“Chief, you okay?” Mrs. Dunsmore asked. She stood in front of my desk. “The boys have the TV set up,” she said.
Most of the guys were gathered around the small set. “Hopkins, they didn’t want your ugly mug on cam?” Finnegan called. Hopkins flipped him the bird.
On-screen, the smiling co-hosts bantered about the storm with the weatherman, who promised, “We haven’t seen the last of this front. Expect more snow in the coming week.” The men gathered around the TV groaned. The male co-host put on his somber face. “In urgent news, tonight we bring you the story of a child in danger.” The screen was overlaid with the words “Child in Danger” in bright red letters. A loud siren sounded.
“Is this a segment?” Hopkins asked.
“Yup,” Dix said. “Child in Danger. Last one was a runaway from New Haven.”
“Jesus wept,” Finnegan muttered.
Klein said, “I think they found that runaway.” Dix shushed him.
“Tonight, we bring you news of a local boy who has gone missing.” Cody’s picture filled the screen. “Cody Forrand, age six, was last seen outside his parents’ house this morning in Idyll.” Cody’s picture was whisked to the upper right corner of the screen. The co-host frowned. “Young Cody isn’t just any boy. He has a rare medical condition. Congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis, or CIPA. It makes him vulnerable to cold temperatures. We spoke to his parents, Peter and Jane Forrand.” They aired footage of Mr. and Mrs. Forrand, who were sitting on their sofa. They’d slapped makeup on Mrs. Forrand and styled her hair. She looked better, but worried. No makeup could conceal that.
“If anyone has seen Cody,” she said, “please call. He’s our little boy, and we just want him home.” Her face crumpled and she squeezed her husband’s arm. He grimaced.
“Please,” Mr. Forrand said. “Cody’s six years old. He was wearing a red coat and blue snow pants. If you saw him, or,” he swallowed, “if you have him. Please. Bring him back to us. We miss him. We love him.”
The male co-host’s face appeared on screen. He said, “Police looked for Cody this morning but called off the search due to today’s blizzard.”
“The fuck?” Dix said. “Did he say we stopped searching because of the snow?”
“Of all the made-up stories,” Hopkins said.
“We sound like pussies.”
The anchorman recited a telephone number for people to call if they’d spotted Cody. “What’s that number?” I asked. “That’s not ours!” I tapped the TV screen.
Klein said, “I think it’s the TV station’s number, Chief. Looks familiar.”
“Why? Why didn’t they give out our number?” I yelled.
No one knew. No one was happy about it. We had people experienced at taking tips calls. Who did they have answering their number? Probably a college intern.
“Why did they do that?” Billy asked. Even the rookie knew it was bad.
“I think maybe the Forrands are upset with us,” Hopkins said.
“What? Why?” I asked.
“Well, first we took a while to get mobilized, and then we called off the search because we thought we found him.”
I said, “And we went back and searched all the areas after we realized the McManus kid wasn’t Cody. We had to come here and call out to the staties and news stations. He wouldn’t be on the news if we were outside now!”
“It’s their boy, Chief,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. “They’re beside themselves with fear. You can’t take anything they say or do now to heart.”
Yet I did. We all did. After the news report, I saw men crumpling pieces of paper, digging the toes of their boots into the carpet. Frowning at the phones. It was bad enough, not finding the kid. We’d all wanted to bring him safe to his parents. We’d failed, and now we’d been made to look like the bad guys on the seven o’clock news.
Phones rang. I clapped my hands. “Let’s get to it, guys! I want an update on what we’ve heard from neighboring towns and any likely leads in fifteen.”
“Chief,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. “Mayor on line four.”
“What’s this about a missing boy? Why didn’t I know of this?” On an outrage scale of one to ten, Mayor Mike Mitchell was at twenty.
“We were up to our necks searching.”
“It’s on the news! And what’s this about you stopping the search because—”
“They got it wrong. Mrs. Dunsmore will see that they don’t repeat it.”
He harrumphed. “She’ll get it sorted. I want to be updated, Chief. We had that murder, and now this. Doesn’t look good for the town.”
“Kids go missing, all the time.” My phone beeped.
“Not kids with what he’s got, that medical condition. We have to get ahead—”
“Excuse me, sir. I’ve got another call. Might be the staties.”
“Oh, good. Maybe they can send help. Perhaps—”
I hit the button, cutting short his bright ideas. “Chief Lynch,” I said.
“Chief, this is Hauser.” My scoldy statie. “Saw the news. Christ. What’d you do to piss off the anchors?”
“No idea. The parents may be upset.”
“Well, get them on your side. Quick. This kind of thing lives on in people’s minds. People lose jobs over this.” This guy’s motivational speeches were awful.
“Any word on a helicopter?” I asked.
“Tied up. Besides, he’d have to be lying atop a pile of snow for us to find him. No. What I’ve done is run you a report of local pedophiles. Faxed it over.”
I told him about the mixed-up phone numbers on the news.
“They gave the TV station’s number? God almighty. You sure you didn’t arrest one of the news anchor’s kids or something? Well, good luck. I’m gonna go home and dig out my driveway. Unless my son did it.” He laughed. “Not likely.”
His report was in the fax tray. The papers smelled hot and inky. He’d defined “local” broadly. One name had an Idyll address: Andrew Trabucco. I took it to Finnegan. He handed me a paper. “Info about the person from this morning. Single guy. Here’s his car info.” Right, my prank caller. I’d forgotten. “Oh, and the Sweet Dreams break-in. Man, what a mess. Whoever did it was thorough. Smashed all the glass jars to bits. Tore down some of the shelves from the walls.”
I’d forgotten about the break-in. My brain’s focus was all Cody. “Any leads?”
He blew a smoke ring away from me. “We dusted for prints. Got a few. The graffiti wasn’t friendly. ‘Leave before we kill you.’”
“Whoa.” This was serious.
I handed him half the faxed sheets. “Local kiddie diddlers. Let’s check ’em out, starting with Andrew Trabucco.” I sat across from him. Wright wouldn’t be happy about my ass in his seat, but I didn’t care.
He held the papers away and squinted. “You need glasses,” I said.
“You sound like my ex,” he said.
“Which one?” He collected ex-wives the way other people collect baseball cards.
“Linda. Number two. She works at an eyeglasses store. Probably wants to sell me a pair, get a commission.” He shook the page. “Andrew Trabucco? Never heard of him.”
“Probably the way he likes it. Oh, and we should check one more guy. Young computer teacher lives near the Forrands. Mike Calloway. He acted shifty when I spoke to him, and a neighbor saw Cody near his house this morning.”
We checked databases and made some calls, following the life and times of pedophiles. After an hour, Finnegan said, “Imagine some rando snatches Cody Forrand. It’s gonna get weird fast.”
“Weirder than usual?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. Cody doesn’t feel pain, right? So nothing this guy does will hurt him. That might freak the guy out.”
“Maybe. It doesn’t mean he’ll let him go. He might get angry.”
Finnegan laced his hands behind his head. “This isn’t going to end pretty, is it?”
I wanted to believe it could. But I didn’t see how. “Not likely.” I se
t the papers down. He said, “Our boy Andrew Trabucco has quite the résumé. Indecent exposure, possessing child porn, and sexual assault of a male minor. All by age twenty-one.”
“How old is he now?” I asked.
“Um.” Finnegan did the math. “Thirty-three.”
“Why didn’t we know about him?” Guys like Trabucco were required to register when they moved so that police could keep tabs.
“He got out in ’87, before the registry started.”
I glanced at my watch—10:30 p.m. “I’ll drive by his house. See what I see.”
“If you don’t see anything?” he asked.
“We’ll drop by tomorrow, bright and early. Any other candidates?”
“Nope. Most of ’em are back inside.”
“Mine too. One is dead.” I stood and stretched. My arms ached. “You okay reviewing the others?”
He nodded. “See you in the morning?” His way of asking if I needed him.
I did. “If not sooner. Goodnight.”
A fit of coughing broke out behind me. Billy stood, one hand on a desk, bent over, hacking. “Billy, you okay?” I reached out a hand.
He shrank back. “Fine. Probably nothing.”
“The same nothing half the men have? Head home. Get some sleep.”
He pushed himself up. “I’m good.” Another coughing spasm tore through him.
“Go home. You’re sick. We can’t afford to lose you. Rest. Take medicine.”
He wiped his nose like a little kid. “Okay. I’ll be in tomorrow. I’m covering for Morris.” Of course he was.
I wished the men good night and thanked them for staying. They shrugged off the praise. The outside air was single-digits cold. My boogers froze stiff and sharp. Trabucco lived at Haywood Court, four blocks from the Forrands. I turned the radio on. Bing Crosby sang “White Christmas.” I wrenched the dial. “Not now, Bing.” I’d had enough snow to last a lifetime.
One window was lit at Andrew Trabucco’s house. In his driveway was a car with a frosting layer of snow on it. I popped my car door, the sound loud as a gunshot, then crept across the road, my boots wet within seconds. I wanted to peek in the side window, which meant wading through two feet of snow. I paused at the edge of the lawn. Fuck it. No guts, no glory. I hopped onto the snow. The top layer had iced over. It was like walking through crème brûlée. A body passed near the window. I ducked. God, it was cold. Through the window I saw, atop a table, a cage. Inside was a brown rabbit. Along the room’s far side was another cage, with a hamster wheel. Kids loved pets. That could be how he lured them in. “Want to see my hamster? You can feed him.”
From the edge of the room, he appeared, tall and heavy. He wore a flannel shirt and khaki pants. He came toward me. I ducked and heard metal screeching. I counted to forty. Trabucco sat on the couch, the rabbit on his lap. He stroked the animal. I scanned the room for signs of Cody. A small coat or mittens or boots. Nothing. A tray supported a microwave dinner. Every few moments, Trabucco would stop petting the rabbit, lean forward, and fork food into his mouth.
I waited. Watched. My wet pants stiffened. My eyes burned. No evidence of Cody. Besides, how would he have snatched Cody? Out for a walk in a blizzard and he sees Cody and invites him to his house? Seemed unlikely now that I had eyes on Trabucco.
I crunched a path back to the car.
My driveway was full of snow. A shovel was propped beside the porch, only its wooden handle visible. I parked along the road. Absolutely against the post-storm parking ban. We ticketed for such infractions. The thought of picking up the shovel and clearing the driveway was absurd. I needed hot water. I needed rest. I needed my brain to stop asking, “Where’s Cody?”
CHAPTER FIVE
I blinked against the bathroom’s lighting, its pink and black tiles too much to bear at 1:30 a.m. I’d gotten two and a half hours of sleep. My face, puffy and shadowed, confirmed it. I had hung my uniform on the bathroom hook, but the shower’s steam had failed to remove its wrinkles. My other uniform was at Suds, which didn’t open for another ten hours. I packed a thermos of coffee, precaution against the tarry sludge the station coffee had reduced to at this hour. My gloves and hat rested against the baseboard heaters. I scooped them up. Dry, thank God. And so day two of the search for Cody Forrand began.
Clouds were glued onto the night sky and the air felt hard, like glass. My car seat creaked beneath me, frozen rigid. The radio gave news instead of carols. A tanker carrying heating oil had flipped over on Route 84 outside Waterbury. Cleanup crews were on site. People were asked to be on the lookout for a missing boy. Cody Forrand. Age six. Brown hair and eyes. Wearing a red coat. Last seen on Spring Street in Idyll. Great. If any insomniacs were listening, maybe we’d get a call.
Darryl, the dispatcher, greeted me. John Miller, of the Santa hat, had gone home.
Finnegan had also gone home. I looked over his notes. Next to Andrew Trabucco’s name he’d written “Two Wheels since June ’95.” Two Wheels, the local bicycle shop. Must be where he worked.
In my office, I found an eight-page equipment survey. State purpose of equipment: handcuffs. Really? I had to explain handcuffs? I pushed the survey aside and made notes. Ms. Hart saw Cody at 7:50 a.m. She thought he’d been looking for something. Had he left the house carrying something? A toy or stuffed animal? What about Mr. Calloway, the teacher? Had we turned up anything there? I wrote, my pen clenched so hard that my palm cramped and I had to stop. After a few minutes, I was back at it. While I worked, the sky outside lightened to the color of a new bruise. I rolled my shoulders and stood. Time to look around the station.
Yankowitz came through the front door, carrying a large brown paper bag. A yeasty smell traveled with it. I followed the bag to the coffee machine. “What’s inside?” I asked.
He jumped. “Whoa, Chief. Didn’t see you there. Want a bagel?” A New Yorker born and bred, I had strong opinions about bagels. This one was too fat. It would be too chewy. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers.
He asked about Cody.
“No word yet.” I sawed at the bagel with a plastic knife. It was like trying to saw a tree with a licorice rope. “Would it be any use to try again with Skylar?” I asked.
“Nah. There’s a crust of ice over the snow. Ruins scent work.” He pinched his lower lip. “There’s a thaw due in four days.”
We stood, eating warm bagels, thinking of the thaw, of the melting snow revealing Cody Forrand’s corpse. I took another bite. “There’s a pedophile who lives four blocks from the Forrands.”
“Jesus. Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I heard they started reporting the correct phone number for tips.”
“Thank God,” I muttered.
“Chief, phone call,” someone behind me yelled.
I snagged another bagel and thanked Yankowitz.
“Chief, we got good news,” said Hauser, the statie who gave only bad news. “We got hold of a helicopter. It’ll head out your way at eight o’clock. I’m not sure how much help it will be. If he was out there long . . .”
“I know. We’re checking the list of local sex offenders you sent.”
“Good luck. Oh, and good work getting the TV stations on board. The other recaps were better.”
“Thanks.” That was down to Mrs. Dunsmore, but I’d take the credit. This guy thought I was clueless. I needed the boost.
I sniffed my shirt’s pits. Maybe I could send someone to Suds. Then again, maybe the Forrands would be impressed by my lack of sleep or clean clothes when we met. I dialed them. Mrs. Forrand answered on the first ring, her voice two degrees away from hysterical. I told her about the helicopter. Hoped the good news would calm her.
“A helicopter?” she said. “Now? Where are they looking?”
I told her they’d scout an area miles wide, keeping their house at the center.
“Will it help? Your men stopped searching. Now you’re sending a helicopter when he’s been gone over twenty-four hours.”
H
e hadn’t been gone twenty-two hours, but I didn’t contradict her. “Mrs. Forrand, my men never stopped searching. They’re still searching for Cody.”
“You put a bunch of signs on telephone poles. When no one in their right mind was outside yesterday to see them.” Yet she had. Or someone had, and told her. I took a breath. She railed on, her voice climbing. We hadn’t started looking soon enough. The first twenty-four hours were crucial in these cases. Those hours were gone.
Again, I swallowed a comment that it hadn’t been a whole day. “How’s 8:30 a.m.?” I asked. “We can come by and review what we know with you and your husband.”
“I think we’d rather liaise with another officer,” she said.
“Another officer? Officer Hopkins?”
She huffed. “Not him. Don’t you have any female police officers?”
“I’m sorry. No.” Why did she want a woman?
“Well, what about the young one?”
“Officer Thompson?” Billy? Our rookie? I wasn’t sending a newbie into this quagmire. “I’ll send Detective Wright.” Wright was well dressed and professional.
“I hope he doesn’t expect us to feed him.” She hung up. The food comment was a dig at Hopkins. He’d snacked his way through their home. I’d have a word, later.
The shift changed. I shouted at everybody to circle up. Half the men looked like death, pale faces, red eyes, Billy among them. I told them the news about the copter. That made them smile. Wright, our full-time detective, wore a gray suit. His red tie a nice choice. His grimace ruined the picture.
“We’ll run checks on local sex offenders and work the tips line. If anything looks promising, we’ll search. Don’t talk to the press, especially if they ask about calling off the search early. That didn’t happen. I know that. You know that. Now let’s see if we can’t work a Christmas miracle.” One or two guys kissed their medallions. Saint Michael on a chain.
I stopped by the card table where Joanne Devon sat. Joanne had worked the tips line on the North murder. She was good at sorting attention seekers from possible witnesses. I mouthed, “Anything?” at her. She held her hand up. Spoke into the phone. “Thank you, sir.” She hung up. Her fingernails were painted silver today. “We’re getting lots of calls. Mostly from folks who want to help. Can they help search for him?” She tapped her nails against the tabletop.
Idyll Fears Page 4