While Everyone Was Sleeping

by Donald Collins

  “What’s in these barrels?” Litchfield asked and pointed to fifty-five-gallon drums that were lined against the wall. He tapped on a few of the lids with his knuckles.

  “They’re called fiber drums,” Fischer answered. “That’s what I made available to the tenants to store the things they claimed they just couldn’t get rid of. They’re light weight and durable and they hold up to four hundred pounds. They’re made of virgin liner board,” he said proudly.

  “Whatever that is,” Danski smirked.

  “The interior is lined and they have metal covers. They normally cost sixty-eight bucks apiece, but I bought in quantity and saved everybody twenty-three dollars.”

  Fischer pointed to a drum marked Franklin – 910. “Franklin’s a Korean War veteran – Army or Marines, I don’t remember which. He’s got a bunch of uniforms and military souvenirs in his barrel. I know that because I helped him pack it all up. Hell, if that was me I’d have all of those mementos and souvenirs up there in my apartment hanging on the walls for everyone to see, not hidden away down here in a musty basement.”

  Litchfield nodded. “I’d do the same.”

  Danski took hold of a drum and rocked it. “This latch here at the top . . . is it a lock of some kind?”

  “Yeah, you need a special tool to open up these barrels,” Fischer answered. “The same tool works on all of them.” He took a few steps to his left to a tall steel cabinet that was secured with a combination lock. He opened it and removed an odd-looking device.

  “This is what you use to open the ring latch. I told the tenants they didn’t need to pay the extra money to buy one of these things. All they have to do is come see me if they need anything from the drum and I’ll open it for them,” he said with a mocking smile. “But like I said before, there’s nothing in these drums but crap. And, I’ll tell ya something else. So far no one has come to me and asked me to open their barrel.”

  “David Weiner – Apartment 318,” Danski said reading another label. He rocked the drum back and forth. “Seems light, fifty pounds maybe.” He eyed Litchfield. “The sixty-one said Jake weighed forty-one pounds.”

  “Weiner’s got the apartment next door to Miss Whitlock,” Fischer said.

  “That’s what I assumed,” Danski said. “Let’s open it up and see what’s inside.”

  “Hold on a second,” Litchfield said. “We can’t do that. The tenants have a reasonable expectation of privacy here, especially since these drums are locked.”

  Fischer twisted his mouth. “I’m sure Mr. Weiner wouldn’t mind, Detective.”

  “That’s not the point,” Litchfield said. “There’s a right way to do this and a wrong way. We need to have everyone who has a barrel down here sign a release allowing us to open their barrel. It would be best for all concerned if the owners were present when the drums are opened.”

  “How many tenants are in this building,” Danski asked.

  Fischer looked to the ceiling as he thought. “Let me see; we’ve got a hundred apartments and most of ‘em have just a husband and wife. We have some singles, too, and a few others who have children, but they generally don’t stay long.” He shrugged. “So, figure two hundred and ten or fifteen. I used to know the exact number, but people move in and out, some die or have a relative stay with them or they have a live-in care-taker. It’s hard to keep track.”

  “I have the impression that you keep your ear to the ground and have an opinion about most of the people in the building,” Danski said.

  Fischer flashed a wide smile. “I try to.”

  “What can you tell us about your tenants?”

  “We do a background check on all of them before they sign a lease. None of them have arrest records, but I bet some of them came very, very close in their day. We’ve got a mixed bag living here.” Fischer paused a beat, “We’ve got some oddballs and eccentrics, I’ll admit that, but we also have war veterans and professionals. We even have a few inventers and entrepreneurs. Over the years we’ve had researchers and writers. We’ve got all types. We’ve got old-timers that sit at their windows all day long and others who haven’t been out of their apartments in years.”

  “Creeps? Wierdos?” Danski asked.

  Fischer twisted his mouth as he thought. “Not really, but several of our tenants have what they call alternate life-styles.”

  “For instance.”

  “Well, we have two gay guys in 411. No loud parties or any of that stuff. And either one of those guys would give you the shirt off his back. They never gave anyone an ounce of trouble. We’ve got a pair of lesbians at the other end of the fourth floor, too. They stay to themselves, pretty much. They don’t bother anyone and nobody bothers them. I only see them when they get home from work. One’s a lawyer, the other’s her paralegal. We’ve got a hermit in 203. I knock on his door once a week just to make sure he didn’t croak in there. When he shouts, ‘Who is it? What do you want?’ then I know he’s okay. Then there’s a guy in 505 that has his television volume cranked as high as it will go. I swear to god; the guy must be deaf.”

  Danski shook his head. “What I meant was, are any of them suspicious? When Jake went missing did anyone immediately come to mind where you said to yourself, I bet so-and-so had something to do with this?”

  Fischer’s lower lip overlapped his upper as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Detective. I can’t think of anyone. Our tenants are honorable people.”

  “So, if I told you that before we came over here this morning I checked and found that one of the residents in this building has never been arrested, but he’s on the local precinct radar as a sex-offender, you’d be surprised?”

  Fischer’s eyes widened. “You’re saying someone in the building is a pervert?”

  Danski shook his head. “I just wanted to get your reaction. I know someone’s face came to you when I suggested that one of your tenants was a sex offender. Whose face was it?”

  “To be honest I thought of Gene Michaels in 322. He always struck me as an oddball, you know what I mean? It’s hard to get a read on the guy. One day he’s friendly as can be, the next day he’s cold and aloof – secretive, you know what I mean? He doesn’t even say hello most of the time, and he never looks directly at you when he talks.”

  “He might be on medication,” Litchfield suggested.

  “Three-twenty-two, you said. That would mean he’s on the same floor as Susan, correct?”

  Fischer nodded.

  “Did you ever see him act suspiciously around Jake?”

  “No,” Fischer answered. “I never even saw them together now that you mention it.”

  Danski scanned the barrels. “Obviously not all of the tenants have barrels down here.”

  “No, only thirty of them do. The others threw all of their treasures in the dumpster out back after they read the notice.”

  “That’ll make the job a lot easier,” Danski said. “I need you to put together a list of names and apartment numbers. I’ll have our secretary type up a release for them to sign allowing us to open the barrels. If any of them refuse, we can X-ray the barrel. I’m sure we don’t need their permission to do that.”

  “No problem,” Fischer said. “I have a list back in my apartment. I’ll get it for you before you leave.”

  Before leaving the basement, the detectives examined the concrete walls and floor. Seeing no deviations in appearance or texture, they thanked Fischer for his help. “Now we need to go talk with Susan and take a look at her digs,” Danski said. “Her ‘impenetrable’ apartment,” he added with a smirk.

  “I’ll go with you, if you want,” Fischer said.

  “You were going to get that list for us, remember?” Danski said. “Oh, I just thought of something else – the building blueprints. Can you get them for me?”

  Fischer nodded. “I’ll call Henry.”

  “The abduction of a child is a tragedy. No one can truly understand or appreciate what a parent goes through at such a time, unless they have faced a similar tr
agedy.

  Every parent responds differently. Each parent copes with this nightmare in the best way he or she knows how.”

  - John Walsh -

  Chapter Four

  When they reached the third floor Danski pressed Susan’s doorbell and waited. He pressed it a second time when there was no response. “It looks like she’s not home,” he decided.

  “Be patient,” Litchfield said. “She might be in the shower.”

  Danski laughed. “That’s what everybody says when someone they expect to be home doesn’t answer their door – they’re probably in the shower.”

  After hitting the buzzer a third time with no response Danski pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. He wrote “Call me” on the back of the card and then slid it under the door. They looked up when the elevator chime sounded twenty feet away and Fischer got out holding a sheet of paper.

  “Here’s the list you asked for, Detective. The names and apartment numbers of tenants with barrels downstairs are all there. Like I said, there’s thirty of them.”

  “Very good, thank you,” Danski said after scanning the names. “Your penmanship could use some improvement.” He pointed out a few names he couldn’t make out.

  “That’s Brooks, apartment 412 and Holliday, apartment 515,” Fischer said just as the elevator chimed again. This time, a tall, pale man wearing a Yankee ballcap, dark pants and a gray T-shirt stepped out and walked their way with his head down. He exchanged nods with Fischer and continued along the hallway.

  “That’s Gene Michaels,” Fischer said after the man passed them. Danski was about to call out to the man when the elevator chimed again. This time, Susan stepped out and walked toward her apartment. She looked surprised to see the detectives waiting there.

  “We almost missed you,” Danski told her. “I’m glad we waited.”

  “I’m sorry, Detectives. I was food-shopping.”

  Danski looked at her curiously. “Where are your packages?”

  “I’m a very good customer. Someone will deliver my groceries within the hour.”

  Danski took in her smooth skin and clear eyes. “You look more relaxed than you did the last time we spoke. I hope that means you got a good night’s sleep.”

  “Yes, finally. I felt the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders when I left your office, Friday. I was sure you were going to try your hardest to find Jake.”

  “That’s our intention,” Danski said. “We covered a lot of ground when we spoke on Friday, and now my partner and I would like to get a first-hand look at Jake’s room and see the rest of your apartment. We also need to talk with you some more about the night Jake was taken.”

  “Yes, certainly,” Susan said. She raised her shoulders and let them fall gently back in place. “I really don’t know what more I can tell you that I didn’t mention on Friday. Detective Latimer searched the place every which way and got nowhere. I’m sure whatever traces of Jake that might have been there back then are gone now.”

  Danski responded with a cold stare. “We need your full attention and cooperation if we expect to get anywhere, Susan. There’s no room for attitude here. Three days ago, you came to our office with tears in your eyes pleading for help and I assured you that my partner and I would do everything in our power to find Jake. Now that we’re here we expect your full support and attention. You do your part and we’ll do ours. It’s called teamwork.”

  Fischer stepped back after hearing Danski’s angry reprimand “I called Henry about those blueprints you asked for, Detective. He said he would bring them right over. I’ll go back to my apartment and wait for him to get there.”

  Susan closed her eyes briefly and then nodded. “I apologize, Detective. Today is a particularly difficult day for me. It’s the fifth anniversary of Jake’s kidnapping, so I’m sorry if I was curt. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Jake’s room,” Danski said sternly.

  “Yes, of course.” Susan pushed her door open and led the detectives through her living room into a short hallway. “Here we are,” she said gesturing to a small room opposite a bathroom.

  “This is Jake’s bedroom.”

  The detectives went into the room while Susan stood in the threshold with her arms folded. The room was exactly as Latimer had described it in his report: a window opposite the doorway, a four-drawer dresser under the window, a single bed with ruffled covers and a four-by-three-foot toy box at the foot of the bed.

  Danski inspected the door and window frames and saw no evidence of tampering, though they were unable to see the surfaces clearly since both areas were coated with black fingerprint powder the CSU team used to lift latent prints five years ago. He knew that fingerprint power was comprised of graphite, charcoal, lampblack, photocopier toners and anthrocene. The combination was an impossible task for the common housekeeper to remove. He thought of suggesting she contact one of the companies that specialize in that type of stain. – the ones that earn a living by coming to a crime-scene after CSU detectives leave and remove the mess they leave behind, but Danski thought better of the idea. Leaving the mess in Jake’s room might help Susan remain focused.

  “This may seem like a foolish question, but did Jake have a history of sleep-walking or getting out of bed in the middle of the night?” Danski asked.

  “He occasionally got out of bed and came into my room and got under the covers with me,” Susan said and then grimaced. “He was just a little boy.”

  Danski exhaled loudly as he thought. Yes, that’s right. Latimer was looking for a little boy. Gregory and I are looking for a nine-year-old. There’s a big difference.

  “I want you to sit down and close your eyes for a few moments while I ask you a few questions, Susan.”

  Susan sat on the toy box, closed her eyes and let her head fall back. When he told her to relax, she took in a deep breath and released it slowly.

  “I want you to go back in time and tell us what was going on in your life during the days and weeks leading up to the night Jake was taken. Were you planning a vacation or making a major purchase of some kind?” Danski asked and then glanced at Litchfield.

  “Were you seeing a new boyfriend?” he suggested when she remained silent.

  She shook her head. “No, Detective. None of those things were happening. Except for catering to my clients, my life was very sedentary, much like it is now.”

  “Well, how did you spend your time that week?” Danski asked.

  Susan puffed her lips as she thought. “Jake was taken on a Wednesday night or actually Thursday morning. I spent the majority of Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday here in my office working on a project for a very wealthy and extremely demanding client.” Without looking up she gestured to an area further down the hall where her office was located opposite her bedroom. “I was going over plans for the client’s living room design.”

  “I’ll need that client’s name.”

  “Montgomery,” Susan replied without hesitation. “Lydia Montgomery. She lives on Central Park West. I’ll get you her address before you leave.”

  “When we spoke on Friday you mentioned your housekeeper Francine. What days was she here that week?”

  “She kept to her regular schedule,” Susan answered. “She was here on Monday, Thursday and again on Friday.”

  “Did you have any visitors during that week?”

  “Visitors, no, but my assistant, Delores DeMarco was here on Monday to pick up a few samples that I was planning to use at Mrs. Montgomery’s penthouse. We sat for a few minutes going over the plans. I trust her judgement and I wanted to get her opinion before she brought the samples to Mrs. Montgomery.”

  “Has Delores been with you long?”

  “Since I started the business,” Susan answered as Danski jotted the name in his pad.

  Danski realized his questions weren’t moving the investigation along, but he now had the names of three people who might be able to add something: Francine, Delores DeMarco and Lydia Montgomery. It wasn’t much
but it was a start.

  As they were about to leave Susan took a business card from her pocketbook and wrote Lydia Montgomery’s address on the back. “I can call Lydia and tell her to expect you to stop by if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Danski replied. “What do you know about the tenant in three-twenty-two?”

  “Three-twenty-two,” she repeated and then squinted as if she were trying to visualize the number on an apartment door and picture the face that would greet her when he opened the door. “That’s Mr. Michaels if I’m not mistaken.”

  Danski nodded. “Yes, Gene Michaels.”

  “I don’t know him that well, just to say hello to, but he seems pretty harmless. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re going to background all the tenants in the building, starting with your floor and his name came up. We heard he was somewhat of an oddball.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know him that well. Should I be careful around him?”

  “No more than anyone else,” Danski answered.

  Before leaving the building, the detectives stopped back at Otto Fischer’s apartment to pick up the building’s blueprints. When they got back to their office Danski brought the blueprints to the conference room and spread them across the long, oval-shaped table and studied them.

  “What are you hoping to find there?” Quinn asked from the doorway. “Boarded-up dumb-waiters, trap-doors and secret passages?”

  “You never know,” Danski answered with a tired sigh as he ran his fingers through his hair and then scratched the back of his neck.

  Quinn came closer and gave the blueprint a closer look. “I’m no architect, but It looks pretty straight forward to me. Ten floors, two elevator cars in a front lobby, a service elevator in the rear of the building and a terrace on all floors facing 67th Street.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Danski said. “It’s pretty straight-forward, and that’s the shame of it.”

  Chapter Five

  Questioning Susan’s house-cleaner and assistant were loose ends. Danski really didn’t expect to turn up anything, but it had to be done. He interviewed Francine the following morning.