STOLEN

by DAWN KOPMAN WHIDDEN

  Snarling under her breath, she quickly realized that the child was watching her closely and she didn’t want to frighten him any more than he already was. She held back her frustration and sat down in the backseat, her legs hanging out the door, the stench of dog poo already starting to reach her nasal passage.

  “What on earth are you doing here? How on earth did you get here? Come on, come up here.” She patted the seat next to her. Guessing that he got a whiff of the pungent aroma by the way his nose twitched, she laughed. “Yes, that foul smell is dog doo.” She lifted her leg to show him. “Apparently, I had to find the perfect spot to park, now, come on up here.”

  She coaxed him by tapping on the backseat.

  The boy slowly made his way out from under the blanket, and onto the backseat, but sat as far away from her as he could, his back up against the door, his fingers curled into a tight fist.

  “Tristan, how did you get here?” Realizing her question wasn’t going to be answered, she pulled out her cellphone and started to tap in Marty’s number. It went immediately to voicemail. Without leaving him a message, she disconnected the call and then tried Jean’s. Same thing. Next on her list was Sophie Harris, the social worker that had taken Tristan from the hospital and had arranged for him to go to a temporary foster home.

  Sophie answered before the first ring completed.

  Hope explained what she found in her backseat and could hear Sophie’s relief in her voice.

  “I’ll bring him back, what’s the address.” She grabbed a piece of scrap paper from her console and a pen from her pocketbook and started to jot down the address, when Tristan grabbed the pen, still in her hand, and forced her to cross out what she had written, all the time grunting and shaking his head no.

  Hope looked into his eyes and struggled with her conscience. “Sophie, let me get back to you. I have him and he’s safe with me. Let me see if I can find out what’s going on. Can you call whoever you have to and tell them I have him. I will give Marty a call and let him know.”

  Tristan’s little hand remained on hers and his eyes never blinked until she put down the phone.

  She put her hand out and stood up, trying not to be too obvious as she scraped the dog fecal matter from her shoe. The boy slowly made his way out of the car, carefully watching where he stepped as well. Hope led him to the front passenger side of the vehicle and opened the door and waited until he was seated in the front seat and then buckled him in securely.

  “Don’t move!” She told him as she shut the door and ran to the other side, praying he wouldn’t try and escape before she managed to get in.

  She let out a sigh of relief when she got back in the driver’s seat and saw that he hadn’t moved. Still, she didn’t let herself relax until she, herself, was buckled in and they got back on the road. The stench from her shoe had diminished, but she was still able to smell the putrid odor. Obviously, so could Tristan, because he kept making faces by wrinkling up his nose.

  “I have to take you back, Tristan; you can’t be out here by yourself.”

  The little boy violently shook his head, his brown curls whipping back and forth in defiance. Suddenly he started to bang on the window and point.

  The car was still in motion when he suddenly unhooked his belt and grabbed the door handle to get out of the car. She grabbed him just in time before he fell from the moving vehicle. They were in front of the hospital when he tried to pull away from her. She pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car.

  “Tristan, you can’t do that again!” She firmly told him as she began to recoup from the moments of panic that just passed.

  “Dirtee!”

  “The man in the hospital? You want to see the man in the hospital, Tristan?” She kept her hand tightly wrapped around his thin forearm, not giving him a chance to take off again.

  He stared at her before nodding his head in an exaggerated motion.

  “Okay, okay. Just for a minute. The man is very ill, Tristan, and he needs his rest if he’s going to get better. Do you understand?” She asked him, her voice firm and steady now.

  Once again, he raised and lowered his head, acknowledging that he understood what she was saying.

  “Okay, let’s go. Just stay with me, do you understand?”

  He nodded again.

  “Do you promise?” Hope prodded, not quite sure she would believe him even if he did agree.

  This time he smiled, wide enough where Hope could see a small gap where a baby tooth used to be towards the back.

  “Okay, young man, I’m taking you at your word.” She spoke in a stern tone, while telling herself that for a child who was non-verbal, he had excellent communication skills, and an uncanny ability to get his way.

  She got out of the car and walked over to the passenger side, thankful that he had waited for her to open the door before he got out. He practically pulled her all the way across the parking lot and into the hospital’s lobby. Once they got through the electric sliding doors, he looked in every direction, trying to decide which way to go.

  “This way, Tristan” Hope told him, as she gently directed him towards the elevator. When they got in, it was Tristan that punched in the fourth floor without her saying a word.

  “How did you know that?” She asked, bewildered.

  When they got to the fourth floor, he jumped over the gap between the floor and the elevator and started down the hall. It was at that moment Tristan caught a glimpse of the man. The boy immediately stopped short, his breath starting to come in short gasps. Tristan saw the man raise his index finger to his lips and then disappear behind a corner. Tristan turned back to see Hope, a few feet behind him, trying to catch up. As soon as she got closer, he started jumping up and down with his hands on his crotch.

  “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” She questioned him.

  He nodded yes.

  “Okay, come on” Taking his hand, she led him down the hallway and stopped in front of the men’s restroom. Not quite sure if she should let him go in by himself, she hesitated for a moment, and then concerned about his apparent need to relieve himself, she opened the door slightly and listened to hear if it was occupied. Convinced he would be alone, she held it open for him.

  “Okay, go on, and wash your hands when you’re done, okay?” She barely got the words out when he scooted under her arm and ran into the lavatory.

  The minute Marty got into the city, the world looked colorless to him. The bridges, the roads, the buildings had been void of color and were all just different shades of gray and depressing. Even the children playing on the street seemed to be dressed in clothes that lacked vibrant colors. He wondered why anyone would want to live here.

  A media circus still surrounded Michaelah Sandberg’s Astoria apartment building. Every major station, and a few cable stations, had taken up residence on the little girl’s block, each one vying to get an exclusive interview with the family. NYPD was out in full force trying to keep things under control and directing traffic around the mayhem. Marty pulled up to an NYPD car and showed his badge and asked where he could park. The guy looked at him as if he was crazy, and then pointed in the direction of a small, once vacant lot across the way. “Just pull in there and find something and place this on your windshield.” He said, gruffly and bored, as he handed Marty a placard, which said OFFICIAL CITY VEHICLE. “Hey,” he hollered, as if he suddenly remembered something. “You related to the NYPD Keals?” Marty nodded a reply of yes, and it was as if a light bulb went off, his expression changed, his attitude friendlier. “Yeah, just pull in there. I’ll watch your ride.”

  Marty did as he was instructed and waited until Jean got out before he headed across the street to Michaelah’s home. The apartment was what Marty’s dad used to refer to as a railroad apartment. Making their way through the camped out Press, and a few dozen spectators, they walked up a half dozen concrete steps and walked through a heavy brown door desperately in need of a paint job. Just as he pushed it open, he was overwhelmed b
y a somewhat familiar odor. Someone in the building was cooking, and the smell of garlic and other spices were permeating through the thin walls. A woman, probably no more than thirty-five but looking older, wore a gray sweater that stopped at her midriff and showed every roll on her stomach, was exiting the building. What they didn’t see, because of her enormous girth, was the young boy she was towing behind her. The kid was as skinny as a rail and was virtually hidden behind the woman’s thigh. She rudely squeezed passed Jean and made no attempt at apologizing for making bodily contact. It was obvious that she was not too happy with the kid and she was on a mission. Apparently, she wasn’t interested in who they were or why they were in the building. Marty looked over at Jean; her expression puzzled him. Instead of being annoyed, she broke out in a wide grin.

  “It’s a good day, someone stole Dylan’s motorcycle.” She chuckled, and then verbalized something Marty was thinking himself. “Let’s talk to Michaelah and let’s get back home.’’

  They walked a few feet down a long foyer that was dimly lit, probably because one of the overhead lamps was missing a bulb. On Marty’s right was an apartment with the name Sandberg etched in a brass plate just above a small brass-trimmed peephole. He knocked on the door, and moments later, a man he recognized from television interviews after the abduction as Michaelah’s father appeared. The man opened the door wider so they could enter the apartment. Marty had called ahead and explained to Mr. Sandberg how they would like Michaelah to try and identify the man in the hospital. Mr.Sandberg was extremely hesitant, expressing his concern over Michaelah’s emotional state, but Marty got a feeling there was something more. After Marty introduced Jean and himself, it didn’t take long for Mr. Sandberg to relay to them exactly what it was Marty was sensing, in no uncertain terms.

  “You guys put me and my wife through hell. Treated us like criminals, making all sorts of accusations. Accusing us of doing horrific things to my little girl. People witnessed that bastard taking my baby and all you cops were so damn ineffective in finding them. So instead of looking for the real son of a bitch, you just kept on trying to make my family and me the villains here. Insinuating that we were lying and we knew where she was and we were the ones that hurt her. One of you actually had the balls to tell me that I killed my little girl and dumped her body somewhere. I was your favorite suspect.” His voice quivered even though he tried, desperately, to keep his emotions in check. His eyes welled up with tears, but stubbornly, he refused to let a teardrop loose. He must have lost control for a second, because he abruptly turned his head, making out as if something behind him caught his attention.

  Marty felt his anger. He was aware of the fact that the parents had been through quite an ordeal when the little girl first disappeared. Whenever a child disappears, the parents or other family members are usually the first suspects and are usually put through intense scrutiny, especially more so ever since the Susan Smith case. Susan Smith, a young mother in North Carolina, had claimed that while she stopped at a traffic light, a black man accosted her and forced her out of her vehicle at gunpoint. She cried, hysterically, as she told her tale, to the investigators and anyone else who would listen of the violent carjacking. She then added that her two little boys were in the backseat, strapped in their car seats, when it happened. After a massive search by police and volunteers looking for the black subject of the carjacking, Susan Smith eventually admitted to driving the vehicle into the lake in an attempt to commit suicide, but had a change of heart at the last minute allowing her to escape the car, leaving the two little boys still strapped into their car seats to drown.

  Marty waited until Mr. Sandberg composed himself and turned back in his direction.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sandberg. I can’t imagine how that was for you. I know it’s hard to believe, but the investigators were doing the only thing that they knew to do; their only objective was finding your daughter. I’m afraid sometimes that makes it very uncomfortable for the parents.”

  “Well, that’s a first.” He spoke this time with his tone sounding a little less guarded. “You’re the first cop to actually apologize.” With a great deal of reluctance, he stepped aside and allowed them further access into the apartment.

  Looking around, Marty now understood what his father meant when he called it a railroad apartment. It was just a long, narrow apartment with the rooms placed one after another in a straight line, like railroad cars. Marty and Jean immediately found themselves in the living area and to his left there was a small eat-in kitchen. To his right was the entrance to one bedroom, which led to another, and then another.

  Michaelah was sitting on a brown tweed sofa securely tucked in between her mother and an older, gray-haired woman, who they recognized from television appearances to be her grandmother. The minute the little girl saw them, she let out a soft whimper and pushed herself deeper into the crevice of her grandmother’s large breasts.

  Mrs. Sandberg whispered something softly into Michaelah’s ear, and the child seemed to relax. She brought her thumb to up to her face and inserted it into her mouth. She seemed to take some comfort in the repetitive sucking action.

  It was Jean who approached the little girl first.

  “Hi, Michaelah, do you remember me?” Jean asked, as she slowly approached the child.

  The little girl’s eyes drifted over to her mother who had shifted positions with the grandmother. Mom was now cradling Michaelah’s head and her fingers were gently running through the little girl’s hair. If Marty had seen Michaelah on the street, he probably wouldn’t have recognized her. She looked dramatically different, someone had spent a lot of time and effort restoring the little girl’s long blonde hair, which was recently washed and combed, falling into soft waves. Long gone was the dirty and matted hair she was subjected to living with while being held captive these past few months.

  “Michaelah?” Her mother adjusted her body so Michaelah was sitting in a more upright position.

  “Michaelah,” Jean repeated the child’s name.

  Suddenly, without any further prompting, the little girl started to talk and began to relate to us the story of her kidnapping.

  “I was at the playground and my mommy wasn’t watching and he took me. Sometimes I had to stay in the closet and not move and be very, very quiet. He would make me play the naked movie star game. If I was a good movie star, he would give me strawberry ice cream. I tried to be good cause I liked the strawberry.” She looked up at Jean, her eyelids partially closed and fluttered slightly, as if she could still taste the cold reward on her tongue. “Sometimes, I wasn’t a very good movie star, but he gave me ice cream anyway.”

  Her beautiful blue eyes rose up and hid under her top lids, so only the white of her eyes was showing. They stayed that way for a brief moment before she continued. “He hurt me and made me cry, and then he would be really, really nice. I told him I wanted to go home.”

  The memory of the sweet reward must have worn off and a different memory seemed to replace it, because she started to shake uncontrollably as if she was having a seizure, digging her body further into her mother’s lap, her pink lips turning down into a pout.

  Mrs. Sandberg suddenly jerked as if she had seen a snake. She looked down and the only way to describe her expression was broken.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” she said, her mouth turning into a polite smile. She got up and lifted her daughter up in her arms, and it became apparent now why the abrupt move, the little girl’s pants were now soaked with urine. She didn’t need to explain to the detectives where she was headed.

  “That’s the third time she’s done that since she has been back,” her grandmother told them.

  “She never ever had an accident before, not since she was potty-trained. Never even wet the bed.” she told them, pride and disgust mixed in her words.

  It took quite a bit of maneuvering, but the older woman managed, with great effort, to get herself up from the soft cushions that made up the sofa. She grabbed a roll of paper towe
ls that seemed to be conveniently placed there for just such an occasion and made an attempt to soak up the wetness on the cushion that Michaelah had just left.

  A loud crash broke the silence. Mr. Sandberg, who remained in the kitchen, was standing in front of the kitchen window. The crash was actually the sound of the thrust of his fist pushing through the glass. He stood there, motionless, blood dripping down his arm and then onto the floor. Jean ran over and grabbed a towel that was hanging on the handle of the refrigerator, and wrapped it around his hand.

  “Hold it up, over your head.” She ordered him, as she actually forced his arm up. It was as if he didn’t even realize what he had done.

  “Mr. Sandberg?” Jean said his name while still holding his arm in an upright position.

  “Mr. Sandberg!” She said, louder, trying to snap him out of some sort of trance.

  It took a second, or two, but he finally acknowledged her and his arm. The next thing Marty heard must have been the loud gasp that came from his wife as she walked back into the room.

  “Mama, can you take Michaelah upstairs?” Mrs. Sandberg was talking to the grandmother, but her eyes were steady on her husband.

  Marty stopped her.

  “Ma’am, please, before Michaelah goes anywhere, can I show her a few photos? I need to know if she can identify these men.” He pulled out his phone with the photos that Sanders, from the Oregon State Police, had faxed over and Frank forwarded to his phone.

  Marty could tell the woman was torn between attending to her husband’s injury and making sure justice was served in her daughter’s abduction. She knew the man that Michaelah said took her was dead, but no one knew for sure if he had acted alone; and the possibility of an accomplice was still something that had to be investigated.

  She looked at the picture on Marty’s phone and turned to her daughter, who was now back on the couch, a large white bath towel under her, clutching a small pastel and very worn and tattered quilt.