The Only Witness

by Pamela Beason

  Dawes yawned widely, and then said, "No problemo. Makes sense for me to take them. I already know who they're talking about half the time."

  Finn summed up his side of the investigation for Dawes, which didn't take long, since most of it had already played on the news for the whole town to appreciate. "Larson and Melendez are following up on tips, and they'll interview the two girls missing yesterday from Brittany's class."

  Dawes took a sip of coffee. "Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield are accounted for—work for him, golf for her and then dinner together with friends at the country club after. And FYI, they're pissed about the attention and the allegation that Charlie is the baby's daddy. Especially Mrs. Wakefield."

  Finn quirked an eyebrow.

  Dawes added, "Because she's been down this road before?"

  Had to be juicy gossip, the way that Dawes was stringing it out. "Just spill it."

  "I keep forgetting you're not a native." Dawes leaned forward. Strands of his unruly gray-blond hair slipped down onto his forehead. "There's a gal up in Chelan County who has ten-year-old twin boys who look a lot like Travis Wakefield. And if someone were to check the Wakefields' bank accounts, I do believe they'd find a check headed in that direction every month."

  "Ah." So the Wakefield family would know well the cost of illegitimate babies.

  Dawes sat back. "On the day Ivy disappeared, Charlie went to track team practice at seven a.m.—they even had their team photo taken that day." He slapped a copy of a photo of the table. "Then he was in classes from ten a.m. until two-thirty. The university police faxed the attendance sheets." Dawes splayed the pages—three class rosters—on the scratched tabletop. "After classes he says he went to the library. According to his roommates, he spends a lot of time there. But so far nobody's been able to vouch for that."

  Finn picked up the track team photo. Twenty young women and men, all glossy hair and smooth skin, stood in traditional formation, arranged by height. In the front row, the girls were turned three-quarters with one hand on their hips, appearing more like cheerleaders than track stars. Their uniforms were navy running shorts and a long-sleeved light blue jacket with a navy zigzag design down the forearms.

  "That's Charlie." Dawes pointed to a blond kid in the middle row. "He has a track scholarship. They call the team Lightning. How the heck can you cheer for Lightning?"

  "There are cheerleaders at track meets?" Finn tossed the picture back onto the table.

  "Probably. But what do you yell—zap 'em?"

  Finn was too tired to participate in Dawes's pointless tangents. "And the phone company was sure Charlie Wakefield's cell phone spent the day in the Cheney?"

  "All calls came from the local towers, including our messages to him."

  "But he never answered, so all that proves is that the cell phone stayed at home. Ivy disappeared a few minutes before six p.m.—how long does it take to drive from Cheney to Evansburg?"

  Dawes made a face. "Around three and a half hours. Unless you're a teenager—then you can probably do it in less than three. Charlie's racked up a few speeding tickets."

  "Where did he spend the night?"

  "At his house. He says he was home a little after eleven. His roommates verified that."

  "Two thirty to eleven." Finn said. "That's a big hole of time. Is the local PD asking neighbors, library personnel?"

  "Supposed to be doing that. But it's a university town, so there's the campus force and then there's the Cheney department, and you know how that goes." Dawes rolled his eyes.

  Finn knew what Dawes referred to—universities had their own security staffs that handled most issues on campus, and there were often jurisdiction disputes with the surrounding police departments. Thank god the local college used the Evansburg police instead of running their own show; it made handling cases a lot easier.

  Finn groaned at the timeline. "Charlie could have driven here, snatched Ivy, and driven back."

  "Could have." Dawes scooped up the fax pages, slid out of his chair and stretched.

  "And ditched that baby anywhere in between." Finn thought about the doll baby corpse in the cornfield.

  "Let's hope that's not the way it goes." Dawes swallowed hard, regarding Finn with weary eyes. "He's coming back tonight; I'm going to grill him then. If I still can't verify where he was when the baby disappeared, I'll take a trip down to Cheney."

  "Good idea. Check with the lieutenant."

  "Already know what he'll say."

  Finn did, too—there was no money in the department budget for travel or overtime or anything else. With tax revenues continuing to drop, the city and county, even the whole dang state, had been running in the red for nearly three years. Now the department was making noises about cutting a couple of uniforms from the force. Just since Finn had arrived, the budget for local government had been cut by a third. Teachers were paying for their own chalk. Dawes would have to eat his own travel expenses if the lieutenant okayed the road trip. There needed to be a big sign posted somewhere—No taxes, no services. The Statue of Liberty might be a good spot.

  "The list of YoMama users came in this morning," Dawes told him.

  "I'll get Miki on matching YoMama users to criminal records." Finn's cell phone chimed and he picked it up. The screen flashed a reminder that he was due in court in thirty minutes. "Speaking of criminals. Damn, I don't have time for court."

  "Aarrooo!" Dawes howled, finishing with a grin.

  "Shut up." Finn rose from the table and held out a fist. "Back into the fray. Let me know if anything turns up on the Wakefields."

  Dawes bumped Finn's hand with a fist of his own. "Ditto on the Morgans. Catch you later."

  An hour later Finn was still cooling his heels in the courthouse waiting room. The sound was turned down low on the flat-screen TV stuck up in the corner, but it was still audible. He couldn't believe how quickly the Northwest News Channel had picked up the story from KEBR, not to mention how often they were replaying it.

  He paced in the small room. Any minute now he'd be called to the witness stand. Thank god the jurors in the ARU case were not listening to this crap. He hoped none had tuned in during their lunch break.

  "…at the home of the distraught mother on Anderson Street, police used a dog to follow what they believed might be an important lead."

  The reporter stepped back from the camera, which then zoomed in on the background scene of a couple of uniforms digging up the Morgans' garden. Finn stood at the periphery, slouching a little, his shirt protruding over his belt. Shit, did he always look that sloppy? He sucked in his stomach now, reached down and felt along his waistline, ran his fingers down his trouser zipper. All secure.

  Then back to the reporter and the family. Finn had watched it so often he had every detail memorized.

  "Goldilocks was our cocker spaniel," Susan Ciscoe explained to Alysson Lee. "She passed away three weeks ago. We buried her there, next to the fence."

  Brittany stepped into the frame, close to the camera, blotting out her mother and the reporter behind her. "Why isn't anyone out searching for my baby?" she wailed. "Ivy is only two months old. She's out there somewhere. What are the police doing to find Ivy?"

  The shot shifted from Brittany's tearful visage to the KEBR news desk, with its ever-dramatic and interchangeable student Barbie and Ken doll anchors. Ken leaned toward the camera, his blue eyes serious. "That is the question right now—what are the Evansburg police doing to find little Ivy Rose Morgan? Officers are reported to be searching trash bins for clues. Why? We called to ask those questions of Detective Matthew Finn, the officer in charge of the investigation. He has never returned our call."

  Finn strode angrily from the room. He couldn't tell them that they were looking for a tiny corpse, could he? Still, he probably should have called them back, given them some platitude about how they were pursuing every lead.

  The cadaver dog had turned up nothing other than the dead spaniel and a maggot-ridden squirrel corpse a few houses down. Noah Morgan had c
ome home in the middle of the dog excavation. Thankfully, Brittany's parents had stayed mum during the search. They'd pulled him aside as soon as the TV crew and dog team had left.

  "Detective." Noah's expression wavered between fury and icy control. "We know you have to pursue every angle, but no one in this family killed Ivy."

  "Britt loves that baby with all her heart," Susan emphasized. "She did a stupid thing, leaving Ivy in the car, but it was only ten minutes. She'd never hurt that baby. Never."

  He saw nothing in their faces to indicate they were lying. But their innocent gaze could simply mean they didn't know the truth. There was no point in asking them whether their son Danny might have done something awful to his niece.

  "What about Charlie?" he asked. "Would he hurt Ivy?"

  Noah and Susan regarded each other for a long moment before turning back to him. "Charlie's never even seen Ivy," Noah said.

  "Are you one hundred percent sure about that?" Finn asked.

  Another long look passed between the parents.

  "No," Susan finally admitted. "Not one hundred percent."

  So he was back to that frustrating nebulous state. Not one shred of solid evidence or testimony that pointed in a specific direction. Still wandering in circles.

  His footsteps seemed loud on the polished floor of the courthouse hallway. From behind the closed courtroom doors, he could hear the low baritone of Jack Fiero.

  He could tell from the rhythm that the city's star defense attorney was up to his usual firing-range tactics: zinging multiple questions at whoever was on the witness stand and allowing them no time to answer. It usually left the witness sitting mouth open, unable to get a word out. Eventually the judge would put a stop to it, but the strategy always had the desired effect—to make the witness look like an incoherent idiot.

  Two young men came up the stairwell. They wore ties and carried stacks of folders in their arms. Law clerks or paralegals. One wore glossy black shoes that reflected the overhead lights.

  "Dumpster diving and digging up dead dogs," Shiny Shoes said. "You know what that means."

  "That Morgan girl didn't look like the type," the other responded.

  "Do they ever—" When he spotted Finn, the first young man cut himself off. Probably recognized Finn from the television broadcast. They passed in silence and resumed their conversation further down the hall, talking in unintelligible murmurs now.

  Finn stopped at the window near the end of the hall to watch the small clusters of demonstrators outside. The two sides seemed evenly matched in numbers, but the animal rights camp seemed to momentarily have the upper hand, having taken up a position closer to the news crew. They strode in a determined circle around their drummer, flashing their hand-drawn signs at the cameraman. Animals have rights 2. We're ALL God's creatures. And the inevitable Animals are my friends, don't torture or eat my friends with cute photos of rabbits, chicks, and calves. The opposition was older, quieter, and more formal, with neatly printed signs in two variations: Rat lives ≠ Human lives and Animal testing = Lifesaving research. There was also one loner striding back and forth, carrying a Next they'll take our guns! sign.

  "Detective Matthew Finn?"

  He turned toward the voice. The bailiff stood in the hallway, motioning to him. "You're called to the stand."

  The man held open the courtroom door, and Finn strode down the center aisle, not looking at the spectators. He positioned himself on the stand and they went through the usual swearing in and statement of name, position, and experience.

  Finn glanced at the three ARU defendants. Two girls, Sierra Sakson and Caryn Brown, and one boy, Jonathan Zyrnek. All of them were pierced—the girls each had an eyebrow ring, Sierra had a nose stud, and the boy had a painful-looking lip ring. The girls appeared to be around nineteen or twenty. Zyrnek had a beard, making his age harder to estimate. Probably misguided students who were liberating lab rats when they should have been in World History class.

  Jack Fiero stood up from his chair beside them. He ran a hand over his silver hair. "You were with the Chicago Police Department before coming here?"

  "That's right," Finn said into the microphone.

  "And you left Chicago because…?"

  Was Fiero trying to hint that he'd left in disgrace? Finn said, "My wife wanted to be closer to her parents here in Evansburg."

  "And how's that working out?"

  In what universe was this relevant? Hell, everyone in this town—probably in this county—knew how that had worked out. "It didn't," Finn snapped.

  There was a twitter from the back of the courtroom.

  "Do you wish you were back in Chicago?" the defense attorney asked.

  Why wasn't Dixon objecting? The judge stared at Finn, waiting. He leaned toward the mike and breathed, "Sometimes."

  "I'll bet this is one of those times, isn't it? The Evansburg Police Department has had a hard time solving crimes lately, haven't they?"

  "Our resolution rate is pretty standard, I'd say." Not bad; his voice sounded calm and authoritative.

  "How do you feel about animals, Detective?"

  What the hell? This case was about trashing a research lab. Dixon thumbed through his notes, not looking at him. Finn flicked a glance at the jury. Twelve pairs of eyes watched him. The three ARU defendants looked interested, too. Caryn flashed some quick finger signs to the boy, and he signaled something back. Sign language? How convenient for having a private conversation in a courtroom. Or for maintaining silence while breaking and entering.

  Fiero pressed. "Would you say you like animals? Do you have any pets?"

  "I have two cats and a dog," Finn said. "But this case has nothing to do with liking animals; the defendants committed multiple property crimes."

  Dixon finally rose to his feet. "That's right. Objection, your honor. These animal questions are irrelevant."

  About time, Finn thought. But shit, now he'd be stuck with Cargo and Lok and Kee for god only knew how long. He could hardly take them to the pound now.

  With film evidence from the lab's security cameras and testimony about how the kids had bragged around campus, there was no doubt in the jury's minds that the trio had committed the crime. The judge didn't seem to take it very seriously though, slapping each defendant with a $500 fine, two hundred hours of community service, and a year's probation.

  At four thirty p.m., Finn stood on the grimy sidewalk bordering the Food Mart, studying a memorial of sorts. Bouquets of pink carnations and tiny rosebuds warred for space with stuffed bears and puppies, pacifiers and baby rattles. Pink candles in pebbled glass holders weighed down slips of paper. There were dozens of notes tucked among the items, some in plastic sandwich bags. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up a few. We Miss You, Ivy Rose. Where's Ivy? God Bless Brittany and Baby Ivy. We Pray for Ivy. Brittany, did you throw your baby in the trash? Where's Ivy? Where's Ivy?

  A woman wearing a Hawaiian print dress strolled up beside him, her flip-flops snapping against her bare feet. She studied the notes in his hand, and then bent and gently tucked a plastic-encased pink rose into the arms of a tiny white teddy bear. She straightened and glared at him. "How long are you gonna let this go on, Detective?"

  "Ma'am?" Did she believe that Brittany was a baby killer? Or that the police were squelching information that would lead to Ivy's whereabouts? She turned and walked away, her footsteps slap-slapping all the way to her car. He picked up all the notes—twenty seven—and slipped them into one of the evidence bags he routinely carried, then called for a tech to come get them. There might be a message from the killer or kidnapper or whoever the hell knew where that baby was. He probably should collect all the toys and flowers and whatnot, too, but he could imagine the public outcry if the police tore down the memorial.

  A familiar woman exited the grocery store with a loaded cart. Wendy. A bearded man strolled by her side as they crossed the parking lot. Damn. Finn quickly turned his back, not wanting to acknowledge his wife and her lover. This tow
n was just too damn small. Luckily, his cell phone vibrated at that moment.

  "Detective Finn, this is FBI Special Agent Alice Foster. We spoke yesterday?"

  "Yes," he said. "How can I help you?" In the reflection on the window, he watched Wendy and the asshole climb into a Lexus SUV and then drive away through the far exit.

  "This is more about how we can help you," Agent Foster said. "My colleague and I will arrive at the station tomorrow morning around 8:15 a.m. Will you be available to talk with us?"

  "The station?"

  "Your police headquarters, in Evansburg. We've arranged for meeting space with your captain."

  Nice of you to coordinate with me, Finn thought. "I'll be there at eight a.m." He headed into the store to do his interviews, trying to decide if he would feel relieved or aggravated to lose this case to the FBI.

  Chapter 9

  Forty-seven hours after Ivy disappears

  48 hours. That's what the TV show said, the first 48 hours were golden and a crime had to be solved then or else it might never be solved. In one hour, those 48 hours were up. Brittany focused on her feet, watching her pink and silver Nikes march down the sidewalk like they belonged to someone else. She was walking the streets again, like some hooker, like some homeless chick, just watching the cars go by, because she didn't know what else to do. What else could she do?

  She'd spent the morning on her mom's computer updating Ivy's information on every website she could think of. She'd checked all the messages on her Facebook page and tweeted about how Ivy was still missing. The flyers were up all over; she'd been on the TV news twice and the university talk radio station was repeating her story every hour. The hell with the useless police who wouldn't give her an Amber Alert; she was doing her own Ivy Alert.

  But what could she do now? She wanted to call out Ivy's name over and over, like she was a lost cat, like her baby would somehow hear her and cry out for help.

  Her back jean pocket vibrated and she heard the first few notes of "Fearless." Her parents had presented her with the new pink cell phone this morning, like it was some sort of consolation prize. Danny had been pissed, of course, so they promised to get him one too. To stay in touch so we can find Ivy, they said. They'd even been able to get her old number. Now if only there was some way to get her contact list back—she didn't know anyone's number. She'd posted hers on Facebook but she still had to wait for them to call her.