The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon

by Marcy McCreary

  As I scanned the table I wondered if my mother kept any stuff from my youth.

  “In a box labeled ‘Sandra,’ I found letters Trudy wrote to me the summer you claim she disappeared. Only, at the time, I didn’t realize she disappeared . . . I just thought she stopped writing to me.”

  “Why did you think she just stopped writing to you?”

  “I graduated law school in the spring of 1978 and was studying for the bar exam. I told her that I needed to concentrate on the exam and she wouldn’t hear from me for a while. She took it as a slight, as you’ll see in the last letter she wrote to me. She was definitely going through a rough patch, and well, I pretty much told her I didn’t have the time to help. When you read the letters, you’ll see she was upset about something. She doesn’t spell it out, but it sounds like she was being harassed by someone at the hotel. After taking the exam, I wrote to her to apologize, but never heard back.” Sandra sighed. “I assumed she didn’t want to forgive me. I certainly didn’t think something bad had happened to her. I was so wrapped up in my own shit, I just figured she’d moved on with her life, and I was no longer a part of it.”

  “So you never heard from her again?” Dad asked.

  “No. I moved away soon after the exam. I was pretty burnt out and spent nearly two months gallivanting around Europe before returning to look for a job. When I landed a junior position at a law firm in the city, I was working sixty to seventy hours a week.”

  “Do you mind if we take these letters? We’ll send them back to you after we’ve had a chance to read through them."

  “If you think it will help, sure.”

  “One last question and we’ll be on our way,” I said. “Have you ever heard Trudy mention an Ed Resnick?”

  “Ed Resnick? No. But there is a mention of a guy that she refers to as S. R. in the letters. All she said is that she’s scared of him but doesn’t want to reveal who he is, hence the initials, I guess. Now I feel somewhat responsible for what may have happened to her. I could have done something about it, if I just—”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Dad said. “Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve is not going to change a thing.” Pretty sure he said this not only to assuage Sandra’s misgivings but his as well.

  “S R—SCOTT fucking Roth?” Dad snarled, lingering in front of the car door.

  “Or Stanley Roth. Or any hotel worker or guest with the first initial S and the second initial R.”

  “C’mon, Susan. We find out that Scott paid a visit to Ed, had some mysterious argument with him, and you think he is not the person Trudy is referring to in the letters?”

  “Scott was eighteen at the time of Trudy’s disappearance. Do you think he was harassing a twenty-seven year old woman?”

  “Ever see The Graduate? And she wasn’t even as old as Mrs. Robinson. Maybe they had an affair and she broke it off, and he, being young and in love, couldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “The Graduate? Really, that’s the basis for your theory? And from Sandra’s description of Trudy, I wouldn’t exactly call her a seductress. Besides, why would Scott get into a beef with Ed years after Trudy left?”

  “Okay. Point taken. Let’s just run down what we have established.”

  As I turned the key in the ignition, Dad fished around the glove compartment for a pad and pencil. He licked the end of the pencil with his tongue and flipped back the cardboard cover of the spiral-bound notebook. My phone rang as I pulled away from the curb. I pressed my thumb on the speaker icon embedded in the steering wheel.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” Chief Eldridge’s voice crackled through the audio system.

  “Still in Brooklyn. I’m heading home now.”

  “Good. Good. I need you to come in first thing tomorrow morning. This Calvin Barnes thing just became a bit of a shit show. Did you get a chance to speak to Rhonda? We could really use someone on your side right now.”

  “What happened?” I released my right hand from the steering wheel. The moisture left behind quickly dissipated.

  “The family’s lawyer just filed a civil suit.”

  My heart rate ticked up a few notches. I glanced over at Dad and he flashed a reassuring smile. “I spoke to Rhonda. I’m pretty sure she isn’t going to come out publicly to support me. But she said there are members willing to go on the record and give a positive character assessment based on my work with the group.”

  “Okay. Try and make that happen soon. Is Will with you?”

  “I’m here, Cliff.”

  “Okay. Any new developments in the Trudy Solomon case?”

  “As a matter of fact, there are,” Dad said. “We’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. And Susan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hang in there.”

  No words passed between us as we listened to a Foreigner song on a classic rock station. When a Led Zeppelin tune came on, Dad lowered the volume knob.

  “How about we theorize a little and figure out our next move.” Dad patted my right arm. “At the very least, it will keep your mind off the Barnes case.”

  I squinted at the gas indicator and calculated how far into Connecticut I could get before having to refuel. Norwalk, maybe Fairfield.

  “Susan. You listening?”

  “Sure, Dad.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, we know that Trudy and Ed were together from at least 1990. Let’s assume for a moment that Ed is the mustached guy Ben saw hanging around Trudy at the hotel. Did she run away with him, did he kidnap her, or did they run into each other years later and start dating?”

  “I’d like to go back and see Lenny. I sensed he knew something when we showed him the police sketch of Ed. And he didn’t flinch when we told him Trudy was found . . . alive. Now that we have a name, let’s lean on him a bit harder. Make him think we know more than we know.”

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “We also need to interview the woman who lived next door to Trudy back in 1978 . . . uh, what's her name?”

  “Eleanor Campbell.”

  “Yeah, her. She might have seen Ed lurking about. If she and Trudy were close, maybe Trudy confided in her about an extramarital relationship or a stalker.”

  “And we need to get in touch with Scott Roth,” Dad said. “Somehow, he figures in this. He knew Trudy was alive in 2007, yet kept that fact to himself.”

  “According to what Cynthia just told us, it doesn't sound like Scott was putting the squeeze on Ed for money. It sounded like he wanted Ed to snitch on someone. So, it's entirely possible Scott knew what Ed was up to.”

  “So if not Scott, who was Ed’s mark? That's the person with motive.”

  “Yup. But we also can’t dismiss that Trudy might have killed Ed . . . perhaps before she went to the grocery store. Cynthia said they dusted it up every so often.”

  “The autopsy report indicated a person three to four inches shorter than Ed. That would map out to Trudy. But y’know who is also three to four inches shorter than Ed? Ben. He was the one who had mentioned the Mustache Man. Maybe he tracked him down. Revenge for absconding with his wife.”

  “Interesting theory, Dad. But, you said yourself he seemed genuinely surprised when you told him about Trudy. We should keep in mind that it could’ve just been a random murder . . . a robbery gone sideways.”

  There was traffic ahead. I pumped the brake gently. Dad’s head was down as he scribbled in the tiny notepad. He looked up momentarily when the car came to a full stop, frowned, then went back to writing.

  “Just some construction ahead,” I said. We sat silently for a few minutes. I sorted through the suspects and motives in my head. I sensed Dad was doing the same.

  Dad tapped the eraser end of the pencil against the dashboard, sounding like the opening bass line of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.” “Cynthia Lambert said that Trudy was involved in the argument. So, contrary to her statement to Detective Masters, she did know about this money.” Dad paused, stared down at his n
otebook and scribbled something. “What about the people who contacted you through Facebook?”

  “We’re talking to a lifeguard tomorrow—Brian something. A guest and a cocktail waitress said they can chat with us on Wednesday. I’ll confirm the times with them and let you know.”

  “And then there’s the woman who escorted Trudy to McNair Hospital, Martha Stuart. Not sure how we’ll track her down, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that she gave false contact information.” Dad wagged the pencil at me. “That makes her suspicious in my book.”

  Dad pulled out the letters Sandra Leer gave us and leafed through them. My thoughts drifted to the Facebook messages. The lifeguard claimed to have information I would find enlightening. Wanted to get something off his chest. The cocktail waitress wrote that she could shed some light on Trudy’s marriage. The guest was friends with Scott and wanted to talk to me about a conversation they had about Trudy soon after she disappeared. I wasn't keen on rolling this case around in my head for the next two hours.

  “Dad, do you mind if I switch on a podcast?”

  “Depends. What podcast?”

  “My Favorite Murder. I think you’ll get a kick out of it. It’s these two women chatting about true crime stories.”

  For the next hour we listened to the podcast’s hosts banter about the kidnapping and murder of Polly Klaas in Petaluma, California.

  “Can we listen to another?” Dad asked.

  “Sure.”

  He took my phone and scrolled through the list. “Episode 46, ‘Skippers Unite,’ sounds interesting. It’s about the two serial killers Leslie Allen Williams and Israel Keyes.”

  “Let it rip.”

  By the time I dropped Dad off at Horizon Meadows, we had listened to three episodes of My Favorite Murder. I drove home in silence, needing to clear my head of murders and kidnapping. However short-lived that would be. Ray would be eager to hear what we discovered on this little road trip. But I had one more thing to do before laying out the case to Ray. I killed the ignition and called Lori Roth McDonald.

  RAY LEFT the porch light on, but I stumbled up the stairs anyway. Gotta remember to fix the loose board on the second step. I could see the glow of the television from the entryway. Ray’s head was tipped slightly forward. I gently placed the keys in the glass dish and tiptoed into the living room. When I turned off the television, Ray twitched.

  “Hey babe,” he mumbled.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “No worries. I was just resting my eyes.” He stretched his arms to the ceiling and stood quickly as if to prove he wasn’t asleep. “So, how’d it go?”

  For the next thirty minutes, I laid out the plot for him and he occasionally interrupted with a wow or a holy shit. Then I told him about my conversation with Lori.

  All in all, my chat with Lori went much better than I thought it would. We had different versions of our “breakup.” In her version, we simply got interested in different things and became different people when we hit our teens. She recounted a story about how I once tried to get her to smoke weed and although she acted all cool, it scared her. (“You were so badass, so rebellious,” she said. “I just felt like a goody-two-shoes who wanted to get good grades and not get into trouble.”) That sincerely surprised me. I didn’t see myself as some rebellious hooligan. I pretty much toed the line. I skipped class once in a while, or snuck into the movie theater, or blew curfew (by no more than an hour) if there was a party down by the field. But I never got in real trouble. Didn’t really want to.

  “So I smoked pot once in a while or snuck out at night a couple of times,” I said to Ray. “I wasn’t Sandra Dee. But I certainly wasn’t John Bender. Or the female version of John Bender.”

  “Who the hell is John Bender?”

  “Really? Judd Nelson . . . played this rebel character named John Bender in The Breakfast Club.” He shook his head as I rattled off the cast: “Molly Ringwald? Ally Sheedy? Anthony Michael Hall?”

  “Never heard of ’em.”

  I scrunched my face and shook my head. Was he asleep during the eighties? “Anyway, she got the sense that I didn’t want to be friends with her anymore. I have to say, it’s pretty damn interesting how we saw things so differently. She even claimed she had no knowledge of her mother banning me from the hotel grounds. Not sure I believe that.”

  After Lori and I aired our perceived slights, the mood shifted. I could have been wrong (and perhaps it was wishful thinking), but I felt we settled into the familiar banter of old friends. Then we got around to Trudy Solomon. When I told her about the resurrection of the case, she claimed she barely remembered it. I reminded her that we sleuthed around the hotel interrogating guests and staff if they had seen her, but Lori insisted she had no recollection of ever doing that. She didn’t even recall her father reaming us out when he caught us questioning the bellhops. To me, that case was everything. It was a way to get closer to my dad. It was mysterious and fascinating. But to her, it was probably just a game, nothing particularly meaningful or memorable. I asked her if she was still close to her siblings, and she said she spoke frequently with Meryl, occasionally with Joshua, but rarely heard from Scott. I didn’t mention Scott’s possible involvement. I figured I could bring it up when I better understood how he fit into all this.

  I trudged up the stairs feeling the weight of the past two days. Exhausted was putting it mildly. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I shut the bathroom door, opened the cabinet door under the sink, and reached behind the rolls of toilet paper. There it was . . . the bottle of Percocet prescribed to me after a bullet ripped through my thigh. The last two pills. “Hello you.”

  12

  Wednesday, November 7, 2018

  ELDRIDGE’S OFFICE was enclosed in glass. He usually kept the blinds rolled up to signal that his door was always open. But this morning the blinds were drawn, the door shut. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed like mosquitos above my head.

  “I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Susan. I read the civil complaint last night. They feel confident in their version of the story, and all we have is your word against theirs.” Eldridge came around from behind his desk and sat on the edge. “You really should’ve waited for backup. But I’m not here to lecture you about that again.”

  “In hindsight, I get it. But they would have been gone by the time backup showed up.”

  Eldridge shook his head. “Look, I know you’re a fair-minded cop. You’ve got an outstanding record. But there are two witnesses, and yes, I know they’re criminals, saying that Calvin Barnes’s hands were in the air when you shot him. I’m just asking you to think very carefully about the statement you gave claiming you saw something in Calvin’s hand. Are you one hundred percent sure?”

  I threw up my hands. “Do you think I’m making this up?” I said, perhaps a bit too defensively. “Chief, when one your officers sees a gun pointed in her direction, are you suggesting she should say, ‘Hey, time out everyone, did you just pull a gun on me?’ Yes, I’m damn sure I saw a gun.”

  Eldridge slid his fingers back and forth along his throat. “Whoa there, Susan.” He hopped off the edge of the desk and towered over me. “It all happened very quickly, and the mind can play tricks in a situation like that. Tell me again what happened.” He sat back down at his desk and clasped his hands like a prim schoolmarm. “From the beginning.”

  I closed my eyes. I played the scene out in my mind as I had done dozens, probably close to a hundred, times before. I opened my eyes and recounted, once again, how that night unfolded. “I had just gotten off duty and was driving past the abandoned warehouses when I spotted two parked vehicles. That’s when I saw flashlight beams bouncing off the windows from the inside. At first I thought, no biggie, probably a bunch of underage kids drinking. But when I peeked inside the window I saw Calvin and Melvin Barnes, Wayne Railman, and two other guys standing around a table with an assortment of drugs laid out, like they were perusing merchandise at a flea market. At that point, I didn’t know w
ho was selling or who was buying. I went back to my car, called for backup, and then positioned myself by the window. Watching them conduct business, I was able to discern that Calvin, Melvin and Wayne were the sellers. Then they started packing up, and well, I decided to go in . . . with my gun drawn. I yelled for everyone to get on the floor. Melvin Barnes heeded my command, and laid down on the ground, but the two buyers took off toward the side exit. I could see Wayne Railman off to the side, to my right, on his knees. Calvin Barnes was about ten feet in front of me, pointing what I thought was a gun and yelling, ‘Kill the bitch,’ and that’s when I felt the bullet hit my thigh. I didn’t realize it was Wayne who had shot me. I thought Calvin had shot me, and I thought he was going to go for the kill, so I took aim at him and fired. Wayne ran over to Calvin. He said, ‘Hang in there Calvin. That bitch will pay for what she done.’ Then Wayne stood up, aimed his gun on me, and that’s when backup arrived. Wayne dropped his gun and got down on his knees with his hands on his head, yelling, ‘Bitch, you killed Calvin.’”

  I took a breath and wiped away an escaped tear. “I was just so sure Calvin Barnes also had a gun in his hand.”

  Eldridge plucked a tissue from the silver box on his desk and offered it to me. “Were you able to get any character references?”

  “I’ll remind Rhonda. She said she would get back to me this week.”

  Eldridge stood up from the edge of the desk, signaling the end of the reprimand.

  “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “Not at the moment. Go find out what happened to Trudy.”

  WITH THE Eldridge meeting in the rearview mirror, I spent the next hour setting up phone meetings with the lifeguard, the hotel guest, and the cocktail waitress. With limited time and funds, Dad agreed that Skyping would have to suffice. The lifeguard wrote to tell me he could hop on a call later that day. The hotel guest and the cocktail waitress were both available the next day.