Where's Ellen? (Mystery) (MPP A JOE MCFARLAND / GINNY HARRIS MYSTERY Book 1)

by Stuart Safft

  “What are we looking for?” asked one of the neighbors.

  “Anything and everything,” answered the fire chief. “You need to identify to your team leader anything that looks out of place: a piece of clothing, blood, human footprints, broken branches, god-forbid a body or part of a body, and so on. If you see anything that seems unusual, call your team leader over. We’d rather have 20 false alarms than skip over something important.”

  “OK,” responded some of the volunteers.

  “Oh,” added the fire chief, “and each of you take a few bottles of water with you. Despite it being mid-April, you’re going to get very hot and tired, and we want to avoid dehydration. We don’t need to add any ‘rescue the rescuer’ efforts to what we’re already doing. We’ve got about seven hours of daylight left and we have lots of geography to cover. We’ll get some pizza or sandwiches brought in in a few hours. I guarantee that you’ll all have worked up one heck of an appetite by then. Let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Meanwhile, back in the center of town, Joe parked behind the police station and he and Ginny walked in, stopping at the little canteen area to fill their cups with hours-old coffee before proceeding to their desks. Ginny got busy right away, issuing the BOLO alert, along with the photo of Ellen, to the various surrounding agencies and the State Police. Knowing that they’d automatically kick the BOLO back since it hadn’t been 24 hours since Ellen’s disappearance, she didn’t even bother sending it to the nearest FBI office. In the larger city police departments, the BOLO would have been easily and rapidly issued via computer; in Jasper Creek, however, it was a tedious task, requiring Ginny to manually fax the BOLO and photo to each intended recipient. Someday, mused Ginny, the Jasper Creek PD will get its technology advanced to the 21st century.

  While Ginny was working on the BOLOs, Joe walked back to the chief’s office. He knocked on the closed door, opened it and walked in without waiting for a response. The chief, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was sitting behind his dull gray metal desk, partially hidden behind piles of papers and files and hazily visible through the thick cloud of cigar smoke. It had long been a topic of discussion among the department members whether his constant cigar smoking would first kill the chief or, via second-hand smoke, one or more of the other department members.

  Most in the department assumed that the chief had a first and last name, but to everyone he was just “Chief.” Even his wife called him “Chief.” As chief of the department since about the time that Noah was building his ark, Chief ran the department pretty much as he first did decades ago. To him, the department was technologically on the leading edge ever since they upgraded from rotary to push-button phones a few decades ago.

  Sitting on the one small chair in front of the chief’s desk, and without any “good morning” or other pleasantries, Joe gave the chief a brief summary of the Ellen Sanders situation, what he and Ginny did and were doing and their intent to open a case the following morning if she had not turned up by then. Joe offered no comments as to his suspicions or intuition about what might have happened to Ellen and, if foul play was involved, the what, who and why of it. The chief said nothing, nodded his head up and down and went back to reading, or making believe he was reading, the open file in front of him. Joe got up, walked out, closed the chief’s door and headed for his desk. So much for intimate and meaningful interpersonal relations with the chief! thought Joe.

  Joe and Ginny cleaned up some miscellaneous paperwork related to other cases, and then headed out to grab a quick lunch. As they did most days that they were at headquarters when lunchtime rolled around, they first conducted their debate of the pros and cons of pizza vs. Chinese, and then went around the corner and settled in at Sancho’s, the local taco shop, a reasonable peace-making compromise. Half way through their second taco, Ginny got a radio call from the PD’s one civilian employee who served as a combination receptionist, dispatcher, data entry clerk, filing clerk and girl Friday.

  “Ginny, the chief wants to see you and Joe ASAP.”

  “OK. We’ll be there in a few minutes,” replied Ginny.

  Hearing this over Ginny’s two-way radio, Joe muttered, “Uh oh,” thinking that, much like being summoned to the principal’s office, this was rarely a good thing.

  Gobbling up the remainders of their tacos, Joe and Ginny hustled back to the PD and headed for the chief’s office.

  “What the hell did you two do now?” bellowed the chief as he slowly got up from his chair, slammed his office door closed and maneuvered himself back into his chair behind his desk. As there was only one other chair in the office, both Joe and Ginny remained standing.

  “Hello to you, too,” barked back Joe as he rolled his eyes upward and tilted his head toward the ceiling. “What’s your problem this time?”

  “What do you mean, Chief?” asked Ginny calmly, trying to nip in the bud another Chief vs. Joe confrontation.

  “The damn FBI!”

  “Well, that’s something we can agree on. What about the damn FBI?” asked Joe.

  “I just got a call from the Special Agent in Charge in their Cincinnati office. An ASAC and a special agent are on the way here now to talk to the three of us. They want to be sure that we’re here waiting for them.”

  “What do they want to talk about?” asked Joe.

  “The Ellen Sanders case,” responded the chief.

  “What?” exclaimed Ginny. As her cheeks turned bright pink, she continued, “First of all, there is no case yet as it hasn’t been 24 hours since her disappearance. And we specifically didn’t even send our BOLO to the Feebies, knowing they’d ignore it because of the less-than-24 hours.”

  “Well, they obviously know about it! And rather than ignoring it, one of the agents coming here is an Assistant Special Agent in Charge from their Cincinnati office. They’ve completely bypassed their local satellite office in Columbus. So something big is brewing.”

  As they continued discussing this unexpected development, a sharp knock on the chief’s door was immediately followed by the entrance of two men, obviously FBI agents to anyone who even briefly glanced at them. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dan Martin looked like he’d just arrived out of central casting: his 6-foot 3-inch broad-shouldered build, his light-brown crew cut hair, his dark suit, blue tie and nicely polished shoes all screamed FBI. Special Agent Frank Florio was short, muscular and sharp-nosed; his clothes, however, were smaller twins to those worn by Martin.

  The chief looked at the new arrivals, and gave a quick look and subtle shoulder shrug to Joe and Ginny. Standing up, but remaining behind his desk, the chief faced the two FBI agents. “Hello, Gentlemen,” said the chief. “Let’s go down the hall to the conference room where there’s more room and enough chairs for all of us to sit.” And so they did, with the chief leading the way, followed by the two FBI agents and then Ginny. Joe brought up the rear of the parade, happy to stay 10 feet behind the others. As they were sitting down in the conference room following brief introductions and handshakes, or mere head nods in Joe’s case, the chief continued, “So what brings you folks from the big city to little old Jasper Creek?”

  “I think you already know the answer. The case involving the woman you know as Ellen Sanders,” answered Martin. It was already obvious that Martin would be doing the speaking for the FBI; it wasn’t clear what, if any, role Special Agent Florio would play.

  “Whaddaya mean?” challenged Joe. “We haven’t opened up a formal case file yet. So there isn’t even such a case yet. And why did you say ‘known as Ellen Sanders’? And how do you know anything about this? And why is the FBI already involved? And…”

  “Hold on, Detective. Keep it in your pants.” interrupted Martin. “The FBI is not already ‘involved’ as you so nicely put it; the FBI is now IN CHARGE of this case. And I mean FULLY in charge. We need you to turn over all your notes and whateve
r evidence you have, and tell us all you know.”

  “Chief,” pleaded Joe. “What’s going on? Please explain to these big-city super special agents that, at least for now, this is a local situation. We don’t need, haven’t asked for and don’t want any so-called help from the FBI.”

  Before the chief could reply, Martin again explained to the chief and his two detectives that the FBI would be completely taking over the case starting right then. “We’re sorry for taking over like this, but these orders came directly from FBI headquarters in D.C. If you have any problems with this, I suggest you check with your superiors; I’m sure our SAC has already been in touch with them.”

  “Bull,” said Joe. “I can only imagine how sorry you are to be taking the case from us.”

  “Believe me when I say that we’ll keep you in the loop as much as we can,” added Martin.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Ginny in her sweetest, most cooperative-sounding voice. As was often the case, Ginny and Joe were able to play “good cop-bad cop” off each other without any advance planning. In fact, maybe they were just acting their normal selves, not play acting at all. And, not surprisingly, Ginny always had the good cop role.

  “Sorry. We can’t tell you. National security is involved.”

  “What!” yelled Joe. “That’s bullshit! That’s how you’ll keep us in the loop? I don’t get it. At first it looked like this lady either snuck off for a quickie with her boyfriend or got whacked by her husband. Or perhaps both. But now that you guys are so insistent on taking over the case, it probably does somehow involve national security or something else really big. It would sure help if you’d tell us what this is all about.”

  “Sorry, but we’ve already told you more than we should have. Now please give us all your notes and any evidence and bring us up to speed so we can get out of your hair,” said Martin.

  “Gimme a couple of minutes to make a few phone calls,” said the chief as he got up and walked out of the conference room to return to his office. Without the chief’s presence, the tension only built. Joe and Ginny sat silently, alternating between glancing at each other and glaring at the two FBI agents. The two FBI agents stared directly ahead; they might as well have been store mannequins.

  After a couple of minutes, Ginny got up and asked, “Would anyone like coffee or water?”

  Before saying, “Not me, thanks,” Joe gave Ginny a quick look that clearly meant “no need to be so gracious to these two SOBs.” Ginny returned a look to Joe that said, “Who cares? Give ’em a break.”

  Both of the FBI agents simultaneously responded, “No, thank you.” Ginny sat back down next to Joe.

  A couple of minutes later the chief reappeared. Speaking to Joe and Ginny, he said, “I did check and, yes, for some unknown reason or reasons, this case now belongs to the FBI. We are to turn over everything we have and then stay off the case and out of their way unless we’re asked to help.”

  Joe and Ginny gave each other one of their “can you believe this?” looks just before Joe blurted out, “I don’t get it. There’s probably something big and important going on, but I’ve got no idea what. Seems to me that this should be a local police matter until we’re told enough to agree that it should become a case for the Feds.” After a few more minutes of moaning and groaning, he and Ginny summarized the whole morning for the two FBI agents and gave them photocopies of the BOLO, the photograph Joe had taken of Ellen’s contact lists and the meager notes they’d written so far.

  “Thanks for all your cooperation. We’ll keep you informed,” muttered Martin as he and Florio headed for the door and were gone as suddenly as they appeared.

  “So much for cooperating and keeping us in the loop,” muttered Joe. “What a pile of crap! Why do we have to put up with this shit?” The chief and Ginny both merely nodded.

  The chief concluded, “I know how much you two are dying to continue digging into this, especially given the FBI’s interest, and especially so early in the case. But don’t! They’ll be watching us closely and I don’t need any more headaches with city hall. And, believe me, you two don’t need any more headaches with me.”

  CHAPTER 6

  About one hour before the normal end of their shift, Joe and Ginny decided to take a drive back to the Sanders’ house to check in on the fire department’s search. Nodding to each other, Ginny left first. Carrying her pocketbook as if she were going to the restroom, after checking to make sure that no one was watching, she made a quick right turn into the stairwell and walked downstairs. A minute later, Joe grabbed his coffee cup and headed for what looked like a coffee refill, only to similarly jog right and head down the stairs. A quick walk across the parking lot to their car and they were headed back to the Sanders’ house, with Joe, as usual, behind the steering wheel. In their line of work, Joe and Ginny were constantly in and out of PD headquarters; they didn’t need any approval to leave. But they wanted to avoid the chief seeing them this time and casually asking them where they were going. They didn’t want to have to lie to the chief, but they sure didn’t want to tell him that they were following up on the Ellen Sanders case. Better to just avoid him.

  “Joe, you know that the chief told us to back off this case. He was loud and clear.”

  “Yeah, I know. But if we only did what he told us to do, we’d never get anything accomplished. Besides, we’re not doing anything on the case. Our tour is about over. We’re merely two concerned citizens trying to see what’s going on with the search for Mrs. Sanders.”

  “Yeah, and if you believe that, I have a bridge over the Ohio River I’d like to sell to you.”

  “Very funny,” responded Joe. “This whole thing with the FBI really pisses me off. Who the hell do they think they are? God’s gift to humanity?”

  “Yeah, their sudden involvement, especially this early, seems weird. But I don’t get your reaction. It upsets me.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Joe, I would hope by now you realize that I care about you. And I don’t like to see you this upset. I really care about you. And more than just as a partner on the job.”

  “And I do about you, Ginny. You’re the best friend I’ve got.” Joe glanced over at Ginny who was looking right up into his face. He quickly refocused his eyes back on the road. Joe couldn’t believe that he had blurted this out. He knew that his feelings for Ginny had been growing for the past year or so, but he had been sure that he was able to control them. Now he couldn’t even control his mouth. Up until this discussion, the most personal thing he had said to Ginny during the past six months had been “nice shirt.” A quick look in the rear view mirror, and Joe confirmed the pink glow of his cheeks; he couldn’t remember the last time that he had blushed — probably in high school.

  Seeing Joe’s discomfort with the turn this discussion had taken, Ginny tried to lighten it up. As she had done several times in the past when she recognized Joe’s discomfort or frustration level rising, Ginny hoped that her playing verbal sparring partner would feel like friendship to Joe. Close friendship. “Who are you kidding, Joe? I’m the only friend you have.”

  “Well, yeah, there’s that, too,” responded Joe, relieved that this discussion had ended — at least for the time being.

  For the next few minutes, silence prevailed in the car, with each of the partners lost in their own thoughts. Ginny thought back to what it must have been like for Joe eight years ago. He had been a detective with the Chicago Police Department when his wife and 6-year-old son were killed by a drunk driver. His grief had turned to depression and heavy drinking, he had explained to Ginny late one night on a dead-end stakeout. Eventually, his downward spiral got so deep he was dismissed from the Chicago police force. With the help of counseling, he had gradually regained his balance and stayed sober. But he realized that he had to leave the center of all that sadness and anger. He sold his small house in Chicago and
moved to a quiet patch of Ohio — Jasper Creek, chosen because he knew no one there, had never even heard of it before, and no one would know him or his past.

  At first, he had explained to Ginny, things seemed to be going almost too well. He lived off the proceeds from the sale of his house, along with the proceeds from a life insurance policy on his wife, and rented a small apartment in Jasper Creek. He read, he went hiking and hunting in Wayne National Forest, where the Appalachians spilled over into the southeast corner of the state. But in less than two years, boredom crept over the distraction these pastimes had offered as a way through the ache of grief. He had to do something more meaningful. With no family, he had to find a way to need, and be needed by, others. He joined the Jasper Creek Police Department.

  The night that Joe had related the most painful portions of his story to her, Ginny had laid her hand over his as they sat on that late-night stakeout. For her, it was a gesture of understanding and sympathy, not pity. She had hoped, then, that he knew how she’d offered that touch. He hadn’t said anything, but neither had he removed his hand. He had just stopped talking and looked at her in the darkness of the unmarked car. Ginny was touched that Joe had opened up to her, indicating a closeness and trust that Ginny had felt for Joe but, until that moment, wasn’t sure whether Joe felt toward her.

  Was it any wonder that Joe had not made any real friends, much less had any romantic relationships, since then? Why set yourself up for such possible pain again?

  Ginny also was sorely lacking in the romantic relationship department. Soon after her high school graduation, she had married her high school sweetheart. A pleasant fellow, Carl Harris became a mechanic at the local auto shop. The marriage soured almost as soon as Ginny became a police officer. It was only well after the divorce that Ginny realized that Carl’s masculinity had been challenged by his wife becoming a cop. The divorce was as amicable as a divorce could be. They had very few assets to fight over; there was no alimony and, fortunately in Ginny’s mind, no children. Soon after the divorce, Carl moved to Pittsburgh and he and Ginny had not been in contact since. Whether it was just bad luck or Ginny’s reluctance to form another emotionally risky relationship, she dated very little and had no serious relationships with anyone since her divorce. In fact, her working relationship with Joe was the closest relationship that Ginny had had with any man since her divorce.