18
Cole watched from a window as the microphones and cameras were being set up for the press conference on a small set of stairs in front of the Harrisonburg Police Department headquarters. An impressive red brick building, its glass pane front overlooked a forecourt at the corner of the city block. Detective Cole had been standing at one of those panes of glass for the better part of ten minutes waiting for Detective Doherty to let her know when the family of Sara Beth Parker arrived.
She watched as municipal employees and members of the news media quickly erected an area that would frame well for all the cameras. A line of vans and satellite trucks created a barrier on the street between the police department and the U.S. courthouse across the way. It was all an impressive effort, she thought. None of this was here two hours ago, and it would all be gone two hours from now.
She turned to throw her cup of coffee away when Detective Doherty opened the doors to the offices of the Major Crimes Unit just enough to poke his head in.
“They’re here,” he said.
Detective Cole nodded and followed her partner down the stairs. Anne and Scott Parker were waiting in the lobby. Even from across the floor, Cole could see how the trauma and stress of the last 36 hours had affected the two very differently.
Anne had her arms crossed over her belly, almost holding herself, as she leaned on Scott. She kept her head down, her long hair masking her face as she stared at a poster board in her hands.
Scott, to the contrary, looked like he was okay, all things considered. He stood quietly, an arm around his wife, engaged in conversation with those around him. As Detective Doherty approached, Scott saw him and extended an open hand and a smile. Anne barely moved.
“You guys remember Detective Cole,” Doherty said.
“Yes. Detective, how are you,” said Scott.
“I’m alright,” Cole answered, “How are you guys?”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Scott replied.
The two detectives looked at Anne, waiting for her to say something, but nothing came. Up close now, Detective Cole could better see the poster. It was a collage of photographs of Sara Beth. An 8 x 10 of her most recent school photo was centered around several smaller ones, ranging from all stages of her life. A mother’s monument to her lost daughter. The detective side of Cole wasn’t sure how old childhood photos were going to help. The personal side of her, though, cringed with sympathy.
“Well,” said Detective Cole, breaking the silence, “Why don’t we sit down really quick over here to go over what will happen.”
The four of them sat down on a set of upholstered chairs situated in the lobby. Detective Doherty asked Scott and Anne if they wanted anything to drink. Scott looked to Anne who shook her head.
“Do you guys have any questions,” Cole asked.
“Someone from the police department asked us to prepare a statement,” said Scott.
“Yes,” replied Cole, “A spokesperson for the department will lay out the general information and give Sara Beth’s description, then you will be able to read a statement if you’d like.”
Scott looked at his wife.
“We – I – prepared something,” said Scott, “I guess I should be the one to read it.”
“Anne,” said Detective Cole, “If you don’t feel up to this, you don’t have to go out there. Scott can do this.”
“Yeah, honey,” seconded Scott, “I can do this for us.”
Anne shook her head.
“No, I need to do this,” said Anne, “She might be out there. She might be watching. She needs to see I’m there.”
Cole grabbed Anne’s wrist and squeezed it gently, giving her a sympathetic smile.
“It looks like they’re ready for us,” Doherty said.
Together, the four of them stood up and headed for the plaza. The spokeswoman as well as Lieutenant Mike Ingle, the Major Crimes Unit Division Commander, and Captain Walter Faulk, the Special Operations Bureau Commander, had been by the front doors waiting for them. Anne and Scott were quickly introduced to the three officers before the group went outside.
A few cameramen began snapping shots as soon as the glass doors opened. A couple of television reporters who had been making live broadcasts quickly wrapped up what they were saying and stepped aside. The police department spokeswoman stepped in front of the group and centered the microphones towards her as she stepped up to the podium.
“Good afternoon,” the spokesperson said, and began her briefing, “We’re here today to ask for the public’s help in locating a missing teenager, Sara Beth Parker.”
Detective Cole looked out at the crowd of reporters as the spokeswoman gave the introductory briefing. They all looked so eager to get the information. Those who didn’t have microphones set up held out recorders or cell phones. Others scribbled away at notepads.
“Sara Beth is 5’7”, and approximately 95 lbs. She is white with dark brown hair, and may be wearing a black and red checkered coat or an off-white sweater.”
Cole thought about what Anne Parker had said. That, if Sara Beth was watching, she needed her to know she was there. Was Sara Beth watching? Was she even in a place where she could watch? Cole had played out countless scenarios in her mind of what happened to Sara Beth. None of them had the missing teen snuggled up watching TV.
“Now, the parents of Sara Beth, Anne and Scott Parker, have prepared a statement,” said the spokeswoman before stepping aside.
Scott began to reach for the paper in his back pocket and took a step forward before Anne abruptly cut in front of him and placed herself at the center of the podium. Detective Doherty and Cole looked at each other with worry. Doherty was ready to step in and usher her aside, but Cole grabbed his wrist, calling him off. This wasn’t what they had planned, but she didn’t want the evening news to play video of police trying to subdue a grieving mother who spoke out of turn.
“Please,” began Anne Parker, “We just want our daughter home. If you have her, just let her go. Or bring her back. No one has to get in trouble. We just want Sara Beth back. Sara Beth, if you’re listening, we miss you and we love you, honey. Come home, please.”
Detective Doherty ripped his arm free and stepped forward before Anne could say anymore, politely ushering her back.
“We would like to thank the Parkers for their cooperation in this matter,” said Detective Doherty, “My name is Detective Sean Doherty. I am one of the detectives working on the case. If you have questions, we will now take a couple.”
The journalist fired a barrage of standard queries. Was there a person of interest in the case? Were other agencies getting involved? Was there a reason Sara Beth went out that night? Then, as Detective Cole thought the press conference was coming to its natural conclusion, a pair of questions caught her off guard.
“Detective Doherty,” said a reporter, “Why hasn’t an AMBER alert been issued for Sara Beth if she is missing?”
“The AMBER alert system is a nationwide emergency system that has a set of criteria that has to be met in order for it to be utilized,” said Detective Doherty, “Without a known abductor or vehicle, we could not put out an alert asking the public to look for something we did not know.”
The same reporter followed up with the second question.
“Is there reason to believe Sara Beth might not have been abducted? That she left on her own?”
Of course, she was taken, Cole thought. Who was this idiot? But Cole watched in disbelief as her partner gave a different answer.
“Nothing has been ruled out at this time and we are looking into all possibilities,” he said.
The spokeswoman stepped forward as Doherty returned to Cole’s side.
“Okay, guys, that’s it for now,” she said, “Thank you.”
The group of police personnel turned and formed a circle around Anne and Scott as the group walked back into the department headquarters. Cole stared at Doherty, walking ahead of her, wondering why he had answered the way that he had
.
19
The five-minute drive home from the police headquarters felt like an eternity for Scott. Neither he nor Anne said anything. A part of him knew why she did what she did at the press conference, but he wasn’t sure how helpful it was. To him, this was a process. They needed to get their daughter back and they needed to go about it the right way. He wasn’t sure that’s what had happened back in front of the police building.
The silence between him and his wife continued as he pulled in and the two of them walked inside. Scott checked the time and walked to the fridge. It had been stocked with pre-prepared meals friends and neighbors had brought over in an effort to help – a hodge-podge collection of Tupperware and ceramic casserole dishes stacked on top of one another.
“What do you want,” asked Scott, “lasagna or enchiladas?”
“I don’t care,” replied Anne from the living room.
Scott let out a sigh of frustration and pulled out the lasagna nestled in a yellow dish adorned with blue flowers. He remembered when the Donaldsons down the street had brought it over for a cookout last summer and how Anne had marveled at the dish. She had been so incredibly happy that day. He wanted desperately for that Anne to return to him.
The lasagna was covered with press ‘n’ seal wrap with a post-it note attached.
Preheat oven 375F, Bake 45 mins. If you need more, just ask. Let us know if you need anything. Love, Kat & Kevin
Scott turned the oven on and removed the wrap over the dish. He looked over at Anne in the living room. She was sitting in the dark, staring at the black television screen, the collage of Sara Beth still nestled under her arm. Scott sighed again. He needed a drink.
Going over to their liquor cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of Macallan and a rocks glass and poured himself a couple fingers. Taking a long drag, he stared down into the glass as he let the scotch play on his tongue. He closed his eyes and swallowed, savoring it as the alcohol warmed his throat. His eyes were still closed when he heard a knock on the front door.
“I’ve got it,” said Scott as he left the kitchen.
But Anne paid him no mind. She sprung up from the sofa with the hope it might be good news and ran to the front door. The two of them got there at the same time. Anne reached for the knob first and opened it.
A man gave them a kind smile as Scott and Anne opened the door.
“Hello,” said the man, “My name is Jeff Isaacs. I hope this is okay. I heard about what happened on the news and wanted to bring this over.”
He raised his hands and presented a cookie tin and a thermos.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever had Black Hills Coffee, but I love it,” said Jeff, “And nothing goes better with it than some biscotti.”
Anne’s shoulders drooped, disappointed that it wasn’t news of her daughter. Scott stepped towards Jeff, not wanting to seem ungrateful, and took the tin and thermos.
“Thank you,” said Scott, “That’s very kind of you. Please, why don’t you come in.”
Isaacs nodded obligingly as Anne stepped aside. Scott took the man’s coat and hung it on their coat tree. Isaacs was average height, but his svelte frame and long face gave the impression that he was taller. Scott was struck by how immaculately manicured he was, as if he’d come here straight from the barber with his salt-and-pepper hair parted just so.
“Why don’t I put these biscotti on a plate for all of us and get some mugs for this coffee,” said Scott.
“Oh, no, please,” replied Jeff, “They are for you to enjoy.”
Scott grabbed three mugs anyway from the shelf above where he had just grabbed himself a rocks glass earlier and divvied up the thermos of coffee. As he went to grab a plate for the biscotti, he could hear bits and pieces of polite conversation in the other room. Compliments about the house. What a nice cardigan Isaacs was wearing. The conversation trailed off as Scott walked in with the refreshments.
“That really is far too kind of you,” Isaacs said to Scott.
Scott nodded and smiled.
“I heard what happened to Sara Beth, and my heart just breaks for you two,” said Jeff.
“Thank you,” replied Scott.
“I actually know what it feels like to have a daughter go missing,” said Jeff, “Seven years ago my Olivia disappeared one day after school. She was last seen walking home. And then, nothing.”
Anne’s hands started to shake as she struggled to hold back tears, thinking about her own daughter. Scott placed a hand on hers, trying to comfort her.
“My goodness,” he said.
“We did all we could,” Isaacs continued, “Or, at least, I tell myself that. For months, after people really stopped looking, I would just drive the roads at night, hoping to find her.”
“This was here,” Scott asked.
“No. No, I live about halfway between Staunton and Lexington. Steeles Tavern, in Augusta County?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve heard of it.”
“Anyway, like I said, for months I was just beside myself. It seemed so unfair. Olivia was my sunshine. And she was gone.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet-sized photo and handed it to Anne and Scott. A teenage girl in a maroon track top and shorts emblazoned with CMHS, she had striking hazel eyes and long brunette hair tied up in a pony tail.
“She’s beautiful,” said Scott.
“She was,” lamented Jeff.
“I’m so sorry,” replied Scott, “I didn’t mean—”
“No. No, it’s okay. You’re right, she is pretty. Some days I can picture her still coming down the stairs in the morning. I couldn’t believe how much Sara Beth looked like her when I saw a picture of her on the news.”
Scott looked at the photo again. Jeff was right. The resemblance was there. Olivia did not have the signature dimples that Anne had always remarked that she loved on Sara Beth, but the similarities were definitely there.
“Yeah,” said Scott, “Pretty incredible.”
“Anyway,” continued Jeff, “Like I said, for months I was beside myself. Then, one day, I decided I was over feeling sorry for myself. I decided, as much as it broke me losing Olivia, I didn’t want any other parent to have to endure the pain that I did. And that’s when I created PACTV.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Scott, “PACTV?”
“Yes. Parents of Abducted Children of The Valley. I know. It’s a mouthful. We get to calling ourselves just Pact V. Or Pact Five.”
“There are more of you?”
“Of us? Sure. You don’t think there’s just a couple of us in the entire Shenandoah Valley, do you?”
“I guess I never really thought about it.”
“Well of course not. It’s not like you ever thought what it would be like for your little one to go missing. That’s actually why I wanted to speak with you. Pact Five is a dual-purpose support group and activist organization. We have volunteers from Roanoke to Winchester. You’d be surprised what a helpful resource that can be in this kind of situation.”
“And you want to help find Sara Beth?”
“Of course, we do. We’d love to help find every missing child if we could. But of course, we can only do so much. And we stick to where we are, here in the valley.”
“I don’t know what you need, but we don’t have much we can give. Especially right now.”
“No. No, you misunderstand me, Scott. We just want to help. We don’t want your money.”
“I – We. We appreciate that. It’s just – the police have been really helpful so far. We don’t want them to think we’re ungrateful.”
“And they are great. They are,” Jeff said, “But what you have to realize is these police officers and detectives, they aren’t superheroes. They’re ordinary people. The police work is their job. And they probably want to do well at their job. But at the end of the day, it’s still just a job. But this isn’t a job for us. These are our lives. We can’t punch a clock at 5 o’clock and stop missing the ones we’ve lost. That’s why we �
�� I’m – here.”
Scott nodded in acknowledgement. What Jeff said resonated with him. In the past few days, they must have met a hundred people insisting they were there to help, but none of them could begin to imagine what he or his wife were feeling. Jeff Isaacs understood. And for the first time since this all began, Scott felt like they might not have to go through this alone.
“Thank you, really,” Scott said, “We just—”
“We just want our little girl back,” Anne said.
Jeff reached out and placed his hand on hers.
“We all do,” said Jeff, “We all do.”
20
Cole leaned against the neon electric sign for Kline’s Dairy Bar, watching the last rays of twilight fade over the far end of the city. She hadn’t said much to her partner since the press conference except to agree to check out the appliance shop and brewery across the street one more time that night. With some time to kill between now and then, though, Doherty had proposed a stop at his (and most of Harrisonburg’s) favorite ice cream shop.
Doherty, being a local boy, knew all the best spots. Pizza. Drinks. Even ice cream like with Kline’s. It was an encyclopedic-like level of knowledge that had come from spending his whole life there. Joining the department almost right out of high school, he had had little reason to go anywhere else.
Not Angela Cole, though. No, she was a transplant and the first to admit it. Growing up in Washington, D.C., about two hours from Harrisonburg, she’d ended up in the charming valley town by way of a failed engagement. She was a young Metro Transit Police officer in the nation’s capital when Cole and her fiancée planned to move to Harrisonburg to be closer to his family. Six months later she was a probationary patrol officer in a relatively strange town when her fiancée called it off. Planning on moving back home to D.C., she was convinced by a supervisor to stay. Even on days as crappy as this, she was glad she had.
She watched as Doherty fumbled with both their treats as he stepped away from the server window. She smiled, amused as he balanced a gargantuan serving of soft serve in a sugar cone, obviously his. Cole couldn’t figure out where he put it all on his 5’8”, 150-pound frame.
The Woodsman (The Jackson Clay & Bear Beauchamp Series Book 1) Page 7