Sins of the Past

by Dee Henderson

  The detectives around the room glanced at each other, sat forward, and one of them whispered, “Interesting.”

  “Maybe she forgot to lock the car when she did other errands and the groceries were stolen. To test that idea, let’s see if any other car break-ins were reported Monday evening—say, in a three-mile radius of the grocery store.”

  A detective found a marker and wrote the item on the board.

  “She would have reported a robbery, don’t you think? A cop’s mom?” one of the officers asked.

  “She would have reported it,” John replied. “Or if she didn’t report it because it was minor in dollar value, she would have at least mentioned it to a friend—‘I forgot to lock the car door and my groceries disappeared.’ Plus she would have gone back to buy more cookies for her Tuesday Tea. She would have replaced them.”

  Sharon nodded. “Which leads us to a theory that’s not so simple or elegant. Her purse is in her apartment, wallet intact, her car is in the parking lot, but the groceries are missing. Not-so-simple theory Number Two says she never got home Monday night. Someone else brought her car back, returned her purse to the apartment, to redirect our search away from where something happened.”

  A collective wince went around the room. “It’s a reach, I know,” Sharon agreed, “but it could be an answer. Whatever happened, they’ve been trying to cover their tracks by returning her car and purse.”

  She nodded toward the boards. “So here’s how we’re going to work it. Our first priority remains the Village—we confirm beyond any doubt she is not on the grounds. We continue the check of every apartment and interview every resident. Remaining high on the probability list is a confrontation with another resident and Martha leaves here in another car not by her own choice. So keep pushing the interviews for anyone who saw something, or someone who seems nervous at the questions. I want to make sure we understand the dynamics of what has been going on in the Village before we move on from that possibility.

  “We open a new priority. I want forensics to look at her car again. Has someone else driven it?

  “I’ve already raised the possibility it was Bobby Sail or one of his family who Martha went to see Monday night. As we get more information about him and his family, it should lead to some new locations we’ll then take a look at in more detail.

  “Until we can identify those new areas and refocus the search, let’s get her photo out more broadly around the community. I want patrols to start checking alleys and parking lots between the grocery store and the Village. As volunteers finish up here, we send them out in groups of three and take it street by street. Questions?” Sharon looked around the room and nodded. “Thanks, guys. Let’s get this done.”

  John helped with the volunteer maps, marking streets off by sections, finding the work useful simply to keep his mind occupied. He saw Bryon Slate enter the lobby, skirt past volunteers, and discreetly motion for the lieutenant. John rose to join them. He could see in Bryon’s face and stance that he had something significant to share. Sharon’s face went unusually impassive as she listened.

  Sharon stepped toward him as John got close, wrapped a hand over his arm. “There’s a body in Glenwood, about four miles north of here. A woman who fits the age and description.”

  Fear slammed into his heart. “Let me come along.”

  “You’re with me,” she promised. “Bryon, let them know we’re coming. Then put three of Martha’s friends in front of reporters, keep the press focused here while we check it out.”

  “Will do, boss. I’m sorry, John.”

  The roadway rose gradually to cross over another one. John forced himself to concentrate on identifying vehicles: the medical examiner, squad cars from the Glenwood Police and State Police. He could see a group clustered at the base of a brush-covered embankment below the overpass. A city utility truck blocked in by police vehicles suggested who had discovered the body. Jefferies pulled in among the other cop vehicles.

  “Stay here with Jefferies, John,” Sharon instructed as they stepped out.

  He didn’t protest as she ducked under the crime-scene tape. He was glad he couldn’t see much from this angle. He’d worked enough homicides to know what would be there. The fact the medical examiner was still here told him the body had yet to be transported from the scene.

  Time passed in agonizing slowness.

  Sharon came back into view. As soon as she saw him, she shook her head. His muscles quivered, and his rigid control let go. She rejoined them and slipped under the crime-scene tape.

  “Not your mother, John. She’s the right age, the right features, but it’s not Martha. A woman’s been missing from Malmora. I think they just found her.”

  He had to absorb his relief, along with the reality someone else was going to be feeling the pain he had just experienced. Sharon shared a look that said she understood his mix of emotions. “Let’s get back, keep on the search. That’s the priority now.”

  He nodded, didn’t try to speak. His immediate relief was overshadowed by the realization it could have been his mom’s body and she was still missing. The next call like this one might be her. As Jefferies turned the car and took them back the way they came, John leaned his head back. God, I can’t whip back and forth between hope and horror like this. I just can’t carry this. I can’t. He felt a numbness through body and soul.

  He made no further plea—he hadn’t even prayed for his mother’s safe return today. After nearly a lifetime with God, he would have thought this was a moment when he leaned most heavily into his faith. But he stood back as though observing himself and saw . . . what? His belief in God hadn’t changed. His expectation that God would help hadn’t wavered. He was simply standing in a storm so ferocious he couldn’t find words to form a prayer. He could only look up with Oh, God. My God. Have mercy on my mother, on me. It was the one cry of his heart he could put into words.

  Then, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me. . . .” The words shimmered like a faint melody, unsought, just there. John shuddered out a long breath.

  He coped by mostly staying in cop mode, asking questions, pushing along conversations, not letting similar moments overcome him. To think beyond the job was dangerous, to know and feel and absorb that it was Mom this was all about, and that, short of a miracle, it was Mom he would not see again alive. Force of will could not change what might have already occurred, but his emotions couldn’t catch up with that.

  He felt Sharon’s hand cover his, and he wordlessly accepted the comfort. A fellow cop made it particularly meaningful. He could tell she wasn’t holding to the professional reserve, the distance it required not to get personally involved. And he appreciated that more than he could ever express. He wasn’t walking this alone.

  FOUR

  No longer needed as a work area for volunteers, the lobby of the Village commons area was being cleared, folding tables were being collapsed for storage, chairs stacked, and a woman was running a vacuum. Night had fallen. The only lights outside now were those from a few lampposts and the floodlights for the television cameras. John watched a reporter head his direction, saw Jefferies step in and cut the woman off. He had already given nine interviews to be aired during the evening newscasts. He was weary, numb with the stress of dealing with the press—providing just enough information but not too much, plus the fact of it being his mother they were asking about had him feeling absolutely undone.

  The good-news-bad-news was that his mom wasn’t on the property. There was no place that hadn’t been searched. The Riverside Retirement Village would return to normalcy soon, without his mother here. He wondered if the police would remain on-site another day or if they would shift to the precinct. The search was now focusing away from here. Tomorrow would be more alleys and parking lots, more poking behind garages, hoping to find something that might be a clue.

  The light scent of Sharon’s perfume alerted him to her presence, but he didn
’t turn. She’d been nearby during every part of this horrendous day.

  “We’re going to call an all-hands at 9:00 p.m.,” she said quietly, “go back over the interviews, calls, search grids, make certain nothing has been missed. Calls are still coming in from the evening newscasts.”

  John nodded. With no idea where trouble had begun, they could only keep going over the existing ground. Maybe a call would add another detail to the timeline for Monday evening. “Tell me something, Sharon.”

  “If I can.”

  “No ransom call. She’s not on the Village property. Whatever occurred likely happened Monday evening, and happened fast. It’s been over and done with for forty-eight hours.”

  She hesitated as if she would like to argue with where this was going, but she simply sighed with a soft, “Yes.”

  “What do families do when Christmas comes and there aren’t any answers to give them?” Without consciously realizing it, he’d arrived at the all-but-certain conclusion his mother was dead. “It seems wrong to keep hope alive, to let Annabelle and the others believe Martha is coming home again.”

  Sharon turned him to face her. “We’ll find her, John.”

  They would, he thought. He supposed it was one benefit of a city rather than a rural area, they probably would locate her—the body behind a dumpster somewhere, the victim of a robbery or the like, and forensics might collect enough to point to her assailant. The winter ground meant even a shallow grave would be difficult.

  “You let people hope,” Sharon said firmly, “because hope is the very strong thread between earth and heaven. We still get miracles even after forty-eight hours.” He felt her arm slide through his. “We’ll re-interview tomorrow, pursue further that another person drove her car back. Her photo will go to more media, and we’ll look at the option of a post-office distribution of flyers to all the addresses in this zip code.”

  “You’re hoping for something to break open, for a lead to show up.”

  “It always does.” She tugged him away from the wall. “Come on, walk with me. The fresh air will do us both good.”

  He let her lead him toward the doors. They walked outside into the brisk air. He handed her his gloves this time so that he wouldn’t have to see her with ice-cold hands. She slipped them on with a small smile.

  “Nothing further from your friends?” she asked while they trudged across the parking lot toward a paved pathway.

  He shook his head. “More names to pursue, but no hint as to why or who. It’s going to be a random act of violence, Sharon. Someone managed to cover it up well enough to buy two full days of time to disappear. We still don’t have a thread to pull him or her in.”

  “The end of the race is what matters here, not the journey. And we need to change the subject. Tell me about your mom, not from today, from back when you were a boy.”

  She asked the right question to open a flood of memories. John had to relax to let himself go there. “She understood boys—their battles and adventures and competitions and challenges. My friends all loved hanging out at our house. The reward for getting chores done—and sometimes I talked the guys into helping me finish—were battlefield soldiers, and cardboard coffins for fallen soldiers, and cookies iced as medals for the heroes. Or we’d find a stack of planed wood pieces delivered to the side of the driveway, and she’d hand us a drawing or a photo of what she wanted us to build—picnic tables and bookshelves, derby cars. She bought an old junker car when I was thirteen, suggested we take it apart and put it back together. She was always giving us fun stuff to do.”

  “She was keeping you and your friends out of trouble by giving you those projects.”

  John smiled. “Sure. We occasionally acknowledged how sneaky she was, but the simple truth is we all loved her for it. She believed we could figure out how to do something, and she’d let us learn without interfering. She wanted us to grow up to become good men. She’d talk that way. About us growing up to be men she’d be proud to know.”

  “Why a cop?”

  “A childhood filled with old westerns, where the sheriff always did what was right, even if it took a fight to enforce it. It was a role model that just kind of clicked with a boy’s imagination.”

  “You haven’t mentioned your dad.”

  He paused, then said, “I respected my dad. He gave me that safe neighborhood, college when it was time, the freedom to follow my dream and not his. He was a general contractor and busy most of my life—long hours at work, not so many hours with his son, though I knew he was proud of me. I missed him growing up, even though he was around. It’s complicated, a boy and his father. I had his approval. And I loved and respected the man. But it wasn’t like with my mom. She was always there to share my daily life. Dad passed away some years ago, and it left a hole, someone missing from the table, someone who would enjoy hearing about my life. But I could go on without him. Mom has always been closer to my day-to-day.”

  “That’s why you and your mom talk so often, the phone calls to and from Cheyenne, even when they’re brief.”

  “She wanted to stay in Chicago and enjoy life with her friends. She encouraged me to take the job, and I wanted the challenge of it, but we would stay family, stay in touch. I was the son who expected to know how his mom was doing, and she’d call to say ‘I love you’ in case trouble found me on the job that day. She would worry, though in her own way. She pushed me to do the job as it should best be done, despite the risks.”

  “I like your mom. I’m going to enjoy meeting her, John. Hang on to the hope for a good ending.”

  He looked at her, noting the confidence she could still express. “That’s not so easy to do . . . I can see the train lights barreling down the tracks at me, Sharon. I’m afraid I know how this will end.”

  “Maybe that’s why I still work missing-persons cases. You need an optimist in charge. I still am one.” Sharon turned them back the way they came. “I’ll get you some hot chocolate before the all-hands meeting,” she said briskly. “You’re probably drowning in coffee by now.”

  He slipped a hand out of his pocket to squeeze her gloved one. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks. For all of this, Sharon. I’m more grateful than I can express.”

  “I’m going to get you through this, John. And we are going to find your mom.”

  FIVE

  The all-hands meeting paused to watch the 10:00 p.m. newscasts. Those monitoring the phone traffic shifted to see what notes were being logged in. Bryon dispatched officers to follow up on some calls, tabled others. Officers came into the conference room carrying plates of food and drink, and the discussion among those not rereading interviews shifted to theories.

  “I think we can rule out Bobby Sail,” Bryon said. “I walked through his place after this last interview, looked at his security system, the captured video, compared it with his neighbors. There are no glitches. I’m convinced he didn’t leave his home Monday evening, and Martha didn’t arrive.”

  “What about his family?” Sharon asked.

  “As you know, he has two sons and a daughter. They have stable marriages and okay credit ratings, comfortable careers. They’ll all appreciate their father’s wealth in future years, since they haven’t been saving as their father has.”

  “How did they seem in the interviews?” John asked.

  “They each looked surprised at the questions. They were aware their father had found a lady he liked, had all been introduced to Martha. The two sons didn’t see any future in it. The daughter did, but thought her dad would take the relationship slow—that he wasn’t ready to replace their mom yet in his affections. None has a decent alibi for Monday night. If we can place one of them here at the Village, that will move matters along. We’ll show around their photos tomorrow, try to trace their cars.”

  Sharon nodded, making notes. “Bobby’s children sit at the top of the list for people we focus on. What else? Who has a theory or idea to put on the table?”

  “I’m looking at that timeline,” De
tective Carter remarked, studying the board. “The last person to see Mrs. Graham is Eric Holland. I think he has to stay a viable person of interest.”

  “I’m fine with interviewing him again tomorrow,” Sharon agreed. “And to tie things off, we should talk to the lady who was sitting with June while Eric was grocery shopping, confirm his arrival back home about 5:30 p.m. with loads of groceries and that birthday cake. He said ladies from his church were coming over, so let’s see if we can get names, confirm they were there. I’ve got in the back of my mind that Martha maybe changed her mind, did stop in to see June and have a piece of that cake. So let’s tie that off with a good solid bow.”

  “I’ll pursue it, Lieutenant,” Carter volunteered.

  “Thanks.” Sharon nodded to the timeline. “The fact the timeline hasn’t narrowed further does raise a question. We don’t know anything solid past the grocery store. How often do we get absolutely shut down when following someone’s movements? Someone always remembers seeing a person someplace. So I’ve got a theory number three to propose.”

  Good-natured groans erupted around the table. Sharon smiled. “Hear me out, guys. We know Martha went to the grocery store, so she’s out running errands. A stop to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy, a stop to drop off dry cleaning, could easily be on her list. The people we expect to hear from when we ask for information are people like the grocery-store clerk who did call us. Maybe the reason we’re not getting those calls is that Martha walked into a robbery in progress. A wrong-place-wrong-time possibility that I thought about early on and didn’t actively pursue. Maybe everyone’s locked in a storeroom. Those we expect to be calling us simply can’t.”

  She looked around the table. No one spoke. “Okay, too far out there.”

  “Too much time has passed,” Bryon finally volunteered. “After two days, someone notices a business isn’t open when it should be. It’s a good theory, but it should have already surfaced by now.”