The Baby Squad

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Last week? I…yes, I believe she did. They had the day off at school. It was some teachers’ conference or something. Right, Henry?” she asked the chief. It was as if she thought she was exposing something illegal.

  “I guess. I don’t recall the reason, Esther.”

  “Well, that’s what Stocker told us. Was she lying?”

  “I’m not concerned about that for the moment, Mrs. Robinson,” Ryan said, almost showing his frustration at the way the woman danced around in her responses. It really wasn’t all that uncommon, however. In every investigation, he encountered the same sort of mistrust. So much for the wonder of the new freedoms science had bestowed on humanity.

  “When you went to the Ross house, your daughter saw you fetch the spare key, is that right?” he continued.

  “I suppose so.” The suspicion and fear jumped into her face immediately. “Did she do something in that house? Is that why you’re here? Is that why she ran away from school today?”

  “Can you tell me if your daughter and Mrs. Ross spoke to each other, perhaps when you were in another room? Any time, ever?” Ryan asked, ignoring her questions.

  Esther puffed out her cheeks and shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. If they did, it wasn’t more than some small talk. Why?”

  Ryan held his gaze. He looked as inscrutable as he was expected to look. “Can you tell me anything about Mrs. Ross that she might not want anyone else to know, something your daughter might have told you about her, perhaps, if you don’t know for yourself, as a result of your own firsthand knowledge?”

  Esther practically leaped out of her chair. The front door opened and closed at the same time. “I knew it! I knew it! I won’t answer another question unless I have an attorney,” she fired down at Ryan Lee. Chief McCalester pressed his fingers together and continued to slouch in the easy chair. “And it’s not because I’m afraid of being called a criminal. People expect me to keep their homes sacred, their personal business out of the cackle of the gossiping hens around here, and I do. What do you think would happen to me if I didn’t? Would anyone hire me again? No. And the other people I work for…you can be sure they’d find someone to replace me like that,” she said, snapping her fingers.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Mickey Robinson demanded from the living-room doorway.

  “Just routine questioning, Mickey,” McCalester said, turning to him slowly. He turned back to raise his eyebrows at Ryan.

  “Well, why? What brings you back here?”

  “You know your daughter is missing from school?” McCalester asked in reply.

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She left without permission earlier today, and we haven’t yet located her, Mickey. Any idea where she might be?”

  “Jesus. That little…no, I didn’t know,” he said with twisted lips. “But when she walks in here, she’ll have trouble walking out again. I can tell you that.”

  “All right,” Ryan said, nodding at McCalester. The two rose. He glanced at Esther. The look on her face, a glitter in her eyes, suggested to him that she did know something. “Anyone who penalized you for helping your community would themselves suffer dire consequences,” he recited. He hated the concept and almost choked on the words, but it was his responsibility to emphasize it.

  “Sure,” Esther said, her lips dipping at the corners. “Everyone would take our side against the rich and influential people employing me. I’m confident of that,” she added.

  Ryan came the closest to blushing that he had in a long time.

  McCalester was smirking at him, and Mickey Robinson, his hands on his hips, was glaring at him angrily.

  “Let’s go,” he practically whispered, and headed for the doorway. He was on an angle enough to catch McCalester’s smile and nod at Esther.

  Despite the expectations the state had of its citizenry, there were still strong local loyalties, especially when it came to any questions or revelations that could endanger its subsidies. He really couldn’t blame them. Their livelihoods, their whole economic history and well-being, were at stake. The truth had little to recommend it when it came face to face with those consequences, he concluded.

  “What next?” McCalester asked him when they stepped out.

  “I’ll go back to pick up my vehicle.”

  “You’re going to visit Mr. and Mrs. Ross, aren’t you?”

  Ryan got into the police car and waited for McCalester to start the engine. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking you along,” he finally replied. “You won’t be part of anything that could endanger your standing in the community.”

  “Jeez, you know how to hurt a guy,” McCalester said with feigned indignation. Then he smiled. “You know, you’re making me feel more idealistic than I have in a helluva long time. I think I’d like to go along. I’ll drive you to their home,” he added. “I’m either a law enforcement officer or a lackey.”

  Ryan raised his eyebrows.

  Strong words, full of defiance and courage.

  Or was it something else? Some other motive that made him want to be a part of all this?

  “All right. Drive on, then,” Ryan said.

  McCalester whipped a right and sped up. “Where are you from, Ryan?” he asked.

  “I was brought up in a community on Long Island, Hicksville,” Ryan replied. People didn’t reply to that question with an answer that included the words “I was born in,” anymore. Fetuses were created in national laboratories and could come from any of four locations. An Abnormal could almost be trapped into revelation by answering otherwise. Ryan had no suspicions about McCalester. The man was merely making small talk.

  “Nice area, wealthy area. Your parents well-to-do?”

  “My father was a physician. He’s retired now. My mother was a college professor. Taught higher mathematics. She, too, is retired.”

  “Any siblings?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “They barely had time for me.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “What made you want to go into law enforcement?” McCalester asked.

  Ryan looked at him. Was it a serious question? “I was directed to, my aptitude testing.”

  “Oh, right, right.” McCalester smiled to himself. “Those tests weren’t quite as perfected when I was a young man. We didn’t rely on them as much as people do these days.”

  “Then you might be in the wrong profession,” Ryan said. It was just about his best attempt at a quip.

  McCalester glanced at him and laughed. “I don’t know as I’m built to be anything else.”

  “We’ll never know unless you take a test,” Ryan said.

  “Now? A bit too late, don’t you think?”

  “To do anything about it but not to know,” Ryan replied. It was a good scientific answer.

  “Who wants to know he’s not right for what he’s doing? What good would that do me? Sometimes,” McCalester said, “you can have too much knowledge.”

  Ryan was silent. He agreed, but he would never reveal it. McCalester took the silence to mean Ryan disagreed.

  “You CID guys, all business and science,” he said.

  Ryan didn’t disagree.

  As they drove up to the Rosses’ home, Ryan could see McCalester was watching for his reaction to the house. Ryan could sense that his blasé expression actually annoyed McCalester at this moment. He was expecting him to show a little appreciation.

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see a house like this out here,” McCalester said.

  Ryan grunted.

  “This may look like the boondocks, but there’s some very sophisticated housing here. The Rosses’ house is one of the most impressive in the whole county, actually, and Sandburg is a community that takes pride in its citizens’ successes.”

  “That’s very nice,” Ryan said without much enthusiasm.

  McCalester rattled on about Preston Ross as if he were his younger brother.

  “He was editor of the Law Review, graduate
d in the top three of his class, and took a position with Cauthers, Myerson, and Boswell immediately on graduation. He passed the bar exams that summer, and we understand he had the highest score in the group taking it.

  “He had lots of offers from big-city firms, even a Washington, D.C., firm with a pipeline to the White House, but Preston’s real people. His parents brought him up in this community, and he wanted to come back here and make a name for himself on their front lawn, so to speak.

  “They were unfortunately killed in that terrible train crash on the New York O and W, the bullet train that went off the track four years ago. Maybe you remember that.”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, finally showing some sign of life.

  “One of our biggest funerals. You can imagine…burying both your parents…he had to have a lot of grit to bear it and continue and be the success he is. Now, he’s a partner and a full partner at that. The house was designed by a well-known New York City architect.”

  He paused as if he were deciding whether or not it would be proper actually to pull into the Rosses’ driveway. Preston’s Black Widow Spider sports car was parked outside the garage with the driver’s door still open as if he couldn’t wait to get out and into the house.

  McCalester drove in but alongside the vehicle.

  “That’s a quarter-of-a-million-dollar car. Has the anti-collision system,” McCalester said, nodding at the Black Widow.

  Ryan said nothing. He opened his door and stepped out. McCalester smirked, shut off his engine, and followed Ryan to the front door, gazing back at the sports car. Before Ryan could press the door buzzer, the door was opened, and Preston Ross stood there, his tie loose at his neck, his hair somewhat disheveled.

  He slid his gaze off Ryan’s face so quickly one would have thought the detective’s visage was made of ice.

  “What’s up, Henry?”

  “This is Ryan Lee from the state CID, Preston. He wants to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.”

  “I was just on my way back to the office,” Preston said.

  “What brought you home in such a rush?” Ryan asked without skipping a beat.

  “What makes you think it was in a rush?” Preston retorted.

  Ryan stepped back and nodded at the sports car. Preston glanced at it and laughed.

  “Oh, I see. The door…a clue. Charlie Chan’s number one son,” he quipped.

  Ryan Lee reddened but only around his eyes. His lips quivered, and then he, too, smiled. “You didn’t answer the question, Mr. Ross,” he said.

  “Is that what brought you up here?” Preston asked, turning to McCalester, who now looked very uncomfortable.

  “No,” Ryan said softly, answering for him.

  “Well, I was in a rush when I drove up. I thought I had left an important file at home, but as it turns out, I put it under a stack of new files in the office. My secretary just located it and called, so I’m heading back to the office. If that is a satisfactory reply, can we return to what brings you here in the first place?”

  Henry McCalester looked down as if he were ashamed of Preston’s reaction. Ryan caught it out of the corner of his eyes and imagined the community policeman was hardly expecting Preston Ross to be testy and even a bit nasty. McCalester was probably expecting Ross to be cool, polite, very cooperative, and responsive, which, Ryan assumed, would make him look foolish for asking these questions.

  “I’m investigating the murder of a teenage girl, Lois Marlowe,” Ryan said in his most officious tone of voice. “The investigation has led me to inquire about another teenage girl, Stocker Robinson, who we have learned this morning has run away from school.”

  “And?” Preston asked. “I’m sorry to be so curt, but I really do have some important work to complete today.”

  “And Stocker Robinson’s mother works for you.”

  “Right, and?” Preston said, making a small circle with his right hand as if he were trying to coax out replies.

  “And Stocker Robinson was seen sneaking into your garage with what looked like a flashlight and then emerging without it the other night,” Ryan replied. “It resembled the flashlight that was used as the lethal weapon in the Lois Marlowe murder.”

  “What?” McCalester muttered. He looked at Preston and shook his head. He actually looked terrified. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this, Mr. Ross.”

  “Who saw her do such a thing?” Preston demanded, ignoring him.

  “I did,” Ryan said. “I followed her here.”

  Preston’s shoulders slumped a bit.

  “You knew nothing about this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Perhaps your wife does. May we speak with Mrs. Ross, please?” Ryan asked.

  Preston shook his head and then looked up. “She’s not home. She’s away,” he said quickly.

  “When will she return?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s doing research on a project. It might be some time,” he replied.

  “Have you seen Stocker Robinson about your property today?” Ryan asked him.

  Preston shook his head slowly. “I’m not even sure I’d recognize her. I don’t know if I’ve seen her with her mother or whatever,” he said, tossing a gesture off right.

  “I’d like to search your garage,” Ryan said.

  Preston looked at McCalester.

  “Like I said, Mr. Ross, this is the first I’ve heard of this incident.”

  “Searching property is a serious thing,” Preston said. “That’s why we require warrants.”

  “It is my belief that Stocker Robinson hid or planted some incriminating evidence on your property, Mr. Ross.”

  “Which is more reason for us to do it all by the book,” Preston said. He stood firm and began to tighten his tie and brush back his hair as if he were about to enter a courtroom.

  “Do you have any idea why Stocker Robinson would have done such a thing?” Ryan followed. If Preston’s authority and firmness bothered him, Ryan didn’t show it.

  “No. It all sounds quite fantastical to me, if you must know. Maybe you’re mistaken.”

  “No,” Ryan said so sharply even Preston’s eyes widened with surprise. “But the best way to determine that is for me to search the garage. It’s in your best interest.”

  Preston started to smile.

  “And certainly in the community’s,” Ryan added.

  The smile wilted on Preston’s face. He glanced at McCalester and then turned back to Ryan Lee.

  “I must return to my office ASAP. Follow the proper guidelines and come back.”

  He stepped out, forcing Ryan to step back, and then closed his door behind him.

  “Can I reach Mrs. Ross on the phone?” Ryan called to Preston, who headed for the sports car.

  “No,” he said without turning back. He got into the vehicle and reached for the door handle, looking at McCalester mainly, his expression one of great displeasure.

  “Let’s go,” McCalester said softly. “I’ll take you to see Judge Mason. We’ll call you, Mr. Ross,” he told Preston. “You can meet us here when we return.”

  “If you return,” Preston said, slamming the door. He started the car and backed around McCalester’s police vehicle.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Ryan muttered.

  “What’s that mean?” McCalester asked.

  “Something one of the first detectives in drama thought.”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s go see your judge,” Ryan said. “And have one of your deputies park himself up here until we return.”

  “You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Would I have told you to do so if it were not?” Ryan asked him.

  McCalester shook his head. “I’m beginning to appreciate my looming retirement,” he said.

  Ryan laughed.

  It was the closest he and McCalester had come to even the semblance of any warm friendship.

  William Scranton lumbered into his home, his head down. It was
his early day, with mainly morning appointments and some bookkeeping in the afternoon. He was losing the enthusiasm for his work that he had once enjoyed. He could feel it leaking out of him, a little more each day. Soon he would be high and dry, and he would just come to a screeching halt like some mechanical thing that had not been properly lubricated.

  Money was no longer an issue for him and Hattie. He could actually opt for an early retirement. She would be more upset about it than his patients, he thought. He could just hear her shouting, “What do you expect to do with the rest of your life? Spend day in and day out watching television?”

  How about the traveling he had wanted to do? He could claim that, couldn’t he? If they got themselves out in the world more and experienced different cultures, sights, sounds, tastes, maybe she wouldn’t be so obsessed with what she did in this community. Her life would be fuller, too. Why couldn’t she see that? Why didn’t she want that as much as, if not more than, he did?

  The truth was, his wife was the biggest puzzle in his life. Perhaps he was simply incapable of ever understanding her. Sometimes she seemed like a body without any soul, a hollow façade of a human being. She had no internal organs, especially no heart. He hated looking too deeply into her eyes, despite his professional interest. It was like looking into a dark tunnel. Sometimes, and he wouldn’t dare tell this to anyone, it even frightened him.

  How did he ever hope to enjoy a relationship anymore? Retirement wasn’t going to be like some magician waving a wand over them, he feared. Spending more time together might be even more disturbing.

  He had nightmares about her, too. She was draining the life out of him, a little every day. He was actually afraid to kiss her now, afraid she might suck out his very soul and leave him as hollow and as vacant-eyed as she was. Then they would be like two dark shadows living together, fleeing the sunlight, hovering in the darkest corners, waiting anxiously for the end of the day.

  He was tired of it. The turmoil raging inside him assured him he was coming to a major decision. Regardless of how she would take it, he wanted to make some dramatic change. If he didn’t, he would die. His heart would simply stop ticking, and he would sink to the earth, where he would melt into a cold pool of some inky substance and be absorbed into the very ground in front of their home. She would walk over him and not even know it, and certainly, she would have no trouble forgetting him.