by Jette Harris
23
After three calls to Cobb County Dispatch, through which all 9-1-1 calls in the area are routed after ten PM, Detective Young finally got her hands on a disc containing the call from the coffee shop. As far as Remington could determine, this exchange involved driving out to the dispatcher’s office in Austell and offering to dog-sit for free. It had been quite a while since he had to play inter-jurisdictional games, and he didn’t look upon them with much nostalgia. He thanked Young for her sacrifices and popped the disc into the stereo that usually lived on the vacant desk next to Byron’s, which had been requisitioned for this purpose.
“So, y’all know his voice?” Young asked.
Steyer simply nodded, but Remington felt the urge to crush his coffee cup in his fist. He resisted and instead placed the cup gently on the edge of his desk. Young studied him until he nodded.
“We have both spoken to him briefly on the phone.”
“He called you?” She raised a brow.
Steyer studied Remington for a moment. “Not exactly.”
Young resigned herself with a nod and hit play. An electronic female voice stated the date and time.
“9-1-1, is this a medical emergency?” As the dispatcher spoke, so did a faint male voice in the background. They couldn’t make out his words.
“Yes, medical emergency…” the caller said. Remington’s skin crawled. He shifted uncomfortably. “Please send an ambulance to Dallas and John Ward. There are two boys here, injured. They’re in great danger.”
“Melodramatic piece of shit…” Remington breathed.
This time the background voice was clearer: “I’m not hurt; It’s just Witt.”
There was a click as the call disconnected.
“Hello? Sir? Are you there?” The dispatcher continued to prompt. “I think he hung up… Ambulance and police are en route.”
The disc slid to a stop. Steyer looked up at Young and nodded. “That’s him.”
“You sure?”
“Beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
Young turned to Remington. “Do you agree, Agent Remington?”
Remington shuffled the papers around his desk, grinding his teeth as he nodded. Opening his middle drawer, he found the car keys and his wallet. “I’m going to run out and get some coffee,” he said curtly. He didn’t wait for anyone to speak, but made a beeline for the door.
“Sore spot?” Young asked.
Steyer nodded gravely. “Very.”
24
2002
San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)
Steyer’s throat was tight. His heart fluttered and pounded so erratically, he feared he was having a heart attack. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to maintain a calm demeanor. He clutched the car door as the cruiser flew down the road, slowing only slightly before barreling through red lights at busy intersections. The detective driving, Christina Grimes, also wore a calm demeanor, except for the fingers drumming against her thigh, as if the sirens were some brazen pop song.
Three blocks from Samuel Vanegas’s antique studio, Steyer attempted one more time to call Remington’s cell phone. He was expecting it to ring, for the fifth time, until it went to voicemail. But it didn’t. It clicked as someone answered.
“What’s wrong?” Steyer demanded. There was a huff of silent chuckling and the metallic grinding and clinking of chains in the background. “Who is this?”
“Afraid you’re going to lose another partner, Agent Steyer?” a man asked in a low, growling voice. He grunted and there was a clank.
Steyer could not reply. His throat was too tight. He opened his mouth, but nothing would come out.
“You don’t have to worry about this one,” the man said. “I like him; He’s cute.”
The phone clicked again. Steyer listened dumbly to dead air until Grimes pulled up to the curb. Other patrol cars pulled around them, blocking in the cruiser that was already parked in front of the building, the one Corporal Woodall and Remington had arrived in.
Steyer jumped out, pulling his gun, and nudged the door open. The light from the back room lit the studio just enough for him to see a clear path. He hurried toward it, noting the small puddle of blood on the floor. Despite the stranger’s assurance, his throat tightened again.
Steyer stood by the back door and peered inside, his gun held rigidly in front of him. A pool of blood drew his eyes to a body wearing a police uniform, face down on the ground. Steyer followed the sound of clinking to the back of the room. His eyes went wide.
Remington hung from the ceiling by a network of chains, his feet dangling above this floor. His wrists were bound over his drooping head. Blood dripped slowly onto his shirt. His trousers and boxers sagged around his ankles.
Boots scraped behind Steyer as officers swept into the studio. He shot forward, yanking Remington’s boxers up around his hips. Officers flooded the room before he could pull up the trousers.
“Help me get him down!” Steyer yelled.
25
May, 2006
Atlanta
Dean Witt stood about six-foot-four with massive shoulders and a narrow waist that made him resemble a baseball player. Remington studied Steyer as he studied the younger Witt, and knew that was exactly what Steyer was thinking. Despite his size, Dean stood in the middle of their temporary office and tried to look as small as possible.
“Do your parents know you’re here?” Steyer asked.
Dean dropped his eyes to the floor. He shook his head.
“Are you skipping school to be here?” Remington asked.
“Yessir.”
Remington found his notepad and flipped it open. He scribbled a note, signed and dated, and tore it loose. “See if they’ll accept this. If not, we have a meeting scheduled with the principal this afternoon anyway.”
“Thanks.” Dean accepted the note and tucked it into his back pocket.
“Please, have a seat,” Steyer gestured to the chairs set up before their desks. “What can we do for you today?”
Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then shrugged his book bag off and thunked it on one of the chairs. He unzipped it and hesitated once more before pulling out a rolled-up stack of magazines. He glanced at each agent, then handed the roll to Remington without meeting his eyes.
“Carly… found these under Chuck’s mattress… She grabbed them as soon as the cops showed up, because she knew Dad would…” Dean trailed off and swallowed. His cheeks pinked as Remington unrolled the magazines and raised his brow.
“Carly wanted to bring them herself, but I told her no. I told her I had to come talk to y’all anyway. I don’t know why Chuck had them. He never—you know… He wasn’t…”
He fell silent and pursed his lips as Remington rolled over and tossed the magazines onto Steyer’s desk. Steyer’s eyebrows also went up. He tilted up an issue of Freshmen and Men to find an issue of The Advocate. He leaned back in his chair and flipped through it.
Dean blinked in shock. When he took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxed as if a great weight had been lifted from them. He raised his head a little higher. “Chuck… Um…” He swallowed hard. “Our… Our dad… would…”
Before he could reveal what their dad would do, Dean jumped at two sharp wraps on the door. Sergeant Young leaned in.
“Hey, Dean. You here with your parents?” Her mouth twerked with pleasant surprise. The young man shrank again, shaking his head. Young frowned. “Well… they’re in the lobby—”
“Shit…” His body went rigid with fear.
“—along with Ms. Vlasov, Tex, and Lauri.”
Steyer looked up from the magazine and studied Dean’s pale face. He cleared his throat and stood, crossing to the window with a long stride. He unlocked it, slid it all the way open, and settled back into his seat as if he were only attempting to enjoy the breeze.
“Let them know we’ll be with them in a moment.” He tucked the stack of magazines into a drawer.
“Yessir,” Young s
aid, and pulled the door closed behind her.
Dean was still rooted to the spot. Steyer stared at him, then cut his eyes toward the window. Starting, Dean grabbed his bag and zipped it back up as he crossed the office. He tossed the bag, swung his legs over the sill, and hopped out.
Sniffing, Steyer collected some notes into a folder.
“Oh, Agent Steyer,” Dean called back in through the window. He was so tall, the sill came mid-chest on him. “Mom had me check the bathroom. I couldn’t find Chuck’s facewash.”
Remington raised an eyebrow. “Just the facewash?”
“Yeah, everything else we share… pretty much. But he has some fancy prescription facewash for acne.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean slapped the windowsill in way of good-bye. “I hope that makes more sense to y’all than it does me.” He ducked to grab his book bag and ran toward the parking lot. A police cruiser chirped and pulled up beside him, Young behind the wheel. They had a quick exchange, and Dean ran around the front to hop into the passenger seat.
Steyer tapped his notes straight and stood, adjusting his tie. Remington went to the window and closed it slowly.
“I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know what Mr. Witt’s hiding in the closet.”
“Haha,” Steyer said dryly. “Perhaps we’ll find out.”
26
Byron cracked open an eye. His cell phone rang again. From the light creeping in through the cracks in his curtain, he could tell it was between one and two, about an hour before he had to wake up. He groaned and ran a hand over his face. Rolling onto his back, he pretended he hadn’t heard.
It might be about the case.
Byron groaned again. His hand flopped out, hitting the edge of the bedside table. Flopping once more, he found the phone and picked it up.
1 MISSED CALL
Mama
A third groan. He hit Call twice. The phone rang, and continued to ring. Sighing, Byron pulled the phone away to hang up, but it clicked before his thumb could find the button.
“Jamal!” Oforlea Byron’s crisp accent filled him with a mixture of anxiety and comfort. “Why did you not answer your phone?”
“I was sleeping, Mama.”
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. But what is this I hear of the FBI coming to take over your investigation?”
“What d’you mean, Mama?”
“I saw it on the news.”
“The news?”
“Jovita Moore said the FBI has come down to investigate the girls’ disappearance.”
“No, Mama, they’re just assisting. They think it might be related to a case in another state.”
“Jovita said the FBI investigates kidnappings and human trafficking.”
“It’s not human trafficking, Mama.”
“How can you be sure?”
Byron sighed. “They think they know what happened, they just need to… need to get more evidence.”
“If the FBI solves this case, they will take all your credit.”
“I’m not going to get any credit, Mama; I’m not a detective. I’m just working with them, I’m not investigating.”
Oforlea fell silent. Byron could practically hear her wondering why he had not been made detective yet. “Well, whether it is the FBI or your country friend or you, I hope they find your friend.” She didn’t trust a man with an accent as thick as Kondorf’s, and only referred to him as Byron’s “country friend.”
Byron snorted. “Three friends, Mama. If it was just Witt, we wouldn’t be so worried.”
“Witt? I do not mean that racist-ass boy. I mean your friend, the skinny one. The runner.”
“Heather?”
“Yes, Heather. I hope you find her. I know you feel for her.”
“Mama!” His face burned.
“What? You think you so slick. A blind man could see you like her. Every game, you looked around for someone. I knew it was her when you were talking, I call your name four, five times, and you still don’t look up. Ever since then, whenever she is around, you act like the rest of the world has disappeared.”
Byron swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He buried his face in his hand. “Oh, God, Mama.”
“What is it?”
“Please, please, don’t tell anyone that. If anyone found out, I could be taken off the case.”
“I thought you were not investigating the case?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t be allowed to help.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Look, Mama, I gotta go. I’m gonna get ready for work.”
“I thought you were sleeping?”
“Not anymore. ThanksIloveyouBye.” He hung up before she could reply. Dropping the phone back on his bedside table, he covered his face and fell back onto the bed. “It’s not that obvious,” he said aloud.
He took a long, deep breath and furrowed his brow. He shot back up, grabbed his phone, and hit Call twice.
“Mama,” he said as soon as the call connected, “did you say ‘Jovita Moore’?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t like that other man.”
Byron couldn’t breathe for a moment.
“Why do you ask?”
“We were on Channel 2?”
27
Lauri Shatterthwaith sat with rigidly-erect posture. Aneta Vlasov was the opposite: sitting deep in her chair with the air of a woman drained of energy. They both, however, wore the same drawn expression. The officers bustling to and fro around the station did their best to avoid them beyond offering water or coffee. Tragedies like theirs were not supposed to happen in Cheatham Hill.
Frank and Cathy Witt sat opposite the ladies. Frank brooded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, clapping an open hand over a fist. Cathy glanced at the other women, but did not speak to them.
Tech sat next to Lauri. His posture mirrored Frank’s: leaned forward, elbows on knees, but his hands were still, fingertips pressed together. His hands would quake, and he would press them together until the tremor passed. The Witts knew Tech by reputation: He had been notorious in Cheatham Hill and Kennesaw first for being the only soldier in the area to return from Vietnam, and second for getting sloppy drunk and brawling in bars. Lauri, however, was the only one who knew him as the sober man he had become in the past three years.
Desperate to break the silence, Tech spoke:
“Does anyone else know anything about these… other cases they mentioned on the news?” He didn’t usually watch the news, but he had done little else since Heather disappeared. Funny movies had become absurd, sad movies unbearable. It hurt to watch the news, but it was better than the possibilities running through his mind.
“Phoenix,” Aneta murmured. She and Lauri exchanged a glance. “Detroit.”
“San Francisco,” Lauri added. Swallowing hard, she continued, “Two men, two women.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her voice even, but it came out fast and strained: “He… he r-rapes them, keeps them for… for a few weeks, maybe a month, then kills them and burns the house down.”
Tech lowered his face into his hands. He had heard the same, but he had trouble believing this could be what his granddaughter was experiencing. She was so strong, so fast, so clever.
“What…” Everyone looked up, surprised to hear Frank’s voice. “What does he do with the men?”
Everyone’s face fell. It took him a moment to realize why.
****
“We need to find out what about their child may have caught his attention,” Steyer said, scribbling in his notepad. Remington nodded, shuffling through the victims’ files and making notes for his own questions.
“And if they noticed—” Remington was interrupted by a commotion outside the interview room. They threw open the door to find Aneta and Frank yelling and pointing aggressively. Tech was blocking her with an arm. Officers crowded around, trying to calm them.
“—won’t have a faggot returning to my household—”
�
�—I can love my son unconditionally—”
“—your son had the Stokes girl to whore around with!”
Tech broke forth with a right hook across Frank’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.
“Call my daughter a whore again!” Everyone stared in stunned silence. “Gran… granddaughter,” he stammered, straightening his jacket. Lauri wrapped her hands around his arm in an attempt to pull him back to his seat.
Frank, rubbing his jaw, struggled to his feet. Steyer stepped between them. Hands in his pockets, he looked at each of them with his cool, composed expression, then swept his eyes over the women.
“Your children are dying.” He paused for this fact to sink in. “Some of them may already be dead.”
Cathy raised a hand to her mouth. She had somehow convinced herself her son was simply absent, not involved in this mess. Aneta stared, so pale, she looked as if she were about to faint. Lauri reached out to clutch her hand.
Steyer turned, standing toe-to-toe with Frank. His eyes were hard now. “And did I hear you imply… your son would become gay because he was raped?”
Remington scoffed and covered it with a cough. Frank’s mouth flapped, but nothing came out. Looking him up and down, Steyer shook his head.
“We’re starting now,” he said, still standing uncomfortably close. “We’ll start with you.” He turned back toward the interview room and paused, twisting his wedding band. “Let’s just ask them everything,” he muttered to his partner before moving inside.
Nodding, Remington motioned for the Witts to follow.
****
By “everything,” Steyer included the self-incriminating questions they would ask if the parents were also suspect. Although this was not the case, the questions were efficient at shining a light on one’s failures as a human being. This was exactly why Steyer wanted to use them with the elder Frank. This was Steyer’s method of punishing him for his ignorant words.
Those, however, would have to wait. The agents were focused on answering two questions: Why these kids? and Did they notice anything or anyone out of place?
