by Joseph Lewis
“We repeat. An Amber Alert has just been issued for Waukesha and the surrounding counties and municipalities. Two boys aged twelve are missing under suspicious circumstances and are believed to be in danger. They are Stephen Bailey and Michael Erickson, missing since approximately 7:15 PM Central Standard Time from the 1700 block of Summit Avenue. Stephen Bailey is approximately 5’5” and weighs approximately 120 pounds. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a light blue Nike t-shirt, navy nylon sweat pants and black Addidas sandals.
Michael Erickson is approximately 5’3” and weighs approximately 115 pounds. He has light brown hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a red t-shirt and khaki shorts and Adidas athletic shoes. If you have seen these two boys or have any information as to their whereabouts, you are asked to contact the Waukesha Police Department at 262-524-3831 immediately.”
He turned off the TV.
“I’m calling Pete Kelliher,” Jeremy said urgently, but quietly so as not to arouse the suspicion of the boys in the family room.
“I’m coming right over. Make sure your doors and windows are locked. No one leaves the house, right?” Jamie cautioned.
“Got it.” Then he added, “Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“Please hurry.”
“On my way. Ten minutes.”
Jeremy ran his other hand over his face.
“Dad, everything okay?” Randy asked quietly.
The other two boys appeared in the doorway behind him.
“Jamie Graff is coming over. There’s an Amber Alert for two twelve year old boys from Waukesha.”
“The boy in Arizona and the boy north of here were about the same age,” George said.
“Yes, that’s why Officer Graff is coming over. I’m going to call Agent Kelliher and let him know.”
Neither Randy nor Billy asked, but Jeremy read their eyes.
“We’re okay.” He turned to George and said, “George, no one knows you’re here. Officer Graff will be here in ten minutes. To be safe, Billy, lock all the doors. Randy, make sure the windows are shut and locked. Then, let’s stay in the family room together. Okay?”
* * *
Pete wasn’t tired any longer, funny how adrenaline wakes you up. He weaved the rental in and out of traffic, slamming through red lights and intersections causing the blast of horns and the screech of tires, unheard curses and a minor fender bender; only one, not bad for doing 80 on city streets. Amazingly, he encountered no police cars though he’s sure they were alerted to a crazy driver in a newer model blue Taurus.
As he drove, he gave Summer the update.
“How soon can you get back to Milwaukee?”
“I’ll alert the team. Chet and I will lift off as soon as we can. Figure about two hours after we lift off.”
“Are you going to alert the Milwaukee SAC?” Pete asked.
“No, not yet. We don’t know who they are or where they are or if they’re part of the ring we’re working.”
The silence on Pete’s end said a lot.
“Pete, I’d rather keep this within the team for the present.”
“You do realize that we might be bringing the leak to Wisconsin and ultimately to George, right?”
“Doug has been on this twenty-four seven. He’s looked at bank accounts, text messages, phone records, fax transmittals . . . everything, you name it. It just isn’t one of us. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it isn’t one of us.”
Pete slammed on the brakes, then punched it around a slow-moving Honda and almost took out a guy stepping out of his parked car, then took a left and quick right into relatively light traffic. God Bless Suburban Neighborhoods!
“Then it’s the guy in the baseball cap. It simplifies things on one hand, but makes it all the harder on the other. We have no leads to speak of . . . none.”
“Pete, you’ve notified the police on that end, right?”
“Well, not exactly the police . . . a detective.”
“Good enough for me.”
“Me too . . . for now.”
Pete swerved to the curb in the cul de sac, took a quick look around, eyes missing nothing.
“Gotta go. I’m at the house. Looks quiet. Call when you’re in the air.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jeremy Evans’ home sat at the back of a cul de sac. The neighbor at the back of his home had a fenced in backyard because of their hyper Jack Russell Terrier named Gus, who yipped and yapped constantly. Jeremy and the twins had become oblivious to the barking.
The gray-blue two-story on the left was occupied by Mary Schuster and her son, Jerry. She never saw her former husband, and Jerry had long ago given up hope of one day receiving a visit from him. A monthly alimony and child support check, postmarked from three different cities in three sequential years was the only offering of fatherly love for his son.
Jerry was the same age as the twins, but attended St. William’s Catholic School, the large private elementary and middle school three blocks down Summit Hill on Moreland Boulevard. Jeremy was one of the adult men who lent his presence to Jerry. It wasn’t the same as having a real “dad”, but it was better than having none at all.
On the other side of the Evans’ home was a low one story ranch of dark wood owned by Jon and Bert Lane. Both retired, Jon was a former school psychologist, and Bert, short for Roberta, a former elementary teacher. Their only son, Mike, had played shooting guard for Jeremy when he had taught social studies and coached before becoming a counselor. He had graduated the year Jeremy decided he had done enough coaching, and had attended a smaller college in a Chicago suburb playing some basketball. Currently, Mike was in Chicago doing very well in the financial arena in spite of tough economic times.
A head-high hedge of Arborvitae ran in an L shape bordering the Schuster yard and the yippy terrier’s yard set up against their fence. Rose bushes and a garden of annuals and perennials made up a border to the Lane’s yard, set up against a decorative fence that was more for show than for function.
The three households shared an unspoken bond that extended beyond the typical, neighborly “How are you?” or “I think it’s going to rain today” that more distant neighbors tended to have towards each other. It wasn’t uncommon to have the three families share a grill in the back of one of the yards at least one night a week or so during the summer.
Jon and Bert would not be classified as nosey neighbors, but when Jamie Graff’s unmarked squad car appeared at the curb in front of Jeremy’s house, they became curious. There was very little traffic on this end of their street, so when another vehicle they didn’t recognize pulled up behind the patrol car, Jon and Bert became puzzled.
Jon watched the older guy with a buzz cut get out and stand at the edge of Jeremy’s driveway looking in all directions with his right hand inside the breast of a sport coat. They knew something was up. The look had cop all over him, so Jon reached for the phone.
“Jeremy, it’s Jon. Everything okay over there?”
Jeremy hesitated, wanting to say, Hell no! but instead said, “Yes. Jamie came over for a visit and brought a friend. That’s all. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay, just wanted to be sure. You need anything, holler.”
* * *
Garrett Forstadt saw the Amber Alert with the boys’ pictures and recognized them immediately. The twelve year old had played soccer against them just three days before, getting trounced seven to zip. They went to Horning Middle School, while he went to Butler, the cross-town rival. He’d end up at North High School, while the two of them would attend South. They played basketball and baseball against each other too.
When he saw their pictures and heard the alert, it felt as though his veins suddenly filled with ice water, and a lead weight dropped heavily into his stomach. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight, and he got goosebumps in spite of the warm summer night. He actually had to fight the feeling of having to throw up.
“Honey, do you know those boys?”
Kim asked her son.
Garrett nodded.
“Garrett, what’s wrong?”
Kim saw her son go visibly white before her eyes, with little beads of sweat appearing on his forehead and upper lip. Garrett didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. They were his age. They were in the same grade. He knew them. He also had a secret he had never shared with anyone. That wasn’t true actually. Phil knew. Phil knew because he had a secret too.
The same secret.
“Honey, look at me,” Kim said squatting down in front of her son. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
Garrett tried to stand up, but Kim put a hand on his shoulder. They stared into each other’s eyes, but Garrett had to look away first because he was about to cry, and he didn’t want his mom to see that. If she did, he was afraid she might see more than tears.
* * *
Pete, Jamie and Jeremy sat around the kitchen table sipping ice tea and discussing the missing boys. Jamie had called the reporting officer and had the copy of the report read to him over the phone. He took small, scratchy notes that were impossible for anyone to read but him. He was reminded of that by anyone with whom he had worked and who had tried to read anything he had written.
There wasn’t much to go on. No witnesses. A time interval that could have been minutes to an hour or more. One Addidas sandal and a cell phone, both found on the grass bordering the sidewalk, almost at the corner. It was decided that if they were taken, they had been ambushed: grabbed, lifted and tossed into a waiting car or van. Probably a van since it was easier to get them into and out of quickly. Still, nothing to go on. A dead end like many missing kids’ cases.
The boys sat in the family room in front of a TV supposedly watching one of the Jason Bourne movies on HBO. Randy would glance up from the latest Jeffrey Limbach thriller he was reading, while George sat on one of the couches and dosed, only opening his eyes when there were explosions or tire squeals. He hadn’t had much sleep since being whisked away in the helicopter and found that when he did close his eyes, his mom, his brothers and sister, and his grandfather would stand silently in front of him. Those images kept his eyes pretty much open.
Billy, who sprawled on the other end of the couch, would sneak a peek at George every now and then, wondering exactly what his story was. The twins weren’t told much, other than George had seen a murder, visited a crime scene and that his family had died. It was just enough information to cause all sorts of ideas, theories and questions in an inquisitive kid’s head. Mostly questions.
The phone rang, and since Billy was the nearest to it, he answered.
“Hello, the Evans and Schroeder residence.”
There was a bit of silence, so Billy said again, “Hello?”
Randy looked up from his book, and George opened his eyes a little wider.
“Um . . . is Randy there?”
“Yeah, just a minute.”
Billy shrugged at Randy as he handed the phone to him.
“This is Randy.”
It was silent on the other end, so Randy just waited it out, already guessing what kind of phone call it was. He waved to get Billy’s attention and then pointed at the kitchen.
Billy got up, leaned into the doorway and said, “I think Randy’s got a phone call.”
“It’s okay to talk. I’m listening,” Randy said patiently.
Jeremy had heard many phone conversations begin this way. He set a pad of paper and a pen in front of Randy and then pulled up a chair next to him. Jamie and Pete stood close by and watched. Very quietly, Jamie explained to Pete that these types of calls happened before: a kid seeking help or advice from Randy first, then Jeremy. The Amber Alert was a trigger. Pete merely shook his head in awe, wondering how a fourteen year old could do this.
He had heard about Randy through the pipeline. Summer had actually heard a presentation at a conference given by Randy and Jeremy a little over a year ago in the Twin Cities. They were invited by Patty Wetterling, whose son, Jacob, was abducted at gunpoint in front of his brother and best friend in St. Joseph, Minnesota in October, 1989. Despite hundreds of leads, Jacob was still missing. She and her husband Jerry, along with friends and the community, formed the Jacob Wetterling Foundation to bring awareness to the plight of missing and sexually exploited children. Jeremy was an unofficial member of the foundation, and on behalf of the foundation, gave presentations to parent groups, teachers, and community organizations, above and beyond his work as a school counselor. It was through these presentations, newspaper articles, and TV and radio interviews that he and Randy became known for what they do.
Randy heard a sniffle and knew where the conversation was headed. He nodded at Jeremy.
“You don’t know me, but I go to Butler.”
“That’s where Billy and I go.”
“You talked to my class at an assembly last September.”
“I remember. What’s your name?”
“Garrett. Garrett Forstadt.”
Randy wrote the name on the pad along with sixth grade at Butler, followed by a question mark, signaling to Jeremy that he didn’t know the boy. Jeremy held the pad up to Billy, who shook his head, letting him know that he didn’t know who the boy was either.
“How can I help you, Garrett?”
Again, there was a sniffle and then an audible sigh.
“The two boys who are missing . . . I know them.”
“How did you know them?”
Randy scribbled on the pad, knows the two missing boys. Jeremy showed the pad to Pete and Jeremy.
“I played soccer against them.”
“Yes?”
“I think I know who took them.”
* * *
Rachel Mader didn’t like closing up her restaurant, but she was the owner, and the chief cook, and bottle washer. She did have pretty good help though. Still, closing up was closing up. On this day, closing up gave her the willies because of the mess on Jack Pine Road. That sort of thing didn’t happen up here, and though the sheriff department didn’t give anyone any information, everyone seemed to know anyway, or claimed they did because rumors were rampant, and a triple murder was ample fodder for stories and theories. Three dead bodies; one a kid. FBI flying around in helicopters. Deputies racing up and down Highway Eight and 141 like it was Daytona or something. She shivered more than once thinking about it.
Closing up Mary’s Place, named after Mary Stinnett, who owned it before Harry Koel and before Chuck Rivers, and now Rachel, cut the costs. That was one reason, but the main reason was because she was able to keep an eye on the place. The teenagers she hired were a pretty seasonal bunch, home from college from late spring to late summer. A couple of the better high school kids helped during the summer and on weekends during the school year. When summer ended, she’d end up with the one or two high school kids and the rest would be made up with local help, which meant not much help at all. Who stuck around Northern Wisconsin if they had the brains and the opportunity to get the hell out? Well, she stuck around, and that was okay with her.
Rachel wiped off the last table, replaced the last dish on the shelf, checked the refrigerator and freezer thermostats and the back door to make sure it was locked, and then turned off the lights and locked the front door behind her. The parking lot was quiet and empty except for Brian Travers’ beat up pickup, a dark van she didn’t recognize and her two-year-old Explorer. Travers was probably tying one on at one of the bars. She could never figure out why the hell he didn’t park his truck in the parking lot of the bar down the block. Maybe it was the walk up the highway to help clear his head when he decided he’d head home, or more likely, when Herman Strupp decided Brian had had enough.
The van bothered her. She hadn’t recognized it, but had noticed it in the parking lot at one point during the afternoon, but not who the driver was. They did have a seasonal element that drifted up from Chicago, Milwaukee, and the Fox Valley, so maybe it belonged to one of the members of the summer migration. Still, with the
triple murder and all, it gave her the willies. A part of her wanted to jump into her four by four and drive away, yet, there was a feeling and a hunch, and she was big on feelings and hunches. Ask anyone.
She slowly walked over and peeked into the driver’s door and saw the keys in the ignition. She tried the handle and found it locked. She tried the passenger door, and it too was locked. Rachel walked around the van, memorized the plate- Wisconsin- and tried the other doors. They too were locked. She peeked into the passenger window as far back as she could and saw tennis shoes, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She backed away, stumbled, caught herself, then turned and ran to her Explorer, pulling out her cell as she climbed in.
* * *
Sheriff Pat Blizel hammered his patrol car down Highway 8 to Mary’s Place, a trip that would normally take twenty minutes, but on this night took less than ten. He only hoped there were no deer or black bear crossing the road. He’d hate to think what would happen if Bambi or Smokey collided with his cruiser pushing ninety. He figured with the sirens and lights, he’d be pretty safe, and that any wildlife in the area would high tail it deeper into the woods that ran along both sides of the highway.
He took the intersection of Highways 8 and 141 at sixty and slammed hard into the diner’s parking lot sending gravel and dirt flying everywhere. Mary started to get out of her Explorer, but Blizel motioned her to get back into it. She did and for good measure, locked it.
He pulled out his .45 and approached the van cautiously from the driver side, back to front, looking into the side mirrors and windows as he did: nothing and no one. A patrol car came screaming up 141 as he went back to his cruiser and called in the plate. Deputy Earl Coffey pulled to a stop on the other side of the van, opened up his door and crouched behind it with his .45 out, aiming at the passenger side door.
“It’s locked and empty as far as I can tell,” Blizel yelled. “What’s the ETA on the tow truck?”