by Greg Enslen
King nodded. “Well, do it for a new car then. So, can you help out?”
After a moment, Mr. Harper looked up at the Chief. In the falling rain, his subtle nod would have been easy to miss.
20
Wednesday morning, bright and early.
Frank was sitting in the Perks Coffeehouse, already half-way through his third cup. Frank liked his coffee black and very strong. Sometimes with a little cream to take the edge off. And he’d tipped a little bourbon into it, just to be safe. He didn’t need to be getting the shakes this morning.
He appreciated the flavor and sweetness of the bourbon after days of nothing but vodka and beer. Chief King had fronted Frank a little cash to get the investigation rolling, and the liquor store near Dominoes had been his first stop. Now, Frank was settled and happy, ready to get started on the new case. And maybe, if he could help them out and wrap the case up quickly, he’d look a little better in his daughter’s eyes.
A young deputy named Peters was supposed to be here soon, but Frank had gotten here early and was jotting down ideas—and getting the lay of the land. Frank was anxious to get started. It felt good, cracking the books again. He’d been pushing papers in Birmingham for two years, and the cold cases never went anywhere.
But the new case was exciting. And to get rolling, Frank knew that you started with the basics. Good old-fashioned police work was as boring as shit, but you had to do the things you had to do. There were no short cuts or easy ways. Of course, computers were making it a lot easier to do some of the grunt work, like cross-checking files for patterns or accessing records from other municipalities.
He remembered years ago, at the FBI Academy, another guest instructor had visited at the same time he was there—they’d flown him in to teach Krav Maga.
Her name was Julie Noble, and she spoke about the power of computers and the interconnections between investigating agencies that could produce amazing results. She was famous in the Bureau for breaking one of the largest cases in the last twenty years. She’d used an advanced computing system–advanced for the time, that is—to catch Jack Terrington, a notorious serial killer. For nearly twenty years, he had stalked the country in his creepy, trophy-filled white van, killing scores of victims. She’d done the work, tracked Terrington, and finally caught him.
Agent Noble had been on the cutting edge of computers and pattern recognition, but she’d still investigated the case by starting with the basics: gather evidence, interview the witnesses, review every scrap of information gathered by other investigators, examine the crime scene, and establish a basic timeline of the events in question. This led to a hypothesis about how the crimes may have occurred. It was always the same, always a lot of work.
But that was the job.
Questioning the suspect, if there was one, came much later. Questioning the suspect was pointless unless you knew which questions to ask. And often there was not just one suspect.
The investigator also had to establish that a crime had been committed in the first place. In many cases, deaths or disappearances turned out to be simple bad luck or accidental or just horrible timing. But you had to nail the crime down. Then, and only then, did you start making your list of suspects.
The list usually started with witnesses and family. It sounded cruel, but people near a crime were likely to be involved. In a completely unsurprising twist, the perpetrator of the crime was often the same person who called it in. Or they were standing around at the crime scene, watching. Sometimes, they even offered to help the investigators with the case. Some criminals seemed to enjoy being involved and often tried, consciously or subconsciously, to draw attention to themselves.
Coming up with suspect list usually started with the family members. Sadly, most of the crimes committed in America were carried out by someone close to the victim—a spouse or a parent or a sibling. It was just human nature to covet what other people had. Or to be jealous when a spouse moved on to new relationships. Investigating family and close friends, in 80% of cases, nabbed you the perpetrator.
Frank sat back from his notes and looked around. He liked the coffee shop. Chief King had suggested it for its proximity to downtown and the central location. And keeping Frank out of the Police Department meant that Frank could feel free to get up to speed on his own, far from prying eyes. The Chief wasn’t interested in putting all of his eggs in the same basket, Frank figured. If things worked as they should, the Chief would essentially have parallel investigations going at the same time on the same crime.
The coffee shop was decorated for Halloween and was far nicer than expected for a little town in rural Ohio. There were the soft couches and ample seating and relaxed lighting that invited people to stay as long as they liked. People came and went, greeting each other and sitting for a while to catch up over coffee. And the place was sumptuously decorated: there was a beautiful brass sculpture hanging on one wall, along with large, framed paintings lit with small spotlights. It looked more like an art gallery than a coffee shop.
And it had been decorated for the season; every surface sported Halloween props, pumpkins and paper mache spiders. Cobwebs stretched over the front windows. In one corner stood a creepy, full-size zombie which would move when people passed it. Near the door stood a large babbling fountain, but, in a demented twist, the water had been dyed red. It looked like a cauldron of flowing, bubbling blood, with more “blood” falling into the cauldron from above.
He tore his eyes away from the decorations and went back to his list.
Kidnapping cases were easy to classify, falling into two distinct categories—a friend or family member, or a complete stranger. The cases were investigated in exactly the same fashion: assume it’s a close acquaintance and work outward.
It could be the parent who didn’t get the kid in the divorce, or a pissed-off grandparent, or the ex-boyfriend. Many times, the estranged parent or a close friend of the parent was the actual abductor, taking the child or arranging for the child to be taken, then fleeing over state lines. At that point, the case became an effort in location. These cases were often resolved quickly and without incident, especially since the Amber Alert system was established in 1996 to alert the public to be on the lookout for individuals fitting the description of an abductor or kidnapping victim.
He remembered that case in Texas in 1996—a 9-year-old girl named Amber was abducted and murdered in Arlington, Texas, only five hundred and fifty miles from New Orleans. The case had garnered national attention, sadly, and been the impetus for creating the Amber system, which had saved countless kids in the last 15 years.
Less often, a child is abducted for ransom. Those cases fell into two classes: someone close to the family, looking for leverage or a payday. Or, if the family is rich or famous, an anonymous and opportunistic criminal looking for money. The child is usually exchanged for money. Thankfully, it was in the best interests of the abductors to keep the child alive, at least until the ransom exchange. In Frank’s experience, the victim was recovered about half of the time.
But kidnappings by strangers were much more rare, but far more insidious. In those cases, there was no ransom demand. These were the cases that always made the news—a kid gets snatched at a county fair or from the mall and is never seen again. The most famous case was probably the kidnapping and murder of Adam Walsh in 1981 from a Sears department store in Hollywood, Florida. The tragedy led his father, John Walsh, to establish the Adam Walsh Child Resource Center, which eventually grew into the National Center of Missing and Exploited Children (NCMEC), a national nonprofit dedicated to finding missing or kidnapped children. Frank had worked with that group on several occasions on local and regional abductions. They had served as a valuable clearinghouse of case histories and an invaluable media partner in getting the word out about abduction. He’d been surprised to hear that the CMPD were not involving the national organization and its vast resources in looking for Charlie Martin and Maya Gutierrez.
Frank looked down at hi
s notepad. Without even noticing, he’d filled up two pages of notes on the case already, and he hadn’t seen a single case file.
The bell on the door jingled, and Frank looked up. He was back in situational awareness mode and not resisting it. He loved how all the doors in this town seemed to come with a little bell—maybe it was a town ordinance or something. Could a town legislate quaintness?
It was a police deputy, carrying two file boxes. As he entered, he tripped over the step and nearly fell. He juggled the boxes, nearly dropping them, and folders and papers from the top box slid out, falling to the floor all around the door. Two of the files fell into the red “blood” of the bubbling cauldron, splashing the red water out onto the walls and door.
The deputy let out a yell and set the boxes down, completely blocking the entrance, his backside sticking out the open door. The deputy hurried to gather up files and papers, mumbling apologies to those around him. A couple waited outside to get in.
Frank stood and walked over and held the door open for the couple, then stooped to help the young cop gather up all of the files. Frank also fished the two folders out of the water and held them over the cauldron to let the “blood” run off. Frank wondered if anyone would be concerned that these two files in particular looked like they’d been dipped in blood.
“Hi, are you Mr. Harper?” the young cop said as he stuffed files and folders back into one box. Neither box was full. “I’m Deputy Peters. I work for the Cooper’s Mill PD. I’m supposed to help you out.”
Frank nodded.
“I got that, son,” he said gruffly. “It’s not hard to figure out. The uniform—that and the big boxes marked ‘Police Files’ in your hands.” Chief King had mentioned his cousin was on the force. Frank wondered if King had assigned him the rookie cop because King could trust him, or because the Deputy was too inexperienced in the field to be helpful in the “real” investigation.
The deputy stood and looked down at the boxes in his hands and smiled, nervous. Frank, carrying the two red files, directed the young cop over to his table.
“Yes, these are the files,” Deputy Peters said, dropping the boxes down heavily on the table. Frank snatched up his coffee mug to keep it from being knocked over. “Sorry about dropping them.”
Frank shook his head and sat down. The young cop pulled out a chair for himself and almost tipped it over before sitting down. The kid was like a bull in a china shop, full of energy.
“What files did you bring?” Frank asked.
Peters pulled files out of the top box. “Copies—mostly jackets on each person in the family or close to it. Interviews, backgrounds, stuff like that. On top is the scene investigation. Well, it was on top – now it’s all red,” Peters said, pointing at the two red files Frank had carried over. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Frank said. He flipped open the files to let them dry out.
“Under that is the FBI file,” Peters said. “It’s pretty small. The Bureau guy, he’s a little green.”
Frank looked up at him.
“How long you been a cop?”
Peters’ eyes went wide, and he shook his head.
“Don’t get me wrong—I’m green, too, and I know it,” Peters said. “But I’ve been hanging around with Cousin Jeff since I was eleven. I haven’t been a cop long, but even I can tell when someone’s out of their depth.”
Frank nodded and grabbed the boxes, sliding them around. He started taking the files out and making stacks—incident reports, family, friends.
“So, you on the case?” the Deputy asked, watching Frank get organized.
Frank looked at him.
“I’m just helping out the Chief,” Frank said. “Going through the files, seeing if he missed anything. Though I don’t know what help I’ll be.”
Peters looked at the box.
“At this point, any help is needed—and appreciated,” he said, smiling at Frank. “Hey, do you mind, if I stay and help you?”
Frank shrugged.
“I don’t really care. If you want, stick around and get yourself some coffee. Or, better yet, come back in an hour. That’ll give me a chance to get through some of the files first, and then I’ll be ready with questions.”
The kid nodded and thought about it, then smiled.
“I’ll be back in a bit.”
Frank nodded as the kid left. Normally, he would have preferred being left alone to go through the files but here, in a new town where he didn’t know anyone, he’d have lots of questions. Names, locations, relationships. It made sense to be able to ask questions of someone involved in the area.
Frank went to the counter and had the woman top off his cup of coffee, then sat back down and finished setting up his stacks.
He began with the incident report, peeling the wet pages apart carefully. Thankfully, most of the red paint was on the outside of the file folder, and the report inside was undamaged. The case files on the family, especially the parents, were usually the most germane, but he wanted to get the scene established in his head first.
First call came in on Monday, October 3, from the mother. She’d sent her girl off to school, waving at the girls as they walked up Hyatt Avenue. After about an hour, the school had called to check in.
Nick Martin, the father, said the school had called home about the unscheduled absence, and Glenda had called him at his job. He was in construction and owned a very successful construction firm. He’d driven home and, together, they’d walked up to the school, looking for Charlie and Maya. When they found nothing, they called the police from the school and returned home to meet the police.
The first cop on the scene was Sergeant Graves, a cop Frank hadn’t yet met. King mentioned him during their conversation in the rain last night. Graves was #3 on the Cooper’s Mill police force, behind Chief King and Detective Barnes, who was lead on the case.
Graves had interviewed the parents and housekeeper, taken photos, done a sweep of the area. He established that the girls usually walked up Hyatt to Broadway and turned. Frank quickly shuffled through the file but couldn’t find a map or anything. These guys probably all knew the town so well they didn’t need a map. He’d need to get one.
The Martin’s girl, Charlie, was eight and in the third grade at Broadway Elementary, located on Broadway between Fifth and Seventh Streets. The other girl, Maya, was seven. As far as Frank could tell without looking at a map, it was a straight shot up Hyatt to Broadway, and the mother usually watched the girls walk up to the turn. On this morning, she did not.
Graves had also noted in the report that Nick had asked Graves to accompany him into the kitchen, away from Glenda and the housekeeper, who were very upset. Mr. Martin had wanted to chat privately about how to proceed on the case and also offered Graves a beer, something that struck Frank as out of place. Maybe they knew each other—either way, it seemed strange timing.
Sergeant Graves had then taken his own walk, up Hyatt to Broadway, to figure out where, along the walk, the girls had disappeared. He’d found a water bottle with Charlie’s name on it in the gutter at the corner of Seventh and Broadway, within sight of the school. Evidently, all the kids in that school carried water bottles with their names on them. It wasn’t explained why in the file. Graves had spotted the bottle in the gutter behind the tire of a car. It wasn’t on the Broadway side but instead on the northwest corner of Broadway and Seventh, a short road that intersected Broadway and delineated the western edge of the school property. On this side of the school it was all playgrounds and fences. The road was screened from the front entrance of the school, where most of the teachers and students would have been in the minutes before school started.
King was right. It looked like the girls were taken in broad daylight and within sight of the school. Finding this bottle meant the kidnappers or abductors would have walked the girl down the street to a waiting vehicle. It had to be the case—any closer to Broadway Elementary and even the smoothest, most practiced snatch-and-grab would have
been compromised.
It was almost impossible to believe that no one had seen anything, yet no witnesses had come forward. There were several residences on that corner, according to Graves’ report. But interviews with each of the residents who were home at the time, and later interviews with those residents who returned home later in the day, turned up nothing.
Graves had continued to the school and talked with several people there—teachers and the principal and a custodian who had been cleaning the grounds within sight of the corner where the water bottle was found—but no one saw anything out of the ordinary other than police cars and patrolmen in the area.
Frank flipped the page and found the file ended—not much to go on, but it summed up the scene that morning. The back page stuck to the file folder.
He set the file aside to dry and finished his coffee. Frank noticed it had begun to rain outside. People were coming in and shaking their umbrellas before leaning them up against the door jamb. Frank stretched and grabbed the stack of case files on each person in the case, ignoring the other wet file for now.
He started with Nick Martin, father of Charlie Martin.
Nick Martin’s file was thicker than any of the other case files, but it didn’t take long to figure out why. The guy was a veritable pillar of society in this tiny town—successful business owner, local celebrity, City Council, sports hero in his youth. He was a Golden Boy—a phrase Ben Stone had always used—a person who’d always gotten everything they wanted or needed, just when they needed it.
This “Golden Boy” had been the star of his Cooper’s Mill High School Football team, quarterback and everything. Played all of his games at the downtown stadium, broke records, led his team to the championship, et cetera, et cetera. It was too much like a movie. Frank was tempted to peek at the wife’s file to see if she had been the head of the cheerleading squad.
But Nick Martin had done well in school and parlayed that into a scholarship to Ohio State, where he’d also played ball until an injury to his shoulder, during a game in his sophomore year, ended his football career.
