by Al Boudreau
Now it was real.
It should have been me. She didn’t deserve this. Why hadn’t I done more to protect her? I should never have left the hospital.
My fist hit the dash again and again. I heard chunks of gravel pummeling the fender wells which snapped my focus back to my driving. I yanked the steering wheel, and the car shuddered back onto the pavement.
I needed to pull it together. I’d be of no use to Sarah if I lost it now.
It had been a long while since I’d felt so responsible for a bad situation. My head and heart were riddled with guilt. A feeling of helplessness flooded my chest.
I tried to fight it, but my mind carried me back to the last time I’d felt so low. Many years had gone under the bridge since my 16-year-old daughter had overdosed on pills. It changed me. You never fully recover. You just get progressively numb to the pain. But you can never go back and fix it.
I knew this situation was different, but it didn’t feel different. It felt ugly. It felt cold and clammy. It felt totally wrong.
I needed to make it right. My soul couldn’t take another loss like that.
I took a deep breath and exhaled hard. My lack of sleep wasn’t helping. I’d been a fixture next to Sarah’s hospital bed since she’d been admitted with the gunshot wound. Sleeping in one of those hospital chairs is about as restful as travelling in coach on an airliner. The discomfort, coupled with my concern about Sarah’s recovery, had already helped rack up some serious sleep-depravation before she went missing.
I was taken aback to see so many emergency lights as I approached the entrance to Webber’s property. It gave me confidence and scared the crap out of me at the same time. It appeared as though Bridgeport’s entire police department was on scene, as well as a huge contingent of fire and rescue vehicles and personnel. Detective James must have given them a heads-up that I was en route as the officer manning the blockade of Webber’s long driveway flagged me through.
I didn’t get far once I pulled off the main road. There were dozens of official vehicles stacked up along the quarter-mile dirt drive. I could see Detective James’s unmarked unit ahead in the distance, adjacent to a minivan which sat at an odd angle, looking as if it could roll over at any second.
I flung my car door open and hustled toward the crowd of uniforms ahead. As I got closer I could see Detective James, cell phone to his ear, barking orders and using his free hand to direct officers toward Webber’s residence.
“Let me call you back,” I heard him tell the caller. “Carter … glad you’re here. I just got the go-ahead to enter the domicile. Let’s go in together while I bring you up to speed.”
I only half-listened to James’s words as I stared at the blood-soaked body of Mike Webber sprawled across the minivan’s center console. The sight stopped me in my tracks. In all the years I’d been a cop and a PI, I’d never seen a gunshot victim who’d lost more blood than this guy.
“Yeah … give me a second here, will you, Detective?” My head, heart, and gut were involved in an all-out brawl as to whether or not any of the blood belonged to Sarah. The battle had me on the ropes. I spent what seemed like a long while unable to move. Unable to speak. Unable to think.
James put his hand around my shoulder. “Carter. C’mon, let’s go. Those officers are waiting on my command to breach. I don’t want the interior of that house compromised if there’s a scene inside.” I heard his words but somehow couldn’t respond. “Carter!” he shouted and got right in my face. “None of us on site believe Sarah was harmed in any way here. We’ll know for sure very shortly. Every last inch of this crime scene is being processed by our best and brightest. Green-lighted for high-priority. Any testing will be expedited.”
James’s words snapped me out of what must have been the onset of mild shock, a condition I’d never had the horror of experiencing until now. “Yeah. Okay. Uh … what do we have so far?” I asked as my legs began to move me toward the house.
“You sure you want ...”
“Tell me what you know, dammit. I’m all right. I … I’m okay.”
“Well, we found a weapon in the dirt just outside the driver’s door of the van. We’re reasonably sure it belongs to Webber. We’re also in agreement it was the weapon used to take him out.”
I felt my faculties coming back. “Prints?”
“It’s on the way to the lab now, but field analysis indicates it was wiped clean,” James replied. He stormed ahead of me toward the officers anticipating his order to enter Webber’s house. “Bust it in,” he commanded. The door gave way and James was first across the threshold.
I made my way inside, careful not to position myself in front of any of the weapons drawn as the bulk of Bridgeport’s police force occupied the 70’s era single-story ranch. I had my hand on my own sidearm but didn’t feel the need or desire to be wielding a loaded weapon considering the shape I was in. One after another, each space in the long, narrow house was checked until the all clear was given.
No suspects. No Sarah.
Patrolmen filed out in order to let the detectives do their job.
“All right, please be extra thorough in here,” James instructed the remaining force, probably more for my benefit than anything else. “Sarah Woods is missing and she’s nursing a recent GSW. Fellas, far as I’m concerned, she’s one of us. Let’s find some information we can use to help get her back.”
Sarah being taken was almost more than I could bear, making James’s statements a reminder I could certainly have done without. Sarah’s injuries, though not life threatening, were serious enough in nature that she’d been told nothing but bedrest for at least four days following her release. Which would have been today, pending her doctor’s approval.
I took several exaggerated steps toward the door, doing my best not to take any of the cops off their feet in the process. I barely made it to the entry platform before losing my last meal all over the old weathered decking. “Just great.” I remained hunched over long enough to check my peripheral vision and figure out who’d seen me toss, embarrassed and pissed-off at myself. It was one of those personal firsts I knew I’d have a difficult time letting go, despite the circumstances.
Hands planted above my kneecaps, I pushed off and got my torso upright, wiped my mouth with my hand, and spit any residual garbage on the ground. James materialized by my side, once again on his cell. He must have been talking to one of the lab techs, emphasizing how urgent it was that he get some definitive answers on the evidence and samples he’d sent.
I felt lucky to have him in our corner, and thankful that Sarah and I had treated him with respect and deference in the past. Our rapport with James could prove invaluable now. The guy was handling this situation just as I would have if toting his credentials. I could tell it was personal for him and I was grateful. It was almost as if some higher power was channeling through him the response I wanted and needed, but was unable to deliver in my current state.
James pocketed his cell then turned to me and said, “Let’s get out of here for a few. My men have it covered. The coffee shop down the street has a couple mugs with our names on them.”
Chapter 4
I backed my Buick down the narrow dirt driveway of the late Mike Webber, with Detective James and his unmarked cruiser following. As I reached the main road and began the short trip to the coffee shop, I tried to tamp down my emotions to process this mess clearly and logically. On one hand I was relieved we hadn’t discovered Sarah inside Webber’s house: if she wasn’t there then maybe she was in the process of making an escape and we’d hear from her soon. On the other hand her absence left me with too many questions and too few answers.
I wheeled into the coffee shop’s parking lot and waited for James before heading inside. He pulled up next to me, once again on his phone, but appeared to be doing more listening than talking. I grabbed Rachel Webber’s case file as he started up the steps and motioned for me to follow. By the time we’d reached an empty booth his phone conversation had
ended.
“That was the chief,” James informed me. “He has a wild hair across his ass today.”
I caught the server’s attention. “Two coffees, please. Black.” I looked James in the eyes and waited for an explanation.
“You’re not going to like this line of thinking, Carter, so keep in mind that this is coming from him, not me.”
“Okay.”
“The chief is a stickler for not ruling out possibilities until proof makes them, well … impossible.”
“Thorough is good,” I said, though I had an inkling where this was going and anticipated being less than impressed.
“Carter, I’m just going to say it. At this juncture he considers Sarah to be a suspect in Webber’s murder.”
“Murder?” I shot back. The few patrons seated around us went silent. I toned it down a notch. “How could anyone in their right mind – especially someone in law enforcement – view this as a murder? I mean, even if Sarah did get a hold of that guy’s gun, only a complete imbecile would say Sarah was a murderer. It would clearly be self-defense.”
“Except the weapon was wiped clean,” James replied.
“Yeah, well that’s hardly fact at this point. Seriously, what reason would she have to shoot this guy other than self-defense?”
“I don’t disagree with you, Carter. I’m sure she’ll be cleared.”
“Wow.” My shoulders fell hard against the backrest. “What else did the chief say?”
“Well, the FBI and Homeland Security have active investigations underway concerning the Webbers. Mike and his wife. Both agencies have been looking at this couple for nearly two-and-a-half years. That’s a full six months before Rachel Webber was arrested for embezzlement. Chief said he’d show me what else he has when I get back. But I’ve got to warn you right up front. He told me most of the files were redacted. Heavily.”
I knew what that meant. There would likely be nothing of use whatsoever in those files, particularly where the Department of Homeland Security was concerned. “In other words we’ve got a brick wall to look at.”
“I know you’re frustrated right now, and I get it, but don’t sell those files short just yet. I’ve never been handed a stack of paper where I couldn’t eek out at least one good piece of information. Please do me a favor: hold on to your belief in the power of the few good guys who are left and we’ll make progress.”
Our coffee appeared, and I took a few swallows. “This case file isn’t going to give us a whole lot, either,” I said as I shuffled through the paperwork. “I’ll go over this stuff with a microscope later today, but I’m pretty familiar with all that’s in here. It ain’t much.”
“Carter, you’re a solid investigator. If anyone can come up with answers it’s you. I’m going back to Webber’s place to see if I can come up with a few answers of my own.” James stood up. “I’m going to do all I can to help you find Sarah, my friend. That’s guaranteed.”
“I know you will,” I said. He turned and walked out to his car. The first smile I’d attempted since the news of Sarah’s disappearance took me by surprise as I watched James climb into his vehicle and drive away. He was without question one of the good guys, but over the two years I’d met the detective at a coffee house to hash out business, he never picked up the check.
Until today.
Chapter 5
Several questions came to mind as I rose to leave the booth. Questions I’d need answers to before moving forward with my search for Sarah. Why was she taken? And what was Mike Webber’s motivation?
My head was in a fog and I felt angry. It was unlike me to flounder when a case demanded immediate action, but this investigation was different. Success or failure was now critical to every aspect of life as I’d known it for the past several years. My entire future was riding on my ability to produce results.
I climbed in my car, slammed the door, and rested my head against the seat back. Eyes closed, I took several deep breaths and decided to focus on what I knew instead of being paralyzed by what I was missing.
It was working. The first person I needed to have a discussion with was Rachel Webber. Odds were slim she’d been informed of her husband’s demise as of yet, but the clock was ticking.
It’s possible to receive information through back channels on the inside, but generally takes a while. However, Mike Webber’s death would be all over television and would spread across social media like wildfire. By tomorrow morning his demise would make front page headlines in the local newspapers.
I looked at my watch: 1:30 pm. I grabbed Webber’s file and rifled through the paperwork to confirm where she was serving her sentence: Massachusetts Correctional Institution in Framingham. I figured it was about 80 miles, roughly an hour and a half of travel time if I avoided rush hour.
I fired up the Buick and headed toward the Boston area on I-95 south while putting a call in to James.
“I’m on my way to MCI Framingham where Rachel Webber is serving her sentence. Any thoughts on an effective approach to take with this woman?”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
Not exactly the response I’d expected. “Well, logic tells me it’s my best first move. I feel as though I need to get to her before news of her husband does. She may give us some critical detail we’re missing. Or, at the very least, a direction to follow.”
“No offense, Carter, but if I were in her shoes you’d be the last person I’d want to talk to.”
“I agree, but she has no idea what I look like.”
“Well she’s going to remember your name, no?”
“I don’t intend to sign in as Carter Peterson.”
“Okay Carter, I think it would be best if you say no more. Let me know how you make out.”
I heard a click in my ear and tried to make sense of James’s lack of support. Granted, he knew I adjusted rules, regs, and laws to fit my needs from time to time, but never seemed to be fazed by it until now. Whatever the reason was for his abrupt dismissal, safe to say I’d be conducting this phase of my quest for answers solo.
I slid my fingers down inside the gap in the Buick’s bench seat and pulled out a leather bi-fold, which contained a few alternate IDs. I took out my Ken Steel license and credit cards and stowed the remainder of the collection back in my hiding spot.
I chose to pose as Ken because this particular alternate persona had the most comprehensive background attached to it. I grabbed my second wallet out of the glovebox, swapped a few items out from my working wallet, and put the new setup in my pocket. That would get me inside Framingham’s women’s prison without tipping Webber or the authorities off as to who I was.
Ken Steel had the ideal fictional career backstory for most scenarios. He was a skip tracer, a line of work that related closely to my real career. Therefore it was never much of a stretch to sell to unsuspecting individuals. And effective for explaining away the fake black eye I’d soon be painting on my face to fool any facial recognition devices encountered.
The next piece, however, was a bit more challenging. The why. What was my reason for being there? How would I get what I needed from Webber without raising suspicion? She’d surely smell a rat if I played it wrong, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d just spit in my face if I admitted that I needed her help in finding the person who’d helped to put her in a cell to begin with.
The authorities would be listening, too. They were always listening.
Bottom line: there was a dance I’d have to do, and I had a little over an hour to come up with the steps.
The miles ticked by and my creative well seemed to be bone dry. Each time I thought I had a ploy that would net me pay dirt I was soon able to shoot holes in it.
And if I could, so could she.
Then it hit me.
James said the Bureau and Homeland Security had been keeping tabs on the Webbers. What if I told her one of them had hired me to locate her husband? Maybe I’d tell her he’d been cooperating with the government to reel in
a bigger fish and went missing in a sting operation the night before? Until I was back on the other side of the razor wire, she’d have no way to confirm that any of what I was telling her was true and would likely give me information to ensure the well-being of her mate.
My stomach told me it was a lousy path to embark on as soon as I started formulating the script. Especially when I remembered that two little girls had just lost their father, and their mom was in jail. However, one thing was certain: human beings will go to any lengths necessary to secure the well-being of their loved ones.
Which was precisely why I could justify such a foul stunt.
I was prepared to cross lines I never thought I would in order to get Sarah back safe and sound. I had to be honest with myself: I was one step away from desperation.
I kept thinking about what I’d say to Webber. Within fifteen minutes I had the whole speech worked out, including what I might counter with if she said A or B, to any given question or statement I threw at her. I ran through it several more times just in case I’d left any holes in my approach.
I felt confident I had the one-act play written well enough to get vital information out of her. My objective was simple: to discover names and/or locations she might know of to help rescue her beloved then chase down those leads for a path to Sarah.
Familiar landmarks along the road ahead indicated I was roughly ten minutes away from the facility. I switched my cell phone to hands-free, hit speaker, and placed a call to Sarah’s brother, Andrew, then began applying makeup around my eye to give me my fake shiner.
“Carter?” I heard Andrew’s voice inquire through the speaker. “Please tell me you found Sarah and she’s okay.”
“Not yet, but I’m going to,” I replied, hoping to convince myself as much as him. “Sorry I had to cut our call short earlier. How did Sammy take the news?”
“I’m here with Sammy now. He’s pretty distraught. He asked if there’s anything we can do to help.”
