The Silent Child Boxset: A Collection of Riveting Kidnapping Mysteries

by Roger Hayden

  Her husband, Todd Owens, had been missing for days, and was considered by investigators to be a leading suspect. Logan laughed at this and continued making marks on the large map in front of him, where several street names were circled with permanent marker. Another table sat next to him, cluttered with photos and high school yearbooks piled in stacks.

  His printer spewed out several copies of the same chain letter, with a stack of high school reunion flyers next to it. Logan was too immersed in his work to bask in his latest kill and its all-too-perfect turn of events. His mind drifted toward Leesburg, South Carolina. He had been planning his strike through repeated visits, scoping out his next victims and learning their patterns. It was time to venture back home and check some more names off his list.

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  Secret Letter: Darkness Past

  The Letter

  Leesburg, South Carolina

  It wasn’t the first time that the police were called to Betsy Wade’s home on Saxon Boulevard. The forty-two-year-old divorcee had contacted the department several times over the months with various grievances, some more outlandish than the others. There was the time when her smoke alarm was making “weird noises.” There were claims about her neighbors being too loud and then others when they were accused of “watching her.”

  Betsy lived alone after a messy divorce, in which her had husband left her. With her declining mental state, she had gained a reputation throughout the neighborhood as an unpredictable and neurotic woman. She rarely left her house. She had her groceries delivered and worked from home as a sales analyst for a marketing company; a job she was fortunate to hold down.

  That afternoon, she had made an urgent call to police after receiving what she described as a “threatening letter” in the mail. She told them she feared for her life and demanded ‘round-the-clock police surveillance. As a result, two officers were dispatched to investigate. Sergeant Brian Cruz and his partner, Corporal Zachary Powell, both had their doubts about Betsy’s latest crisis, but were nonetheless obliged to answer her distressed call.

  When they first arrived, it didn’t look as if anyone was home. There was no car out front, and her curtains were drawn. Her neglected lawn was surrounded by a four-foot white picket fence, its paint chipped and fading. The police cruiser pulled into her cracked-pavement driveway under the shade of a pine tree. Corporal Powell parked as Sergeant Cruz radioed the dispatcher, saying that they had arrived at the house and would talk with “Ms. Wade” soon.

  “There she is,” Corporal Powell said, pointing.

  Sergeant Cruz looked up at the window near the front door and saw Betsy peeking out from behind her curtains. She vanished a second later.

  “Have you been here before?” the corporal asked.

  Cruz nodded. “She lost her cat.” He then paused to correct himself. “Well, we weren’t sure if the cat really existed in the first place. She accused one of her neighbors of stealing it.”

  Powell shook his head. “Tell me again why we’re here?”

  Cruz looked at him, curious. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”

  “Well… no, but—”

  Cruz then opened his door and stepped out. “Then let’s see what the problem is.”

  Powell switched the ignition off and exited the car as they walked along the curved cement walkway leading to the front door. They stopped at her door as the corporal knocked, then stood back as they waited.

  Cruz then leaned closer to the door and spoke with authority. “Ma’am, we’re with the Summerville Police Department.”

  The door opened a crack as Betsy Wade peered through. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she whispered, “but I’d like to see some identification please.”

  The officers exchanged glances as Cruz pointed to the badges on their uniforms. “I’m Sergeant Cruz, and this is Corporal Powell with the Summerville Police Department. Would you feel more comfortable talking to us out here?”

  She stared at them for a moment from behind the door, removed the security chain, and then opened the door. “I suppose you’re real cops. Please come in.”

  She stepped aside as they thanked her and entered the dimly-lit living home, illuminated by a computer monitor in the corner amid a cluttered workstation in the corner.

  She was wearing plaid pajama pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and slippers. Oddly enough, she also had on a pair of latex gloves. Her stringy blonde hair reached just past her shoulders, and her thin, sunken face was nearly as pale as the white walls in her home.

  “Could I get either of you something to drink?” she asked, heading toward the kitchen.

  “That’s okay, Ms. Wade,” Sergeant Cruz said. “We just want to make sure everything is all right.”

  She suddenly re-emerged from the kitchen, holding an envelope in her gloved hands. “Not very well. I received this in the mail today.” She paused, examining their hands folded at their waists. “Where’re your gloves? I can’t have you reading this letter without gloves. It’ll compromise everything.” She paused again, holding the envelope back. “You’re police officers. You should know that.”

  Cruz maintained a friendly tone. “Why don’t you just show us what the letter says?”

  She lowered her hands, keeping a protective grip on the envelope and then stared beyond the officers with concern. “Did you lock the door?”

  Cruz turned around and signaled Powell to lock the deadbolt.

  Betsy suddenly moved toward Cruz, taking him off guard. “Don’t you understand? Someone is after me. That’s why I called you.”

  “Stay calm, ma’am,” Sergeant Cruz said. “Let’s talk about this. Who is after you and why?”

  She took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little worked up right now.” She then signaled to the couch behind them. “Please. Have a seat, and I’ll explain everything.”

  “That’s okay, ma’am” Sergeant Cruz said. “Just tell us what’s wrong.”

  Betsy shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  Corporal Powell walked past her and looked inside the adjacent kitchen, which was small and cluttered. “Is anyone else here?”

  Betsy turned and laughed. “Yes. We’re having a surprise party for you. Everyone is just waiting for the signal.”

  Sergeant Cruz chuckled and held his clipboard up, getting back on track. “You had mentioned a note you received in the mail.”

  “That’s correct,” she said, holding the envelope close with both hands.

  Cruz paused, distracted when he noticed two prescription bottles resting on her computer desk. “Are you taking any medications right now?”

  “What?” she shot back. “Of course not. I didn’t call you here to discuss my personal life. This is very real. Someone is trying to kill me!”

  Powell scanned the kitchen and stood next to his partner. “We understand. Do you have any idea who this person is?”

  Betsy pointed to the couch again. “Please, sit.”

  “Ms. Wade,” Cruz began, patiently. “The sooner we know about who is threatening you, the sooner we can get this thing cleared up.”


  Betsy paused and reluctantly nodded. “If it’s proof you want, look no further.” She pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. Powell squinted as Cruz stepped forward to get a better look. The sheet was largely blank with only a single ominous sentence typed in the center of the page: See you soon.

  “Don’t touch it,” Betsy said as Corporal Powell reached for the letter. “This is the only proof that I have.”

  Cruz huffed with impatience. “Until we know who sent you this letter, there’s not much we can do.” He took notice of the growing concern in her eyes as she placed the letter back inside the envelope.

  “Go ahead and tell us what you think,” Powell said, as Betsy paced in front of them, hands at her sides.

  She began as though she had been waiting for the opportunity. “Two months ago, an old friend of mine from high school was murdered.”

  She halted and turned to face the officers with her piercing blue eyes. “And they still haven’t identified a suspect. Can you believe that?”

  Betsy then held up the letter again for them to see. “Today, I received this in the mail. It has a postage stamp and return address, just like any normal letter.”

  Powell leaned forward, squinting. “What’s the address there?”

  “I looked it up already,” she said. “It’s an old abandoned factory about ten miles from here. Obviously, whoever mailed it wanted to be anonymous.” Betsy said, stuffing the letter back into her pocket.

  “Have you considered the possibility of this letter being a hoax?” Cruz asked.

  Angered, Betsy took a quick step toward him. “You think that my friend dying is a hoax?”

  Cruz stood up and placed a hand on Betsy’s shoulder to calm her down. “No, I don’t think your friend dying is a hoax.” Patting her lightly, he said, “It’s all right, Ms. Wade. No one is going to hurt you.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. “Can I see this letter again? I promise to be careful.”

  Betsy looked at him with uncertainty and drew the letter from her pocket, handing it to him. Sergeant Cruz took the letter and unfolded it, examining the brief message.

  Powell stepped forward, concerned. “I think that you’re right to be concerned about this. What was your friend’s name?”

  “Victoria Owens,” she said. “We went to high school together.”

  Powell jotted the name down in his notepad then looked up. “And where did she live?”

  “Maine,” Betsy said.

  “We should take this letter back to the station and analyze it for fingerprints,” Cruz said.

  Betsy stared at them surprised. “So, you believe me?”

  “Of course we do,” Cruz said.

  Betsy next handed him the envelope. “Please be careful with it.” She stepped forward with a whisper. “I knew it was bad news before I even opened it. Like a premonition.”

  Cruz beckoned his partner to the door. “We’ll get right on it, Ms. Wade,” he continued. “In the meantime, keep your doors and windows locked and call us if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”

  “When can I expect police protection?” she asked, following them with growing concern.

  “That may take a while,” Cruz said, stepping outside. “In the meantime, please let us know if you receive any additional letters or threats.”

  Betsy followed them with increasing paranoia, “He’s coming for me. I need protection!”

  They stopped and turned toward her with genuine concern.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Powell said.

  “We’ll take this right down to the station and run an analysis on it,” Cruz added.

  Betsy stood near her door and watched them with growing desperation. “Guess I’m on my own. Thanks for coming.”

  “Now, Ms. Wade. You know that’s not the case,” Cruz said. “We’re here to assist. We’re on your side.”

  “Sure, sure. Thanks. Gotta go,” she said, closing the door and immediately locking it.

  “She’ll be okay,” Cruz said as they walked away from the house.

  “What do you make of it?” Powell asked.

  Cruz thought to himself while placing the letter inside the envelope. “I think that one of Ms. Wade’s neighbors messing with her.”

  They looked around, examining the suburban houses on both sides of the street.

  “Yeah, but misuse of the mail is no small offense,” Powell conceded. He then walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door as Cruz settled into the passenger seat.

  “Fact of the matter is that Ms. Wade has antagonized her neighbors for some time,” Cruz added. “Best not to stir the pot beyond this.”

  “What are you suggesting, Sergeant?” Powell asked, starting the engine.

  “Let it go. Eventually she will too.”

  Powell backed up and drove off through the quiet neighborhood street, leaving Betsy Wade’s house in the distance. Cruz took the letter and placed it into an evidence bag and sealed it shut. “At the very least, we keep the letter in evidence in case she receives another one.”

  “What’s wrong with her, anyway?” Powell asked, stepping on the gas.

  “Ms. Wade is kind of a shut-in,” Cruz said. “Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad for her. We can only hope that she gets the help she needs.”

  After a right turn off the neighborhood street, they pulled onto the main road leading back to the station. Cruz grabbed the radio mic from the dashboard. “This is Sergeant Cruz. Can we get someone to do a background search into the death of Victoria Owens from Maine?”

  After a brief pause, he received an answer. “Roger that, Sergeant. We’ll have a clerk get on it. How’s Ms. Wade holding up?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Cruz responded.

  After the officers left, Betsy walked through her house, switching on every light in her path. The house felt safer with all darkness eliminated. She checked the closets, leaving them open. She then checked the locks on each door and window. Perhaps the letter was, like the officers suggested, a hoax. She suddenly wanted it back and cursed herself for handing it over.

  Her television was on with its volume low, offering little comfort. She needed someone to talk to and confide in. Her cell phone sat near her computer, beckoning her to make a call. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in at least four months, but if there was ever a time to try to make amends, she felt that now was it.

  She grabbed the phone and called her mother as her heart beat wildly with anticipation. What would she say? Where would she begin? Their last conversation hadn’t gone so well. Betsy had blamed her mother for everything that had gone wrong in her life, while vowing, in a sense, never to speak to her again. Now, she craved nothing more than her mother’s steady guidance.

  After a few rings, her mother answered, her voice warm and unhurried. “Hello?” When Betsy didn’t say anything, she asked, “Who is this?”

  Betsy whispered, “Mom, I need to speak to you. It’s important.”

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Betsy, Mom,” she said more loudly. “Listen to me.”

  “Betsy? Goodness. What’s wrong?”

  Betsy walked from one end of the living room to the other, brushing the hair nervously from her face. “I don’t have a lot of time. Someone is after me. I don’t know why, but I need help. The police won’t do a thing, and now they’ve got my letter, and I’m as good as dead.”

  Her mother sighed and cut Betsy off. “What on earth are you talking about? What kind of medication do they have you on now?”

  Betsy gripped her phone, angry and defensive, pacing into the kitchen. “I’m not crazy and I’m not on any medication. Someone killed Victoria. We were friends in high school, and now she’s dead. Murdered in some abandoned parking garage!”

  “Calm down, Betsy,” her mother said, as Betsy’s breathing grew loud and panicky. “Let’s take this one step at a time. How was your friend murdered?”

  “She was stabbed…” Betsy began.
She suddenly switched to an angrier tone. “And what do you mean, how was she murdered?”

  “Well, I… I don’t know.”

  “Look. I called the police and everything. They have the letter.” She paused, looking around the living room, with its minimal furnishing and largely barren walls. “I need to get out of here and someplace safe.” She lowered the phone and ran toward the front door.

  “Don’t do anything drastic. We need to check you into that clinic, just like Alan suggested.”

  The name of her ex-husband sent Betsy into an uncontrollable rage. “You always take his side. I can’t trust you any more than I could him!”

  “Betsy, calm down and end this foolishness at once.”

  Betsy’s heart sank as her back fell against the front door. She slid down onto the floor, dropping the phone and crying into her knees.

  “Betsy?” her mother called over the phone. “Betsy, talk to me.”

  Enraged, Betsy threw the phone against the wall, shattering the screen. She lowered her head back into her knees and began to cry in the isolated emptiness of her house. She raised her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and then slowly rose from the ground with her fist balled up, taking deep, angry breaths.

  “Come and get me, you son of a bitch,” she muttered, clenching her teeth.

  She then walked through the house and checked each room and window obsessively. She returned to the living room and sat on the couch to get some rest, and for a moment, everything seemed calm. “Just a hoax,” she said under her breath. “Yeah…”

  She then rose and went directly to her computer, typing wildly. A news site popped up, causing her to lean back in her computer chair, closing the dozen or so browsers she had opened, when she heard a loud banging at her front door. Startled, she jumped up and stood frozen as the knocking ceased and everything went quiet.

  “Who… who’s there?” she said, slowly approaching the door.