“Martin, I have Chase Barnes here with me. It’s his request of the cell phone trace,” Fitzgerald said, leaning over his desk to speak clearly into the speakerphone. Once Fitzgerald said the voice’s name, I realized it was Martin Kayman, from the squad’s tech department. Martin was the guy to go to for things like this.
“What did you find, Martin?” I asked. I could hear Martin shuffling papers in the background.
“Well, it took me a few attempts to get a trace but I think I’ve found this Jamal’s latest location,” Martin said. Martin liked his technological history. He went into a rant about how, based on federal legislation of 2001, wireless services required providers to accurately identify and place phones on their network to within 328 feet. Martin continued to say that GPS relies on signals from 12 or more satellites in a low- Earth orbit. He stated, in slow terms as if we were learning the ABCs, that if more satellite reference points are in range the phone’s location can be identified within just a few feet. He continued, “The reason it took a few attempts was because the phone has to be on to attempt a trace and if it’s actually in use at the time the accuracy increases. My first few attempts were unsuccessful because the phone must’ve been off but I eventually got a hit.”
“Where’d you find him?” I asked. While waiting for the response, I wondered if Jamal knew about this technology somehow and kept his phone off when it wasn’t needed so he couldn’t be traced as easily.
There was what seemed like a suspenseful hesitation before Martin answered.
“Again, figuring this to be as accurate as possible, his GPS puts him near a school on Main Street.” We sat around for a few moments trying to picture Jamal maybe standing on a corner. My image of Jamal was what some might consider to be stereotypical but, up to this point, it was all I had. A knee- length solid- colored t- shirt. Droopy and saggy sweatpants or jeans. A rainbow- colored hat with a flat brim lining his forehead and a matching pair of wildly rainbow- colored or one- solid- colored sneakers.
My visual of what Jamal might look like was interrupted by a new thought. I knew where Jamal was and possibly knew what he was up to.
FORTY FOUR
We ended the call.
“School Five is on Main Street,” I told Fitzgerald.
“I know. What do you think it means?”
“Maybe he lives nearby. Maybe he’s working the area to pick up another kid to make his runs since Esteban’s gone missing, which might mean that Jamal has nothing to with Esteban actually going missing. Maybe he hangs out there looking to sell his shit like candy when the kids get dismissed from school. But it’s Friday night. Maybe he’s scoping out kids cruising the area on bikes and skateboards,” I said, “looking for more runners now that Esteban is out there somewhere.” The more I talked the more I realized I was saying it out loud more to myself. Fitzgerald sat across from me processing the thoughts I rambled off and considered which, if any, might be the truth.
“Or maybe he has everything to do with Esteban’s disappearance,” he said. I stared at him.
He said, “You really think he’s got nothing to do with the missing kid? Who knows how many other neighborhood kids he’s got working for him? And how many of them might be, at one time or another, missing- or worse? Who knows if he doesn’t have Esteban locked up somewhere?”
That got me thinking. Other kids. It never crossed my mind that there might be other kids, just like Esteban, who were recruited and might’ve gotten wrapped up in this game and wound up missing. Or like Fitzgerald just said- worse. I’d been so caught up in the fact that I was actually working again and trying to find Esteban and determined to solve my first case so quickly that I skipped over the fact that there might actually be more kids involved. Or the fact that Jamal could be the kidnapper, not just some junk- pusher off the street.
“Have there been any other missing persons reports filed lately that fit Esteban’s disappearance?” I asked. Fitzgerald said he hadn’t heard anything come through him.
We talked for a few more minutes about other minute details of the case and how the department was holding up without me. Fitzgerald laughed and told me that they were getting along just fine. I tried to laugh but I somewhat missed the everyday grind of being on a schedule and pounding the streets to keep the city safe.
I stood up to shake Fitzgerald’s hand as a goodbye but just as a good- natured cheap- shot I said, “Goodbye, Donald. And, remember, leave Jamal to me.” Fitzgerald gave me a look that could have broken my nose. He despised his first name just as much as if it were Stacy or Julian, names that could double as a female name. Fitzgerald tried ‘Don’ on for size for a while but it reminded him too much of his grandfather, whom he was named after.
I left Fitzgerald’s office, immediately wanting to corner Jamal and find out who he was and what he was up to. But I was no superhero, despite what my own thoughts told me. I also knew that I had to plan a bit more of a strategy before I approached him. Fitzgerald told me that he’d have Martin regularly trace Jamal’s cell to track his movements and he’d let me know if something sounded an alarm.
FORTY FIVE
It was after eight when I got back in my Santa Fe and left the police building. I headed home to see if I could do any of my own investigative work on my home computer. When I pulled into the driveway I saw Lindsey was already home. I found her sitting at the kitchen table staring at my sorted stacks of papers from Esteban’s IEP folders. She looked like she’d been at it for a while. I loved watching Lindsey concentrate like that. It made me realize how determined she can be and how absorbed she can get into a task. She didn’t even budge when I walked in through the slider off the deck in the back of the house. I also knew not to disturb her when she was in this mode but I could tell she knew I was in the room. I helped myself to a Snapple from the fridge, leaned against the island in the center of the kitchen, and watched. The Snapple fact made me giggle.
Watching her from afar made me realize how strong she is, which led me to realize how much I loved her. This was the first time I really reflected on the last seven months since the incident. I’ve reflected on the actual incident thousands of times but I had never spent the time reflecting on Lindsey and our own relationship. Seeing how thick- skinned Lindsey had been since September made me wonder, sometimes, if there were some hidden levels of hatred or resentment against me. The fact that I was there that night. I’m convinced, to this day, there is but she continues to deny any such behavior. Lindsey continues to tell me that she’s sad and misses Jake more than anything in the world but reassures me that it wasn’t my fault. If I could only tell her the truth.
Don’t let her fool you! It’s all your fault!
Sex has been a different story. Since September I think I can count on one hand how many times we’ve had sex, which is why I’m still convinced there is a level of resentment against me. For the first handful of months, I wanted no part in sexual contact, not because I didn’t want Lindsey but a dark fear replaced any testosterone and sexual energy I was able to produce. I took it as a sign that I was afraid that sex would place the possibility of accidental procreation back on the table. The casual kisses and shoulder rubs had been consistent but the higher level of intimacy had been sketchy. Not that either of us had been lonely dogs in heat but neither of us had made many sexual advances either. Lindsey’s brought it up a few times and I attempted to convince her that I was still attracted to her but just needed to reboot my libido. The further we moved away from the incident the more impatient she grew with me. I continued to feed her the age- old excuse: It’s not you, it’s me.
I’ve attempted to bring it up in therapy with Dr. Sharper and she’d continuously tell me to talk out my feelings with Lindsey and try to make strides toward physical contact. Blah. Blah. Blah. Psychobabble bullshit as usual. The strides toward physical contact has been slow and steady. The attraction is certainly there. How could I not be attracted to the blond hair, the slender legs, the five- ten athletic build?
> I brushed by Lindsey but no words were spoken. I took my Snapple, grabbed my iPad, and sat across from her. I was yet to disturb her intense concentration.
“How’s the day? You were gone a long time,” she finally asked, eyes permanently fixed on the table.
I told her about my visit to see Fitzgerald and the updates on Jamal. She listened intently while still sifting through the stacks of paper.
“Martin told me he’d give me some updates every now and then if Jamal was on the move,” I said. I focused on my iPad and did a Google search for missing children in Paterson, NJ. The search produced just under 64,000 results. I tapped the first link, which brought me to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I perused the website and tried to learn about the site. “What are you doing, by the way?” I added.
“I was just going through the reports to see how you organized them. It’s the curious cat in me, I guess,” she said.
I tapped the “About Us” link at the top of the screen and dragged my finger over the touch screen to see what was offered. It provided a “Quick Search” link to specifically search for a missing person. A list of options of how to “Help Now” was listed in addition to “Resources” and “Topics of Focus.” There was a toll- free number and a direct line phone number listed. I wrote both of them down on a scrap of paper.
My index finger brought me back to the homepage. I did the quick search for males in New Jersey but did not enter a timeframe because I wanted to exhaust all of my options. I found nineteen missing males on the list. Esteban was listed. My eyes couldn’t believe the amount of kids that had been technically declared missing since the seventies and eighties. I was casually scrolling through the list when I saw Lindsey begin to rapidly shuffle papers with more anxiety now.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Did you move any of these papers?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“I’m looking through the IEP again and I wanted to re- read the social history piece again,” Lindsey said. Her eyes were darting in all directions and I could tell her thoughts were beginning to move faster than her body. I was waiting for her to start looking under the table and in the kitchen cabinets.
“Whatever you gave me is whatever you see here. I haven’t moved anything except from one pile to another on the table.” The social history component of the IEP, Lindsey told me, was one of the most crucial parts of a student’s IEP. It usually provided a detailed social background into the student’s life. It may provide reasons or causes as to why a student suddenly began to behaviorally act out and decrease the willingness or the ability to do well in school. Summaries were done, in most cases, by school psychologists or social workers and described personal insight into the home life of the child. Some causes of behavior could be exposure to drug or sex abuse, death in the family, which causes grief and personal anguish in their life, abandonment, such as parental loss or being given up for adoption. Their pictures are so morbid and dark. It’s like an old- fashioned Polaroid that never gets a fair chance to develop.
“Well, it’s not here.”
FORTY SIX
I came around behind Lindsey’s chair and looked over her shoulder.
“What do you mean it’s not there? Everything you gave me hasn’t left this table,” I said. My eyes were scanning the assorted piles of documents and reports on the kitchen table.
“I’ve looked through everything for the last half hour and I don’t see it. I copied everything that was in there at the time. I never noticed that the social history was missing,” Lindsey said. “I’m almost certain I read it when I first got Esteban as a student. Maybe I accidentally put it back in another student’s IEP.”
It irritated me to the core that it was Friday night and we’d have to wait until Monday to get our hands on the report, if it in fact was somewhere in the school. I said, “You don’t think it was left out on purpose?”
“Who would do that?” Lindsey asked. “And why? What would be the purpose of that?” My first thought immediately went to Garvey. I was still skeptical about Garvey and why he was omitting the fact that he favored certain kids, particularly Esteban. I told her about my theories on Garvey and how shady I thought he was.
“I’m telling you the truth. I’ve actually argued with Garvey about how much he favors Esteban and some of the other kids.” Lindsey sounded like she was justifying herself and backing her earlier story.
“I’ve never doubted you,” I said. “I got the same impression of him.”
“The social history is an extremely important component to the IEP. It usually details why a kid has suddenly gone off the deep end- so to speak- and what has caused their depression, high anxiety, anger, defiance, amongst many other behavioral characteristics.”
I saw Lindsey drift off in deep thought then she hopped out of the dining room chair without muttering a word. She grabbed her purse and finally told me to come along like I was a puppy and it was time for my walk. I was waiting for her to pat her thigh. On the way out the door Lindsey said, “I remember Garvey saying that he was using the gym tonight to host a benefit for his wife’s church group. The school will be open and he’ll most likely be there, too.”
We got in my Santa Fe and I popped on my iPod as soon as I started the car. A Jimi Hendrix song was just ending and I anxiously anticipated the next song to be selected. I always hated the awkward pause in between songs. It built my anxiousness and anticipation to find out what was coming on next. From the first note I could tell it was one of my favorite Billy Joel songs, “To Make You Feel My Love.” It was the first song I put on a playlist I dedicated to Lindsey when I got my first iPod. It took Lindsey a little longer to realize what song it was and she caught me staring at her, anticipating the light bulb to go off in her head. Once she realized the song she gave me a smile- a warm, sincere smile I hadn’t seen in quite a while.
As I drove, Lindsey gently intertwined her fingers in mine and we rested our laced hands on the gearshift between us. It felt nice. A level of comfort I hadn’t felt with Lindsey in several months. There was a radiating energy floating from my hand to hers and vice versa.
I parked in the lot behind the school. The lot was packed with cars but I managed to find a spot in the second row. Lindsey wanted to head to the office to search the master binder, which were all located in a filing cabinet in the office. I wanted to pay Garvey yet another visit. Odds were that he’d be in the mix of the crowd of the fundraiser and having a field day with the ladies. I had other intentions in mind.
FORTY SEVEN
By no means am I a tough guy. No professional boxing or martial arts training. No tai chi or tae kwon do. However, I can throw a punch whenever necessary. I tend to get by on my wit, my intelligence, and my swift ability to use a gun.
Yeah, real swift. Where did that get you?
Come to think of it, I need to get in a better habit of carrying my gun on me whenever I go out now that I am a self- employed investigator. Luckily, I hadn’t yet been in a situation where the thought crossed my mind to even use my weapon and I’d bet the farm on not needing a weapon against a guy like Garvey.
I hadn’t been able to even hold my unloaded gun in my hand since the incident. What once felt like cool metal in my hand now felt like the burnt embers of a sizzling camp fire against my palm. It took months of Sharper’s jargon and some convincing from Fitzgerald to get me to the shooting range again. But once I heard the blasts of the bullets and saw the explosions of the targets I bolted out of the range like a frightened squirrel. I haven’t been back since. It took some time, all by myself at home, to gradually work my way up to just holding the gun in my hand.
The door to Garvey’s office was closed when I approached and I was able to peek through the small rectangular window above the door handle without Garvey noticing. Garvey was actually sitting at his desk on a Friday night, which shocked the hell out of me. It led me to question whether or not there actually was a church function taking p
lace. Then I heard the echoes of voices coming from the gym down the corridor.
His back was to me, facing the windows at the rear of the office, and I could see he was on the phone call from the cord stretching its length over his left shoulder. I quietly turned down the handle and pulled the door open, hoping it wouldn’t creak to blow my covert operation. Initially, I was surprised to see Garvey at his desk working, albeit in a sloppily buttoned dress shirt and faded jeans that should have been retired a decade ago. Then, I figured he was talking about anything but school- related business. With the way he was flailing his arms about and all.
I heard Garvey speaking. “Well, I don’t give a shit. If he doesn’t like it then make a move. Get rid of the little bastard. I don’t care how valuable you think he is. There’s probably a dozen others out there just like him.” Garvey hadn’t moved a muscle except to put his feet up on his desk since I’d opened the door. I stuck more of my body inside the office, only to notice an adjacent closet immediately to the left. The door was open so I quick- stepped into the closet, leaving the office door slightly ajar. The closet was a supply closet doubling as a storage room for the building’s security camera system.
“I don’t how much more time you want to give him. What about the others? Have they given you any information?” Garvey asked.
I wanted to know who he was talking to. I pulled out my phone and texted Lindsey, saying that she needed to get Garvey out of his office. She instantly replied that she will come knock on his office door and that I should stay put inside the closet.
The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) Page 13