by Brian Shea
Jones stood awestruck. His eyes widened, and his mouth went slack.
“Holy shit! Melanie Harrison. I never put it together. My God you’re her brother?” Jones asked, fumbling with his words.
Rusty nodded but said nothing.
“Well that makes sense,” Jones said, nodding to himself. He added, “That must’ve been a terrible thing for you and your family. You’ve done a hell of a job honoring her memory.”
“Thanks. I do the best I can,” Rusty offered.
He broke eye contact and freed the leash strapped over his shoulder. “I best get started. Time wasted is time lost,” Harrison said, freeing Jasper from the confines of the Crown Vic’s backseat.
“Best of luck,” Nick said, injecting himself awkwardly into the conversation.
The dog clamored out of the car and took his position next to his partner. He looked up expectantly, waiting for his handler’s command. The two walked in step through the parking lot toward the main entrance of the Child Protective Service’s headquarters building.
“So, what was all that about?” Nick asked.
“The thing with his sister?” Jones asked.
“Yes.”
“It was a big story around here about fourteen years ago. All over the news. There was even one of those made-for-television-movies about it. Melanie Harrison went missing. Big search party. Days went by and nothing. Then on the third or fourth day she was found. Raped and murdered. Only twelve years old at the time,” Jones said.
“Jesus,” Nick said. “I guess that makes sense that he’d become a cop.”
“Yup, but that’s not the worst of it. Do you know who found her?” Jones asked, solemnly.
“My God!” Nick gasped.
“Yup. Never stopped looking for his sister. He supposedly stayed out looking until she was found. Slept in the woods and everything.”
“I guess he’s a born tracker,” Nick said.
“Crazy thing. He was only ten at the time. Can you imagine what that does to a child?”
“No. No I can’t,” Nick said.
The two entered the Jetta and sat in silence.
Anaya had already shown Rusty the location of her office and the small room containing the cot. Her boss and coworkers were all aware that the Malinois would be in the building.
As Jasper entered the CPS office space, several gasps were expelled from the onlookers. Some gave the quiet awe of dog lovers, while others were panicked by the presence of Rusty’s four-legged companion. It was always the same no matter where they went. Jasper was smaller than a German Shepherd but his coloring and snout were comparable. Rusty liked the temperament of the breed. They were intense when the need dictated but calmer than their larger counterparts. Working dogs were also a mirror of their handlers.
Jasper entered Anaya’s office and Rusty guided him to the small bed. The sheets were crumpled at the foot of it. Anaya had already advised him that she hadn’t touched anything since the child had run off. Jasper navigated the cramped space, nudging the bedding as he circled. He inhaled loudly as he gathered the scent.
“C’mon boy. Let’s find her,” Harrison said to his partner.
His voice was animated and the excitement was contagious. Jasper perked his head up, looking at Rusty. He had the scent. Time to go.
Jasper moved quickly. His toenails clicked as he traversed the lobby of the CPS headquarters. The two burst from the sliding doors of the building’s exit and into the blinding light of day. The Jetta idled quietly on the street. Jones had pleaded with Nick that they follow in the car rather than on foot. He’d agreed to the overweight detective’s request, albeit reluctantly. Nick intentionally lagged behind the pair so as to minimize the interference of the car’s exhaust with the scent.
The track went north on Guadalupe Street. Rusty shot a thumbs-up at the Jetta without looking back. The K9 and handler were in sync, moving quickly along the sidewalk. The dog stopped at the intersection with West 51st Street. He started to turn left but then stopped again before redirecting across the street. The two continued west. The Jetta crept slowly behind with the windows down and the air conditioning on.
Jasper walked to the intersection of Guadalupe and Lamar Boulevard and then turned around.
“Looks like he’s lost the scent,” Nick said.
Rusty did not look back at the two investigators. He focused on his partner.
“What is it, boy? Where’d she go?” Rusty said, in a hushed tone.
Jasper’s head moved from side to side. His nose grazed the concrete of the sidewalk and then he perked up again, pulling Harrison to the double doors of the 7-11.
“I guess the dog wants a Slurpee,” Jones jested.
“This might be good for us,” Nick replied.
The K9 emerged a few seconds later with Rusty Harrison close behind. Jasper’s snout was all over the place, dipping low, looking up, and scanning left and right. He then pulled his handler back to the storefront. Harrison gave a command and the dog sat. He looked over at the two investigators and shook his head. The track was over.
Nick and Jones exited the Jetta and approached Harrison, who was praising his dog in a high-pitched, excited tone. Jasper’s dark tongue lapped at his partner’s face.
“Sorry guys. This is as far as it goes,” Harrison said, with a trace of defeat.
“What are ya thinkin’?” Jones asked. His accent was thicker than usual.
“Not sure. It could be that too much time has passed. Or it could be that she got into a car,” Harrison responded.
“That could be a bad thing,” Nick said.
“Very bad,” Jones confirmed. “Rusty, thank you again for your assistance. I took into consideration your request and made a couple calls. You’re going to be assigned to us as our dedicated K9 asset until we get a handle on this thing. Get some rest but keep your cell handy in case something comes up.”
“That’s great news! Thank you,” Rusty said, rubbing the chin of his four-legged partner. “I live local, so I can be anywhere you need fairly quickly.”
Nick and Jones entered the cold air of the 7-11. The contrast to the day’s heat was shocking and it took a moment for them to adjust.
“Oh, thank the lord!” Jones pronounced, raising his hands above his head like an invigorated worshipper.
He bypassed the clerk and walked straight to the refrigerated drink section. When Jones opened the door, the suction released and a fog of colder air rolled out. He leaned into the cooler as far as his expansive waist would allow. After what seemed like several minutes, Jones separated himself and returned to Nick at the counter with a Diet Coke.
“Welcome back,” Nick joked.
“At least this guy keeps his doors shut when he runs the AC,” Jones said sarcastically.
“I’ve told him what we were looking for and he’s got a working camera system,” Nick said.
Jones rummaged his front pocket, pulling out the money to pay the clerk for the beverage.
“Anything?” Jones asked, dropping the loose change received from the purchase into the cheaply-made donation tub on the counter.
“I remember her. Not too busy on a Sunday morning. She didn’t say much. Just bought a couple things and left,” the clerk replied.
“You said she didn’t say much. Did she say anything?” Nick said, catching the subtle hint that the clerk may have had a conversation with the girl.
“I asked her if she had money to pay for the items. We get a lot of kids that come in and try to steal. She had a backpack on, so I kept a close eye. She pulled some cash out of her pack and said something like, ‘I have money.’”
“English?” Nick asked.
Jones was chugging down the cold soft drink but was intently listening.
“Yes,” the clerk responded.
He was Indian but with very little trace of his native accent. Possibly second generation.
“Did she say anything else?” Jones asked, placing the empty bottle in the recycle bin.
>
“She seemed nervous. Looking around a lot. When she was at the counter, I asked her if everything was all right. She nodded and told me that her mother was waiting for her in the car. Then she left.”
“Did you see anyone outside waiting? A car maybe?” Nick asked.
The clerk shook his head and frowned.
“Maybe the camera on the outside of the store picked something up?” Jones asked, optimistically.
“Not possible. It’s a fake. Well, not a fake. It just doesn’t work. Some animal chewed the wiring up a while back and I never got it fixed. More of a deterrent than anything else.” The clerk’s head dipped as he said this, embarrassed by the admission.
“But the internal one works, right?” Jones asked.
“Yes. Come with me to the back office and I can pull it up. It’s a pretty good system,” the clerk said, thumbing to the Lotto display behind him.
It took a second for Nick to see the small camera set among the rolls of colorful scratch tickets. An excellent angle to capture the face of any patron or robber.
It took only a few minutes before Nick and Jones were looking at the still frame image of the small girl. The clerk was right: The quality of the system was excellent and in color. A rarity in most investigations.
The girl did look scared. And why wouldn’t she? People were looking for her. Not just police and social workers.
Nick snapped a photo using his cell-phone as Jones handed the clerk his business card, requesting that he forward a digital copy of the footage to his email. The two walked out into the brightness of the day.
“We’ve got to find this girl before someone else does,” Jones said.
Nick nodded. The good thing was that she was alive as of an hour ago. Nick knew she was on borrowed time, especially if the same guys that found the girl in Hope Park located her.
17
She had entered the car against her will. It had pulled up as she left the 7-11 and she knew immediately that resistance would be futile. The man in the driver’s seat had a pleasant demeanor when he rolled down the window, but she knew it was an act. He was a man of violence. The scars that crested his thick knuckles told the tale. Mouse had got in the car, not because of the gun, but because of the tone in his voice. He was quiet when he spoke. The heavily-tinted windows had blocked the view of any passerby to the pistol that had been pointed at her. She recalled how he cantered it slightly with the muzzle aimed directly at her chest, using the armrest to balance it. She’d known, without a doubt, that this man would shoot her dead right outside the store. She’d seen the finality in his eyes. His only words were “Get in.” Everything else had been implied.
“Where are you taking me?” Mouse had asked when she’d first entered the backseat. She assumed the man would not tell, but figured it was worth a shot.
His dark eyes glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. He said nothing, then dismissed the diminutive figure behind him, returning his gaze to the roadway in front. The driver pulled out, merging from the frontage road and onto the interstate. Mouse could feel the engine rumble with the acceleration.
With the dark-eyed man’s focus on the traffic, Mouse curled into a fetal position on the bench seat. She pulled the backpack from her shoulders and wrapped her arms tightly around it. The driver took notice of her movements but did not show concern, rolling his eyes slightly. His attention was almost immediately redirected when an eighteen-wheeler crossed into his lane without signaling. The man cursed under his breath in Spanish.
The engine roared loudly as the car accelerated again. This time the effort was most likely out of anger toward the operator of the truck. A little road rage surfaced in the calm demeanor of the driver seated in front of her. Anger always gave way to opportunity. Her father taught her that. Lessons that were initially were lost on her had proven their worth with time and experience.
This drive’s destination would leave her dead. Or worse. Mouse had used the backpack to conceal her right hand’s movements. She had loosened the old man’s belt buckle from around her slight waistline. Securing the buckle in her hand, she retracted her left hand into the concealed space shrouded by the pack and wrapped the loose end. She closed her eyes and took several controlled breaths, waiting for an opportunity.
The vehicle changed lanes again, this time closest to the white concrete of the Jersey barriers that divided the expanse of the I-35 corridor’s north and southbound lanes. The surge of the car told her that they were moving fast but she had no idea of the actual speed. Mouse knew her next move might be her last, but at least she’d be the one in control. Either way, it would be a win. Now or never.
Mouse launched up, and in one move, she threw the belt over the driver’s head. As soon as the leather loop crested his forehead, she yanked back with all of her might, hoping to choke this man in the same manner as she had done earlier to the fat man. Her small legs jammed into the back of the driver’s seat. Mouse arched back, straining the tendons of her locked arms. The car jerked violently to the right.
Her belt had not reached the driver’s throat, as she’d planned. Instead, she caught him across his eyes. The effect was equally catastrophic, rendering him blind while pulling his head to the side. The driver’s hands naturally followed the head’s movement and he turned the steering wheel hard to the right.
The sudden movement of the car threw Mouse in the opposite direction and into the door on the left side. The belt came loose and Mouse slid to the rear floorboards. Fearing the driver’s retaliation, she wedged herself down between the seats in an attempt to become as small a target as possible.
Without warning, the car veered to the left. The driver must have overcorrected. A deafening bang shook the car. Glass showered down on Mouse as she pressed her body tight against the seats.
Then silence. Nothing. No rumble of the road. No screeching tires. It was like she was floating.
The tranquility of this seemingly timeless moment was shattered by the twisting and grinding of metal and fiberglass. Mouse’s gut wrenched as the car rolled. She held tight, pressing herself into the formed floor liner. The turbulence ended as abruptly as it began. Mouse couldn’t move. She was pinned on her side. Panic filled her as the distinct odor of gasoline overwhelmed her nostrils. The driver? Where was he?
She couldn’t see anything but the bottom of the door frame that her face was uncomfortably pressed against. I’m alive. The thought only gave way to new concerns. She couldn’t hear the driver. She didn’t feel him move. There was a pressure on her right side from the driver’s seat. It was collapsed down on her, making it difficult to breathe. A sense of claustrophobia crept in as she worked hard to create some space.
Mouse wiggled her right foot free. The release gave her hope. She snaked her body toward the tiny gap her foot had found. Like an inchworm, she worked herself to the other side of the car. She took a deep lungful of air after escaping from the tightness of her pinned position.
Getting her bearings, she assessed the situation. She realized why the driver wasn’t moving or making noise. His neck was twisted, and he was partially crammed between the steering wheel and the door. A horrible sight. Mouse scanned for her exit.
Voices filled the air. Shrill panic-stricken motorists surrounded the damaged vehicle. She needed to get out. A strong hand grabbed mouse by her shoulders and pulled. Mouse managed to snag the strap of her backpack as she was hoisted out of the window.
The man who pulled her out stared at her in disbelief, as if seeing a ghost.
“My God! Are you okay? We already called the police,” the man said loudly, yelling over the noise.
He wore a brightly-colored Hawaiian shirt that stood out against the mangled remnants of what had been Mouse’s prison only moments before.
“Let’s get you away from here.”
“Wait!” Mouse yelled.
She dove back in through the opened window of the front passenger area. The man in the Hawaiian shirt and other do-gooders gave a simultaneous g
asp of shock. Mouse popped back out a moment later, stuffing something into her backpack.
“I’m sorry about your father,” the man said, probably assuming that Mouse had jumped back in to help him.
“Yeah,” Mouse said, quietly.
No need to draw suspicion. Look sad and walk away.
“Follow me. The ambulance will be here soon,” the man said.
Mouse trailed behind the red and yellow flowers that ordained the silky material of the shirt. He led her across the roadway that was now stopped in all directions.
“Take a seat here on the grass and I’ll be right back with a bottle of water,” the man said, patting her on the head.
Mouse watched as the man hustled back to what she assumed was his station wagon. He reappeared with two bottles of water in hand. She took caught one last glimpse of the man in the Hawaiian shirt as he turned with the condensation pooling rapidly around the plastic containers. She looked over her shoulder as she vanished into the heat of the day.
18
“How’d he sound?” Val asked. Her need to psychoanalyze was always evident in situations like this.
“I don’t know. Different. He didn’t ask for my help, but it sounded like he wanted to,” Declan said.
“He’s family to us now, Deck. We do anything for family,” Val said. She had a serious look in her mesmerizing eyes.
“I know that. And I guess that’s why I’m so torn. Not sure what’s the best move,” Declan said.
“I think I know who might be able to help with this decision,” Val said, raising her eyebrow as she smiled coyly.
The reference to Nick’s former partner, Izzy Martinez, was not lost on Declan. A missed opportunity for a relationship that Nick had passed on when he had returned to Texas. It was a topic of conversation in the Enright house for several months after his departure.
“Maybe you’re right. But I don’t think he’s been including her in his life as of late,” Declan asserted.
“What makes you say that?” Val inquired.