by Roger Hayden
“Let’s do this,” O’Leary said, opening his door.
She turned to face him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just observe. See if you can put some fresh eyes on this scene. Where was he parked? How did he get Emily into his vehicle without notice?”
“What could I possibly find that the twenty officers on site haven’t already?” she asked.
O’Leary offered a smile of confidence. “Plenty. Just stick with me.”
He got out of the car, giving Miriam an encouraging smile, and watched as she pushed open her door, hesitating for a moment before stepping out. They approached the scene unnoticed by the other investigators and officers, who were deep within their own work. The area cordoned off had been cleared, with the exception of Karen Beckett’s blue Nissan Sentra. O’Leary approached one of the investigators there, an older man named Hayes who wore a suit almost identical to O’Leary’s.
He introduced Miriam as his consultant. Hayes didn’t seem to bat an eye or even recognize her, for which she was relieved. Detective Hayes led them to the car, where another investigator was taking pictures, his camera flashing in bursts that came in quick succession.
“Knocked her out right here,” Hayes said, pointing at the pavement next to the car. A helicopter flew by in the distance with its spotlight on. Miriam scanned the area. There were at least a dozen other media vans parked along the front of the Safeway store with their antennas raised high in the air. She could feel it in her bones. They were going to have a field day with this one. The Lee County Police Department had not only failed to catch the Snatcher the first time. He had struck again, and they were no closer to figuring anything out than they had been a year ago.
“I don’t get it,” O’Leary said to Hayes, frustrated. “Not a single witness? How is that possible?
“So far nothing. But we’re still interviewing a slew of people who were around here when it happened,” Hayes said.
Recognizing her own words in O’Leary’s bafflement, Miriam split from the group, making her way around the scene. Apparently, search teams had already been deployed throughout the surrounding area, intending to search up to a ten-mile radius. Mandatory checkpoints had been put into place. It seemed impossible that anyone could get away so easily without drawing notice—especially given the suspect’s appearance.
Dressed down and looking out of place in her jean jacket and pants, Miriam approached the cart-return slot across from the Nissan and examined the line of carts haphazardly pushed into it. A thought occurred to her as she walked back to where O’Leary was asking question after question of another investigator.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Has anyone looked at those carts yet?”
O’Leary stopped as he and Hayes switched their focus to the cart return.
“I mean, if Mrs. Beckett was just leaving the grocery store, I doubt she had time to return her cart before being assaulted.”
“Well?” O’Leary said, looking at Hayes.
Hayes stuttered. “Yes, that makes perfect sense.”
“So why not dust all the carts for prints?” she continued. “It looks like our suspect took the time to return it for her.”
“But why would she take the risk?” Hayes asked. He seemed to be in the camp that believed the suspect was female.
Miriam took the question. “Because by now whoever we’re dealing with is getting bored, playing games with us. Whenever an offender gets away with his crimes, a part of him yearns to get caught. A part of him desires the closure in it.”
O’Leary watched her, impressed, as Hayes nodded, considering her theory.
Miriam, fully in detective mode now, seemed to reconsider what she had said or how she had said it and backpedaled to a more modest view. “It’s just a theory. I’m thinking textbook criminal here.”
“We should start dusting those carts, don’t you think?” O’Leary asked Hayes.
“Yes. Right away,” Hayes said. He walked over to the group of officers and called out to them, pointing at the cart return. “Fellas, let’s go ahead and dust these for prints. Who’s got a print kit?”
The officers got in gear and approached the cart return. One of them carried a small black bag with him. He unzipped the bag and began brushing each cart carefully with a pair of latex gloves on.
O’Leary turned to Miriam. “I was going to mention the cart thing too.’
“Oh, were you?” she said with a laugh.
“Seriously, though. Good work.” He looked up into the sky, satisfied. “I think this time it’s going to be different. I think we can catch him in time. They’re checking Mrs. Beckett for any DNA left on her from the assault. That plus fingerprints on the cart will help us narrow down the list.”
“But will we do it in time, Detective? That’s the question.”
They looked around, observing the active crime scene. It was strange to think that somewhere, not too far away, the Snatcher might be holding his latest victim.
“You think he wants to be caught?” O’Leary asked.
“I have my suspicions,” Miriam said.
He turned away and walked off toward his car, beckoning her. “Here, let’s go down to the station. There’s some stuff I want to show you and get your take on.”
She followed behind him as a helicopter flew directly overhead, lower than before. She had heard that the FBI was on its way. Could they make any difference? Could she? They got into O’Leary’s car and left the crime scene behind. Every minute mattered. Every hour brought them closer to losing Emily. This time would be different. If not, Miriam wasn’t sure she could forgive herself.
Portrait of a Suspect
Across from the fire station, the Lee County Police Department was in view—one long brick building of multiple departments and sections. The front parking lot was full of police cruisers and unmarked vehicles. The visitor and employee parking lot to the side of the building was reaching full capacity as well. It seemed as though every officer was on call, even from neighboring counties.
O’Leary found a spot at the far end of the employee lot, close to a chain-link fence. Near the side entrance of the building, Miriam saw a group of five men in suits huddled together at and smoking next to an outdoor ashtray. As with the officers at the crime scene, none of them stood out. Their faces were a blur. O’Leary turned off the ignition and again noticed Miriam’s nervous hesitation, the same initial reluctance she had shown at the first crime scene.
“It’s going to be okay. The last thing on anyone’s mind around here is giving you the stink eye. Besides, everyone on the force respects you. They know what happened.”
Miriam shook her head. “I walked away. Police have a thing about that. They never forget.”
O’Leary opened his door and shrugged. “You had no choice. Everyone knows that.”
Miriam opened her door slowly. Cigarette smoke drifted past from the group of white-shirt-and-tie smokers. It looked as though they were planning to burn the midnight oil. She still didn’t know exactly why O’Leary was so keen on having her around. She didn’t understand his motivations any more than she understood her own for agreeing to go along with it. She chalked it up to desperation on both their parts.
“Where to now?” she asked as they headed toward the building.
“We’re going to look at some case files and find a link.”
Miriam reached out and tugged on his arm in protest until he stopped walking. They both did. The group of smokers stopped and looked over at them. “Detective O’Leary, do you really think now is the time to be going over paperwork? We’ve got a little girl out there scared out of her mind. We need to be out there looking for her. Taking action.”
O’Leary placed his hand on her shoulder to calm her down. “I understand that, but we already have the whole damn force on it. They’re probably running around in circles. We need to take the little time we have and get it right.”
“So we go door to door, check every house in town,” Miriam sai
d. “How hard could it be?”
O’Leary cleared his throat. “Look, Miriam. In my line of work, I have three main things to go on—knowledge, experience, and instinct.” After counting on his fingers, he looked at her as though the matter was settled. “And I’ve never been as determined to get it right as I am now.”
“Me too,” she added.
“So are you with me?” he asked, signaling to the building.
“As long as you agree to one thing,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“That when we catch this guy, you let me put a bullet between his eyes.”
He said nothing as they walked down the sidewalk, past the smokers, and toward the employees’ side entrance to the building. O’Leary swiped his key card near a sensor. He pulled the door open as it unlocked and held it open for Miriam. She rewarded him with a nod.
A slightly overweight clerk in full police uniform looked up from his desk as they entered.
O’Leary showed him his ID badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. He then pointed to Miriam. “Need a visitor badge for Ms. Castillo here, please.”
The clerk nodded, took Miriam’s license, and ran her information. As they waited, Miriam looked down the carpeted hall, flanked with offices on both sides. The building itself was old, and some of the wood paneling on the walls looked straight out of the 1970s.
Nicotine stains were still noticeable in areas near the ceiling, reminders of a time when smoking indoors was permitted, ages ago. They had remodeled and added onto the building, but its fifty-year-old character still showed in places. The hall smelled of coffee. Plain-clothed and uniformed officers crossed from room to room, lost in their own work. It was the busiest she had ever seen the place. Only one other time came to mind: last year, following the Dawson abduction.
The clerk processed a visitor’s badge and handed it to Miriam. They continued down the hall to the Criminal Investigation Department, where his desk sat in the corner, with paperwork piled high behind his nameplate. There were people everywhere, men and women in suits mostly, on their phones, gathering in small groups talking, and some typing wildly on their computers. O’Leary didn’t know who half of the people were.
One look at his desk, and he turned away, turning to Miriam. “Let’s find someplace else where we can do this. Somewhere quiet.”
She nodded, and they walked along desks and stopped at a corner cubicle where a tall, mustached detective was at his computer typing with one hand and holding a turkey club sandwich in the other. His sleeves were rolled up. His eyes darted across the screen as he typed.
O’Leary leaned in and slapped the man on the shoulder. “Looks like the circus is in town. All these people coming to see your mustache?” O’Leary said, smiling.
Lou looked up, startled but then amused. “Very funny, Dwight. They’re here to see the Incredible Dateless Wonder, which is perfect now that you’re in town.”
O’Leary tried to get him in a headlock, but Lou backed away in his old-fashioned rolling chair. Miriam stood quietly to the side, amused. O’Leary looked back and signaled to her. “You remember Sergeant Castillo.”
Lou gave her a friendly nod and extended his hand. “Yes, of course. Welcome back, Sergeant.”
Miriam shook his hand. “Just Miriam’s fine.”
“Very well,” Lou said. His attention went to O’Leary as his tone and expression turned serious. “It’s a madhouse here. They brought in two departments from two different counties. This latest kidnapping doesn’t reflect well on us, for sure.”
“I don’t understand,” O’Leary said. “This guy has never struck in the same town twice. Why now?”
Lou shrugged and took a bite of his turkey sandwich. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he has nowhere else to go.”
“Or maybe he’s getting lazy,” Miriam said.
O’Leary leaned close to Lou. “We’re trying to keep a low profile here with her. Think you can help us?”
Lou seemed confused. “What do you mean?”
“I need some place where me and her can talk in private and go over some files together. Specifically the Gowdy files.”
Lou raised both brows. “Careful, Dwight. You don’t want to go barking up the wrong tree. Guy tried to sue us before, and he’ll do it again.”
“I just need somewhere away from all this commotion,” O’Leary said.
Lou stood up from his squeaking swivel chair and stretched. He looked around. “You can take the B room. I think it should be open.”
“Great,” O’Leary said. “Thanks.” He looked at Miriam and signaled toward the exit. “This way.” They left without drawing too much attention to themselves. O’Leary led her down another hall to a small interview room. There was a table in the middle and a chair on each side—the walls barren except for a clock with a big face and Roman numerals hanging in the middle.
“No one should bother us in here,” he said, holding the door open for her. Miriam eyed the room suspiciously.
“If you’re so sure that this Gowdy you mention is your man, why haven’t you arrested him?” she asked.
“Because I could be wrong. And if I am, that means we’ll never find Emily in time.”
Miriam pulled a chair out from the table and sat. O’Leary promised to be back quickly with the files and left the room, locking the door behind him. She looked around the small, lifeless room, trying not to feel like a prisoner herself. She pulled out her cell phone and sent Freddy a text message asking how Ana was doing. He sent a message back saying that she had gone to bed. She replied, asking him what he was doing.
“Just watching TV,” the message said.
She thanked him again and said goodbye. When he replied with “good night,” she said, “Yeah right.” She scrolled through the news on her phone, looking for any mentions of the kidnapping, when the door unlocked and O’Leary walked in. He was balancing a box filled to the brim with files and pushed the door shut. Miriam couldn’t believe it. This was what they were going to be doing?
He dropped the box on the table with a thud and rolled his sleeves up. He began pulling files out of the box and setting them on the table—and appearing out of breath.
“Don’t let that box beat you up,” Miriam said.
O’Leary looked up. “You’ll be saying the same about both of us here soon.” He pointed to the first file, which he had placed on the desk in front of Miriam. “This is Jenny Dawson’s cold case file. We need to look through it piece by piece.”
Overwhelmed, Miriam placed her head in her hands. She still wasn’t entirely convinced that going through files was going to help them find Emily. “How much are you paying me again?”
O’Leary offered a nervous laugh. “We can do this. Just focus.”
“We could be here for days. Why don’t you start by telling me about this suspect of yours? This Gowdy fellow,” she said.
He searched inside the box and pulled out another file, equally thick and secured within a large mailing envelope. He tossed the file on the table in front of Miriam, covering up Jenny’s file.
“His name is Ray Gowdy, and he’s the closest thing to a suspect that I have.”
She looked down. “Gowdy File” was written in black permanent marker on the envelope. Miriam untied the thin string over the seal and pulled the file out. It was packed with reports, statements, photos, and other documents, all providing a glimpse into one of Palm Dale’s most notorious residents.
He was a man with a record that began with small, petty crimes he committed as a young adult. By thirty-seven, he had been to prison multiple times for battery and assault—among other offenses. His mug shots showed a progression from his earliest years to his latest—from a shaggy-haired, smooth-faced youth to a man with a beard, graying hair, and some noticeable scars on his face.
Things began to come back to Miriam. She remembered Gowdy. He was always thought of around the station as the go-to suspect for any crime in the area. But she never saw him do an
ything. For the past five years, his record had been clean.
O’Leary provided her further insight as she flipped through his arrest record. Gowdy had come to Palm Dale from Birmingham, Alabama, in his teens with his mother. He befriended the Anderson boys in high school, especially the second eldest, Phillip. The Andersons belonged to a family that owned the lucrative auto salvage and recycling plant located off the last interstate exit out of town.
From the beginning, Gowdy showed early warning signs: fights, suspensions, and eventual expulsion for bringing a knife to school. The years after high school weren’t much better. He and Phillip looted homes and businesses. They sold weed. They got into bar fights. Miriam didn’t want to believe that some people were just “bad,” as she had encountered all kinds during her time on the force. Gowdy, however, fit the description of a bad seed. The question was, what was he still doing on the street?
A year after his latest stint in prison following grand theft conviction, Ray seemed to be getting his life together. He worked at the Anderson yard and had stayed out of trouble for years. He even bought a house, got married, and had two children. While the report stated the bafflement of authorities, Miriam got chills down her spine. A family man. He fit the bill perfectly.
The Andersons, it appeared, had welcomed Ray into their family after his own mother had passed away from a brain tumor, and they’d been close ever since. All seemed at peace. Then, however, suspicious things began happening around Palm Dale. People went missing—drug dealers and prostitutes mainly.
The Andersons consisted of Boone and Judith Anderson—a couple in their sixties—and their five adult sons. The entire family was suspected of criminal activities that stretched from drugs to gambling to racketeering—but the investigation had dragged on for years, and no evidence came to light.
Their eldest son, Dustin, was killed in a head-on collision under mysterious circumstances. The 1964 Dodge Charger that had T-boned him and sent him flying through the windshield of his Cavalier had been abandoned in the middle of the road. No sign of any driver. No blood. Nothing.