The Only Witness

by Pamela Beason

  "Neema thinks Grace is boring," Josh voiced for the gorilla. "Not to mention crazy."

  "Not helpful," Grace muttered. She tapped Neema's shoulder. "When did the snake take the baby?" she both signed and verbalized.

  Store. Neema looked hopeful again. She laid the baby gorilla toy down on the floor and signed store candy soda candy.

  Grace ignored the begging. Snake inside store?

  Neema ignored the question and watched the kittens rocket around the room. Snow run Nest.

  Josh turned to Grace. "They say caffeine helps kids with ADD. Maybe we should give her some coffee."

  "Again," Grace snapped, "Not helpful. I thought you wanted to figure this out."

  "Right." He crossed his legs yoga style and faced the gorilla, signing as he spoke. "Neema. Was the baby in the store?"

  Baby car. Store candy candy soda.

  Where baby now? Josh signed.

  Neema glanced around the room as if expecting to discover a baby in a corner. The kittens rolled in a furry ball, Snow thumping Nest with her tiny hind feet. Cat play, Neema signed.

  Josh persisted. Where baby now?

  Snake take baby cry, she finally signed.

  Snake like this? Grace signed, tapping the flashcard snake. Snake on ground?

  Bad bad. Neema hooted and looked around the room again, worry clouding her dark eyes. She hated snakes. Even a worm or a caterpillar could send her climbing onto a chair. Species memory, Grace had been told; humans possessed it too.

  No snake here, Josh reassured Neema. To Grace, he said, "Is there a sign for 'hypothetical'?" To Neema, he signed Store snake come on ground, take baby?

  Snake arm man. Baby cry. Store soda go store.

  Grace leaned toward her. Man take baby?

  Man snake arm.

  Grace looked at Josh. "What the heck is a snake arm?"

  "A mechanical arm?" Josh theorized. "Maybe pincers at the end would seem like a snake head? I used to know a man who had one of those things. Reminded me of Captain Hook. Scared me shitless as a kid."

  "Can you draw a picture of one?"

  "I'll try." Josh rose and disappeared to the dining area to find paper and pencil.

  Grace turned back to the gorilla. Neema had pulled off her red muffler over her head. She chewed the knot for a few seconds, then draped the muffler over one huge black elbow and began twisting the scarlet fabric around her muscular forearm, pulling it tight with her teeth.

  "Neema, pay attention." Where baby go? Where snake arm go?

  Baby go car. Cucumber car.

  "Cucumber car?" Grace said aloud.

  "A green car?" Josh guessed from behind her.

  "Don't put ideas in her head." She turned to Neema. What color car baby go?

  The gorilla ignored her, seemingly fascinated by the sight of the red muffler twined around her own hairy black forearm.

  Josh knelt on the floor next to them, thrusting out his crude drawing of a mechanical arm. This snake arm?

  Neema dismissed the paper quickly, signing tongs, give tongs. She loved Grace's kitchen tongs and often begged to use them to pick up toys or to pinch Gumu.

  Grace studied Josh's drawing. "She has a point. Those do look a lot like tongs."

  "Cut me some slack; I'm not an artist. That guy from my childhood did have tong thingamajigs instead of fingers."

  Tongs, Neema signed with her unadorned arm, agreeing. She tugged at the fabric on her other forearm with her teeth.

  What snake arm? Grace signed.

  Neema waved her muffler-wrapped forearm.

  "Duh," Josh huffed. "Ever wonder if she's smarter than we are?"

  Grace glared at him. Snake bracelet arm? she signed to Neema.

  Skin bracelet snake arm, Neema replied. She tore the muffler from her forearm with her teeth, pushed herself to her feet and signed Coke now.

  Knowing Neema was done with the inquisition for the moment, Grace stood too, signing juice now.

  "A man with a snake bracelet took that Morgan baby to a green car," Josh summarized. "Are you going to call the police or should I?" His hand was already on the phone.

  "Neither one of us. Not yet." Grace took a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator and poured some into Neema's plastic cup.

  "But what about Ivy Morgan?"

  Neema gulped the juice down in one swallow, set her plastic cup down on the countertop and brushed her fingertips together, signing more.

  Grace refilled Neema's cup. "Neither one of us can truly say if Neema saw anything."

  The kittens had fallen asleep in the corner. After gulping her juice, Neema went over to investigate, leaning over them silently. She stroked the white kitten's back with a gentle finger.

  "You know that Neema and Gumu invent stories for their own entertainment," Grace reminded Josh. "And you know how they associate things they see and hear. Remember Lacey?"

  Lacey had been one of Neema's favorite volunteers in Seattle. When she took another job and suddenly disappeared from Neema's world, Neema made up a story about how a flock of crows she'd seen flying overhead had taken Lacey away.

  Lacey go bad birds, Neema signed now, confirming the memory.

  "Neema's been exposed to the television news and now the front page photo, as well as our conversation," Grace reminded Josh.

  "But she came up with the S-N-A-K-E on her own, according to you."

  Hearing him say it—or spell it—like that gave Grace an unwelcome jolt. "True," she admitted grudgingly. "But you know that Neema's obsessed with serpents."

  In the van, in the grocery store parking lot, Neema had called her a snake. And called herself a baby. Clever language usage, Grace thought. She'd even noted that in her daily log. But now…oh god, had she misinterpreted the dialogue? Had Neema been trying to tell her what she had witnessed?

  "There was no discussion of a G-R-E-E-N car on the news," Josh said.

  He obviously found the prospect of Neema being a witness exciting. Understandable. Under the right circumstances, Neema's story could be dramatic evidence that primates were reasoning, conversational creatures—proof of the validity of their research. Under the right circumstances. Did now, at a time when evolution was unbelievably still under debate in local schools, now, when she'd lost her funding and might lose her job, constitute 'under the right circumstances?'

  Grace took a deep breath, then swallowed hard. "We need to get her to repeat the same story several times, without prompting. Without rewards."

  Neema looked up at the word 'reward,' and brushed her fingers under her chin in the sign for candy.

  Josh groaned. "Ever watch that TV show, The First 48? It's all about how important the first couple of days are to catching the perps before they're gone. And it's already been longer than forty-eight hours."

  Grace frowned. "Calling the cops is the same as calling the media. Especially in this town—witness how reporters are following that poor girl and that detective around."

  "So?"

  "So you weren't here the last time the media got wind of talking gorillas." A snapshot of Spencer's cold contorted body rose in her imagination. She always saw that vision in black and white, the black corpse on gray cement, white foam drying on the gorilla's lips, black stripes of shadows from the cage bars cutting the horrible scene into long narrow strips. "We're not calling anyone until we're absolutely sure of the truth."

  "The attention might bring us more funding."

  "Only if Neema's story is true. Otherwise, it will bring us only ridicule."

  A grim expression took hold of Josh's face as he considered it.

  "So we're not saying anything for now, agreed?"

  He sighed, rubbed a hand across his chin. "Agreed."

  "Can you take Neema out to the barn and lock them up for the night?"

  He went to get Neema's collar and leash. After they'd left, Grace went to her trailer and poured the last glass from her bottle of wine. If she reported that Neema had seen a kidnapping, would she become a hero or
the laughingstock of the community? Would increased attention bring more funding and more credibility? Spencer's murder had brought more attention, but the end result was to shuffle the project off to the obscurity in which they now existed. If Neema's story made the news, would any of them be safe afterwards?

  When she looked out her bedroom window at seven p.m. and saw the uniformed cop stroll up the walkway to her house, Brittany couldn't decide what to feel. Maybe this was something about Ivy's car seat? The thrift store lady said she had no idea who had put the backpack and the baby carrier in their donation bin. Detective Finn said the baby carrier smelled like the kidnapper had wiped it down with bleach solution, and they couldn't find any fingerprints on it. They did find a partial on the zipper pull of the backpack that might amount to something. Or not. The FBI had taken both the carrier and the backpack to see if their lab could uncover anything more.

  It made her want to scream. Didn't they know that anything could be happening to Ivy out there? She'd been back through the thrift store neighborhood again after school but hadn't seen anything. She even stopped at the house next door to the donation bin, but they hadn't seen a dark van or anyone with a baby. And this time, as she was driving around, she would have sworn a woman in a silver Subaru was following her. Or was she just going crazy?

  That horrible lie detector test—oh god, was that why the cop was here? Would that make the television news tonight? She knew the exact moment she'd failed. Did you cause your daughter to be killed? Did you cause your daughter to be kidnapped? She'd said no, but of course the true answer was yes. If she hadn't left Ivy in the car, then she couldn't have been kidnapped. She was responsible for whatever happened to Ivy. On TV, the FBI always helped the family. Why weren't they out searching for her baby instead of torturing her about what she'd done wrong?

  They said that Charlie's test was 'inconclusive.' What did that mean? And what the hell did that note mean? Ivy is in a better place. It sounded like something a Virgin on Ice or maybe Mrs. Kay would write; they'd think that any other mother would be better for Ivy than Brittany.

  The cop was almost at the front door. Oh, god, was this it? Maybe they'd finally found Ivy alive and well, or maybe they'd found Ivy—? She couldn't bring herself to think the last word. She felt sick as she galloped down the stairs. The clock had passed that magic 48-hour mark a day ago. Half the town thought she'd killed Ivy; they all thought she should go to hell.

  She didn't have to go to hell. She was already there. She could barely remember what Ivy's skin felt like under her fingertips. Ivy got diaper rash really bad if she forgot to put on the ointment—did the kidnapper know that?

  Last night Ivy woke her up four times. The first time the cry was so loud and real, she got up and wandered around downstairs looking for the baby. Could it have been a premonition of some sort? She was going to take Joy up on that offer of some X. She really needed something that would give her hope.

  Her dad got to the door first. The cop framed in the doorway was the one who gave a safety lecture to the Sluts class—use the deadbolt, lock the car doors, don't give personal information to strangers online. She remembered because his name was Morgan, too.

  "Brittany Morgan?" he asked, as if he didn't know who she was. Everyone in the state knew who she was now. Just this morning a perfect stranger, an old bitch of a grandma, clamped onto her arm and asked, "Where's Ivy?"

  It couldn't be good news if the cop started off that way. "Yes?" Just spit it out. Whatever it is. I have to know.

  "This is for you." He handed her a piece of paper.

  She stared at it through a blur of tears. They notified mothers about their dead babies with a piece of paper now? Cold.

  Her father pulled it out of her hands and scanned the page. "She's under arrest?" he yelled. "Is this because she failed the polygraph? She volunteered to take the test."

  Morgan the Cop tucked his chin, making his neck wrinkle. "She failed a polygraph?"

  Her father stuck a finger out at the cop's chest. "I happen to know that polygraph results are not admissible in any reasonable court. Failure does not mean she's guilty."

  How many times were they going to bat that back and forth? She was glad when Morgan the Cop didn't respond.

  "Like that notice says, the D.A. has charged Brittany with Reckless Endangerment. For leaving the baby in the car." The cop hooked a thumb in his belt and shifted his hips, like all that gear was weighing him down. "I'm sorry."

  He said it to her father, not to her.

  "You sons of bi—" her father started.

  She put a hand on his arm. "It's okay, Dad, I deserve—"

  "Stop!" He threw up his hands like he was fending her off. "Don't say another word!"

  Morgan the Cop stepped back out of the doorway and pulled a card from his pocket. "You have the right to remain silent…" He went through the whole thing, just like on TV. "Do you understand what I just said?" he asked her at the end.

  She nodded miserably. "I think so."

  "You're damn right we want a lawyer," her father said.

  "Brittany's old enough to make that decision," the cop said.

  She looked at her father. "Yeah, I guess we want a lawyer."

  The cop pulled out another card. "Public Defender?"

  Her father swallowed as if his throat hurt. "I don't know yet." He took the card.

  "There's no shame in it, Mr. Morgan. Your taxes pay for them. We've got some good PDs here."

  Brittany stepped onto the threshold and held out her wrists toward Officer Morgan. A flash went off, startling the three of them. The cop turned toward the gate and yelled, "Get outa here, you damn leech!"

  "Get off my property!" her dad shouted.

  "Public sidewalk!" The photographer trotted away, camera in hand.

  Morgan the Cop turned back to her. "No, honey," he said. "I'm not taking you in. But you have to come to court at the time it says on that paper." He glanced at her father again. "You'll see that she's there?"

  Her dad nodded, Officer Morgan walked away, and her father closed the door. She trudged back upstairs. Each step was a major effort, like she was wearing ski boots. Did this mean they weren't going to look for Ivy anymore?

  At seven thirty p.m., Finn was still at the station, staring at his computer, hoping for a revelation. Dawes had gone to Cheney to talk to Charlie's associates, his boss, and the residents of the Ward Building. Unfortunately, the building had no security cameras, but perhaps one of the companies that leased space could help determine the validity of Charlie's alibi. Detectives Larson and Melendez were interviewing the girls who'd been absent from Brittany's class. After the polygraph test, he'd put in for a subpoena for the Morgans' phone records for the last three months. If Brittany had plotted with Charlie or a friend to do something to the baby, maybe he could catch them that way. Tomorrow, Verizon promised.

  Miki materialized beside his cluttered desk, a stack of paper in her hands. Finn sat up. "You're still here?"

  "You are." She smiled. And was that a wink?

  Had to be his imagination. For the first time Finn noticed that her eyebrows were painted on. What kind of nineteen-year-old chose to work overtime for free and painted on her eyebrows?

  "About Talking Hands Ranch?" she asked.

  "You found it?"

  She thrust a few pages at him. "Unfortunately, no. Like I already told you, there's no business registered with that name in Washington State. There's a Helping Hands Agency in Oregon and a Working Hands Co-op in Idaho. Google just comes up with garbage."

  "So what is this?" He nodded toward the pages she still held.

  "I hope I'm not out of line, but I checked for disappearances of infants across the U.S. in the last five years."

  "Good thinking, Miki." He'd checked the Washington cases and read the report about the missing Kinsey baby in Oregon, but had not yet looked beyond that.

  She held out the sheaf. "I emailed the files to you, too.

  He took the pages from he
r.

  "It's really terrible. Some people just shouldn't have babies. You have to wonder how many of these were born out of wedlock." The phrase sounded odd coming from her young lips. But this was Evansburg, and many young people here were more conservative than senior citizens in Chicago.

  A cluster of patrol cops, now in street clothes, were gathering around the back door at the end of their shift. One turned and yelled across the room. "Hey, Scoletti—want a ride?" Scoletti turned away from the desk clerk he was chatting with. "Nah. I'll be right behind you. Meet you there in five."

  The group went out to the parking lot, and a few seconds later Scoletti crossed the room to the back door. Spying Finn at his desk, he paused. "Hey, Finn, a bunch of us are going to Brady's, wanna come?"

  He waved. "Can't, thanks."

  Scoletti shrugged and left. Finn tapped his pen on his notepad. Well, at least someone had included him this time, even if it had been an afterthought. He missed tossing a few back each week with his Chicago crew.

  His cell phone buzzed and he picked it up. Damn—his ex-mother in law again. Probably another invitation to dinner, where he'd have to hear about what Wendy was up to and how they just didn't understand what went wrong between the two of them. He let the call go to voicemail.

  An hour later, he was still in his desk chair. Mason was scrambling around at the desk beside him, attaching some gizmo to the computer there. "Working overtime?" Finn asked.

  The computer tech's voice answered from under the desk. "Some people have lives; the rest of us have work."

  Finn rubbed his forehead, not wanting to think about how depressing that statement was. The list of missing infants on his computer screen—eighty-seven across the U.S. in the last five years—was appallingly long. But knowing the way public records worked, he'd wager that at least a third of those cases had been resolved without updating the records. And some had probably never been missing in the first place. Still, there had been sixteen alleged infant kidnappings nationwide in the last six months, five in the northwest. As well as Serena Kinsey, he had a likely match for one other teenage mom of a missing baby on the YoMama.org users list—a girl in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho named Carissa Adams, whose infant son William had disappeared four months ago from his bassinette during the night. The baby had only been two weeks old at the time.