She made no demand that police not be involved. In fact, she wanted them all over it. Once police were involved, the media were involved. Once media were involved, Katie Edwards was involved. No, Katie did not want money. She wanted attention. And a starring role in a career-making story.
The outrageously excessive ransom demand was perfectly designed to force our hand. Katie knew we couldn’t afford anything close to ten million dollars. If we could have, we might have decided to keep the story quiet, make the payoff, and get our daughter back. None of which did Katie any good.
Jenn had confided in Katie during a girls-night-out that our financial situation, although good, was not ten-million-dollars-good. Yes, sales of In The Middle had gone through the roof. But that was a while ago. Much of the royalty payout had been sucked up by debt we’d accumulated while allowing me to stay home to pursue a writing career (no one’s idea of a get-rich-quick scheme), raise a child, and have a nice home in an expensive city. Because I’d been foolish and blindly rushed into signing a contract without proper advice, the movie option money wasn’t the windfall everyone assumed it to be either. The movie did well, but my share of the notoriously stingy, nebulously-defined “Producer’s Net Profits” was spectacularly chintzy.
As Katie hoped, the police were called. Unlike how it’s often portrayed in movies, a command post is typically set up away from the kidnappee’s home. Only a small team is stationed at the residence to coordinate with lead investigators. The off-site team consisted of a supervisor, investigative coordinator, search coordinator, media specialist, communication specialist, logistics specialist, and various administrative personnel. Because of the “Lindbergh Law”—which immediately gives the FBI jurisdiction to investigate any reported mysterious disappearance or kidnapping involving a child of “tender age,” usually defined as twelve or younger—the team was ultimately under the control of a cadre of FBI agents.
Whether real or perceived, as the parents, Jenn and I believed we had some say in what was being done to save our daughter. Knowing that, Katie moved swiftly. She subtly and skillfully pushed the right buttons and yanked the perfect chains to encourage us to insist that she should be the lead media contact, all the while making it seem like it was our idea.
In the blink of an eye, we’d found ourselves trapped inside our own home, under siege by a press corps ravenous for information, Katie right there with us. Her strategy was a bit of brilliance. She played us like a virtuoso. At first, her sole purpose in the house was to bring us hot tea, run bubble baths for Jenn, deal with incoming casseroles and platters of cold cuts delivered to our door by neighbors and friends, screen phone calls, and selflessly carry out all the mundane chores we just couldn’t think about. Every so often she’d make a passing comment about the reporters outside, sometimes even mentioning that she knew one or two of them, reminding us that she, too, was a journalist. Subliminally, the idea was planted. Without us knowing, we’d been force-fed in itty bitty, nearly imperceptible pieces. To this day, Jenn insists the idea of using Katie as our mouthpiece was hers. But she’s wrong.
Katie had the goods, which made the whole notion simpler and smarter. She was a damn good reporter. She was comfortable in front of the camera. She was instantly relatable, oozed compassion, and was trustworthy. Whatever she reported, people believed they were getting it from as near to the horse’s mouth as they were ever going to. And they were right. Katie told our story from inside the bunker that was our home. She alone held the ticket that allowed her access across enemy lines, with impunity. She quickly became the bridge between the famous author and his grieving wife and the viewers. What we didn’t know, is that we’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book: Katie Edwards was a modern day Trojan Horse.
Chapter 58
Like a maestro conducting her greatest composition, Katie knew just how to manipulate her audience into wanting more. First withholding, then giving—just a little, then a touch more, hitting them with a high note, taking them down with a low. Over the months of our ordeal, Katie’s career would follow the same dramatic path. From unknown freelancer to byline reporter to TV correspondent to on-air personality and eventually, national affiliate anchor.
I’m sure local law enforcement and the FBI agents involved in our case still ask themselves the same question I do: how could we not have known that Katie Edwards was playing both sides of this opus? Whenever she sensed public interest was about to wane, she’d find a way to ratchet up the volume. Kidnapper Katie sent another note, reporter Katie put us back on TV. Kidnapper Katie arranged another failed ransom pickup, reporter Katie interrupted scheduled broadcasting with a breaking newsflash.
Authorities were frustrated by many aspects of the case: the length of time between notes, the use of snail mail as the delivery system, the lack of opportunity to negotiate with the kidnappers, the lack of contact with Mikki or proof of life. For them—and the rest of us—the entire ordeal was taking way too long. For Katie, however, the longer this played out, the better. While every passing day brought us greater woe and deepening despair, Katie benefited from increased exposure and offers of employment.
Who stands to benefit? That’s the question seasoned investigators repeatedly ask themselves while attempting to solve any crime. If only one of us had thought outside the box. The scenario was casebook archetypal, and therefore so were the suspicions. Everyone assumed the benefit was money, the benefactor unknown kidnappers. In reality, the benefit was fame and a fat salary bump, the benefactor a friendly wolf in designer sheep’s clothing.
And then the maestro did what all good maestros must: bring the score to its inevitable, triumphant conclusion. The final money drop was a bust. Ransom notes stopped coming. We never heard from Mikki or the kidnappers again. By this point, the story was such a sensation around the country and beyond that Katie couldn’t help herself: she continued to orchestrate the final dying bars for several more weeks.
In time, attention moved away from the mysterious kidnappers who’d vanished into thin air and descended upon people closer to home. In one way or another, everyone became a target. Speculation, rumor, and gossip ran rampant throughout the city, filling tabloid papers, choking social media sites. Had police dropped the ball? Had something happened to the kidnappers? Was the FBI keeping secrets? Did Jaspar and Jennifer Wills use kidnapping to cover up murdering their own daughter? Katie Edwards reported on every morsel of it—fair, professional, empathetic. Viewers gobbled it up.
The wisdom of keeping the case in the news for as long as possible had been thoroughly drilled into us. The longer the story stayed alive in the public’s eye, the better chance we had of someone, somewhere, seeing something or hearing something or knowing something that could help bring Mikki home. But, eventually, we had enough. More than enough.
Katie whole-heartedly agreed. She suggested an exit strategy that would satisfy everyone. A final interview, with Katie, in our home. Jenn and I would tell our story one last time. We’d end with a public plea for peace and privacy, and thereafter refuse any further public statements or appearances.
That night, when the ratings-blaster interview was over, cameras and microphones and cables packed up and sent back to the studio, Katie put a homemade pizza in the oven, opened a bottle of red wine, and quietly left us alone to grieve and recover, the ever-caring friend.
And then, unbeknownst to us, her perfect plan fell horribly, terribly, irreparably apart, and our daughter’s fate was forever sealed.
Chapter 59
The plan had always been to let her go.
The original kidnapping story had morphed into a mystery. Everyone wondered where the kidnappers had disappeared to, and why. What had they done with the famous author’s daughter? Could the girl possibly still be alive? But even with fascination at this high level, sustained interest eventually ran its course.
Katie expected this. Her initial plan was to wait until the public had pretty much forgotten about the story. Then, just as they glanced
away, looking for something new to discuss over coffee or on Facebook, she would release Mikki. She’d probably do it the exact way she’d taken her in the first place, only reversed: drugged and dropped off on her own front lawn. Mikki’s reappearance would set off a brand new tornadic media windstorm, with Katie its calm, well-informed center.
My intent is not to blame my wife by saying this, but it was Katie’s continuing friendship with Jenn which gave her the idea for her next strategic move. As often happens with couples who’ve lost a child through tragedy, we’d grown apart. Not Jenn’s fault, not mine. It just happened. Somewhere in the muddle of our grief, loneliness, and anger, Jenn began her affair with Scott Walker, our neighbor. He was also the father of Mikki’s best friend—the same friend whose house Mikki had briefly stopped at prior to being kidnapped.
During the same muddle, punctuated by guilt and remorse and coerced by several glasses of wine, Jenn admitted the affair to her sole confidante. Katie played the understanding best friend, but inside she was thrilled by the development. It was perfect. Not only could she use this to once again reenergize the story and her career prospects, but within Jenn’s infidelity lived another golden opportunity to take advantage of. She could deflect suspicion from ever falling on her by doing what all good defense attorneys do: point a finger at someone else.
Although, God knows, I have no love for the man, Scott Walker never stood a chance. Once Katie called upon her impressive research chops, it didn’t take long for her to figure out when and how to break into Walker’s house and where to plant the pink barrette—its importance gleaned from Jenn—so that my wife was likely to find it.
The idea was far from foolproof. But when it worked, Katie was ecstatic. It was an unexpected bonus in the bonanza she’d created for herself. She’d proven, once again, that single-mindedness and exhaustive planning reap endless rewards.
Overall, Mikki’s kidnapping was paying off handsomely: trust and respect of an ever-growing audience, healthy paycheck, network broadcasters scrambling to grab onto the tail of her rising star. This was Katie’s ransom—not some dirty sack filled with millions of marked dollar bills.
It had been surprisingly easy to keep Mikki hidden in her basement apartment’s soundproof room. Being a loner had its benefits. Katie had no nosy friends or interfering relatives to dissuade from coming over. Her landlady only cared that she paid rent on time, which she always did. Colleagues at work didn’t know her well enough to expect an invitation. Even if they had, no one was jumping at the chance to visit dodgy East Boston for a cup of coffee. Katie was also discovering something else: besides the cost of a few boxes of cereal, Hamburger Helper, and some chocolate, it wasn’t that hard looking after a teenager—at least not one behind locked doors.
It was a moment frozen in time. A pair of eyes looking up, a pair looking down, the owner of each knowing that everything was about to change.
Aside from the day she actually took Mikki from the front of our home, Katie never again donned the disguise she’d used as Gail Dolan, the desperate mom in need of an emergency babysitter. The floppy hat, over-sized sunglasses, and messy red wig were one-time props. There was no reason to wear them again; Mikki lived on one side of a door, Katie on the other. Their only contact was through the pet flap, where Katie passed food and other items. In the beginning, Mikki had tried to engage her captor in conversation, but eventually gave it up.
The one thing Mikki did not give up on was trying to find a way to escape. The only obvious access in or out of the windowless room was the door. The only tool she had was a nail file found in a makeup kit Mrs. Dolan had provided. It would be useless against the door, but Mikki hoped for better luck against the swinging mechanism of the pet flap.
She could only work on the escape project when she was absolutely certain Mrs. Dolan was away—usually during the day—making progress painfully slow. Months passed. She couldn’t count the number of times she hurled the file across the room, smarting from painful nicks and cuts to her knuckles, crying with frustration at the hopelessness of her plan and inadequacy of the nail file against the flap’s hinges.
Then, unbelievably, it worked. Sort of. Her efforts had successfully dislodged the swinging door from its moorings. The resultant open space, however, was much too small for her to squeeze through and free herself. The best Mikki could manage was to press her face against the floor and take her first glimpse into the room on the other side.
When Katie walked into the apartment that evening and switched on the light, there they were. Eyes. Mikki’s eyes. Staring straight at her, from the floor level opening where the pet door used to be. For ten interminable seconds silence boomed, captor and captive bonded together, both shocked at what was happening. Mikki had no idea who this woman was. She’d never met her mother’s friend Katie, and reporter Katie Edwards hadn’t become “recognizable” until after the kidnapping. All Mikki knew was that this was not the same woman who’d picked her up for the fake babysitting job.
“Noooooo!” Katie suddenly wailed, rushing the door like a madwoman, arms flailing, scrambling to find something, anything, to block the opening. She grabbed the first thing she could find, a cardboard box full of old magazines, and pushed it over the hole. Immediately, she realized it wouldn’t be heavy enough. With a bit of manipulation, Mikki could easily push the box clear. Eyes wild, she searched the room for something of greater weight.
Summoning brute strength born of adrenaline, Katie huffed and puffed and shoved until she’d positioned a heavy bureau in front of the missing flap, effectively covering the offending gap.
When it was done, Katie collapsed on the floor, her back against the wall. Only then did she notice her labored breathing, as if she’d just run a marathon, and a nail broken so close to the quick it was bleeding.
“Why did you do that, you…you…you stupid girl!” she hollered, fury and a dawning horror at the implications of what had just happened, tearing at her voice.
“I have to get out of here!” Mikki cried. “Please, you have to let me out. I can’t stay here anymore.”
Katie listened to the pleas, pitiless.
“Please!” Mikki tried again. “I’ll do anything you want!”
“Well then, you’re just going to have to die, aren’t you!” Katie harshly shot back.
Mikki was stunned to silence by the ugly words, gagging on thick tears and mucus.
“It’s your fault, you know,” Katie bellowed. “I was going to let you go. Soon.”
Mikki would have had little reason to believe the woman. In the past, each time Katie would begin to think it was time to end the imprisonment, a new wrinkle would appear in the story. There’d be charges of police blundering. Suspicions of wrongdoing thrown onto me, Jenn, or others close to us. Rumors of Mikki-sightings around the world. Jenn accused of attempted murder. Scott Walker’s trial. My own abduction and eventual return home. Each of these events unwittingly conspired to keep Mikki in captivity, as Katie held off on letting her go in order to capitalize on career-bolstering developments. By the time Mikki had managed to loosen the pet door, she’d been in the room for nearly a year.
“Now I can’t. I can never let you go,” Katie railed on. “You’ve seen my face.” She was still breathing heavily through her nose while sucking on the bloody finger. Katie Edwards hated surprises. She was a person who strategized meticulously. Carried out plans to exacting precision. Considered every possible eventuality. Katie rarely had to deal with the unexpected.
Now what?
Katie Edwards had done horrible things to meet her end game. She’d committed crimes, lied, cheated, taken advantage of others. But she was not, in her heart, a cold-blooded killer. But how could she allow Mikki to live, when the girl could now identify her? A conundrum. Katie hated conundrums even more than surprises.
Sitting there on the floor, battling to catch her breath, Katie regarded the bulky piece of furniture she’d nearly sprung a hernia to move. A useless gesture, she grimly reali
zed. It wasn’t as if by blocking the opening, Mikki could miraculously un-see her. Not only that, her own easy access to the opening had been blocked. Without it, she couldn’t pass the girl the things she needed. Without them, the girl would…
…starve.
Starvation.
Katie knew little about it.
How long would it take?
She’d read somewhere—where was it?—that after a while, a starving person will no longer feel their own hunger pangs, even refusing food when presented with it.
Chapter 60
“Dad, I need you to go inside.”
The hand pounding on the scarred wooden door of Katie Edward’s apartment didn’t look familiar. My hand.
“Jaspar?”
She sounded surprised. And looked it too. Why wouldn’t she be? I’d never been to her apartment before. I doubted Jenn had. And we hadn’t exactly been on friendly terms recently. I hadn’t seen Katie’s face—other than on TV—since our final, explosive interview.
She recovered quickly. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”
Never moving from the doorway, she glanced over my shoulder and asked if Jenn was with me.
“No,” I said. “It’s just me.”
Her eyes warmed and her sympathetic tone was almost a coo. “Oh Jaspar, do you need to talk? I’m glad you came to me. We can talk about it, whatever it is.”
“Sure,” I replied, trying my best not to plough her down on my way inside. I didn’t want to ‘talk about it’ with Katie Fucking Edwards! She was the last person I’d go to for anything. The fact that she didn’t know that, reinforced my belief that she was more than a little delusional. “Let’s do that.”
Set Free Page 23