by Greg Enslen
Steve Furrows, the ex-partner who had been such a pain in the ass when he was trying to quit smoking, had used this methodology, called “mind mapping,” to link together everything in the case and make a map of those involved. Steve had said it helped him see the big picture and to trace all the linkages back to the original crime. Frank had found it worked particularly well in cases like this one, with lots of people involved and all of them seemingly connected in one way or another.
So Frank worked, head down at the small round table by the window, drawing on sheets of white paper and taping each of them up on the window. Back in his field days, he would have done this in his office, posting the map in a central conference room where everyone working on the case could see it. Instead, he was working this one by himself, apart from the other cops, at the request of Chief King.
Frank knew that reviewing all the case files again, after spending six hours today reading them, would be overkill—and it might overtax his weary mind—but there was just something off about this case.
On first blush, the case looked like a slam-dunk, but nothing strange had come up in the profiles of any of those people connected to the family. Everything seemed on the up-and-up.
It was going to be a long night.
Frank sighed and muted the TV—he had it on to watch the news when it came around. He wanted to see the press conference and any other press coverage. Frank really didn’t care about how he ended up looking or sounding on the TV—he’d been in enough high-profile cases to get his ugly mug on TV before. But he was interested in how the news stations reported it and what, if anything, would be the reaction in the community to the “news” that the kidnappers had been positively identified.
He tried to ignore the sealed bottle on top of the mini-bar.
Frank had had a nice dinner downtown at “O’Shaughnessy’s.” He’d sat in the bar, and one entire wall of the place was this beautiful, old, exposed brick. Great food, too. But on the way back to the hotel, he’d found himself at the little liquor store located next to a Domino’s.
He’d gone inside and grabbed one of those baskets, filling it up with great stuff, but then ended up putting almost all of it back except for one bottle of Maker’s Mark. Maybe he’d been embarrassed, looking down at the basket. How sad was it that his first reaction to a windfall of cash, something he’d been deeply worried about only last night, was to blow it all on bourbon?
Or maybe he was worried about the promise he’d made to Chief King.
Frank knew that he shouldn’t, but he needed it to think. His brain just didn’t work right without a drink or two. It was the lubrication that made his mind operate, like oil in an engine. He needed to go through all the files again, one by one, making notes and diagrams and staying up as long as it would take. The bourbon would help. His internal debate only lasted a few more minutes before he retrieved the bottle and slowly opened, taking in the rich aroma. Frank poured himself out a measure in a glass, and threw it back.
The warmth spread slowly through him, calming him. Bourbon always made him feel warmer and somehow stretched out, flatter and looser, more mellow. Nothing was out of reach, no puzzle too difficult to solve. He tipped another measure into the glass and drank it quickly, then a third measure went into the glass, and he walked over to the table and sat down, setting the glass next to the stacks and stacks of files.
He looked out the window, past the few sheets of his “map.” The trucks hummed on the highway, racing into the night. The cars and trucks and their drivers were whizzing past the exit to this little town, oblivious to what was happening just a mile away. The people in those cars probably didn’t know about the kidnapping or the botched ransom drop or the bewildering second ransom call from the kidnappers, something exceedingly rare. He’d only heard of it happening a few other times. No one ever went back to the well. It was just too dangerous.
But the people in those cars didn’t know or didn’t care.
He wished he could walk away. Why had he allowed himself to get caught up? He hated himself for being so weak, but, at the same time, the case was helping his mind—even if it was baffling, at least his mind had something to work on for the first time in a long while.
Frank shook his head and looked back at the files. He knew he could just stare out the window for hours, watching the cars whiz by and relaxing into the warmth in his belly. But he needed to be making progress. He needed to find something, anything, that he could add to the map and point him in a new, and fruitful, direction.
He opened the first box of files and set aside the stack of pens, tape, and a pair of scissors resting on top. The first file was one of the red ones, the incident report. It was the first file he’d ever read on the case, only 36 hours ago at the coffee shop, Wednesday morning, when Deputy Peters had dropped the boxes and two of the files had fallen into the bloody water. This would be Frank’s fourth time through all the case files, but he figured he’d better start over, right at the beginning. He took the case file—labeled “Incident Report Scene Investigation”—and flipped it open.
34
George drove the Corolla down the long, straight country road that ran north out of Troy and into farmland that stretched off into the night. He loved driving at night, the windows down, especially when the weather was excellent and allowed it. And the Corolla wasn’t nearly as nice as the Mustang, which had come and gone from his life, but it was better than sitting at the farmhouse, listening to Chastity complain.
Finally, he spotted the turn and edged the Corolla off the road and around the bend that marked the small paved road that led up a low hill to the farmhouse. The boss had called and needed George to run a couple of errands, and George had jumped at the chance.
She was still waiting up when he got back to the farmhouse.
He saw her standing on the porch, her arms crossed, when he parked the beat-up Corolla out front. He always wondered why she didn’t get colder when she was outside. She never seemed to be wearing much.
“Puddin’—this isn’t working!” Her voice was so shrill—it carried out into the night, and he closed the door behind him. He hoped the barn-owl shrieking didn’t wake the girls upstairs. He walked past her on the porch and headed inside.
“Chas, I’m back, but I’m tired. What’s wrong?” he said.
She nodded.
“I don’t hear you talking about getting more money. Plus, they just said on the news that they’ve identified us!” Her arms were crossed, and she looked tired, so tired. He wondered what she’d been doing this whole time. He could hear the TV on in the living room, so she must’ve stayed up.
George shook his head.
“No, the boss said it was bullshit. They don’t have a clue about us, just a vague description. He said the cops were just trying to spook us. You didn’t need to wait up,” he said. George felt dirty and tired and the only thing he wanted in the world right now was a shower.
Chastity shook her head.
“I waited up because this whole plan is bullshit. We need to get our money and leave. Or just leave,” she said, looking up the stairs. “What if the boss and this other guy just take off, and we’re stuck with those girls? What happens then?” she yelled, pointing up the stairs. “What?”
He didn’t know what to say and only shrugged. “The boss said this was it.”
She laughed, that sharp, cold laugh that he hated.
“They are going to screw you over,” she said. “You and me. Either they leave us holding the bag, or something bad happens to us,” Chastity said.
George shook his head. “Chas, nothing bad is going to happen. The boss has never—”
“You see what I did?” she shouted, pointing at the door. “You need to do the same.”
He looked. There was a packed bag by the door and another smaller bag that looked like toiletries next to it. Her curling iron and that little golden sewing kit she loved so much were sticking out of the top.
“We have to get out of h
ere—at this point, I don’t even care about the money,” she said. Her eyes were wild, panicked. “Puddin’, I know, it sounds like crazy talk. And you know I pushed you into this deal. But I just have a bad feeling this is going to go south, and quick.”
George looked at the bags. The boss had never screwed him before, but Chas was right—this was different. The boss had been acting weird lately, not dropped by the farmhouse at all to check on the setup beyond that one visit early on. And the boss hadn’t been around to get the next shipment of bricks, which were just piling up in the garage, in the empty area where that old Mustang had been parked.
“You might be right,” he said, nodding. “I trust the boss, but it’s weird that this has gotten delayed and delayed.”
Chas nodded. “Right? I saw on TV that someone is demanding more money. Did you see that? Even as close as that ransom pickup was—anything could have gone wrong, and now they’re asking for more? Did the boss ask you to pick that money up, too?”
George shook his head, weary. He started for the stairs. “No, he’s handling that.”
“‘Handling it’—more like he’s cutting us out completely,” she said, laughing again.
George got to the first step and stopped, nodding.
“Look, I’m tired, but you might be right,” he said. “I’m going to shower, and then I’ll pack a bag.”
Chastity nodded, and he could tell she was happy, or at least happier, for having won the argument. It was amazing, and a little sad, at how often he let her win, or have her way, just so he could see that look on Chastity’s face.
35
Charlie could hear them downstairs, fighting again. That was good. The young man was telling the woman that he was worried, and the woman was squealing at him, her voice high and angry. It sounded like a screeching bird. Actually, to Charlie, it sounded more like bending steel.
Charlie remembered one time she’d been visiting one of her father’s construction sites, walking around the muddy lot and poking her head into pipes and stacks of metal bracers and sheets of plywood. Her father often took her to work, insisting that she wear one of those large hardhats that bounced on her head. She’d asked before for a kid-sized one, and in pink, but, so far, her dad had made her wear the big yellow ones. Sometimes, they smelled like sweat.
But she remembered one time they had been watching a group of her father’s construction workers—they were hoisting up a metal bracer, or at least that’s what her Dad had called it. The metal had spun into place, and then suddenly part of it had caught on something else and the massive bar of metal had bent almost in half, accompanied by a hideous shriek that had made Charlie cover her ears. Her father had cursed loudly—he often cursed at work, and then asked Charlie not to tell her mother—and walked off to try to figure out what had gone wrong and how the metal had gotten bent.
The woman downstairs sounded like that metal bar, bending under pressure.
Charlie wiggled and listened for more fighting. She sat up on the bed and turned, inspecting the headboard where her right hand was securely zip tied to the frame—the wood was too thick here for her to work it loose or cut it free. And the tie was on too tight, one around her wrist and then looped through another around the hole in the headboard.
On the bedside table were a stack of books and a lamp. Charlie gingerly pulled open the small drawer and started rummaging through the contents, keeping one ear on the argument below. She found some pens, a few sheets of paper, stamps, and a bunch of other random stuff. She pocketed one of the pens and wiggled down off the bed. She thought about trying to use the pen to pry off the zip tie, but she had no way to reattach it before the kidnappers returned. Instead, she strained at the zip tie, groping under the bed with her left hand, feeling around but finding nothing.
Angry, Charlie sat back down on the edge of the bed. She knew she was on the second floor and that they were in the country. If she could only figure out a way to get her hand free, she could sneak across the hallway and free Maya. If the door was locked, she could escape through the windows, either those in this room or the smaller one in the bathroom that looked out over a rooftop, and go get help.
She could probably use the pen to pry herself loose right now, but then the kidnappers would know. Charlie looked at hand, zip tied to the bed, and started to cry.
36
Frank arrived at the police station with a large cup of coffee from the McDonald’s up the street—he was feeling good, bright, and clear. And a little bit proud of himself—he’d had those three shots of Maker’s Mark last night before getting down to work and managed to not drink anything else. It had to be something of a record, and a minor triumph.
He had another one of his headaches again, but nothing he couldn’t handle once he made it past the reporters, using the magical “no comment” phrase to push his way through. The receptionist, Lola, smiled and buzzed him in. She was in the middle of removing yesterday’s green polish and replacing it with a deep shade of indigo.
He spread out his papers and the mind map on the conference table and got to work. He went through the files here at the station – he didn’t have copies of everything back at the hotel – and finished his map. Frank hadn’t really found anything crucial, just a few more linkages between financial accounts and a mention, in one file, of an investigator’s suspicion that Nick Martin’s wife, Glenda, might have been unfaithful at some point in their marriage.
After, Frank found an empty computer to type up his notes from last night’s scouring of the records.
Chief King wandered over to check on Frank.
“I heard you were in early this morning.”
Frank nodded as King pulled a chair over and sat down.
“Yeah, I re-interviewed several city employees and ex-employees, all of whom were affected by the budget cuts pushed through by ‘Councilman’ Martin,” Frank said. “There was no love lost between them and Martin, I can tell you, but I didn’t get the vibe that any of them meant him any real harm.”
“Did you bring anyone over?” The police department shared the same building as the city government, separated by a windowed walkway between the two halves.
“No, I used their conference room over there.”
“Good,” Chief King said, nodding. “Glad to hear you’re going back over some of that, but it could have been embarrassing, walking city employees over here for interrogation. We might’ve rushed a few of those early leads and interviews, so double-checking them is good. What’s that?” King asked, pointing at the desk.
“Oh, that’s a mind map,” Frank said, handing it to King. “It’s a visual linkage of all the principals and how they’re related. An old partner swore by them when he was stuck on a case.”
King looked it over.
“Cool. I guess these are all already in my head,” the Chief said, “and everyone else that lives here in town, but it’s interesting to see them written down. The way they connect.”
Frank nodded and took the sheet back. It was a redone, compact version of the four sheets of paper taped to the window of his hotel room.
King lowered his voice. “Any breakthroughs?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m starting to think this is a deliberate campaign to bankrupt the Martins,” Frank said, shaking his head. “These kidnappers don’t just want money—they want revenge or justice. It changes who we need to be looking at in this case.”
“You’re right—with the second ransom demand, it feels very personal now,” King agreed. “Whoever is doing this wants to see Nick on his knees.”
Frank nodded. “And that’s exceptionally rare. I think we need to be looking again at all the people Nick put out of a job—city employees, old Martin Construction employees. This person wants payback, and he’s getting it, making Nick jump through all of these hoops. Sounds like a serious grudge.”
“What about the ransom on Saturday?” King asked.
“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “I was assuming it was a trick—
sounds like the kind of thing someone would do, if they wanted to leave town without being followed. Tie up the entire police department at one location, as we sit on the ransom and wait for someone to show up.”
King nodded.
“Saturday’s going to busy,” the Chief said. “The ransom thing at noon and then the HarvestFest that night. And then the next morning they’re doing that prairie burn, which can generate a lot of smoke, and a lot of calls.”
“What’s the HarvestFest?” Frank asked. “I’ve seen signs.”
King nodded at a poster on the bulletin board. “Downtown fundraiser and Halloween party. The whole downtown will be packed, with lots of people in costumes. Most of us will work the event itself, providing security and cutting down on the ‘open container’ situations.”
Frank nodded. “Sounds like a great time to get up to no good, when every cop in town is busy.”
“No kidding,” King said, sighing. “So, you ready?” King asked, pointing at the door.
“Ready for what?”
“Lola was supposed to tell you. We’re heading over to the Martins,” King said. “Their psychic showed up.”
Frank shook his head.
“A colossal waste of time, but lead the way.”
Again, Chief King drove. Frank was really starting to like the limo treatment, getting driven everywhere. And in nicer cars than his, to boot. On the ride over, King passed over a folder of papers.
“Meredith Black, psychic.”
“Sounds like a made-up name, if I’ve ever heard one,” Frank answered, flipping open the file and reading.
“You’d be right,” King said. “She’s actually Meredith Peterson, originally from Texas. Got a following there doing her shtick—talking to the dead, making predictions on local television about the weather, that kind of thing. She helped locate a missing boy in San Antonio two years ago.”
