by D. K. Wall
While Roxanne supported the family, her second role had been to gain their trust so she could monitor them. The majority of kidnapped children were taken by a close relative. An estranged parent, particularly one like Harold, with his history of drug and alcohol abuse, made for a prime suspect.
Trusting Roxanne, Heather had shared stories of her ex-husband’s erratic behavior and struggles. Connor confessed how often he had lied about Harold’s failure to show up. That information, coupled with Harold’s inability to explain his whereabouts when Jaxon disappeared and the boys’ clothing in his trailer and car, painted a guilty image.
As the years went by, David had stayed in touch with the FBI about the case whenever a boy’s body was located. The senior agents on the original team retired, quit, or transferred to other units, elevating Roxanne to the FBI’s senior agent on the case through attrition. Contact between Miller County and the FBI team had been limited over the years, sparked by possibilities that were soon disproven. If a hiker or hunter stumbled across a decomposed body, DNA tests were ordered. Often, an arrested serial child molester was then questioned about dates and locations. But without a body or a confession, little happened to move the case forward, and their contact was infrequent.
Roxanne introduced the other agent, Anthony Gonzalez, who stood out in his dark suit, white shirt, and red tie among a sea of people in jeans, sweatshirts, and scrubs—FBI agents never seemed to blend well in small towns—then turned back to business. “Do you have confirmation of the boy’s identity?”
“The first confirmation was a visual by me, coupled with his recollections. His mother and brother are with him now and also believe it’s him. I’ve requested his DNA testing be top priority for Raleigh, but I think that’s a formality now.”
“We can run it faster if you want. We don’t want another Brian Rini.” In 2019, police in Kentucky had stopped a teenager wandering the streets of Newport. He’d identified himself as Timmothy Pitzen, a boy who’d disappeared in 2011 at the age of six from Aurora, Illinois. Investigators doubted his kidnapping story when he refused to be fingerprinted. DNA testing outed the impostor as a twenty-three-year-old felon named Brian Rini, who had made similar claims twice before.
“Agreed, and I’ll take all the help I can get.” The friction between local police and the FBI so often depicted in movies wasn’t always the reality, particularly not for a small police department without the resources of their larger-city brethren. “You need to come up and chat with the kid, anyway. I suspect he’s got quite a tale.”
“Have you notified Harold?”
David motioned toward the parking lot, where Harold was getting out of his Chevelle. He knew Roxanne shared the same qualms—Jaxon’s reappearance forced them to question their conclusion about Harold’s involvement. “Seemed genuinely surprised and shocked, but not worried the kid had reappeared. Said a couple of times he wants us to catch whoever took Jaxon. He didn’t argue when I explained he wouldn’t be able to see the boy without supervision.”
“In other words, he’s not acting like a man scared his old crime is about to be exposed.” Roxanne studied the waiting father as he settled into a chair in the lobby. “I’m not taking him off my list yet, but it’ll certainly make us reexamine things we thought we knew. He could still have been involved in the kidnapping. Maybe he had to settle a drug debt.”
“I’m with you about the disappearance, but I don’t see how he could’ve been involved in holding the kid alive all these years. Prison time would have made it impossible to hide the child’s whereabouts without a trusted accomplice, and we’ve not known him to have any close friends. Since being released, he rarely goes anywhere other than work, AA, and NA. No way he hid a kid in that trailer park without the neighbors knowing. If he was involved at the beginning, I think he’s as surprised as the rest of us that the kid’s still alive. We’ll watch the boy’s response when dad gets to see him.”
“We? So you want me in the room?”
David looked pointedly at Agent Gonzalez. “I don’t want to crowd him, but the boy’s scared and doesn’t want to talk much to me. I’ve seen you at work, building rapport to get information. We need to find out where he was being held, and I’m hoping you might be able to get that out of him.”
“Makes perfect sense. Gonzalez can coordinate transfer of evidence to our labs, and I’ll assist with interviews.”
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped on. With others around them, they rode to their floor in silence, waiting at each stop as people got on or off the elevator. When they reached the fifth floor, Roxanne spied Heather standing at the end of the hall and pulled David into a quiet alcove. “Has he said anything about other victims?”
“No, but that’s my fear. He hasn’t told us much of anything yet, but wherever he came from…” He looked out the window at the parking lot below them. The snow had been pushed into hills at the far end, and rivulets of melt ran across the pavement in the bright sunshine.
“If there are others, once his escape is discovered…”
“They could be moved or worse, killed,” David finished the gruesome thought.
“Gonzalez, let’s get the clothes he was wearing to our lab as well, see what we can pull off them and who and where it points to.” Roxanne turned back to David and asked, “How sure are you he came from the Wattsville exit?”
“Only an educated guess. If he was hitchhiking, he could have come from anywhere, but considering where we found him and the direction he was walking, Wattsville is the only exit that makes sense if he was on foot the whole time. The next one west of that is another four miles into Tennessee. I don’t see how he would have survived in last night’s weather that far. It’s a miracle he survived as long as he did. Plus, we would have received calls even earlier because people would have seen him walking that stretch of road.”
“And to the east?”
“Seven miles to the next exit, and that one is even more remote. Since he was headed that way, it really doesn’t make sense.”
“So the isolation helps us by narrowing it down to a single likely exit but hurts us because it’s a big search area.”
“The good news is there are only a couple of roads there, but it’s very rural, and houses are scattered. State patrol and the forest service have offered to get their choppers up, but they need to know what they’re looking for. The park service is checking shelters, but they’re mostly empty this time of year. Besides, they make no sense as a long-term kidnap holding. I’m going to send some deputies knocking on doors, but the residents up there, well, they aren’t exactly big law-enforcement fans. Cooperation is very iffy.” David sighed. “We need to know more about what we’re looking for.”
“So let’s go see what Jaxon can tell us.”
21
Movement in the reflections of the window broke Heather’s thoughts. She noisily wiped her hand across her face and turned to see the sheriff approaching her. He motioned to the familiar-looking woman walking beside him and asked, “Do you remember Agent Porter?”
Heather couldn’t help a smile crossing her face as recognition hit. Unlike the sheriff and his pursuit of her ex, Agent Porter had always felt like an ally. “Of course. Roxanne is my statistics queen.”
David’s faced crinkled in confusion, but Roxanne defused the moment with a laugh. “Forgive me for my rookie mistake. I was trying so hard to prove how much I had learned in the academy and tried to counter emotions with data. I’ve learned tons about people skills in the years since.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You helped me deal with all the craziness of those days.”
The day after the disappearance had been no easier than the first night. Cops had traipsed back and forth in her house, their radios squawking. They’d asked her thousands of questions. Connor had retreated to the room he shared with his missing brother, except the police entered it, too, and sorted through Jaxon’s clothing and toys, looking for clues.
Worst of all, t
hey asked over and over where Harold was, as if she would magically get an idea.
She had curled up on a couch in the den with the TV blaring, trying to drown out the noise around her. The talking head on the TV was interviewing an expert in child abductions. They raged at the incompetence of the police, how underwhelming the sheriff had appeared, how the case was spinning out of control. And then the interviewer asked if it was already too late to find the boy alive.
Heather had sat up and stared at the TV, the noise around her disappearing in a fog. The expert, in his fancy suit and flashy tie, looked right at the camera and said, “The statistics are clear. Ninety-nine percent of all kidnapped children are dead in the first twenty-four hours. The police have moved too slow on this one.”
She didn’t remember throwing a glass at the TV. Or the screen shattering and smoke curling up from behind the set. Or the officers standing around, slack-jawed and silenced. Or Roxanne guiding her to her bedroom and sitting her down on the bed.
“I was out of my mind.” Heather wrapped her hand around Roxanne’s elbow in a warm embrace. “But you—you were different than the rest of them. You helped me to breathe until I could explain what had happened, and then you told me about the studies the guy was quoting.”
The FBI, like all law enforcement, knew that most missing children come home. They could wander off and get lost or end up with a friend or relative, not even realizing that people are looking for them. Kidnappings were rare, but when they did happen, the perpetrator was almost always a family member, most of whom did everything they could to keep the child safe.
A total stranger taking a child almost never happened. The sheer abnormal nature of such cases drove the extensive media coverage that formed the public perception of stranger danger.
So, yes, Roxanne had told Heather back then, a study by the Department of Justice found that eighty-nine percent, not the ninety-nine percent often quoted, of those children who died did so within the first twenty-four hours of kidnapping—the majority within only a few hours. In other words, for the very few who were killed, it happened quickly. The kidnapper who held onto a victim for days, weeks, or even years was far more common in movies than real life.
“I cringe when I see some TV cop saying that. I don’t know why it bothers me so much when it’s the same stupid shows that have a female FBI agent showing her cleavage while balancing in her high heels.” Roxanne looked down at her own sensible foot attire.
“Standing beside her impossibly handsome partner,” Heather added as both women glanced at the sheriff and laughed.
David grimaced. “Thanks, ladies. Way to trash the ego. But to make it worse, I’m a Southern sheriff, not an FBI agent. We’re all stereotyped as Andy Griffith, Rosco P. Coltrane, or some racist slime ball. Not much glamor in that.”
Their laughter dwindled to a chuckle. Roxanne’s face grew serious again. “Heather, you don’t know how happy I am he’s back. I wish the best for your family and want to give you the space you need to heal, but we need to spend some time with him this morning. If you’ll let us, of course.”
Heather wrapped her arms around her chest. Roxanne was right, she had improved her people skills, but Jaxon came first. She shook her head and said, “Not now, please. He needs to rest. To recover. Can’t you come back in a few weeks? Or even just let him rest a few days first? What’s the point in rushing, now that he’s back?”
Roxanne fixed her gaze directly on Heather’s. “Whoever had Jaxon all these years is still out there. When they figure out he got away, what do you think the reaction will be? Are other kids in danger? Will he go snatch another kid to replace him? You know what that’s like, so you know why we need his help. We want to catch this SOB, and we need to move quick to do so. That’s why it needs to be now.”
Heather turned her back on them and stared out the window at the mountains. Is the creep hiding out there somewhere? What if he comes to take Jaxon away again? Maybe he’s in the hall right now, dressed as an orderly or pushing a broom or delivering a food tray. We have no idea what he looks like.
She had given up cigarettes as soon as she found out she was pregnant with Connor. Over the years, she had watched her ex-husband fight his own addictions. She understood it because in times of stress, she craved with every fiber the relaxing feeling of a smoke. That particular moment was off the stress charts, so her hands shook at the thought of holding one between her fingers. She closed her eyes. Her precious Jaxon had been taken from her, and a shell of a boy had been returned. If they could prevent that from happening to another boy, they had to try.
Exhaling slowly, she nodded.
22
“Do you remember the mud pit?” Jaxon asked.
Connor knew his mother’s need for coffee was an excuse to avoid the room. He felt the discomfort too. The boy sprawled under the sheets wasn’t the same, haunted and changed by the years of abuse. Their conversation was halting as they struggled for things to talk about, throwing out old stories to rebuild the feelings, but everything felt forced and foreign. At everything Connor said, Jaxon just shook his head and said he couldn’t remember. Connor doubted they could ever reconnect the bonds that had been broken a decade earlier.
He wanted to remember the mud pit, whatever it was, because it was the first time Jaxon had brought up something himself. Connor scrunched up his face as if that would force the memory to surface. “Mud pit?”
Jaxon’s face fell, the hopefulness that had popped up dissipating quickly. “Yeah, it was one of the stories we told a lot. Makes me laugh, thinking about it.”
“Well, tell me. Maybe I’ll remember.”
With a grunt, Jaxon sat up in the bed and crossed his legs. He rested his hands on his knees, closed his eyes, and began. “It was a hot summer day, a perfect day to go swimming, except we couldn’t go to the park without Dad. We weren’t allowed to leave the yard without an adult, so we were stuck at home, in the backyard, sweat dripping down our bodies, complaining like we loved to do. With a snap of his fingers, Connor stood up and exclaimed, ‘I’ve got an idea. Let’s dig our own pool.’”
Jaxon opened his eyes and looked at Connor, a reddish tint of embarrassment crawling up his face. “Sorry. I meant you. You stood up. I’m so used to telling it as a story.”
Connor shook with surprise at hearing his name in the midst of the story. It felt as though he had been listening to a campfire story told about someone else more than a conversation. Still, the memory had come crashing back to him, and he didn’t want to lose the moment. “I remember it. It was hot as hell, and we wanted to go swimming. Dad was supposed to take us over to the community pool at the park, but he didn’t show up. Big surprise. He never showed up when he was supposed to. I wanted to ride our bikes over there anyway, but you had this brilliant idea we could make a pool in our backyard just like rich people do.”
Jaxon sputtered in protest. “I thought it was all your idea.”
The older boy grinned and chuckled. “Oh, no, you went running into the storage closet and came out carrying Dad’s shovel. It was like twice as big as you were, and when you stabbed it in the ground, the handle hit you on the head. But you were like, ‘We’re gonna build our own pool!’ and kept digging.”
“Funny. I thought you did all the digging.”
“Oh, I did, because you weren’t making much of a hole, and I took over. I guess I thought it would work, or maybe I thought it would be fun to try, because I grabbed the shovel and started tearing up the dirt. And Duke helped… You remember Duke, don’t ya? That dog was awesome.”
Connor laughed louder as Jaxon’s eyes grew big. The memory of the day kept flooding into his brain. “Anyway, we only got a few inches dug ’cause we kept hitting rocks and had to stop and pull them out of the ground. We got tired and hot ’cause it was really hard work, so I began to think it wasn’t such a great idea after all, but we did have enough for a wading pool.”
“That’s when you decided to roll out the hose and fill it wi
th water.”
“Me?” Connor protested. “It was definitely you who grabbed the hose.”
“Whatever.” Jaxon waved his hands in dismissal. “Most of the water didn’t go in the hole because it turned into a massive water fight in the backyard. Water dripping off the windows and the house and everything.”
Connor howled with laughter at the memory as Jaxon’s smile expanded into a full grin, exposing the gaps from missing teeth. Making his brother laugh felt good, and Connor didn’t want to lose the feeling, so he continued, “And the mud. It’s not like we had much grass, anyway—never did—and we had this hole in the middle of the yard and the dirt we’d pulled out. Everything turned to this clingy, yucky mud that stuck to everything. The house. The dog. Each other. Duke was racing around, shaking his fur and splattering the side of the house. And that’s when we started ‘rassling’ like they do on TV, taking big flying leaps through the air and landing in that big ol’ muddy hole with a splat.”
“Mud caked in ears. Dripping out of hair. Even down pants and into underwear.”
“Oh, yeah, and Duke was as muddy as we were. I swear he wagged his tail, and mud flew everywhere. And then we got into trouble.”
Jaxon snickered. “Mom came home.”
“We heard the car door slam, and she came around the corner of the house. The look on her face. She was so mad at us…”
“But you could also tell she was trying really hard not to laugh.”
“Exactly! She called us swamp monsters.” Connor snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “No, it was her lizard men! You know, like that legend down in South Carolina. The lizard man of the swamp or something like that. And she called Duke lizard dog because you couldn’t even see his fur anymore.”