by Todd Borg
She carried the sketchbook like a security blanket. If I hadn’t seen her bedroom walls covered in drawings, I would have wondered if she just liked the feel of it. But then came a scene showing Silence sitting down on the floor in the hallway, facing the open bathroom door. She opened her sketchbook and began a drawing on a blank page. What happened next was astonishing. She held the book open with her right hand and drew with her left. Her hand moved in a blur. She never paused to reflect on her strokes or consider her approach. She just sketched like a machine, very fast, very accurate, and she finished the drawing in less than a minute. The video didn’t show the details well, but I paused the picture. Then I zoomed in on the drawing. From what I could see the drawing looked like a grainy photo of the bathroom.
A half hour into the video came another unusual scene.
The kids were a little older, Charlie perhaps seven and Silence ten. They were at a park, on the swing-set. Charlie swung as if to go over the top. Silence sat on a swing, barely moving, sketchbook in one hand while the other hand held one of the swing’s chains. Suddenly, there was a loud rumbling noise. The camera swung over to capture a huge cement truck turning into the park, roaring down a dirt road toward a building pad where men standing on foundation forms were waiting for cement. Although the truck was very loud, it was clearly heading past the kids and presenting no danger.
Yet, as the camera swung back it caught Silence as she jumped out of the swing. She plugged her ears and started vibrating with terror. It looked like she was in the beginning moments of a seizure when she stopped, lifted her right foot and pushed it down as if pushing down a bike pedal. Her foot hit the playground sand and turned her partway around as she rotated on her left foot. She lifted the right foot again and pushed off again, rotating a little faster. Her head bowed a bit so that her face was toward the ground, and she went around a little faster, then faster still. Her right foot was pumping in a powerful rhythm, and the tempo accelerated. She didn’t fall over, didn’t even waver, but continued to speed up until she was spinning like a figure skater.
The camera zoomed in on her so that her spinning form filled the frame.
She had her ears plugged, her sketchbook held at the side of her head, and her eyes were shut. But something unusual happened to her demeanor. Despite spinning so fast that she was almost a blur, she seemed to relax. The tension that had clamped her elbows to her side loosened and went away and her arms began to look like those of a twirling skater, held for esthetic position rather than stiff function. The rigidity of her hands at her ears disappeared and they looked less like claws at her temples and more like a model’s hands, thin little fingers floating, middle and ring fingers gently curled into graceful curves. Her right foot continued to pump and her spin seemed to evolve as her body changed its unyielding straightness into a flowing curve.
It was like watching a ballet where the awkward protagonist, hobbled by disability, steps into the mysterious forest and is transformed into a creature of grace.
At the end of the scene Charlie rushed in, bouncing his palms off her shoulders as she spun, trying to slow her down, but careful not to stick his hands into her whirling form lest he hurt either of them.
When he succeeded in arresting her spin, he hugged her hard and for so long it seemed more like a therapy he’d devised over time rather than the physicality of affection.
The camera stayed on Silence as Charlie released her from his grip. She no longer looked terrified, but she didn’t look the picture of grace, either. The flowing form was gone, replaced by the rigid girl’s body where it seemed no one was in residence.
I was so struck by the scene that I played it again, studying the transformation that was like a chrysalis metamorphosing into a butterfly and then turning back into a caterpillar.
The video went on to show additional domestic scenes similar to the previous ones, but I was now spoiled by the last bit of drama. So I fast-forwarded through the video, looking for another scene that would catch my eye. Nothing did until the kids were much older. A scene that was possibly shot within the last year began with all of the prosaic qualities of most of the video. The kids were at home and the video showed Charlie pulling a tarnished brass trumpet out of the well-worn red velvet cradle of the instrument case. Silence sat nearby, paying no attention.
But when Charlie began to play a series of loud screeching practice notes, Silence ran from the house. Marlette got up to follow, and the video jumped and jerked with her movement. Then the camera was held steady just inside the front door and the video captured Silence as she started another spin in the driveway.
It was like the spin of several years earlier, head down, ears plugged, sketchbook clutched tightly. She sped up into a blur and the same physical changes took place, a transformation that started with how she held her body and ended with the revelation, at least to my uneducated eye, that there was something of a soul inside the quiet, seemingly empty girl.
I skimmed at fast-forward through the rest of the video and found nothing else of interest except a reprise of the toothbrushing scene from years earlier. It was eerie how, despite the passage of time, Silence brushed exactly the same as when she’d been a little girl. She stood in the corner, faced the wall and brushed as if her arm movements were controlled by servomechanisms, hydraulics, gears and a timing device.
I turned off the laptop and went to bed and lay in the dark thinking about those kids.
Charlie was easy to quantify. Bright, engaged, eager and resourceful in dealing with his sister. Silence was his opposite. An unusual child, afflicted with a disorder that seems devastating.
It’s hard to say what it is that makes a fully-functioning human. On a long list of essential qualities are several that seemed to go missing in Silence. She didn’t talk, didn’t communicate at all by most measures, didn’t exhibit normal human intelligence. She didn’t show normal curiosity, didn’t watch movies or TV in any focused way. If she could read, which seemed highly doubtful, she didn’t pursue books like a typical reader.
But more than that, I thought as I lay staring at the ceiling, was the puzzle of consciousness. Was Silence self-aware? Did she ask herself questions about duty and purpose and meaning? She clearly showed the emotion of fear. But could she experience joy or hope? Did she have any ambition to make something of herself? Did she feel a drive to pursue an interest or a hobby other than her drawings? Was her drawing a passion? If so, did Silence have a passion for anything other than art?
No matter how I looked at it, the facts seemed to suggest that she was a shell of a person, quite retarded, unlikely to ever learn to take pleasure in those most human of activities.
But the sketching and the spinning nagged at me. I saw focus in both activities. And I saw joy in the spinning, maybe passion, too. And I realized that as much as I wanted to save her from her kidnappers because of what they might do to her physically, I wanted to save her to let her find that little bit of joy again.
I concentrated on that spin as my own consciousness wavered and crossed over into a few hours of ragged, fitful, unsatisfying sleep.
FOURTEEN
I was up early, drinking coffee, watching dawn imbue the clouds in the western sky with a reddish brown hue that made me think of blood being diluted by tears. Over the next thirty minutes the tears washed the blood away until there was only a melancholy pink stain, lighter in the sky and slightly darker in the reflection that rosed the lake’s surface.
The phone rang and it was Glennie from the paper calling for an update. I explained that I’d made no progress to speak of and that our main focus was watching the various groups of bikers around the lake.
“Have you got the morning paper, yet?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“When it comes, let me know if I’m compromising your work in any way.”
“Will do.”
We said goodbye.
I appreciated that Glennie tried to report events in a way that would not compromis
e my investigation. But I also knew that our friendship would never stop her from printing anything that she considered newsworthy. The only reason she was willing to adjust any aspect of her journalism was because I was her best source on this crime, and she wanted to keep me cooperative.
I could anticipate the coming paper delivery by the sound of the old International Harvester four-wheel-drive that the delivery woman drove. It came laboring up our steep road, hesitating and coughing and spitting as if to beg for a transfer from 7200 feet of elevation to a sea-level route where oxygen was thick as soup.
Spot was standing at the door wagging when the paper plopped out on the drive.
“Okay,” I said to him, my voice heavy with gravitas as I walked to the door. We’d been working on breaking him of a new destructive habit he’d developed. This time I grabbed his snout to get his attention. “No chewing this time. No slobber. No donating it to Treasure’s mom.”
Spot ignored me and stood, nose to doorknob, waiting.
I opened the door and he bounded out.
“Spot, bring the paper!” I called out in the commanding voice that a doggie night-school teacher had once claimed would work miracles.
Spot shot out the drive, grabbing the paper the way a center fielder scoops up a grounder on the run. But instead of firing the paper back to first base, Spot kept on running out of the park, gravel flying from his paws as he lit up the road toward Mrs. Duchamp’s and disappeared into the still dim morning.
Taking a deep breath, reminding myself that I was still in complete control, I walked out in my robe and stood wondering if I should fetch a deck chair to wait.
Soon he materialized from the grayness up the road. Having reached full speed, Spot bore down on me. I willed myself to be still as Spot came in fast, playing chicken with me, making me guess to which side he would veer at the last moment. Instead, I wondered if in fact he would veer off at all or if, in the excitement of speed, would simply forget and plow into my hips and knees and send us both to the hospital for surgical reconstruction.
It was close, but he went left in the nanosecond before impact. The paper was still in his mouth.
Spot has this playful technique of torturing the item in his mouth as he runs. At each galloping leap he opens his mouth and the object of his affection floats weightless for a moment as it arcs up and down with Spot’s motion. As his paws reconnect with terra firma, Spot clamps down on it, sinking his teeth deep.
Most days since he surprised me with this new habit, Spot has eventually yielded the paper to me, proud that he can out-shred the most expensive paper-shredder and add sufficient moisture to begin the pulping process. I was determined that this day would not be another one.
I waited until he came in on another strafing run and I ran toward him with my arms extended. Seeing my strange behavior, Spot veered away much sooner. I took three running steps and dove through the air toward him. He easily dodged my assault and I went down hard and slid on my side in the dirt, my bathrobe making a loud rip.
But Spot did give the paper a toss into the air and let it go as he ran by, tail held high with pleasure. I got up slowly, stiff and sore and leaking blood from a scrape on my elbow. The paper was wet and punctured, but still readable, so I considered it a victory of sorts, even if of a Pyrrhic flavor.
Back inside I spread out the soggy mess.
The headline was in seventy-two-point type. The story was under Glennie’s byline.
KIDNAPPED BOY FOUND DEAD
Charlie Ramirez, who went missing along with his sister SalAnne five days ago, was found dead yesterday. An El Dorado Sheriff’s deputy discovered the body near the chain-up area at the bottom of Echo Summit. Although an autopsy has not yet been completed, the cause of death is believed to be a blow to the head.
The discovery of the body confirms suspicions that the children had been kidnapped when they disappeared from their own yard on Wednesday afternoon. The girl is still missing and is presumed alive. No ransom note has been delivered, and no motive for the kidnapping or murder has been revealed.
According to South Lake Tahoe Police Commander Mallory, there were no witnesses to the kidnapping. However, the children’s mother Marlette Remmick and several neighbors heard motorcycles in the neighborhood.
Mrs. Remmick has retained local Private Investigator Owen McKenna to aid in discovering what happened to her children. When asked about whether bikers may have kidnapped the children, McKenna said that it is only speculation at this point. He added that anyone who has information is urged to call Commander Mallory at the Police Department or contact the Secret Witness program.
Law enforcement agencies around the Tahoe Basin have put on extra personnel. Sergeant Diamond Martinez of the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department said that the department is sending several officers from Carson Valley up to the basin. When asked if they were focusing on the bikers who have come to the basin for the Tahoe Biker Heaven Festival that began yesterday, he echoed McKenna’s words saying that while they weren’t ruling out anyone, there was no specific evidence indicating that bikers were responsible. FBI Special Agent Ramos said they are focusing appropriate resources on the kidnapping.
I put down the paper and thought about calling Agent Ramos. I’d dealt with him on past cases and found him to be a condescending jerk. Not only did he pull rank and interfere with local law enforcement, but he refused to divulge pertinent information, claiming that local cops had insufficient need-to-know.
I decided, instead, to call Henrietta Johanssen, the Special Ed teacher Marlette had told me about. The school operator put me on hold, and Henrietta came to the phone in a few minutes. She was gracious and agreed to see me after school let out.
Next, I made a call to Dr. Power, the psychiatrist that Marlette had mentioned. He was the doctor who’d given Silence annual evaluations. His secretary said he would be able to see me late that morning.
FIFTEEN
Dr. Power had his practice in one of the medical buildings across from Barton Hospital. I parked in the lot and left Spot in the Jeep. He had his head out the rear window, pointy ears held forward as he watched a Toyota pickup several spaces over. There was a Golden Retriever lying in the back, its snout resting on the tailgate where a little bit of sun shown through the heavy pine canopy. The Golden paid Spot no attention.
I grabbed Spot’s head as I got out. I leaned down close to him and said, “Don’t let anything bad happen to anybody anywhere anytime,” I said.
He focused his eyes on the Golden and wagged his tail.
I found Power’s offices on the third floor. A sign on the door said, Raymond Power M.D., Psychiatry, in gold letters.
The door was whisper quiet as I pushed it in. Some kind of herbal air freshener mixed with the scent of coffee. A huge aquarium took up most of one side of the reception room. A group of bright blue fish chased a single larger orange fish, its scarred, chewed fins barely able to propel it forward.
A young woman came through a door to the side of the reception counter. She wore a red and green plaid skirt, perhaps the only one in all of Tahoe. Her green sweater was snug over a hard, muscled athlete’s body. Her bobby socks were carefully folded down below thick calf muscles to just above brown leather shoes with more than the usual number of laces. She had chocolate brown hair cut shoulder-length and set in wavy curls. Either I’d missed a sea change in fashion in the last week or she was auditioning for a movie about a New England prep school, circa 1959.
She said, “Oh, hello, I didn’t hear you.”
“Just walked in. My name is Owen McKenna. I’m here to talk to Dr. Power.”
“Oh, sure, dad is expecting you. Just a minute.” She turned and walked through a doorway.
In a moment she was back. “Please come with me.”
I followed her down a short hallway and into a corner office. A tall solid man with eyebrows like chipmunk tails stood up from his desk, came around and gave me a strong handshake.
“So you’re Owe
n McKenna,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. I’m Raymond Power.” Power had on brown trousers that were rumpled and two inches too short for his six-three frame. His brown socks were scrunched down on ankles as thick as an ox’s, and a little ring of crinkly dry white skin showed above them. The polish on his loafers was scuffed. He wore a tweed sport jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said.
“Certainly. As you may have observed, my reception room is empty. Business is slow. I have only two appointments today, and they are later this afternoon. So it’s no trouble at all.”
The telephone on his desk rang. “Yes, Sheila,” he said when he picked it up. “What? Oh, hold on.” He hung up and turned to me. “Sorry, I have to answer a question out front. Make yourself comfortable?”
“Yes, of course.”
He left. I wandered around, wondering what it would be like to have an office half the size of my cabin. There were large windows with what realtors call a filtered view of mountains. Which meant, if you got in just the right position, knees bent, head turned, and the wind blew hard against the obstructing branches, you could get a quick glimpse of Heavenly through the trees. Down below was my Jeep. Spot still had his head out the window, still watching the Golden sleep.
Power’s desk had a green leather-lined blotter, a gold pen-and-pencil set, and the phone, nothing else.
Over on a wall of shelves were some community service awards from the Rotary and Soroptimists and the Hospital Auxiliary. There were many hardbound medical books. The only softcovers were on computer technology and a dog-eared book on global positioning systems. One shelf was covered with sailing magazines with pictures of boats at anchor in tropical lagoons.