by Roger Hayden
“Dispatch, I need immediate air support!” she shouted into the mic. “Suspect is fleeing. Currently in hot pursuit.”
The sight of Deputy Lang’s lifeless body in the rearview mirror saddened and sickened her. The only hope she had was that she might find the shooter and bring him to justice. The cruiser raced down the barren road at its highest RPMs. She was clocking over one hundred on the speedometer. She could see dust ahead as though the Buick wasn’t far off. She looked for taillights, brake lights, anything that would indicate the shooter.
“Where’s that backup?” she said.
“Bravo Twelve, backup is on the way,” the female dispatcher said.
The cruiser raced ahead as the road became one long, straight line, flashing by in a vortex with no sign of the Buick. There was no way they could have vanished like that. She pressed on as chatter came over the radio, other officers telling her they were on their way. The mood coming over the airwaves was tense. No one was sure yet exactly what had happened.
Miriam couldn’t say herself. Her partner had been shot. All she knew was that she had to catch the car before the shooter got away.
Crime Scene
In her five years on the force, Miriam had never witnessed a police shooting within the department. It was new territory for her. She raced down the cracked and faded two-lane road, squeezing the steering wheel with fierce intensity.
Chatter from a dozen different officers consumed the dispatch radio. They wanted answers. Her siren blared at its loudest pitch as the lights flashed wildly. She wasn’t going to let the shooter get away. The yellow lines in the road flashed by in a rapid blur as she pushed the car to its limit.
With her eyes locked on the road, she grabbed the hand mic. Her hand trembled as she shouted. “Where’s that chopper, damn it?”
“Air support en route. ETA, five minutes.”
She could hear a faint aerial rumble closing in, hoping that it wasn’t too late to find the fleeing suspect. The barren road sharply curved to the right. She slowed as the tires screeched against the rough pavement, and the heat shield around the exhaust rattled as though it were coming loose. The helicopter was getting louder and closer. There was still hope, and then, after three miles of intense pursuit, she saw it—the blue Buick station wagon—parked to the side of the road, sitting on the grass and slanted on a sloping shoulder.
“Vehicle in sight. I repeat, vehicle in sight!” she said into the hand mic. A blue-and-white police helicopter flew overhead from the distance.
“Zeroing in on your location,” the pilot’s voice said back.
She slammed the brakes as the station wagon came into view, parked on the side of the road. She skidded to the side and into the grass, stopping right in front of the Buick. She jumped out and went down on one knee, holding her pistol up. She remained crouched down and approached the Buick with her gun in the air. No one was inside the car. It appeared to have been abandoned.
She looked around: nothing but trees and palmetto brush as far as she could see on both sides of the road. It was the perfect sanctuary for anyone to flee into. The helicopter was low and circling. They had to have seen something. She pulled out her handheld radio from her side belt and spoke into it.
“This is Sergeant Castillo. Suspect is not in the car. Preparing to engage on foot.”
She carefully circled the station wagon, breathing heavily. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Beads of sweat covered her forehead, collecting just below her hairline. The shooter could only have gone so many ways. She examined the ground near the car, looking for footprints leading into the woods. Nothing looked disturbed, and the fact that the car had been so easily and quickly abandoned had her doubting that fifty-four-year-old Betsy Cole was the culprit.
“Sergeant Castillo, we need you back at the scene. We’ve got an officer down here,” said a voice through her radio speaker. She recognized the voice. It was her commanding officer, Captain Porter.
“Sir. I am in pursuit of the suspect right now!” she said, ready to storm into the marshy forest to her side.
“We’re assembling a pursuit team. If you’re at the vehicle, suspect couldn’t have gone too far. Now—”
She turned the radio off mid-sentence. He’d be upset with her, but she didn’t care. The helicopter was circling the area, aimlessly it seemed.
“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Miriam said under her breath.
She headed into the forest, swiping at branches and palmetto bushes lined up like crops. She held her gun up, ready to put a bullet into the shooter’s head. Sticks and leaves crackled under her boots. Sunlight flashed through trees as sharp, green palmetto leaves poked her legs. She continued on, pushing her way through the brush, sweaty and exhausted.
She looked up as the helicopter flew past, hoping it would land, but it flew off instead. There was no going any farther. She was already in the thick of it with nothing to show. She turned back and trudged her way through the brush, keeping a keen eye out for anything that moved.
By the time she emerged from the woods, there were ten police vehicles already parked along the road. Blue and red flashing lights reflected against the windows of the empty Buick. She approached a group of officers huddled by her patrol car, oblivious to the dirt and tear streaks covering her face.
“The car’s stolen,” she said as they looked at her, startled.
“What was that, Sergeant Castillo?” O’Leary, an older but boyish-looking detective, asked from the group.
“The car. I’m certain it was stolen…” she said, dazed. She tripped and nearly fell against the hood before O’Leary caught her. The other officers backed away.
“Easy there, Sergeant,” he said. “Looks like you’ve been through enough already.”
Miriam regained her balance and gently pushed O’Leary away. “I’m all right. We don’t have much time. We have to find the shooter.”
“And we will,” he said calmly. He turned to his own unmarked cruiser, a gray Ford Taurus. “Let’s go back to the scene now so you can explain exactly what happened. The captain is waiting.”
Miriam hesitated, looking around. O’Leary put a hand on her shoulder. “Whoever did this is not getting far. We’re mobilizing the entire department. Might even get other counties involved in this too.”
“Okay,” Miriam said, giving in. “Let’s go.”
She followed him back to his car, stepped into the passenger seat, and closed the door. O’Leary backed his car out and sped off, back to where the nightmare started.
Cop cars zoomed past them going the other way, their sirens shrieking. Miriam wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the moment she heard the gunshot. Everything after that—the car chase, the foot pursuit through the thick brush—was a blur. It was impossible to think that the shooter could just vanish like that. She hoped Detective O’Leary was right. She hoped with more than twenty police officers on the ground, they could find him.
They arrived at the crime scene, where even more officers had flooded the area. Two helicopters now circled overhead. The area was being cordoned off with police tape. Yellow numbered markers rested on the ground, around the disturbed area where the blue Buick had stopped before it had fled. A single shell casing lay on the ground next to a fresh pool of blood. Deputy Lang’s body was nowhere in sight.
Miriam exited the car and saw that his body was already concealed inside a zipped-up body bag and resting on a stretcher outside a waiting ambulance, its lights flashing.
“I’m sorry,” O’Leary said, leaning against his car door.
Her heart sank as she rushed over to the ambulance, where two paramedics were preparing to load the gurney inside.
Captain Porter stepped out of nowhere, immediately blocking her path. “Slow down, Sergeant. We need to talk.”
“Sir…” Miriam began. She had nothing to say to him. Nothing she wanted to say to him, anyway. Her partner was in a body bag not five feet from them. That was all that mattered.
“What were you doing out here?” the captain began. “How did this happen?”
She looked up then, past him. His thin, clean-shaven face had a slightly stern but sympathetic expression, clearly evident behind his square-framed glasses. She tried to look over his shoulder toward the ambulance. His white button-down shirt had two double-bar ranks on the collar.
“Sergeant Castillo, I’m talking to you,” he added.
She flashed him a quick glance, verging on anger. “Sir, the only thing I’m interested in is catching the bastard who did this.”
“We’re on it,” Captain Porter said. “The suspect won’t get far. In the meantime, I expect a full report. There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense.”
Miriam looked at him quizzically. “Like what, sir?”
“Like how the suspect was allowed to pull a gun on Deputy Lang, let alone shoot him?”
Miriam felt as if her insides were being pulled apart. The weight of what happened hadn’t fully sunk in yet.
“Now, I’ve got one officer dead and another who fled the scene,” Porter continued.
“I was trying to—” Miriam began. She had yet to even take notice of the dried bloodstains covering her uniform.
“I know what you were trying to do, Sergeant,” Captain Porter said. He looked her over and shook his head. “Are you okay? Why don’t you let the paramedics check you out?”
She watched as they lifted Deputy Lang’s gurney and pushed it into the back of the ambulance. “I’m fine,” she said and then turned to look at the bustling activity—the area filled with police, some taking photos and videos, others looking for blood and other evidence, and looking as if it were some kind of convention. “Any word on the suspect?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he answered with a sigh. “They’re looking.”
The sun was going down—a blurry orange orb in the pink sky. The helicopters in the distance had their spotlights on. Time was running out, and the shooter had vanished even with the number of law enforcement on the scene. She had never witnessed an act so cold, callous, and evil. It made her sick inside. She still couldn’t believe it.
***
Hours later, Miriam sat across from Chief Walker in his office, with Captain Porter seated next to her. Her detailed report was sitting on the police chief’s desk as he scanned it with quiet interest. The room was quiet, but much commotion could be heard from outside. Chief Walker, a black man with a shaved head and slender build, had a strict, no-nonsense demeanor. He hadn’t dealt with an officer killed in the line of duty in his entire career with the department, which was more than ten years. Such a crime occurring in Palm Dale was as rare as a bank robbery or drive-by shooting would be. He was as shocked and perplexed as everyone else. He placed Miriam’s report down on the desk and studied them both with his dark, inquisitive eyes.
“I’ll go ahead and state the obvious. We’re dealing with a very dangerous individual,” the chief began in his gravelly voice.
He placed a palm flat over the report and then gestured at Miriam with his other hand. “Your details account for most of everything, and it’s nothing short of tragic.” He tensed up and balled a fist. “A sad day for our department. I spoke to the mayor earlier, and he’s already ordered the flags at half-staff for the entire week.”
Miriam stared back at him, nodding. She was cleaned up from earlier, and her face was stone-like, emotionless. Inside, however, she was torn apart.
“A search of the area hasn’t yielded a thing,” the chief said solemnly. “An APB has been issued and proper channels notified. Mayor’s even talking about a curfew.”
Captain Porter cut in. “Sir, it’s quite possible our suspect found a home or some kind of temporary sanctuary to hide in. I still believe it’s only a matter of time.”
“I appreciate your optimism, Captain, but the media are going to have a field day with this either way.” He then turned to Miriam. “Sergeant Castillo, your report is vague on descriptions. You mentioned long blond hair. What can you tell us?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “The vehicle came up on the report as being registered to Mrs. Betsy Cole. Assuming that was the driver, Deputy Lang approached the driver’s-side door”— Miriam stopped and rubbed her eyes—“to let Mrs. Cole know that she had a taillight out.”
Chief Walker took a deep breath. “What we know is that Mrs. Cole’s station wagon was reported stolen outside the Dollar General parking lot at approximately 2:05 p.m. as she was leaving her shift from work. An hour later, that same blue station wagon was seen leaving the parking lot of Windcrest Elementary School by a janitor. A nine-year-old girl, Jenny Dawson, was subsequently reported as missing by her mother after not being there after school. A gift bag given to her by her teacher was the only thing recovered at the scene.”
“Just terrible,” Captain Porter said, shaking his head.
“As shocking as this is, it gets worse,” the chief said. He leaned forward and produced a sheet of paper, handing it to Captain Porter. “This isn’t the first time.”
The captain turned his attention to the paper. It was a copy of a newspaper story from the year before. He studied the sheet then handed it to Miriam.
The headline, SNATCHER STRIKES CLEARWATER, grabbed her immediately. Her eyes moved down the sheet to a second story copied from another newspaper: CHILD GOES MISSING OUTSIDE OCOEE MALL.
“What is this all about?” she asked the chief, gripping the paper—though part of her already knew.
“For the past five years, a child has vanished from surrounding municipalities in similar fashion. In each case the circumstances have been the same. The victim, usually six to eight years old, vanishes and the case goes cold. The latest abduction in Palm Dale leads me to believe that we’re dealing with a serial predator. And I believe it’s this serial predator who murdered Deputy Lang in cold blood.”
Miriam’s sadness subsided with rage and a sense of vengeance. She didn’t say a word.
“Don’t worry,” Chief Walker said to her, folding his hands. “We’re going to find him.” The assumption that it was a man just came naturally, despite Miriam’s claim of long blond hair.
“That’s what I keep telling her,” Captain Porter added.
“In the meantime, I need to address our team,” the chief said. “The media are going to want a statement too.” He looked at Miriam with a veiled look of pity that made her feel even worse. “Why don’t you take a few days off? Get your head together. We have to get with the Lang family and… assist with the funeral arrangements.”
“Yes, sir,” Miriam said in a low tone, staring ahead, dazed. Her head was pounding. She stood up with both hands balled up at her sides. “Requesting permission to join the search.”
“Request denied,” Chief Walker said not skipping a beat. “Go home, Sergeant Castillo. We’ll take it from here.”
She turned and left the office, not saying a word. She closed the door lightly and walked out and onto the busy floor, where a number of workstations and cubicles were aligned in tidy rows.
Detectives and patrol officers alike moved about the stations, talking on cell phones and with each other, completely immersed in their work. A few of them paused when they noticed Miriam walking through. She continued without making eye contact, even as the police chief came out to address them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please.”
The room grew quiet, with only a few pockets of activity still going on. Miriam passed through the floor and came to a long hallway leading out of the building, where portraits of past commissioners adorned the wall.
“As of 3:45 p.m., Deputy Lang has been reported killed in the line of duty by a single gunshot to the head. The shell casing indicates a .44 magnum round. As of now, the suspect is reported at large, armed and dangerous.”
The chief’s voice trailed off as Miriam made it down the hall, to the lobby, and past the front desk. The desk officer barely got a word out before she pushed open
the double doors and went out into the night air.
Her black Honda Accord was parked quite a way from the building, in a lot across the street. News vans were approaching in the distance, getting close to the station. An avalanche of media, swarming the department for the latest scoop. The “Snatcher” was back in the news.
She quickly crossed the street and made it to her car without looking back at the station. She fell into the driver’s seat, unable to muster the energy to so much as put the key in the ignition. Instead, she put her head against the steering wheel and cried in silence.
One Year Later
Detective Dwight O’Leary was at a standstill. His nights, as of late, were haunted by images of nine-year-old Jenny Dawson, missing for more than a year. O’Leary had been one of the first investigators assigned to discover her whereabouts. Weeks turned to months before it became more apparent that Jenny would never return. Many in the department were hoping to at least find her remains. Nothing, however, had turned up.
O’Leary had scoured the records for previous child abduction cases. No such crime had occurred in Palm Dale in seven years. The last case involved an estranged, divorced father taking his son across state lines. The boy was soon safely returned to his mother. She opted not to press charges.
Jenny Dawson had vanished. The abduction was random. There were no suspects remaining. And no closure for the family. Her parents, Ted and Patricia, clung to the hope that she would return. It was all they could do. O’Leary had made a promise to them, albeit foolishly, that he would solve the case and get them the answers they desperately desired.
In his ten years as a detective, he had honed his skills and, since Jenny’s disappearance, had dedicated himself to the case, using every resource at his disposal. But finding Jenny soon became a test not just of his ability as a detective, but as a measure of his overall worth.
It was Tuesday, and he woke in the middle of the night with a dry throat and headache. In a cold sweat, he tossed the blankets off him and reached for a glass on his nightstand, only to find it empty. Next to the glass was a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey. Things started to come back to him. It had been another night of drinking himself to sleep.