The Gone Sister

by Thomas Fincham

  “I’m doing much better,” she said.

  He leaned closer and said, “I can look for your sister on my own. I do it all the time. It’s my job, you know.”

  “No, I want to go with you,” she said.

  Callaway stared at her. “The morgue was just the beginning,” he said. “We might have to go places a lady shouldn’t go.”

  “It if leads me to finding my sister, then I want to be there,” Elle said with the same conviction Callaway had heard before.

  “There is something that’s been nagging me all morning,” Callaway said a moment later.

  “Okay.”

  “I hope you don’t take it the wrong way.”

  She smiled. “You can ask me whatever you like, Mr. Callaway.”

  “Call me Lee.”

  “Okay, Lee.”

  He leaned in close again. “I’m curious… how did you know about your sister’s birth mark? Also, that story about your sister getting lost in the woods… how is that possible when you are…”

  He let his words trail off.

  “You mean blind?”

  He swallowed. “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t always blind. I had some sight when I was younger. I could make out shapes and color and even people. I could read a book in large print. I also did math in bold fonts. I watched TV and did things most children my age could do. I had to be extra careful, though, as I was prone to tripping, falling, and running into things. I didn’t mind it. In fact, I accepted it as a part of my life, because I guess I really didn’t know any different. But when I was fourteen, I contracted chicken pox, and after that, I lost all my sight. Since then, I’ve had to get by with what I have.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” Callaway said.

  “Don’t be. I’m not sorry. What I lack in vision, I make up in other ways.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve learned to listen more carefully. I can sense just by hearing someone’s voice what they are feeling.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You can do that?”

  “Yes. I know when you said you are sorry, you truly meant it.”

  “I did,” he said.

  Elle’s smile widened. Then her face turned serious. “Lee, how do we find my sister?”

  FORTY

  Holt and Fisher stood at the front of the room while the twenty or so uniformed officers spread themselves out in the open space.

  Projected on the wall behind Holt and Fisher was an enlarged photo of a man on a bicycle. Even with the extrapolated pixels, it was easy to make out the man’s features. He had dark skin, short hair—which was shaved at the sides—and a thick bush of hair under his chin.

  Fisher was grateful the apartment owner had invested in a high-resolution camera, or else they would be looking at a blurred image.

  Fisher said, “This man on the screen is a person of interest in Isaiah Whitcomb’s murder. He was seen in the area where the victim’s body was discovered. We also believe he was the one who made the 9-1-1 call. At the moment, he is not a suspect, but he may know something that could shed light on our investigation.” She looked over at Holt, who promptly handed out to each of the officers a 6x9 photo of the man. “It is imperative we speak to this man,” Fisher added. “Canvas the neighborhoods and find out if anyone recognizes him.”

  A hand shot up. “If we see him, do we apprehend?”

  Fisher shook her head. “No. Right now we have no probable cause to arrest him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. If you find his whereabouts, you call us immediately.”

  Another hand shot up. “Is he armed?”

  “We don’t know, and for that reason, take every precaution necessary.”

  When there were no more questions, Fisher dismissed the officers. She watched as they quickly left the room. She had wanted to run the photo through the department’s facial recognition software, but getting any matches could take time. Holt was already eager to get back on the streets. He was ready to knock on a thousand doors if it came down to it. Fisher’s feet were not looking forward to that. She had done enough canvasing, so she thought of getting some patrol officers involved.

  With the room almost empty, an officer came over. He had silver in his hair, a slight pouch of a belly, and big meaty hands.

  He shook Holt’s hand and offered his condolences.

  “Thank you,” Holt said. The officer shared a story of a loss he once had suffered. Holt just nodded. Fisher could tell Holt was not comfortable discussing grief with a fellow officer. He was a private person, but Isaiah’s death had put a spotlight on him.

  “My son plays football for Milton College,” the officer said.

  Holt’s eyes focused. “Did he know Isaiah?”

  “I asked him when I heard the news, and he didn’t. They were in different sport programs, and with classes, practice, and games, they barely got any time to fraternize. But my son did speak highly of your nephew’s athletic abilities. He said he was going to be a big star one day.”

  Holt sighed, feeling a fresh wave of grief. “Yes, he would have.”

  The officer nodded. “Although, my son did mention their recruiting tactics were quite unconventional.” Before Holt could ask further, the officer’s partner appeared in the door. They were running late for their shift. The officer shook Holt’s hand again, said a few words of encouragement, and left the room.

  FORTY-ONE

  The Supreme Fashion Academy was located on the top floor of a structure that had five floors, and was supported by a series of colored pillars that were at different angles.

  To Callaway, the building looked like a tabletop on tilted legs. He never understood architecture or art. Both were subjective and required an appreciative eye. Look at all that wasted space, he thought while looking at the area underneath the structure. The area’s sole use was as a walking path.

  Real estate prices had skyrocketed in the city the last couple of years, and rent had risen with them. No wonder so many kids in their twenties are still living with their parents, Callaway thought.

  The day Callaway turned eighteen, he was out of his parents’ house as if it was on fire. He could not wait to get a place of his own and be his own boss. But in hindsight, that might have been a rash decision. At the time, he had no money and no job. Even now, there were times he had not a single penny to his name, and no cases. In desperate times, he would take on part-time work. Fortunately, he had been spared the likes of having to wear a giant mattress and wave to passing cars for some time.

  Elle walked next to him as they made their way underneath the building. The fancy structure was attached to an older building, which if his memory was correct, was built in the 1920s.

  “Is it magnificent up close?” Elle asked.

  He glanced at her. “Sorry?”

  “The building. Is it wonderful to look at?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “Katie used to say it was like a piece of art.”

  Elle’s sister had come to Milton to enroll in the Supreme Fashion Academy. Callaway had glanced at their website and found out the academy provided programs in fashion modeling, fashion styling, fashion photography, fashion design, and fashion makeup. Katie was specializing in makeup. She had hoped to work as a makeup artist for all the top models in the world.

  “I wouldn’t call the building a piece of art,” he said. It looks more like a piece of furniture, he thought. “But it does leave a strong impression on you.”

  They spoke to the admissions officer. “No one by that name was ever enrolled here,” she politely told them.

  Callaway showed her the Polaroid. “This is Katie Pearson, ma’am. Are you sure she was not here?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “You liar,” Elle said angrily.

  Shocked, Callaway glanced at Elle.

  She proceeded to describe the program down to the last detail.

  The admissions officer loo
ked perplexed.

  “Are you absolutely positive my sister was never here?” Elle asked.

  The woman showed Callaway an alphabetical list of students who had attended

  the academy. Callaway scanned the list carefully, but he failed to find Katie’s name.

  Damn odd, he thought.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Elle said as they left the admissions office. “My sister is real. She is not a figment of my imagination.”

  “I never said she was,” Callaway said. “It’s just that…”

  “No one’s heard of her,” she said, finishing his sentence.

  “Yes.”

  She abruptly stopped. Her grip tightened on her cane. She lowered her head and said, “I spent most of last night thinking the same thing. How is it possible that no one has seen or met my sister? You’ve probably noticed by now that I’m not very talkative, but my sister was the opposite. When she got excited about something, she would talk nonstop. And because I couldn’t see, she would describe things in detail for me so I could visualize them in my mind.”

  Callaway realized that as a sighted person, he took many things for granted. They said a picture was worth a thousand words, and that number was probably required to create a mental image for someone like Elle.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “I noticed that you wear gloves all the time. Why is that?”

  “I take them off when I need to touch or feel something. It helps to form an image in my mind.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier not to wear them?”

  Elle blushed. “I should have mentioned this earlier, but I’m also a germophobe. Maybe that’s why I’m still single.”

  Callaway felt guilty for asking her personal questions. What she did or how she dressed was none of his business.

  “Let’s go back to the office,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll catch a break soon.”

  FORTY-TWO

  They were headed for the Impala when a woman’s voice called out from behind them.

  “Wait!”

  Callaway turned and saw a young woman running toward them. She was dressed in a light red sweater, black pants, and high heels. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. Her skin was smooth with not a blemish in sight. Her lips were painted a dark color, and her eyes were covered in black mascara.

  “Can I help you?” Callaway asked, staring at her.

  She paused to catch her breath. “You’re looking for Linda Eustace, right?”

  Callaway blinked. “Who?”

  “Linda Eustace,” she repeated.

  “I’m not sure who that is.”

  “I’m a student at the academy,” the woman said.

  I could tell that from a mile away, Callaway thought.

  “I work part-time at the admissions office. I was there when you came in to speak to the admissions officer,” she explained.

  “Okay,” Callaway said. He was not sure where this was going, but he was willing to indulge her. She’s attractive, so that helps, he admitted to himself.

  “I saw you show that photo to her,” the student said.

  Callaway pulled out the Polaroid. “You mean this one?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I know her.”

  Callaway turned to Elle. She looked as surprised as him.

  “You know Katie Pearson?” Callaway asked the student.

  “I don’t know that name, but I do know the woman in the photo, and her name is Linda Eustace.”

  Callaway turned to Elle again. Now she looked utterly confused.

  “Are you sure?” Callaway asked the student, holding the photo closer for her.

  She stared at the Polaroid. “I’m one hundred percent positive. She was in one of my makeup classes. She never spoke to anyone. She pretty much kept to herself, but she was great with cosmetics. She could make a homeless person look like a celebrity. She had the talent.”

  Callaway’s brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea where we can find her?”

  The woman shook her head. “Like I said, I never spoke to her. Then one day she stopped coming to class.”

  “Do you know when that was?”

  The woman pondered Callaway’s question. “If I had to take a guess, the last time I saw her was probably a couple of months ago.”

  “Could it have been three months ago?” Callaway asked.

  The woman thought some more. “It could have.”

  That’s how long Elle’s sister has been missing, he thought.

  Another thought occurred to him. If that woman in the Polaroid is not Katie Pearson, then who is Linda Eustace?

  FORTY-THREE

  When Holt received the call from Marjorie, he rushed over as quickly as possible. He drove around Marjorie’s neighborhood in a panic. Marjorie told him Dennis had not come home the night before, and he was not picking up his phone. He was known to take his boat onto Milton Lake and not return until the crack of dawn. Marjorie went to look for him, but no one at the marina had seen Dennis. She had called his work, his friends, and his co-workers, but no one had spoken to him since they had extended their condolences.

  Worried sick that something might have happened, she contacted Holt. He assured her he would find him.

  Dennis had always been odd, as most computer engineers were. He preferred being left alone to tinker with his gadgets, spend hours glued to his computer screen, or sit in a small boat all day waiting for fish to bite.

  Holt was never bothered by Dennis’s peculiar behavior. He was an educated man who was also deeply devoted to his family. Holt was beyond ecstatic when Marjorie married Dennis. He saw the love he had for her.

  Dennis always made sure Marjorie was not without anything. He showered her with gifts, dinners, and vacations. He helped out around the house and with the kids as well. Even though Marjorie worked as a physical therapist, it was Dennis’s income that provided them a comfortable lifestyle.

  Dennis’s story was not unlike many in America. He grew up in a poor black neighborhood to a single mother and an absent father. He and his four siblings lived in a crammed one-bedroom apartment, with Dennis sharing a bunk bed in the living room with his brother. His two sisters slept with their mother in her room.

  Dennis had seen his mother’s struggles and had vowed his life would be different. He would get an education, take care of his soul mate, and be there for his children. Dennis was proud he had accomplished all that and much more.

  As Holt drove around, he felt a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. He knew how close Dennis and Isaiah were. When Isaiah was younger, father and son were inseparable. Dennis would take him fishing. He would spend hours playing video games with him. They even shared a love for comic books. Still, the two could not have been more opposite from one another. While Dennis was shy, reserved, and introverted, Isaiah was gregarious, loud, and was the life of the party.

  Holt felt that Dennis saw in Isaiah what he wished he could be. Isaiah had an inner fire that could not be banked. He was going to do something that only a select few ever got the chance to do: make it to the pros and earn millions of dollars in the process. But now, Dennis’s hopes for his only son were shattered.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Holt was about to turn the car around and head back to Marjorie’s house when he spotted a man sitting on a bench across from a basketball court.

  Holt parked and approached him.

  Dennis was wearing a sweatshirt and track pants. He had a day-old growth of beard on his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. Holt took a seat next to him. He saw a case of beer underneath the bench, and a half-empty beer bottle next to Dennis’s foot.

  “How’re you doing, Dennis?” Holt asked.

  Dennis did not turn to him. He was staring directly at the empty basketball court.

  Holt smelled alcohol on him, and he wondered how many bottles he had drunk.

  Dennis was fortunate no one had reported hi
m to the police. He would be charged with public consumption of alcohol, which was a state felony.

  After a brief pause, Dennis replied, “I used to bring Isaiah here when he was a boy. I would let him play with the bigger kids. I used to push him hard.” Dennis’s eyes welled up. “I wanted him to get better and make a name for himself. Now I don’t care for any of that. I just want my son back.”

  He covered his face with his hands and broke down.

  Holt wanted to comfort his brother-in-law, but he did not know how. He was fighting back tears as well.

  “I already miss him so much,” Dennis said.

  “I do too,” Holt said.

  Dennis abruptly lifted his head and wiped his face with the back of his sweatshirt sleeve. He inhaled deeply and reached for the beer bottle.

  Holt stopped him. “Why don’t you let me take that,” he said. “I think you’ve had enough for one day.”

  Dennis stared at him and then nodded.

  Holt drove him back to the house.

  Marjorie was waiting by the front door. She looked relieved when she saw that her husband was with her brother. She hugged Dennis and mouthed, “Thank you,” to Holt.

  They disappeared inside.

  Holt was about to drive off when a girl came running out of the house. Holt rolled down the window as she approached.

  His niece had golden curly hair, emerald eyes, and freckles on her cheeks. As a child of an interracial couple, she had features from both her parents. But Brit had her mother’s smile, which always warmed his heart.

  But at the moment, Brit was frowning.

  “Do you mind if I sit with you, Uncle Greg?” she asked.

  He unlocked the doors. She got in the passenger seat.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  She shrugged and then hugged herself.

  Holt suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Ever since the murder, Holt’s thoughts were preoccupied with Isaiah and Marjorie and Dennis. He had forgotten that Brit had lost a brother.

  Unlike his connection with Isaiah, Holt did not have much of a relationship with Brit. Maybe that had to do with the fact that she was a girl. He was never interested in all the girly stuff she was into, so they had nothing to talk about. But he still loved her and cared for her. She was a sweet girl who was receptive to other people’s feelings. She had what some would call “emotional intelligence” on top of being academically intelligent.