The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  She stares straight ahead for a moment and then pulls something from her basket. It is Chrissy’s toy dog. The one she dangled with one hand in her portrait. It’s soft, plush with button eyes, floppy ears, and a stubby tail. JJ sets it on the podium.

  “This is Butterfly. Chrissy sleeps with her every night, takes her wherever we go. It’s a dog, but Chrissy named her Butterfly because she loves butterflies.” She starts to smile at the memory and her smile twists into a grimace. She presses her knuckles against her teeth. The tendons in her neck flare. Pence reaches out and touches her lightly on the shoulder. He leans in. Mouths some private reassurance. She takes a long, deep breath and releases it slowly. The microphone moans softly in response.

  “Chrissy won’t be able to sleep without Butterfly.” JJ presses her hands together. “Please . . .” Her voice rises slightly. “Do the right thing, whoever you are. End this suffering. Yours and ours. I am a Buddhist. I believe in Karma. Whoever took Chrissy is suffering as much as we are. The Buddha says that whatever we do, for good or for evil, to that we will fall heir. Bring Chrissy home safely. Save yourself from lifetimes of suffering.” She touches her hands together lightly at the fingertips and dips her head.

  There is a roar of questions from the reporters. “Where’s Chrissy’s father?” someone shouts.

  “Thank you for your questions,” Pence says. “But we need to let Ms. Juliette leave.” He gestures for the uniformed officer to escort JJ off the stage and waits a minute until she’s gone before turning back to the waiting reporters. “Chrissy’s father is Bucky Stewart,” he says.

  “Bucky Stewart, venture capitalist?”

  Pence ignores the question.

  “Who does the mother think took Chrissy?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Are Chrissy’s parents divorced?”

  “No comment.”

  “Has there been a ransom demand?”

  “We cannot comment on details of the investigation.”

  “Is there a custody battle? Could the father have taken the child?”

  Pence sighs. “I know it’s frustrating but I cannot release any more details.”

  “What was Chrissy wearing when she went to bed?”

  He starts to gather his notes. “Thank you, everyone, we’ll give you updates as we have them.”

  “Why won’t you answer the question?” someone yells.

  I know the answer to that. The more details Pence releases, the more likely the PD will get a slew of false sightings or confessions. People calling in, tying up the phones. They hold back stuff that only the real kidnapper would know.

  “Is this a publicity stunt? A way for the mother to bring attention to her photographs?”

  That thought has crossed my mind, too.

  Pence stops in his tracks. His face dark with anger. “I won’t even dignify that absurd assertion with an answer.”

  There’s a shout from the back of the room.

  “No more questions,” Pence says. “The conference is over.”

  Now the TV cameras move to the parking lot. A barrage of reporters run around the corner and are stopped at the gate. JJ darts across the pavement to her car, flinching at each shouted question as though she were being pelted by stones. Someone jumps out of the car, runs around the side, and opens the passenger door, deliberately shielding JJ’s body from the press. Even in the dark, with all the people and all the movement, I know it’s Frank.

  The phone rings. I jump and spill half a glass of pinot on the rug.

  “Frank?”

  “Pence here. Sorry to disappoint. You coming in tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come by my office first thing. I need you to do something for me.”

  I get to Pence’s office before he does and sit in the waiting room. This is odd. Pence rarely consults me on anything, even when it involves something in my field of expertise, like how and who to select for a specialty assignment to the ICAC task force. I believe he’d fire me if he could think of a way to do it without calling negative attention to himself. My first chief, Baxter, would have loved to have dumped me, too, but by the time I exposed him as an underhanded sleazeball, he was the one who was forced to take an early retirement. My second boss liked me but was in such a hurry to leave after a short, stressful stint as chief that I was unable to dissuade her from recommending that Pence be appointed chief after she retired. So he keeps me around to cover his butt in case something bad happens and he can claim he did everything possible to support his officers, including giving them easy access, no-cost-to-them work-related counseling, like every other department in the modern world. He senses that the cops have grown accustomed to me. They no longer believe I have a video camera in my office that goes directly to his office. And, miraculously, they’ve come to expect that I’ll be around when they need me.

  “Sorry I’m late. Long night. Didn’t get a lot of sleep.” He sticks his hand out to shake mine as though our meeting together was an everyday occurrence and I didn’t tick him off less than twenty-four hours earlier. His office is still the same old dilapidated room desperately in need of remodeling. Pence looks overdressed for his surroundings in a three-piece suit with matching tie and silk handkerchief. “We’re planning a second TV interview with Chrissy’s family. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to have the mother and father do this together.”

  “You’ve spent time with them, what do you think?”

  “Difficult to say. I’ve only been with them separately. I don’t think they’re candidates for the Jerry Springer show, but I don’t want any surprises. The father’s a bit of a rogue. Thinks he knows more than I do. Did you see his interview last night? Standing outside in front of his house. Looks like a giant spaceship. So big the cameras couldn’t get it all in. He’s marshaled his own private police force. Announced the ‘Campaign to find Chrissy.’ Clever, huh? Probably got his PR person on it. He wants the public’s help to post flyers, comb the woods, check out all the fleabag hotels. Like he’s a cop, for Pete’s sake. Look at this.” He turns his computer screen toward me and zooms in on a freeze frame of Bucky Stewart’s wife, Kathryn Blazek, flashing a large button filled with Chrissy’s little face and those big, wonder-filled eyes. The same photo that was on display at JJ’s exhibit and is hanging in the command center. Only miniaturized and cropped to show Chrissy’s face, as though the photo of her naked body hadn’t already spread around the world.

  “I want your opinion, as a neutral third party, as to whether we can proceed with them together or put them on-screen separately. The mother’s an earth biscuit. Nice looking, but airy-fairy.”

  I should tell Pence right now that I know JJ, but after that snarky comment I decide against it. First off, he thinks I’m a little airy-fairy myself. Secondly, with his attitude, JJ is going to need someone on her side. Technically speaking, I’m not a neutral third party, but at least I’m not a judgmental sexist.

  “I need to ask, is either one a suspect in their daughter’s disappearance?” I know they are. Most child abductions are parental abductions. Children have more to fear from warring parents than strangers hiding in the bushes.

  He raises an eyebrow. “I can’t answer that question except to say that we’re investigating all possibilities.” Now we’re in genuine Pence territory. Ask me to do something but don’t give me the information I need to do it. “I don’t want you to investigate, Dot, I just want your opinion about whether or not they can cooperate long enough to do a TV appearance together.” Pence has not yet forgiven me for inserting myself in last year’s shooting incident, although without me, that case wouldn’t be solved. “Is that something you think you can do or do I need to look for someone else to help?”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He smiles. “Not at all. I’ll understand if you’re not able or willing to help.”

  “Have them come to my office,” I say. “I have some free time later this morning.”

  “Actually, they’re
in the building, talking to the public information officer. She’s like their minder. Hold on a minute.” He picks up the phone, says a few words, and hangs up. “They’re almost finished. The PIO will walk them up to the conference room in fifteen minutes.” Typical Pence. He wasn’t asking if I would do this, he had it set up all along.

  “That doesn’t give me any time to prepare.”

  “You don’t need to prepare. I just want your gut reaction. You know, woman’s intuition, that sort of thing.”

  I’d want to say that, as a psychologist, I rely on science, not intuition, but I wouldn’t win the argument. Psychology is a soft science. Doesn’t help that in California any peacock feather–waving, hot tub–loving psychologist can hang out a shingle. Pence isn’t alone thinking that psychology is common sense combined with voodoo.

  The hallway to the conference room is deserted. Anyone not responding to an urgent call is tied up investigating Chrissy’s kidnapping. I walk past the command center. It’s running in full gear. Everyone, including Manny, looks as if they haven’t had time to go home and change clothes. There’s a coffee urn in the corner and a tray of pastries donated by Fran who constantly worries that Kenilworth’s finest don’t get enough to eat, especially when they’re under pressure. I can hear Eddie’s voice in the back of the room. Eddie never misses an opportunity to go back to police headquarters. I can see his head bobbing up and down as he walks from desk to desk, slapping old friends on the back. By the time he works his way around to me, he’s scowling.

  “Out of sight, out of mind. I taught some of these punks everything they know.” He looks around the room. “I’m a widget. Nobody wants to know how I’m doing, just when am I coming back to work because they need the help. And they don’t even wait for an answer before their eyes glaze over and they go back to their frigging computers.”

  “They’re busy, Eddie. It’s not you. They’re working the kidnapping.”

  “I know when I’m not wanted. Except for the donuts.” He turns around. “This used to be my family. They were going to watch my back. I loved this job. Too bad it didn’t love me back.” He pushes the delivery cart down the hall, his feet scraping along the floor as if they are too heavy to lift. I’m proud that he’s stopped drinking because I know what an effort that is for someone who’s been drowning his sorrows in alcohol most of his life. But not drinking isn’t the entire answer. Emotionally he’s still unstable, too easily wounded, and too desperate to connect.

  Manny straightens up, grips the back of his chair, and twists his back from left to right. He walks stiffly to the coffeepot, pours himself a cup, and pokes through the tray of pastries.

  “Bear claws,” he says. “My favorite.”

  “When did you last eat real food, Manny?”

  “The chief ordered a bunch of pizzas. Last night sometime. I can’t remember.”

  “How’s it going?” When a child is kidnapped, the first forty-eight hours are absolutely crucial to the child’s survival. We’re way past that deadline.

  “Not too good.”

  “Any contact from the kidnappers?”

  “Nope. Not a word.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “We got coppers talking to all the neighbors. There have been a few burglaries in the neighborhood the last month. We’re running them down. Opportunistic guy busts in looking for something to steal and takes the kid instead.”

  “The father lives in a mansion. I’ll bet there are alarms and security guards all over the place.”

  “He does, but she doesn’t. She lives in the flats. East Kenilworth in an artist’s commune. An old warehouse that’s been converted to lofts, artist studios, and galleries. They have an open-door policy.”

  “I know.”

  He stops, bear claw in midair. “You do? How?”

  “I’ve been there for an art show. My fiancé, Frank, studies photography with the mother.” He looks at me so intensely I back up a few steps. “I’ve only met her once or twice. She seems nice enough although her photographs are a little controversial.”

  “You think? About this close to pornography, if you ask me.” He squeezes his thumb and forefinger together. “That’s why I’m here and not at the substation. We’re interviewing everyone who lives in the commune. They’re not exactly a police-friendly crowd. Plus, all the father’s house staff, anyone he ever fired from his business and anybody who ever had a grudge against the family. Plus, a dozen registered sex offenders who live in Kenilworth. Not to mention the nutcases who write to JJ or post stuff about her online. I got my work cut out for me.”

  “Looks like you haven’t been home in a few days.”

  “How’d you guess?” He smiles, his eyes blurry with fatigue. “And I won’t go home until . . .” He doesn’t want to say what until means, although we both know. Without warning, his eyes fill with tears. He takes a swig of coffee to cover his face.

  “Yuck.” He pitches the coffee into the sink and rinses out his cup. When he turns back, he’s fully in control of himself. It would never do to show tenderness in front of other cops. Tenderness equals weakness and weakness is the fastest way to get yourself ostracized. No one wants to work with a weak officer. Weak officers are undependable.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “The chief asked me to meet with the parents. See if they can do a TV interview together. Are they suspects?”

  “Sure. We always go there first. There are cops crawling all over where they live, looking for stuff, secret rooms, locked closets, bloodstains, bleach. So far, nothing.”

  My cell phone goes off. It’s the chief telling me that the PIO is almost finished interviewing JJ and Bucky. I don’t know about JJ, but I’ll bet Bucky doesn’t tolerate being kept waiting.

  “Got to go. Take care of yourself, Manny. Don’t work too hard.”

  “I’ll stop when the bad guys stop.” His laugh is a mirthless bark.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE CONFERENCE ROOM has a one-way mirror into an adjoining office. I stand there watching as the PIO shakes everyone’s hand and leaves.

  “How’d it go?” I ask. She’s a redhead, sharp as a tack, and very good at finessing reporters’ questions, saying a lot and revealing little.

  “Nothing new,” she says.

  “What’s your opinion? Do you think they should do this together?”

  “Hard to say, I’m not a psychologist, but they seem okay with each other. A little stiff, but no fighting or finger-pointing. I’d take my chances they can stay on topic. Let me know if you think differently. I have to write up my notes. FYI, they’re pretty exhausted.”

  I turn back to the one-way mirror. JJ’s arms are stretched out on the table and she is resting her head like a schoolchild taking a nap. There are dark welts under her eyes, and she is wearing the same jeans and sweater she had on yesterday. Her braid has come loose at the base. Bucky is leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, his hands resting on the table in front of him. He’s short, balding, well tanned, and muscular. Dressed in pressed jeans, a multicolored pullover, and tasseled loafers without socks, he looks as though he’s about to board his yacht for the Bahamas. Kathryn Blazek is rubbing his shoulder. Her eyes are darting from him to JJ and back again.

  I enter the room and JJ sits up. “Dot. Thank you for coming. I’m so glad to see a familiar face.” She reaches for me with both hands. Her smile is lustrous. And brief.

  “Me, too.” Kathryn stands and extends her hand. She turns to JJ. “We met at your showing. By accident. We were standing together in front of Chrissy’s portrait.” She starts to tear up and sits down.

  I introduce myself to Bucky and explain how I know JJ, just to keep the playing field even. This is a man who keeps score. Any breach in my neutrality would put him off.

  “Why are we talking to a psychologist? We don’t need counseling. We need to find our daughter.”

  “I’m not here to do counseling, Mr. Stewart. Chief Pence has asked me to
spend a little time with you to see if there’s anything that will interfere with the two of you cooperatively making a plea to your daughter’s kidnapper. This has nothing to do with counseling.”

  “No problem then,” Bucky says pushing his chair back from the table. “Ask away.”

  “It’s important that the two of you present a united front. Is there anything that might interfere with that?”

  “Not unless you consider that Chrissy’s mother, having chosen to live in a commune in a totally unsecured building with unidentified people coming and going all day, might be a reason to harbor some animosity.” JJ closes her eyes and shakes her head just slightly. My guess is that she’s heard this before. “I give you enough money so that you could afford to live anywhere you want.”

  “I live exactly where I want to live,” JJ says in a soft voice, her eyes focused on me.

  “That’s your choice. You’re an adult, but Chrissy’s a baby. From now on, if you want to see her, you can come to my house where she has a nanny, a security guard, and an alarm system on every window.”

  Kathryn places one hand on Bucky’s arm to quiet him. “Please tell the chief that they can do this. Getting Chrissy back is more important than whatever any of us may think or feel at the moment.” By anything else I presume she means blame, guilt, crushing disappointments, and devastating betrayals. Thank God Mark and I didn’t have any children to complicate our divorce. Our pain was our own. No children were harmed in the process.

  Later that afternoon, after JJ and Bucky’s televised appearance, I walk past the briefing room where a small crowd of cops are talking about it. I stop to listen.

  “The mother’s a looker,” somebody says about JJ with her swollen eyes and blotchy face.

  “Some creep snatched her kid. Have a little couth.”

  “The father’s rolling in dough. Must be women crawling all over him. Wonder why he didn’t marry the mother.”