The Silent Child Boxset

by Roger Hayden

  The SUV rocked along the bumpy ruts and followed the other vehicles into a mobile home park with six or seven residences arranged in one large circle. They pulled to the side of the road at the end of the circle where a single trailer looked out from behind some thick bushes, half-concealing a rusty, dark-gray Suburban.

  “Looks like our boy’s home,” Fitzpatrick said, leaning over the wheel. He reached for the radio microphone and held it to his mouth, addressing the officers. “Keep an eye on the place, and wait for my lead.” He then looked at Dobson. “Are you ready?”

  “What’s the plan, exactly? Are you going to arrest him? If so, on what charge?”

  Fitzpatrick shook his head. “We just want to search his premises. If he cooperates, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Dobson turned to look at the trailer and caught a glimpse of a man peeking from behind the curtains inside. Their presence was not a secret. He opened his door, following Fitzpatrick, and stepped outside. No one looked to be around, and the eerie silence hinted at possible danger.

  He opened the back door and grabbed a vest, only to see Fitzpatrick already striding down the line of cruisers, standing at the hood of the lead vehicle and talking with the other police officers, who resembled a SWAT team with their vests, helmets, and rifles. He slipped the vest over his shoulders, a snug fit, and checked his pistol, ensuring that it was loaded.

  As he hurried alongside the vehicles to catch up, Fitzpatrick was in the process of instructing the group. “I want an officer at each window and door. Once in place, I will coax Mr. Morris outside to present the warrant. He will have two options: exit the premises immediately and allow us to conduct our search, or be forcibly removed and detained. Everyone understand?”

  The police team confirmed as much while Dobson nodded. Fifty feet away from them, the aluminum trailer sat atop cinder blocks a few feet in the air. The Suburban in question was parked at the side in a patch of dirt, near a stack of firewood. Pine cones littered the front yard of patchy grass and sand, and a canopy above the home’s front entrance shaded a small wooden deck. There was no visible movement from inside, despite Dobson’s having seen a man in the window just minutes before. Maybe he had run. Or maybe he was taking cover.

  Amid explaining the layout of the trailer’s interior, Fitzpatrick pointed at Dobson. “You’re going to stick with me and watch my back.” It seemed a strange request, given their history, but Dobson agreed. Fitzpatrick then returned to describing the layout: two bedrooms, one bath, kitchen, and living room. “Look for cubbyholes, crawl spaces, and especially places out back where he might have buried evidence.”

  Suddenly, the patio door swung open and Morris emerged, gripping a shotgun with both hands, his long gray hair flowing wildly in the wind.

  “Twelve o’clock!” Dobson shouted.

  The officers turned with their rifles aimed as Fitzpatrick spun around and dropped to one knee, pistol in the air.

  “Drop the weapon, Morris!”

  Morris halted halfway into his yard and stared at them vacantly, his scruffy beard sprinkled with gray, his arms covered in tattoos. His white muscle T-shirt was torn and stained as badly as his faded blue jeans. His pale skin showed through the holes in the knees. He kept his shotgun aimed to the side, careful not to point it directly at them, while maintaining his look of defiance.

  “We have a warrant to search your premises,” Fitzpatrick continued in a loud, commanding voice. “Drop the shotgun, step away with your hands in the air, and I promise there won’t be any trouble.” His voice echoed as a flock of birds jettisoned from a nearby tree, scattering into the blue sky.

  Morris remained in place, standing his ground. He brushed one side of his hair behind his ear and then gripped the shotgun, pulling it closer to his chest as though it was protecting him.

  “This is my land. My property, damn it!” he shouted. Suddenly he lowered his voice and revealed a Southern accent. “State your business, or get the hell out of here.”

  Fitzpatrick glanced at the other officers and then back to Morris, confounded. “I just told you that! We have a warrant. Now stand aside or face criminal charges. The choice is yours!”

  “A warrant?” Morris shouted back. “For what? I ain’t broke no more laws. I ain’t bothered a soul.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Fitzpatrick said as tensions rose.

  “Get the hell off my property now, you sons of bitches!” Morris shouted.

  Dobson’s heart raced as he moved carefully behind the first cruiser with his pistol aimed over the hood. The man was going to get himself killed, ending the standoff quickly and violently.

  “Okay, Morris!” Fitzpatrick said, keeping his steady aim. “Let’s be smart here. Don’t do anything rash. We can work this out.”

  “Drop the fucking weapon now!” One of the police officers shouted.

  “Do it!” another officer added.

  This is it, Dobson thought. This dumbass is going down.

  But before that could happen, Morris tossed his shotgun in the grass in front of him and took a step back with pure contempt on his face. He then dropped to his knees and placed both hands behind his head as though he knew the routine all too well.

  “Move! Take him down!” Fitzpatrick shouted.

  The police officers charged forward and tackled Morris in a frenzied blur of grunts and shouts. Fitzpatrick moved quickly across the yard as Dobson cautiously followed. Morris was thrown to the ground with an officer’s knee digging into his back and his arms pulled together and handcuffed at the wrist. Another officer pushed Morris’s face into the dirt, applying most of his force to Morris’s neck, while another held his legs down.

  “Get him in the back of a patrol car,” Fitzgerald said as he headed toward the swaying front patio door.

  “I’m not resisting, you fucker!” Morris screamed as he gasped for air.

  Fitzgerald suddenly turned around and called out to Morris. “Is there anyone else in the house? Anyone at all?”

  “Go fuck yourself!” Morris shouted.

  “All right, get him out of here,” Fitzgerald said, giving up.

  Two officers lifted Morris up, gripping both arms, and yanked him over to the nearest police cruiser. The other four followed Fitzgerald and took positions around the dilapidated trailer. As they threw him in the back seat of the car, Dobson examined the shotgun at his feet. It was a twelve-gauge pump-action Mossberg shotgun, like the kind they had at the station—the same manufacturer of the one locked in Fitzpatrick’s SUV. It was a popular brand and model, but most concerning of all was that Morris had it in the first place.

  While Fitzpatrick remained at the front door, peeking inside with the officers at the windows, Dobson approached the makeshift carport to get a look at Morris’s vehicle. Its rear left tire was flat, and a thick layer of dust and pollen covered its windows, roof, and hood. It didn’t look as though it had been driven in weeks, let alone days.

  He circled the car, shoes crunching against leaves, and stopped at the driver’s side door where he cupped his hands against the window and tried to look inside. There looked to be magazines and empty soda and beer cans on the floor, a stuffed ashtray under the dashboard, and what looked like a tackle box on the passenger seat. He moved away from the window and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He then re-circled the vehicle and attempted the other doors, but those were locked too.

  He backed away and took a picture of the vehicle and then walked back to the house. Fitzpatrick was no longer in his sight and he wanted to keep an eye on him, as promised. Pistol drawn, Dobson circled to the front of the house where two officers had just rushed inside.

  “Living room clear!” one of them shouted.

  “Kitchen all clear!” the other officer shouted back to him.

  Dobson soon followed and entered the cluttered trailer with its coarse, stained carpet and old furniture, the rooms dimly-lit. He passed one officer who had just conducted his sweep, followed by another. In all the
movement, Dobson had yet to see Fitzpatrick. He called out for the lieutenant from a narrow hallway as he passed a darkened bathroom the size of a broom closet.

  “Back here,” Fitzpatrick said.

  Dobson entered the only bedroom, situated at the end of the hall, and found Fitzpatrick standing there amid clothes and auto-trader magazines covering a lime-green carpet. A bed rested in the corner, consisting of only two stacked mattresses with no frame. Sunlight glowed from behind a beach towel blocking the one window. There was an old wooden dresser in the corner near some boxes and scattered belongings, but that was it. Evidence of a robbery was nowhere to be seen, that was until Fitzgerald stopped at the cluttered dresser and stared down with acute attention.

  “What is it?” Dobson asked, approaching him.

  “I knew it…” Fitzgerald said under his breath.

  Dobson scanned the dresser until his eyes stopped at the sight of a shoe box with glittering jewelry inside.

  Fitzgerald stepped closer and pulled a string of pearls from the box, holding them up to catch the light. “Do these look familiar?”

  Dobson studied the pearls and shook his head. “No, should they?”

  “Come on,” he said, lowering them. “Don’t be so dense.” He placed the pearls back inside the box and then pulled out a gold necklace with a diamond-encrusted heart. “What is a man like Randall Morris doing with all this jewelry?”

  “Maybe it’s his girlfriend’s,” Dobson said.

  Fitzgerald placed the necklace back inside and then took the entire box over to Dobson, holding it close to his chest for a better view. Inside were the two necklaces, several expensive-looking bracelets, and some earrings. “I think it all adds up, Detective. In an act of desperation and rage, Randall Morris broke into Mrs. Bailey’s house to rob her. Maybe he had no intention of killing her, hence the sloppy crime scene. Maybe she just said the wrong thing to him. Maybe he decided that she had to pay.”

  Dobson stared at the shoe box, unconvinced. “We need to verify who this jewelry belongs to.”

  “Open your eyes. Who do you think?” Fitzpatrick said, arms out wide.

  Dobson pointed toward the window. “His Suburban out there hasn’t been driven in at least four days. Maybe a week. How’d he get around?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Fitzpatrick said. “We have evidence from the scene of a crime.”

  Dobson turned away, stepping over the clothes in his path. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. It’s fishy.”

  Fitzpatrick’s face went flush as he took a measured step toward Dobson. “I don’t get you, Detective. I bring you along so we can work together on this. Instead, all I get are your petty doubts.”

  “Excuse me?” Dobson said, crossing his arms.

  Fitzgerald took another step, stopping inches from his face. “I want you to think about this. Captain Nelson is moving on in another year or two. With any luck, I’ll be promoted right into his place. Is this how you want to establish our working relationship? You’re close to retirement, right? That’s what I heard. Now, do you want those coming five years to be good, or bad? The decision’s yours.”

  Betrayal

  Clearwater, Maine

  Victoria paced the kitchen in a circular frenzy, with her anger steadily rising. It was past six and she had heard nothing from Todd. Not even a text message. She felt anxious and short of breath. She wanted to call her mother but felt too upset to even talk. She stopped at the faucet and gripped the sink, staring out through the kitchen window. The empty space in the driveway next to her car remained. There was no sign of him yet.

  Brooke was at a friend’s house but would be home soon. Victoria had no idea what she would tell her. The reality of the situation hadn’t fully sunk in, but she knew that things were going to change. Though Todd’s betrayal had stung her deeply, she had no idea what she was going to do.

  The pictures were spread out on the kitchen table for Todd to see. She turned away from the window, unable to think straight, and repeatedly glanced at her cell phone on the counter. The minutes crept by at an excruciatingly slow pace. The longer she waited, the more the thought of leaving him began to make sense.

  Her cell phone suddenly rang, startling her. She turned and saw Brooke’s name on the screen. She paused before answering and took a deep breath, calming herself.

  “Hey, honey.”

  “Hi, Mom. I was getting ready to leave a voicemail. I didn’t think you were going to answer.” Victoria could hear other girls talking and laughing in the background.

  “Well, here I am. What’s up?” she said, turning back toward the kitchen window. The sun was sinking below the trees, and it was getting dark outside. How much longer would Todd make her wait?

  “We’re still waiting on dinner, so I’ll probably be home around eight if that’s okay.”

  “I see,” Victoria said, somewhat pleased to hear the news. “Will you need a ride home?”

  “Katie’s mom offered to drive me home later.”

  “Okay. Have fun. Love you.” Victoria said. Suddenly, she saw the headlights of Todd’s car appear at the end of the driveway.

  “Love you too. Oh, Mom. One more thing,” she began.

  Victoria watched out the window, distracted. “Yes?”

  “We might have a slumber party here Saturday night. Is that all right too?”

  “That should be fine. I’ll talk to you later, honey. Bye.”

  She watched as Todd’s car pulled up and parked beside hers. The driver’s side door swung open as Todd stepped out, leaning back in for his briefcase. He closed the door and pressed the remote lock on his key.

  The car beeped and its lights flashed as he walked past her car and toward the house, not seeing her at the window. Victoria turned from the window to look at the pictures scattered on the table like courtroom evidence.

  She heard the door unlock and Todd walk inside. She moved swiftly across the tiled kitchen floor, through the walkway and into the foyer, prepared to face him as her heart pounded wildly in her chest. Todd looked up to see Victoria standing in his path, arms crossed and staring him down.

  “Oh, hi,” he said, startled. He set his briefcase down and then immediately began loosening his tie. “How was your day?”

  Victoria kept her mouth in a straight line, not saying a word. His facial expression then turned from curiosity to concern. “Is everything okay?”

  She brought a hand up as tears began to well in her eyes and immediately began rubbing them away. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

  Todd took a cautious step forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Honey… what is it?”

  Victoria shuddered and backed away from him, fighting back her tears. “Don’t touch me.”

  Todd’s eyes widened with shock as he slowly lowered his arm.

  She pointed to the living room and spoke with a trembling tone. “Go. Sit. Please.”

  Todd straightened up, wary, and took a step back. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Victoria’s legs began to shake, and she reached for the back of a chair for support. She shook her head and walked into the living room, stopping at the sofa. “I need you to sit down so we can talk.”

  Todd glanced into the living room, surveying it suspiciously. He then turned to the darkened kitchen. “Come on, Victoria. Stop playing games. I’m starving.”

  Her silent, fierce stare wiped the tight, sarcastic smile from his face. After a loud, resigned sigh, he walked to the couch, sat in the middle, and reached for the remote.

  “No,” she said, standing over him. “This is serious.”

  Todd dropped the remote and leaned back with his arms behind his head. “Vicky, what’s going on?” He paused for a moment and leaned forward to look down the adjacent hallway. “Brooke here?”

  “She’s having dinner at Katie’s house,” she said, approaching the couch. “She’ll be home later.” With Brooke gone, she could sense the sudden nervousness on his face.
r />   “Okay,” he said as he leaned forward with a deep breath, his eyes shifting downward.

  “I called you today,” Victoria said. “Two hours ago. What happened? Did you miss the call or forget to call me back?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off.

  “Did you even listen to the message?”

  Todd rubbed the dark stubble on his cheeks with growing frustration. “You got me. I completely missed it.” He then reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, swiping at the screen. “Oh, there it is.” He glanced up at her with his light, apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I was very busy, and I haven’t looked at my phone for a while.”

  “Why don’t you listen to the message right now?” she said, crossing her arms.

  He held the phone, still unsure what was going on. Victoria watched as he went to his voicemail and held the phone against his ear. She walked away from him and into the kitchen. She flipped on the light switch and approached the table where the pictures lay.

  She heard no movement from the living room. The message, she assumed, only further baffled him. She stood over the pictures and waited until she heard Todd get up from the couch and walk over, calling out to her along the way.

  “What is this all about? You received a package today? From who?”

  She kept her back turned toward him as he entered the kitchen. “Probably the same person who sent me the flowers.” She turned around and extended her arm toward the pictures on display. “This time it wasn’t flowers. I was sent chocolates. And in the box of chocolates were these photos.”

  He walked toward the table as she stepped back, allowing him to see. She watched as his pace slowed, his eyes darting across the table, moving from one photo to the next. His shoulders and head slumped forward. It seemed that everything was beginning to add up. He stared at the photos of himself and the woman as color left his face. He then slowly reached for one of the photos and flipped it around, holding it up and examining it in disbelief.