All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  Hobbs handed Mary the card and gave a wan smile. This was her standard sendoff – a quick but courteous divorce from conversation that she had perfected over the years. She took a step back and opened the screen door, but Mary took a step forward in concert, preserving the distance of space in between them. “Wait, don’t go just yet. You haven’t answered my questions yet. Is everything all right? Where did they go? Do I need to be concerned?”

  “No need to be concerned just yet. We’re still getting to the bottom of everything,” Hobbs answered before letting herself back into the house. Once inside, she thought about the conversation and realized she probably could have put the older woman more at ease. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign that the family hadn’t left willingly – albeit quickly – and Mary Miller would probably spend the rest of the day rousing friends and neighbors as well as herself. She would share the tale of her surprise conversation with law enforcement, scour websites or yellow pages for alarm systems and maybe weigh the option of adding a larger and more ferocious dog to the family.

  Hobbs trotted up the steps and met Martinez in the hallway. He had taken off his gloves and was rubbing the tips of his fingers. “Well, I think we’re just about done here,” he said.

  “Anything?” she asked him.

  “Nope,” he said. “Nothing unusual and no indications of foul play. Did you learn anything from the neighbor?”

  Hobbs frowned. “Not really. She used the term rabble-rousers to describe John’s friends. And she described the family as neat and organized. That’s about it.”

  Martinez walked past the kitchen and made a show out of pretending to faint from the stench. “Neat and organized, huh? They’re in for quite a treat when they get back. I’ve been in homes with dead bodies that smelled better than this!”

  Hobbs didn’t say anything. She had been paired with Martinez for so long, she knew he had a way of reaching conclusions without the compulsory discussion, the careful weighing of evidence and poring over details. And even though Hobbs wanted to say: We don’t know for sure that they’ll come back, instead she froze – one finger placed against her lips and the rest of her muscles immobile.

  “Hobbs?” Martinez asked. “What is it?”

  “Shhh.”

  Martinez stared at her for a few seconds and then repeated: “What is it?”

  “Shhh…I heard something…” Hobbs whispered. She pivoted very carefully on her toes and crept into the living room, prudently avoiding the sounds of footsteps on tile.

  Then they both heard it. A brief buzzing sound, so fleeting and quiet, she couldn’t be certain exactly what it was or where it was coming from.

  Martinez went into the dining room and started looking through shelves, rummaging through a box of unopened mail. Hobbs thought about mentioning the need for latex gloves but decided against it. She walked closer to the living room couch and stared. Then she saw a narrow sliver of white and black beneath a magazine on the side table, the plastic carefully concealed by a striped pattern of a perfume ad.

  Hobbs reached forward, felt under the magazine and saw that the object was charging. She flicked the wire and snapped up the device. “It’s a cell phone!” she called out. Then she saw the message lit up on the front panel, a display of words that made her stomach churn and her breathing hasten. “Um, you need to come here and take a look at this,” she said.

  Martinez walked over and stood behind her. After a few seconds he mumbled, “Shit,” in a soft voice.

  And Hobbs knew that in that instant, the entire case had changed. They wouldn’t be heading back to the precinct, filling out some paperwork and moving on to the next thing. They would need to push forward to find out exactly what happened, to loop in Captain Weaver and maybe some other officers from the Vetta Park P.D. What was once a question that could be left on its own to unravel was now a problem that had to be solved – the sooner the better.

  In her hands, the cell phone glowed, the words splayed across the screen with doughty indifference.

  Someone from the local area code had texted: Dude, where the hell are you?? Is ur family ok? U kept saying a bad thing was gonna happen, did it happen??

  ***

  Hobbs and Martinez spent the next thirty minutes in the front seats of Martinez’s car. Hobbs tried not to think about how quiet the neighborhood was, how Mary Miller’s shades were parted just slightly enough for the older woman to peer at them from her windows facing the street.

  While Martinez reviewed their notes, Hobbs ran the phone number that had sent the text through their in-car computer. A short while later, she had a name, age and occupation for the text sender: Mitchell Davis, 35 years old, Vetta Park resident and service manager at Avery Auto Body.

  Hobbs remembered the auto shop when they’d first driven onto Avery Street that morning. The building itself was not terribly memorable: It was a one-story block of cement surrounded by open chassis and hunched mechanics. But the sign announcing the shop was a limestone monolith that jutted out of the ground and towered over nearby buildings.

  The detectives drove the short distance and parked in front of the auto shop. One of the mechanics spotted them and quickly trotted over. He motioned for Martinez to lower his window. “We’re all full today, sorry!” the mechanic barked – his breath a piquant whiff of stale tobacco.

  Hobbs leaned across her seat. “We’re here to talk with Mitchell Davis,” she said. She thought about pulling out her badge but the mechanic immediately softened, took a few steps back and pointed at the building. “He’s in the office.”

  The detectives walked inside the shop and found it just as small as it looked from the outside. There was a pantry to the left, a waiting area to the right and an office right ahead of them. Inside the office, a dark-haired man had been sitting behind a desk, but he stood as soon as the detectives started down the hallway.

  There was a sign affixed to the man’s door: Mitchell Davis. While she walked, Hobbs focused on the large black lettering rather than participate in a staring contest through the glass.

  As soon as she and Martinez entered, Davis reached out his right hand. “You’re with the police, aren’t you?” he asked nervously.

  Hobbs shook his hand and took a seat opposite him. Martinez did the same.

  “That’s correct,” Hobbs said. She and Martinez flashed credentials and gave their names but Davis didn’t appear to notice or care. He was flustered, one hand running through the thinning shock of hair on his head while the other tapped on his desk. “I knew it; I knew it!” he said. “This is about John Brock. I knew I should have done something! Dammit!”

  “Can you please have a seat and talk to us?” Martinez asked.

  Davis huffed and sat down promptly.

  “Are you Mitchell Davis?” Hobbs asked.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Davis said. “What happened?”

  “We’re trying to figure everything out,” Martinez said. His words were slow, mechanized, deliberately spooled to assuage the tension in the room. “Can you tell us how you know John?”

  “He’s a mechanic here, part-time. I manage all the mechanics out there.” Davis brought his fingertips up to his lips and started chewing. He didn’t even seem aware he was doing this but Hobbs watched as the pink skin around his cuticles became raw.

  “Has John shown up in the past week?” Martinez asked.

  Davis brought his fingers down and shook his head. “No sir.”

  “Did he tell you he was taking some time off?”

  “No sir. He just stopped showing up for work. Friday morning, I had to call someone else in. And he’s not picking up his phone or anything.”

  “Has John ever done that before?” Hobbs asked.

  “No, sir. Not ever. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Martinez ignored the question. “Did he give any indication lately that something was wrong?”

  Davis’s face reddened and he swallowed nervously. “Oh yeah, before he left…something was up.”
He started to embellish but his voice became wobbly, so he covered his mouth with his fist for a few seconds and then tried again. “I can’t tell you when it first started but not too long ago and for no apparent reason, John started moping around, sulking, barely talking to anybody. I mean, John was not what you would call a talkative guy anyway. He was pretty quiet. But about ten days ago, a few of my guys pulled me aside and said: ‘You gotta talk to him. We’re worried he’s gonna blow his brains out or get into one of these cars, start the ignition and close the gate.’”

  Davis laughed but it didn’t seem like a mirthful gesture – more like a reflex.

  “Did you notice a change in his behavior too?” Hobbs asked.

  “A little bit maybe. But the other mechanics spend a lot more time with him than I do. I brought him in here and asked him what was goin’ on. School trouble? Girl trouble? He said his family was in trouble, said something really bad was about to happen.”

  “Those were his exact words?” Martinez asked.

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s hard to remember exactly. But yeah, I think those were his words.”

  “Did he tell you specifically what?”

  Davis shook his head. “No, ma’am. I asked but he wouldn’t tell me anything more. Then I asked if he needed some time off, he said no and I sent him back out onto the floor. I think that was my longest conversation with him in two years. John never talked about his personal life.”

  “I see,” Hobbs said. She glanced down at her notes. “Anything else you can tell us about him? Anything that stands out?”

  “No, not really,” Davis said.

  “Do you mind if we talk to some of the mechanics out here?”

  “Sure. I mean no, I don’t mind.”

  Hobbs and Martinez stood up and she handed him a card. “Thanks for talking to us. If you think of anything else, my phone number’s on there.”

  The detectives were nearly out of the office, just through the doorframe that led to the service area, when Davis jumped up from the desk and called out to them. “Hey! There is one more thing. I don’t know if it’s relevant or not…”

  Hobbs and Martinez stepped back inside and looked at him.

  Davis walked over and faced Hobbs. “Right when we hired him, one of the guys said he was bad news.”

  “One of the guys said that about John?” Hobbs clarified.

  “Yeah, one of the mechanics. But I mean…John’s been fine. I’ve had no issues with him.”

  “Which mechanic?” Martinez asked.

  Davis shook his head. “Can’t remember. It was years ago and we turn over guys all the time. Probably doesn’t even work here anymore. It’s just a comment that came back into my mind last week.”

  “What did he mean by bad news?” Hobbs pressed.

  Davis shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

  Hobbs shook her head. It was this type of information that drove her mad – illusory clues that revealed nothing. She tried not to seem too incredulous, too pejorative when she responded to him.

  “Mr. Davis, you heard that one of your new employees might be…might be…bad news and you didn’t ask any follow up questions or make any motion to find out what that meant?”

  David shrugged again. “I’m not a cop, Detective,” he said. “And I’m not hiring Boy Scouts; I’m hiring auto mechanics. If I see someone doing something wrong, I fire them. But as long as they do their job, that’s all I care about.”

  “I see,” Hobbs said. “Well, thank you for your time.”

  She and Martinez stepped out of Davis’s office and into the large pen where the mechanics were working. One by one, the mechanics spoke to the detectives and one by one, the detectives learned absolutely nothing new about John or the Carpenter family’s disappearance.

  None of the mechanics could provide specifics about John’s recent bout with melancholy, except to confirm its existence. One mechanic had worked at Avery Auto Shop for over a decade and remembered telling Davis that John was bad news. But he couldn’t remember why he had said such a thing, or who exactly had fed him that tidbit or what it really meant. And besides, the mechanic pointed out, John had kept his head down, said very little and worked hard for two years. There was nothing amiss, nothing out of the ordinary that could be said about the teenager…not until now.

  Chapter Three

  September 14, 2017

  Hobbs and Martinez sat next to each other in chocolate colored vinyl chairs and waited for the Captain to arrive. Hobbs stared at the textured nameplate facing her, which read CPT. JOSEPH WEAVER in bold lettering. She looked at the neat square piles of paperwork laid across his desk, a few framed photographs of beaming children, and a large leather chair.

  A voice behind her said, “Sorry I’m late,” and then Weaver briskly strode in and sat down. An older man of about sixty-five, he had wisps of white hair above the ears and on top of his head and deep frown lines across his forehead.

  Weaver threw a heap of papers across his already crowded desk. “So what did you find in the Avery Place house?” he asked.

  Martinez cleared his throat and read from his notepad. “No sign of forced entry, nothing disturbed, no sign of a burglary. There are two cars registered to the family. One has been parked at the house for seven days; the other hasn’t been seen in seven days.”

  “Have any family members called, saying they haven’t been able to get in touch?”

  Hobbs glanced at Martinez and then at the Captain. “No sir.”

  “So the family is gone, along with their car, there’s no sign of forced entry, nothing disturbed in the house, and no anxious family members…have I got that right?”

  Hobbs nodded.

  “Tell me again why we’re talking about this?”

  She sighed. “Sir, we thought the same thing at first, but then we spoke to John Brock’s boss. He told us that John had been very upset lately and said something bad was going to happen to the family. Then they all disappeared.”

  Weaver frowned and sat back in his chair. “Huh.”

  “There’s more,” Hobbs added. “Tuck Carpenter’s law office reported him missing. They said he had meetings and conferences scheduled, and he would never just not show up for them. He’s been at that same law practice for twenty years. And there were still eggs on the stove in the kitchen. The trash was overflowing. It smelled pretty bad in there.

  “So they left in a hurry,” Weaver said.

  “Yes,” Hobbs agreed. “But why?”

  The room was silent for a few moments and then Weaver said, “It’s this advance knowledge that something bad was going to happen to them right before the disappearance that has me thinking about foul play. Why don’t you get a subpoena for the family’s credit card and bank accounts? Find out if and where they’re spending their money. Look into the phone records too. See if we can track them down from pings. I assume you’ve called their cell phones to try to get hold of them?”

  Hobbs cleared her throat. “Yes Sir. John Brock left his phone inside the house but I called and left messages for Tuck and Greta. No word back.”

  Weaver reclined in his seat, stretched his arms behind his head and grunted. “Okay. See what you can find. Anything else?”

  Hobbs nodded. “There’s also Greta’s ex-husband, John’s biological father, Griffin Brock. We’d like to call him in and see if he knows anything.”

  “By all accounts, yes, bring him in here,” Weaver said. “Anything else?”

  Hobbs nodded but instead of looking at him, she looked out the window of his office. Vetta Park was a small municipality in Eastern Missouri, just twenty miles or so south of St. Louis. On clear days, such as this, she could see the Arch from his office – burnished and looming, like a beacon signifying the big city.

  “Detective?” Weaver prompted.

  Hobbs brought her gaze back to Weaver. “One other thing, Captain. The eighteen-year old, John Brock. I have a funny feeling about him. I don’t know if it’s because t
he neighbor said his friends were inconsiderate or the mechanic who said he heard John was bad news. I can’t put my finger on it. Also I couldn’t find anything about him online. No social media or online presence, and I just—”

  Hobbs swallowed hard, tasting the metallic ripple of a lump that had formed in her throat. “I just think something’s off.”

  Chapter Four

  May 6, 2004

  The sun shined down on Edwardsville Elementary School’s Kindergarten picnic. It was a beating sun – not ferocious but not obscured by a single cloud in the sky. The five and six year olds ran around the playground carelessly while parents worried themselves with sunscreen and hats.

  In one corner of the grassy area – far from the other kids – John Brock busied himself with a self-instructed task. He was to count all the flower petals on top of the rusty wire gate that separated the schoolyard from residential housing. It was an impossible task; the schoolyard stretched for almost half a mile end to end. John usually got up to two or three hundred before losing count, quietly chastising himself, and starting the pursuit from the beginning.

  “Johnny, don’t you want to play with the other kids?” Greta asked. John squinted as he turned to face her. At twenty-five years old, Greta looked flawless. Wherever she went, she captured the gaze of admirers – usually until they saw the brown-haired tot pattering next to her or the plain gold band on her finger.

  “No Mommy, I don’t,” John responded. “I’m busy here.” He then glared at her and resumed his count from the beginning. “One, two, three…”

  Greta reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. “I know it’s a day early, Johnny, but I got you a birthday card.”

  John abandoned his count for a moment and looked suspiciously at the red envelope, which Greta had adorned with hearts and stickers. “Is there money inside?” John asked.

  “Open it up and see,” Greta said.

  John leaped forward, took the envelope and tore it open – paying no mind to the scraps of ripped paper that fell onto the grass. When the card was free, he opened it, turned it upside down and shook it. “Awww there’s no money!” he protested.