’s a picture of our precious Hunter, Mr. Palmer. We would be eternally grateful for anything the Ledger could do to help us apprehend this monster.”

  “We will certainly let the public know about this, and perhaps someone will see Hunter with the kidnapper and call the authorities. After all, a black man with a white infant in tow should be easy to spot.” Lloyd wondered if Mrs. Pauley would notice the implication he was making, but it went right over her head.

  “I’ll get Maria to show you out,” said Mrs. Pauley, referring to the maid who had greeted Lloyd at the door. Lloyd followed her out of the room and was met by Maria at the library’s entrance.

  “Please come this way, Mr. Palmer,” said Maria, as Lloyd followed her to the front door. He turned around and looked at the winding staircase, which dominated the home’s entrance.

  It was obvious to him that Mrs. Pauley was hiding something, and he wondered how the police were going to respond. It would not be long before he would get his answer.

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 12

  Ron Singleton was leaving work unusually late for a Wednesday evening. As the chief engineer for Houston’s new road construction project, he was finishing up a meeting with some contractors that did not end until seven o’clock. He rarely left the office later than five thirty, and, as he walked to his car, he phoned his wife, Shirley, to let her know he was just leaving.

  “Sorry I didn’t call you earlier, honey, but the meeting just broke a few minutes ago. These contractors have botched some of the sewer work that needed to be done and it looks like this project is going to be thirty days overdue. I’m going to recommend that we don’t use this company again. They’ve messed up one time too many.”

  “I was starting to get a little worried, Ron, with all of the law enforcement that’s on the road now.”

  Ron had been in meetings all day and had not heard the news about the Pauley kidnapping. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you heard, Ron? A River Oaks baby has been kidnapped. The news people are reporting that the kidnapper was a dark-skinned black man in a black SUV. The police have been stopping anybody who remotely fits the description and conducting a vehicle search.

  “More than two dozen black men have been arrested already. The NAACP and the New Black Panther Party are both up in arms, but until the baby is found, black men in the city are vulnerable. Since you’re in your black Chevy Tahoe and you didn’t get home at the usual time, I’ve been very nervous.”

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say, Shirley. And I have a City of Houston parking sticker on my car so, even if I get stopped, the cops will know that I work for the city.”

  “Ron, this family lives in River Oaks, which means they have a lot of clout. They’re not your average family with an average baby. Please get home as soon as possible.”

  “I’m headed home now, and I don’t have any stops I need to make. I’ll be there soon.”

  Ron hit the end button on his cell phone and slowly pulled out of the downtown parking lot. He had a thirty-minute drive home and had not eaten since lunch time, so he was looking forward to eating whatever Shirley had prepared. He only had to drive about twelve blocks before he reached the on-ramp to the I-45 freeway. Once he got on the freeway, he didn’t anticipate any delays.

  Ron turned on the Sade CD he had been listening to that morning and had only gone a few blocks when he looked in his rearview mirror and noticed a flashing police light. He certainly had not been speeding, and he assumed that the police wanted him to pull over so they could pass by. When he pulled over, the police car pulled behind him.

  Early on, Ron had learned the routine. As a black man in America, he’d learned that he had to be completely passive and non-confrontational as far as law enforcement was concerned. He had known too many people who, because they had done nothing wrong and thought they were in the clear, had challenged the police officer who had stopped them. Things often spiraled out of control and led to an arrest and a court appearance.

  In more extreme cases, some Houston drivers had been shot, though none fatally in several years. Unfortunately, the criminal justice system was upside down as far as black men were concerned. They were first presumed to be guilty and they had to prove their innocence.

  Ron checked his rearview mirror again, and two police officers emerged from their car. They approached his car from both sides, and he rolled down his window. The officer on the driver’s side shined his flashlight into the front seat of Ron’s car.

  “How can I help you officers?”

  “Do you know that your rear tail light is not working?”

  “It isn’t? I didn’t know, officer. I had my car inspected about six months ago and didn’t know the bulb had gone out. I’ll get it fixed as soon as possible. But I’m curious: Do you routinely stop people who have non-working tail lights?”

  “We do when a vehicle fits the description of a car used in the commission of a crime; but, according to the law, we can stop anyone for probable cause. There was a kidnapping this morning and your SUV fits the description of the vehicle used to snatch the little boy.”

  “My wife mentioned that to me a few moments ago officer when I spoke to her on the phone, but I assure you that I am a law abiding citizen. I’m just getting off of work and I work for the City of Houston. Let me show you my identification,” Ron said, as he reached in his suit jacket pocket for his wallet.

  Both of the officers pulled their guns out of their holsters and pointed them in his direction. “Hold it right there, buddy. Put your hands up.”

  “But, officer, I was just reaching for my wallet to show you my identification,” said Ron, as he realized that he had made the potentially fatal mistake of making a sudden movement without first requesting permission.

  “Put your hands up,” the officer said again, this time with more emphasis and volume.

  Ron nervously raised both his hands, and the officer on the driver’s side opened his door. “Now get out of the car, sir, and face your vehicle.”

  Humiliated, Ron complied with their instructions and put his hands on the roof of his SUV as the officer searched him from head to toe. The officer reached inside Ron’s jacket pocket and removed his wallet.

  The officer who had searched Ron handed the wallet to his partner. “Check out his identification, Bob, and make sure there are no warrants for his arrest.”

  “It says here that his name is Ronald Singleton,” said the officer who was on the passenger side of Ron’s SUV, as he went to the police car and typed Ron’s name and driver’s license number into the computer. After a few minutes, the officer in the car returned.

  “We are going to have to take you in for questioning and for resisting arrest, Mr. Singleton,” said the officer as he placed handcuffs on Ron’s wrists.

  “Resisting arrest? When did I resist arrest, officer? I was just trying to show you my identification.”

  “Mr. Singleton, you fit the general description of the kidnapper we’ve been looking for, and you’re driving the type of vehicle that was described. All day, we’ve been looking for a dark-skinned black male who is about your height and dr
iving a black SUV. Once we get you to the station, if you can account for your whereabouts at 11:00 a.m. today, the charges may be dropped. At that time, you’ll be issued a ticket for the busted tail light,” said the officer as he opened the back door of the car and motioned for Ron to get inside.

  “Officers, if you run my driver’s license through the system, you’ll see that I don’t have any outstanding warrants. I haven’t even had a traffic ticket in more than five years,” Ron said he lowered his head to get in the back seat. Passing cars slowed down to observe the policemen in action.

  “Officers, you’re making a mistake,” Ron pleaded, to no avail. The police car pulled away from the curb and headed toward the city jail.

  Ron had been there once when he had to bail his nephew out of jail for outstanding traffic warrants. He never dreamed he’d be going there himself as a suspected criminal.

  311

  Gwen Richardson

  CHAPTER 13

  As Lloyd sat at home watching the local evening news, Hamisi’s words haunted him. Lloyd knew in the depths of his soul that the Pauley kidnapping was a hoax—Mrs. Pauley’s account of the facts simply did not add up. Yet, the manhunt for the suspected kidnapper dominated all of the local news stations. CNN had even mentioned it on their Headline News program, but had only included some video footage of the Pauleys from a previous story they had run featuring some of Houston’s influential couples.

  Hamisi had told him that the information fed to the American masses through the mainstream media often had less validity than the Lemba tribe’s oral tradition, and Lloyd had almost laughed at him. Now Lloyd felt as though the joke was on him as he digested the video montage of black men in handcuffs placed into police vehicles and carted off to jail.