Purgatory Creek

by C. E. Nelson

  “I told him to get lost.”

  “No, you talked to him too long for just that. What did you say?”

  “He asked about the missing kid. I told him I didn’t know anything.”

  Both boys stared. Finally, Mike said, “You better not have said anything stupid old man. We don’t need the cops poking around.”

  “Don’t you – "

  “Shut up!” shouted Blake. “If you screwed up, your ass is toast.”

  John Volk had been trying to decide whether he should pack up and run ever since Palm had left. Volk had always been an indecisive person. He stood now in the doorway to the back bedroom, staring at the contents. All of his treasures were here. His life really.

  Volk was certain he had fooled the policeman, but there was something about the way the man got in his car after the left, the way he looked back at Volk’s house, that made him wonder. What if the policeman hadn’t believed him? What if he was coming back?

  Volk closed the door and went back to the kitchen, staring out the window, wondering when or if the police would pull in his driveway. He had lost track of the number of times he had done the same thing.

  Moving was such a big decision. He supposed he could find another place as nice, but worried about finding a park like this, where he could sit alone and watch. Where he would not be bothered as he moved off into his imagination. Where he could take pictures with no one seeing. And then there was the lower level of the house. It was all set up just the way he liked. That had taken some time, and he did not relish the thought of trying to set up another place that would work as well. A big decision.

  Chapter 31

  Traffic heading from Stillwater to downtown St. Paul was stop and go. 36, 120, and 694 all had construction going on. Minnesota in the summer. There was no avoiding it. Jenkins finally made it to Larpenter on 120 and took it west toward Lake Phalen. The skies were turning progressively darker as she went west and as she reached the lake, the rain became hard enough that it forced her to leave her wipers on.

  Jenkins stopped across from Trask’s condo, half a block south, leaving the motor running. There was still one media van parked on the street and one other vehicle. The inside light of the vehicle was on, and she could see two people, one on the phone. She guessed they were media and hoped the call was to get permission to leave the location. Trask’s condo was on the upper level, facing the street and the lake. There were no lights on. Jenkins wondered if Trask was inside, maybe hiding out or taking a nap. She had his code and could let herself in but decided to come back later, hoping the media would have totally cleared out.

  Jenkins stared at the map on her phone. She figured it was a good five miles from the detention center to Trask’s condo. With all the north and east jogs he’d have to take, it might be longer. Probably two hours on foot, if he was coming straight home. If.

  She leaned back and watched the water streaming down her windshield. The rain wouldn’t deter Trask from getting here, but the bars might. And there were plenty of bars between here and the Capital. Seemed as if there was one on every street corner in this section of St. Paul. Apparently, they were very thirsty people. Which way would Trask go?

  Jenkins closed her eyes. She had made it clear to Trask that if he got drunk again, they were done – forever. It was up to him. If Trask was really serious about their relationship this time, he would keep his promise to stay sober. He would call. She told herself she should just turn around and go home. Not her problem.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. She did not want to sit and wait, wondering if he would call or show up, or if they were through. Did not want them to be over. She had put too much into their relationship, rocky as it was, to get it to this point. But that didn’t really matter either. What mattered was she loved the man. Jenkins pulled away from the curb.

  Grace went to the hospital to talk to Cheryl Little while Palm took charge of the search of the Little’s home and the search for Michael. Palm stood in the Little’s living room at the picture window looking out at the back yard. The light high on the back of the house showed the heavy rain, silver bullets from the sky. Lightening flashed, a spotlight on a dark jungle guarding the creek before it faded. Palm stood waiting for the lightning to give him another look. Was Michael Little out there? Was Austin Newman?

  The search of the neighborhood for Michael Little was underway. The dog teams were here but essentially useless, the lead canine officer telling Palm as much, saying they would work the area for an hour but then leave. Officers were going house to house again and cruising the streets. Palm actually had more hope that Michael would be found than he did with Austin. He doubted anyone would stop and try to snatch someone that was as big as Michael. Thinking about his son, he assumed that Michael was much more likely to go someplace familiar if he was trying to hide. His mother could hopefully direct them to those places.

  But the boy’s mental state would be the kicker. An upsetting event as he had likely witnessed, and possibly taken part in, could send him completely off. His whole focus may be just to get as far away as he could. And then there was the storm. Was he afraid of storms? Some kids were afraid and others reveled in them. Autistic or not, it just depended on the kid.

  A cursory look through the house had revealed no sign of the faded pink dinosaur. Michael could have it, or his father could have gotten rid of it, stupid as that may be. They needed to go through the garbage. There was a fireplace. That needed investigation too. He supposed that Mark Little could have thrown it on a fire outside, melted it. Need to cover the property carefully.

  Palm checked his phone to be sure he hadn’t missed a text from Grace or anyone else.

  “Detective?” The voice came from an officer poking her head around the door frame to the steps to the lower level. “You might want to look at this.”

  Palm followed her downstairs and into the bathroom across the hall from Michael’s bedroom. The place looked like a kid used it. Toothpaste open on the counter next to a speckled tan sink with a white film. A box of single-use floss sticks was spilled on the counter on the opposite side of the sink. The mirror above the sink was splattered with dried whatever. A bath towel lay on the floor next to the tub. Rubber toy figures perched on the edge of the tub, waiting for their next swim.

  Next to the tub was a small broom closet. Someone had cut pine boards to make shelves up high, the shelves holding towels and cleaning supplies. A broom and dustpan and plastic bucket rested on the floor below the shelves. The officer stood in front of the open closet and pointed her flashlight high.

  “There.”

  Palm moved next to her. He could see that the top of the closet had remained unfinished, metal venting visible above the sheetrock on the back wall.

  “Use the stepstool.”

  Palm noticed the stepstool behind him now and placed it in the closet's doorway. The officer handed him her flashlight. Stepping up, he ducked his head as he did to avoid the doorframe. His head was nearly even with the top of the sheetrock now. He worked the flashlight between his body and the shelves until it was eye level and shined it into the space above the sheetrock.

  Stuff. Lots of things. Looked like toys mostly, but he thought he saw a small pair of shoes. He swung the light to the left and then up higher, on top of the vent. There was something there. He looked down, thinking he could maybe boost himself a little by holding onto the shelf. He grabbed it and tried putting some weight on the board.

  “Careful, sir.”

  That was enough to convince him to go for it. He moved to his tip-toes as he pushed himself higher. He wasn’t sure the board would hold as he looked down at it. Quickly looking up, he angled the flashlight’s beam above the vent. What did they call it? A headband? It was faded pink and plastic. It was what a little girl would use to hold back her hair.

  Palm stepped down, banging the back of his head on the doorframe as he did.

  “Ouch.” He grabbed the back of his head.

  “You
OK, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  Palm looked up to the hidey-hole. It would take someone tall to get in there. Like Michael. Did Libby Carlson have a headband? Did the other missing children have toys when they disappeared? He needed to talk to Trask.

  Chapter 32

  With the media interest in the Trask arrest, Bob Lake thought it was a good idea to hold a press conference. The superintendent wasn’t so sure. He loved media attention, normally excited at any opportunity to put his name and face in front of the public, but this time he was cautious. He thought it was not a good idea to be parading in front of everyone, announcing that your top investigator was a pervert. He had not hired Trask, the man was there when he was appointed Superintendent, but would the media be clear on that. It was not his fault.

  Also, he didn’t think any additional negative press would be welcome at this time. The BCA had been called-out for dragging their feet on two highly publicized investigations into shootings by police. They had, in fact, taken great care to see that the police organizations involved in the shootings, the officers involved, and all associated politicians, including the governor, were given a full heads-up on their investigation before anything was released. This took a great deal of time, especially when the report needed to be modified after receiving input from the affected parties.

  Lake saw it differently. He viewed the press conference as shining a spotlight on the BCA as an organization that takes its internal policing very seriously. And when a bad apple is discovered, even if that bad apple is the organization’s leading investigator, it is not afraid to weed that person out. The BCA will not stand for anything less than the best from its officers.

  Lake, like the superintendent, did not mind the media time either. He got little of it in internal affairs. Lake had made sure the superintendent knew what he thought of Trask’s performance, and that he wanted Trask’s job.

  The superintendent conferred with the governor and both went along with Lake’s assessment. The press conference was to take place on the steps of the capital, Lake setting it up at seven so that all the television stations would have ample time to get it on their ten o’clock news and he would have time to go home to shave and change. Rain pushed them inside, into the rotunda. The superintendent did not like this because the acoustics were poor. Every time someone spoke there was an echo. Lake assured him that it would not be an issue.

  At ten after seven the superintendent, with Lake trailing close behind, entered the rotunda and stood at the top of the steps facing the media. It was a good turnout, helped by the fact that the rain had put the damper on any outdoor activities that may have deserved media coverage. The superintendent thanked everyone for attending and then issued the statement Lake had carefully worded for him.

  “As many of you know, the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension has today suspended the head of our investigative unit, Don Trask. Through ongoing diligent and extensive efforts to ensure that our organization is the best it can be, Special Agent Robert Lake to my right, and his team, have discovered the presence of child pornography on the work computer of Agent Trask. This has saddened us greatly, but we want this arrest of one of our top officials to demonstrate to Minnesota that we are, and will continue to be, transparent in how we operate.”

  The superintendent opened the session for questions.

  “How was the pornography discovered?”

  “Special Agent Lake could give you the technical details, but just suffice it to say that every agent’s and BCA employee’s computer is monitored daily to ensure their efforts are focused on our mission to serve the people of Minnesota.”

  “Has Trask been disciplined before?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss an employee’s work history.”

  “How many incidents of child pornography were found?”

  “Just the one.”

  A voice in the back of the crowd shouted, “Could someone have planted the pornography on Trask’s computer?”

  The superintendent glanced back at Lake who shook his head ‘no’.

  “Agent Lake assures me that he and his staff are very thorough in matters of this type.”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd that there is only the one incident?” It was the same voice from the back.

  “We make every effort to nip these things in the bud and make sure an example is made.”

  “Where is Trask now?”

  “We have turned him over to Ramsey County for processing. You’ll have to contact them.”

  “Do you have any evidence of payments made by Trask for this pornography?” The voice in back again. The superintendent and Lake strained to see who it was, but the lights were too bright.

  “Um…”

  The superintendent looked at Lake who stepped up to the microphone. “That is all the time we have now. Thank you for your attention.”

  Lake grabbed the superintendent by the elbow and led him out of the rotunda. The superintendent stopped and looked at Lake once they were through the door.

  “Who the hell was it asking those questions?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I couldn’t see with the lights.”

  “Well, you damn better be sure about this Trask arrest, Lake.”

  Lake was looking at a text message on his phone.

  “Lake!”

  “Sorry, sir. I have to run, sir.”

  Lake hurried off toward the parking lot, his phone going to his ear.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “You need to come to the computer lab, sir.”

  Lake was going to ask why, but a group of people walked by. “Ten minutes.”

  Lake was pissed about the way the press conference had gone and was not pleased to be summoned to the evidence lab like some flunky. He keyed in his code and jerked the door open on his arrival, marching across the room to where a technician in a white coat stood by a table with several computers.

  “This better be good!”

  The man in the lab coat seemed about to reply and stopped. He looked down at the laptop on the table.

  “Well?”

  “The porn on Trask’s computer, it was planted.”

  Lake looked like he might be sick. “What?”

  “Somebody planted it there, must have known we would find it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The files all came from one source and at the same time. There is no record at all of those files being requested.”

  “So? Couldn’t he have just called up the porn place and given them a request?"

  “Could have, but he didn’t. We went through his phone. Nothing.”

  “Payments? There has to be a payment for this stuff.”

  “Not unless he paid in cash.” Lake was silent, stunned. “We found a trail. Someone definitely broke into his machine and loaded the files. There is nothing else on it or the one from his home. He’s clean.”

  “Um, what about other stuff? He had to have something not work-related?”

  “Well, he does look at Minnesota Outdoor Fishing Report each week. Sometimes spends a good fifteen minutes looking at it.”

  “Fishing?”

  “That’s it.”

  Lake turned his back to the man and screamed, “FUCK!”

  He turned back to the technician and said, “None of this gets out unless I approve it. You got that?”

  “Sure. But don’t you think – "

  “I do think and that is why I am where I am today. Lock this down and shut it up.” Lake turned and left.

  Chapter 33

  The rain in St. Paul continued hard and steady, leaving the sidewalks shiny under the lights and small creeks running in the gutters. Trask put his collar up and sloshed along. He could not remember being this wet in his clothes since he and his brother had decided it was a good idea to catch night crawlers in the rain. His dark mood matched the weather. Trask had passed half a dozen bars, the neon signs calling him. He badly wanted a drink. Several. He figured he
deserved it.

  It was easy to see the next bar. There was a large window high on the brick wall facing him. Nearly filling the window was a neon sign with two alternating positions. In the first position, a woman in a short skirt was holding a bottle of beer. In the second position, the woman had tilted her head back, her arm lifting the bottle to her lips, her skirt flying up at the same time. The words below – ‘She Could Use A Drink’.

  Trask paused at the door. A couple rushed past to get out of the rain. Trask’s mouth went dry. He knew that if he went in, there was no way he would leave sober. About to reach for the door, it suddenly popped open, a man not much older than him staggering out. The man held the door for Trask.

  “Going in?”

  Trask could smell the man’s breath. His words were slurred.

  “No. You walking?”

  “Yeah. Just live down the block.”

  Trask stared at the drunk leaning on the door, struggling to stay vertical.

  “Have a safe walk.”

  The man stumbled off and Trask followed at a distance until he could see the man walk up the steps of a small bungalow. After a struggle with his keys, the door was unlocked, and the man went inside. Trask headed for his condo.

  Jenkins missed him by half a block. She slowed as she passed the bar with the neon drinking woman sign and pulled to the curb. Took a quick look around inside, asking the bartender if he had seen Trask, and then returned to her car. If he was walking home he would have at least been this far by now. If he came this way. Damn. She did not want to find a drunk Trask. She checked Google for the next closest bar.

  It was nearly two hours before Grace was able to talk to Cheryl Little. She was under observation, no drip tubes, but her head was bandaged. They had decided not to give her an IV despite her blood loss as her vital signs were good.

  “Mrs. Little. How are you doing?” asked Grace as he entered her room.

  She stared at him with empty eyes. “A little light-headed. They said it was the blood loss, but otherwise I should be OK.” She paused, thinking about what she had just said. “I’m not ever going to be OK, am I?” Tears welled and then ran down her cheeks.