The Collective

by Jack Rogan

  “Strange, isn’t it?” the man had said, standing behind her in line at the bank, after she’d talked about Leyla’s birth to the woman in front of her.

  Cait had asked him what he thought was strange.

  “Mixed-race kids,” the man had continued. “They’re always the most beautiful.”

  “Maybe that’s the point,” the woman in front of them in line had said. “Maybe it’s not so strange at all.”

  And this man, about whom Cait had made some unpleasant presumptions, had smiled at Leyla and said, “Maybe.”

  If one little girl could start such conversations, Cait thought that one day she might be able to convince herself that Nizam’s death had meant something to the world.

  “Hey,” Jordan said quietly. “You okay?”

  Her smile had slipped. “Yeah. Sorry. Just drifting.”

  “I know that look.” He gave her arm a comforting squeeze. “Come back, Cait. It’s much more fun out here in the world than in the sad places in your head.”

  She exhaled, forcing her smile to return. “True. Just tired, I guess,” she said, then cocked her head, studying him. “What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t think you had to work this morning.”

  Much of the humor drained from his face and she instantly regretted the question. Without the smile, he seemed tired and even a bit sad.

  “Spence is sick,” Jordan said. “He’s covered for me a couple of times, so when he called this morning, I figured I couldn’t say no. But if I’d known what I’d be working on, I’d still be home in bed. Have you heard about these crib deaths out in the Midwest?”

  Cait felt a sick twist in her gut. Crib deaths. Even the words were hideous.

  “No,” she said. And to herself, she added, And I’m not sure I want to.

  “I guess the first one was in Columbus, Ohio. Well, the first time anyone noticed something weird anyway. Seemed to be SIDS, but then the parents saw that the screen in the baby’s room was hanging loose, and when they checked, it had been cut. Someone had snuck in and then tried to put the screen back when they left, and now they’re thinking the kid was suffocated, that someone murdered her.”

  Cait shuddered. “That’s awful!”

  “I know, right? So that started people looking more closely at some of these cases, and the Feds have put together a list of at least seven other incidents in Ohio, Kansas, and Iowa that seem like they were probably the work of the same person. A serial killer who suffocates babies in their cribs. I have a hard time just imagining the existence of somebody like that. I don’t need that information in my brain, y’know?”

  Cait nodded. “I do. Thanks so much for sharing.”

  Jordan frowned. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been editing stock footage and some reports from affiliates together for Aaron. I just needed some coffee before we start to dub in his voice-over.”

  “That’s okay,” Cait said. “I’m just glad it’s far away from here.”

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?” Jordan asked.

  “Rain check,” she said. “I’m already late to face the dragon in her den.”

  Lynette kept her office impeccable. A flat-screen TV hung on one wall. Normally it would have been turned on so that she could keep an eye on their programming, but at the moment the screen was dark. Cait sat in a plush armchair, facing Lynette’s desk, trying to pretend she wasn’t worried.

  “So,” the station manager began, leaning back in her chair. “Some crazy night you had.”

  “Definitely not the night I expected,” Cait replied, trying to read her tone.

  “I talked to Mike Duffy last night,” Lynette said. Her expression was grim, her eyes contemplative as she studied Cait. “He’s pretty upset, actually. I’d go so far as to say that he’s pissed off. He thinks you interfered with his story, that you should have waited for the police to arrive.”

  Cait stared, growing numb. “Look, I know I broke the rules—”

  “The number one rule. We don’t make the news,” Lynette said.

  “I know that. I get it. I guess I could argue that I’m new, that I haven’t been in this very long, but that’d be a bullshit argument. I did what I did because someone had to—and under the same circumstances, I would do it again in a heartbeat. If you want to fire me because of that—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Lynette said. “I have no intention of firing you, Cait. Yes, you broke the rules. But I wanted you to know about Duffy’s tirade mainly so you can prepare yourself. He’s going to be a baby about this for a while, even though I’ve told him to grow up. You want to know the truth? I think he’s mainly just embarrassed that a girl did what he couldn’t bring himself to do. I talked to Jordan Katz about what went on out there last night, too, and I’ve seen the footage, of course. It’s possible you saved that woman’s life, stepping in when you did.”

  Cait blinked, uncertain how to reply. Relief flooded through her, along with irritation with Mike Duffy and gratitude toward Jordan. Her old friend was still looking out for her. She owed him for that.

  “No response?” Lynette asked.

  “Sorry,” Cait said. “It’s just not what I expected. I figured you were calling me in here to read me the riot act.”

  “Every rule has an exception,” the station manager said. “You did the right thing. It’s possible not everyone is going to see it that way, but I think our footage is damned convincing. All of that said, though, there is one rule I’m going to have to insist you follow in exchange for me letting you off the hook.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No interviews to any other media source without my consent—which, to be honest, you’re not going to get. Local girl, single mom, war veteran—people are calling you a hero, Cait. We want to make it clear that you’re Channel Seven’s hero. You’re off tomorrow, which is good, but I want you to take Tuesday off, too. We’ll talk to the police, make sure no one’s going to be able to make a case against you, and then Aaron will interview you on the air.”

  Cait fidgeted. She already didn’t like the attention she was getting because of the previous night’s encounter, and the last thing she wanted was to put herself any further into the spotlight. But she didn’t see how she could avoid it.

  “Not Duffy? It’s sort of his story,” Cait said. “Is he going to be pissed?”

  Lynette grinned. “Let’s hope so.”

  The hospital administrators were anxious for Richard and Farah Kowalik to go home. There was no medical reason for them to still be lingering there. They had been on their way home when Gharib had attacked Farah and stolen her newborn daughter. Farah had a minor concussion from a knock on the head she’d taken while trying to stop him, and she was inconsolable. Doctors had admitted her for observation because of both the concussion and the hysteria, but now it was their medical opinion that she ought to be discharged. But the Kowaliks did not want to go. Somehow, they seemed to think that their daughter might be returned to the hospital.

  Normally, they would have been discharged regardless of their wishes. Insurance companies did not reimburse hospitals for putting up guests as if the facility were a bed-and-breakfast. But the administrators faced a dilemma. Several of the local network affiliates had reporters filing stories from the hospital during every major newscast, and the Fox News people had somehow gotten wind of the fact that the Kowaliks were insisting they be allowed to stay. If the hospital kicked them out now, after their newborn was abducted practically on its threshold, the administrators would be crucified in the media.

  Which was how Josh and Chang ended up interviewing the Kowaliks in Room 326 of the Timothy Spruce Wing of the hospital. Images flickered across the television in silence. Richard Kowalik—not Rick or Dick or Richie—had been watching some sports channel when they knocked, his eyes vacant and glassy from either grief or tranquilizers or both. Now he and his wife stared at Josh and Chang with that same empty gaze.

  “Have you been shown the video of the attack?” Chang asked the Kowaliks
.

  Richard perched on the edge of the hospital bed. His wife lay beneath the crisp industrial sheet and blanket like a child who didn’t want to get up for school. Josh couldn’t blame her. He and his ex-wife hadn’t had any children, but he couldn’t imagine the anguish the couple must be feeling right now. They didn’t just look lost. They were lost.

  “They showed us only photographs taken from the video,” Farah Kowalik said, her accent lovely and exotic. “They wanted to be merciful.”

  “But it’s been on TV constantly,” Richard added. He shrugged, his smile painful and ironic. “Everyone’s seen it by now. I’ve watched it, wondering if I’ve seen the son of a bitch anywhere before.” The man was tall and might once have been formidable, but now he had become small, somehow. Broken.

  Farah took his hand and kissed it. “Richard thinks he should have been there.” She squeezed his hand and he looked at her. “You were doing exactly what you should have been doing. You were being a father … taking us home.”

  For several long moments, their shared pain was unspeakable. Josh thought they might both crumple into tears, or just shatter, but then it passed and they exhaled simultaneously and returned their attention to the conversation.

  “And you’re sure you haven’t seen him before?” Chang asked.

  “How can I be sure of that?” Richard asked. “But I guess I’m as sure as it’s possible to be. He doesn’t look familiar to me, except that he looks like a thousand other people I’ve seen.”

  “And you, Mrs. Kowalik?” Josh asked. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  She looked at him as if he were the stupidest man on Earth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know the police have asked you these questions before.”

  “Everyone has asked us,” Farah replied. “But no, Agent Hart, I do not know this man. I have no idea why he would want to do this to us. Why anyone would want to do such a thing to us.”

  Neither do I, Josh thought, but he made a silent promise that he would find out. If the Kowaliks knew what their daughter’s kidnapper had been up to the night before he had come to Maine … Josh didn’t want to imagine their grief then.

  He glanced at Chang, wanting only to leave. They weren’t likely to learn anything helpful from these people. Instead, they needed to get out into the field, touch base with everyone helping to search for the kidnapper and the missing infant. They needed to take charge.

  But Chang didn’t seem ready to leave just yet. “Mrs. Kowalik, can I ask where you’re from?”

  “I am Persian,” Farah replied, lifting her chin in almost childlike defiance.

  “You’re Iranian?” Josh asked.

  In some parts of the world, Persia and Iran were used interchangeably. In the United States, the nation was sometimes called Persia by people who did not want to be associated with the stigma attached to Iran.

  “I was born there, yes,” Farah replied.

  Richard squeezed her hand again, but now he stared at Chang and Josh with knitted brow. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  Josh blinked, surprised it hadn’t occurred to them. “Sorry, Mr. Kowalik. Mrs. Kowalik. But it can’t have escaped your notice that the suspect appears to be Middle Eastern. He traveled here under a Saudi name that we’re fairly certain is an alias.”

  “He could be from anywhere, really,” Chang added.

  Josh studied the couple. “How did you two meet?”

  “I don’t like the tone of your voice, pal,” Richard Kowalik said.

  Josh held up his hands. “I swear to you, Mr. Kowalik, all we want is to find your baby and bring her home alive. But it’s our job to consider every possibility. If we don’t, the odds of us figuring this out will suffer.”

  Richard took a breath, then nodded.

  “I have lived in the United States for fifteen years,” Farah said. “Richard and I met six years ago at a conference on green energy. I was a researcher for an international consortium, studying alternative fuels. Richard is a journalist. He was working on a magazine article about the conference.”

  She shrugged. “I cannot imagine any connection between my heritage and this … what this man has done. To assume that there must be some thread that connects us just because I was born in Iran … Well, I think it would be foolish and a waste of time.”

  “Not to mention racist,” Richard added.

  For a moment, none of them spoke. Josh hated the silence.

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you? Either of you, for any reason?” he asked.

  He wondered about ex-lovers, or maybe current lovers. Could Farah have been engaged in an affair? Was the baby even Richard’s?

  The Kowaliks hadn’t liked the questions they had been asked so far, and they weren’t going to like the next few any better. And yet Josh had a feeling he would be able to predict the answers. The Kowaliks were as broken and hollow as they were because they honestly had no clue why their baby had been taken.

  The trouble is, neither do we.

  Cait wanted to get home, not just to take Leyla off of Auntie Jane’s hands but also to spend time with her daughter. It had been a busy week, and the thought of just snuggling with Leyla in the big chair in her living room was insanely appealing. But Jane had taken the baby to the supermarket, so Cait knew she had a little bit of time. Another fifteen minutes wouldn’t make much difference, and she wanted to follow up on the Audi that had been parked on Badger Road this morning.

  A quick stroll through the cubicle village revealed plenty of empty chairs. Only about half of the station’s employees worked on weekends—essential personnel or flex-time staff—and she made her way to a quiet corner. At first she pulled out her cell phone, but then she saw that the charge on the battery was low. When she stayed over at Jane and George’s, she never remembered to bring a charger. Instead, she picked up the phone on the desk she’d commandeered and tapped a button to get an outside line.

  A call to information got her the number for the Medford Police Department, and she dialed quickly, glancing up at the clock. Just after nine a.m.

  “Medford Police, your call is being recorded. This is Sergeant Bryce.”

  “Good morning, Sergeant. My name is Caitlin McCandless. This is sort of a weird phone call, I guess, because I’m not sure what you can do about it. I live in an apartment on Boston Avenue, but my aunt and uncle live on Badger Road. George and Jane Wadlow. Anyway, during the night and early this morning there’s been a car parked on the street a few doors down, in front of the home of a family who are away on vacation. The driver stays in the car, almost like they’re conducting surveillance, and during the night my aunt witnessed what she thought of as a shift change, with one car taking over from another. She’s kind of unsettled by the whole thing, so I said I’d look into it for her. I went out this morning to try to talk to the driver, but as soon as I approached, the car took off. I guess my first question is whether or not you guys are conducting any surveillance on Badger Road.”

  The sergeant made a noise in his throat, a kind of “hmmm.” Then he took a breath Cait could hear over the phone.

  “I don’t know of any ongoing surveillance, Ms.… I’m sorry, what was it?”

  “McCandless.”

  “Are you a police officer, ma’am?”

  “No. Why would you think that?” Cait asked.

  “Just a tone of voice. But don’t worry, it’s a compliment,” Sergeant Bryce said.

  “I was National Guard, did a double tour in Baghdad, so I guess you learn how to give a report.”

  “That explains it. Look, I seriously doubt we’ve got anything going over there, but if you can hang on a second, I’ll confirm.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Cait said, and then she waited.

  She expected to be on hold for a while, but Sergeant Bryce came back on the line after a minute or two.

  “Ms. McCandless, I spoke to the detectives on duty and, according to them, there is no surveillance operati
on in your aunt’s area.”

  “In some ways, that’s even more troubling. When I went out there earlier, the guy took off like a bat out of hell. They’re not making much of an effort to go unnoticed, but he definitely did not want to talk to me. It felt wrong. My aunt lives there, but she also watches my daughter while I’m at work. I’d really like to know what these people are up to.”

  “Can you describe the car?” Sergeant Bryce asked.

  “New model Audi. I got the plate number, actually,” she said, slipping the scrap of paper from her pocket. “Do you have a pen?”

  “I do. Shoot.”

  She rattled off the license plate number and then tucked the paper back into her pocket, just in case. Sergeant Bryce seemed competent and helpful, but she knew better than to rely on someone who had no personal interest in solving the problem. Maybe that was cynical of her, but she liked to think of it as merely practical. There were police who were very good at their jobs and took their duty as a sacred trust, and there were others who didn’t care very much.

  “All right,” Sergeant Bryce said. “I’ll send a car by there right now. If my guys don’t see anything, they will do another pass tonight, after dark. Meanwhile, I’ll run this plate number and see if I come up with anything. I’m on duty tomorrow, so if you want to give a call back then, I’ll fill you in on whatever we come up with. In the meantime, give me a number where I can reach you.”

  Cait gave him her cell phone number—reminding herself to charge it—and her home number as well. He asked her to spell both her last name and Jane’s.

  “I really appreciate this, Sergeant,” she said. “Thanks for taking it seriously.”

  “No worries. If some creep was sitting outside my house in the middle of the night, I’d want to know who it was, too.”

  “Thanks. Seriously. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if not sooner.”