by Todd Borg
As I drove through intermittent rain showers, up and out of the basin and then down the West Slope of the Sierra, I thought about the drawing sitting next to me on the passenger seat. Silence had done an exemplary job of detailing the room and the men. She revealed the essence of the men so well that I was certain of their identities even though it showed them from behind.
Nevertheless, I kept the information about the men to myself. I didn’t want to tell Marlette and Henrietta about Marky and Tiptoe because I sensed that knowing something of their sick personalities might make Marlette and Henrietta even more afraid for Silence.
Perhaps that was the same reason I didn’t point out the other unusual thing I spotted in the drawing, something neither of them seemed to notice.
On the wall of the room hung a calendar. One of the squares in the calendar had a tiny drawing in it. Not until I was in the Jeep and driving away did I take a closer look.
It was of a fire, like a campfire, but with a large crooked log stuck vertically into the fire. By holding the drawing in the bright light of day I saw that the log had something attached to it. The pencil strokes were so fine that it was difficult to tell what it was. Difficult, that is, unless you were looking for a girl tied to a stake. Then the funeral pyre became obvious.
The drawing was on the square denoting next Thursday. In the upper right corner of the square, printed as part of the calendar, was the circle that designates the full moon.
THIRTY-THREE
I called Mallory and got his voicemail. I left a short message, then called dispatch and asked if Mallory could be contacted. The woman said she’d try. Eventually someone else answered.
“Sergeant O’Conner,” a voice said.
“Sergeant, this is Owen McKenna. I have some urgent news for Mallory. Is there any way I can get in touch with him?”
“Sorry, sir. He’s busy. I can pass on a message.”
“Okay. A second letter drawing from the kidnapped girl was delivered to the high school this morning.”
“Right, sir. I’m the one who picked it up.”
“Then you know it depicts two men.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Those men go by the names Marky and Tiptoe. They were the men who tried to scare me off. They claim to ride with the Granite Mountain Boys, but I’m not convinced of it.” I gave the sergeant thorough descriptions of them and their motorcycles.
“I’ll pass that on to the commander, sir.”
“There is something else in the drawing.” I told him about the drawing on the calendar the day of the full moon.
“Thank you. I’ll pass that on as well.”
“When is the best time for me to get hold of Mallory?” I asked. “Or can you ask him to call me back?”
There was a small delay before the sergeant answered. “Sir, I should probably let you know that word in the department is that you need to make yourself scarce on this kidnapping. That would include not talking to the commander. The commander has held the chief and others off of you. But it sounds like the tiniest mistake on your part will have them looking to see what kind of charges they can bring against you. Just thought you should know.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
I hung up and drove. Once I got to the Central Valley floor, the highway was busy with cars and trucks all rushing their cargoes to destinations across northern California. I had a dog in the backseat and a girlfriend waiting for me in San Francisco, but I felt as if I were on a lonely highway without any destination at all.
Spot was sprawled on his side on the backseat, lulled to sleep by a heavy downpour, when I pulled up in front of Street’s hotel on Post. I’d called as we’d gotten near, so she was waiting. She came out of the hotel, running through the rain. I jumped out, grabbed her bag and opened the passenger door. She climbed in and Spot finally woke up, groggy but happy to put his head over her shoulder from behind, his cheek next to her cheek, his head dwarfing hers, his pointy right ear flickering at the tickle of the wispy hairs on Street’s left temple. As I pulled out into the traffic, he lay his chin down on her chest and closed his eyes and she pet him. He looked unconscious, but we could both hear his tail thumping behind us.
While Spot pretended sleep, I gave Street a more thorough replay of the events of the previous day, my mistakes, regrets, apologies to both her and Mallory.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she said. “You made your best judgment.”
“Best misjudgment,” I said.
We were silent as we drove over to the Bay Bridge, the rain like a dirty veil pulled over the once sparkling arches. Instead of people strolling, laughing, and enjoying the world’s most charming city, they scurried from vehicles to doorways, bent and furtive as small animals, as if they knew that something much worse than rain could swoop down from the sky and carry them away.
Much later, as we reached the eastern suburbs of Sacramento and began the climb up into the foothills, I handed Street the copy of Silence’s second letter drawing. I explained about Marky and Tiptoe and pointed out the drawing of the funeral pyre.
Street held the drawing close to examine it and was silent a long time. Finally, she said, “I suppose it’s possible that one of the men drew the fire on the calendar as a threat and she just replicated it in this letter. If so, we could doubt how much message she intends. This drawing could be just another rendition of her environment. But the fire is so well drawn that I doubt a kidnapper could do it unless he was a very good artist. So it looks like Silence put it in to illustrate a threat she heard. Either way, what a horrible thing for her to face! I can’t imagine her fear.”
When we got back to Tahoe, Street had me drop her at her condo. I gave her a kiss and headed on up the mountain to my cabin.
I called Doc Lee. I didn’t know his Sunday schedule, so I tried the hospital first. He was not in or on-call, so I dialed his home number.
He answered, “’lo?”
“Hey, Doc, it’s Owen. Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“Just this El Dorado County Zin. The foothill wineries won’t put Napa out of business any time soon, but they’re getting damn good. And with all those new studies on red wine, I take it instead of vitamins. How is your case going? What do you do, get a motorcycle and try to infiltrate the biker gang?”
“Actually, I did get a Harley.”
“You even know how to ride?” Doc Lee asked.
“Had a bike for years before I moved to snow country.”
“Everyone knows you’re tough enough, you don’t have to get a Harley to prove it.”
“Not trying to prove it, trying to blend in. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but Harley has a brand lock on certain activities. If you’re racing, then other bikes are king. But cruising in packs is a Harley specialty. Gotta have the approved gear to fit in with the group.”
“Please tell me you’re not going to get one of those donor helmets?”
“Donor helmet?” I said.
“Those little bowl jobs that sit on the top of your head. By some incredible act of legislative stupidity they satisfy the letter of the law. But they don’t do shit for your brains. That’s why we call them donor helmets. Bikers who wear them are the best source of organs. Something happens, they bounce their heads and their brains turn to mush. Leaving an entire body to be harvested. Which, come to think of it, may be intentional on the part of the legislature. Maybe those representatives aren’t so stupid after all. There is a chronic shortage of donor organs.”
“Don’t worry. I have a real helmet. Even has padding on the inside. Full face guard and chin guard, too.”
“Thank you,” Doc Lee said, his relief audible over the phone. “Sorry, I’ve forgotten why you called.”
“I’ve spoken with Dr. Power, the psychiatrist who treated the Ramirez girl a few times. But I’d like to talk to someone who is more of a specialist on autism. Power said a pediatric psychiatrist or neurologist would be good. I wonder if you know of anyone.”
Doc Lee was silent for moment. “An autism expert, huh? There’s a pediatric neurologist I’ve met, specializes in Pervasive Developmental Disorders. She’s probably worked with autistic kids much more than your average shrink. The lady practices in Reno. Let me look in my little book. I think it is something Netman. If I don’t have her number, you can probably reach her through the university in Reno.” I heard Doc Lee flipping pages as he talked. “I recall she does some adjunct teaching at UNR. Here we are. Rhonda Netman. Got a pencil handy?”
“Yeah.” I wrote as Doc Lee recited it.
“Tell you what,” Doc Lee said. “It’s Sunday night, so I’ll give her a call first thing in the morning. Make a little introduction and let her know you’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“By the way, how’s the good sergeant coming along?” he asked, referring to my case of a couple of months earlier.
“Diamond is doing well. No more sucking sounds through bullet holes. You’d never know he’d been through anything unless he took his shirt off.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Before I went to bed I stepped out onto the deck. The moon coming through the pines was bright enough to read by. I looked up at it, squinting. It was large enough to clearly see the Sea of Tranquility.
I was anything but tranquil. The moon would be full in four days.
THIRTY-FOUR
The next morning when I heard the Monday morning Herald get tossed into my drive, I didn’t let go of Spot’s collar until I had it in my hands. Glennie’s story topped the paper. The headline was huge.
LOCAL INVESTIGATOR TAKES
BLAME FOR BOTCHED RAID
Well-known Private Investigator Owen McKenna spoke to this paper in an exclusive interview following Saturday’s mistaken raid on a rental house in the Sierra Tract. The house that was raided was believed to be the place where kidnappers were holding SalAnne Ramirez captive.
McKenna said that all roads of blame in the forced entry lead to him. He added that every police officer involved from Commander Mallory on down operated on evidence and conclusions that McKenna had misinterpreted. McKenna said that he deeply regrets Saturday’s actions, and he expects that the eventual safe recovery of SalAnne Ramirez will demonstrate that the efforts of the police were not in vain.
McKenna had been retained by Marlette Remmick, mother of Charlie and SalAnne Ramirez, the two children who were kidnapped from their front yard a week ago last Friday. Charlie, a rising star on the high school football team, was later found murdered.
When asked about the status of his investigation, McKenna said that he was making progress until a series of bad judgements and faulty evidence led to the mistaken raid on the house.
The house was occupied by Jimmy and Jeremy Carmensen, two brothers who work as chefs at Perry’s Prize Pizza shop. Their sister Cheryl was visiting them at the time of the police entry. Cheryl and Jeremy were bruised in the event and Jimmy sustained a broken wrist. All three were treated at the hospital and released. Commander Mallory was unavailable for comment.
There was a smaller article, also on the front page with a smaller headline.
CARMENSEN KIDS STRONG AND BRAVE
The three Carmensen siblings who were injured in Saturday’s mistaken raid on their home exhibited unusual bravery during the forced entry. Despite the sudden intrusion of many police officers into their peaceful Saturday afternoon, all three Carmensens remained remarkably calm and under control.
As could be expected in such a raid, there was some confusion and enough physical movement that all three Carmensen siblings sustained injuries. Yet none of the siblings raised a voice or a hand to the officers, and all three cooperated even though they knew that they’d done nothing wrong.
Owen McKenna, the private investigator who provided the information that led to the raid, said he’d rarely witnessed a situation where young adults acted with such maturity. He said that he is recommending that all three Carmensen siblings receive a special commendation from one of the civic organizations on the South Shore and that he is coordinating the effort.
McKenna added that he will be contacting the Carmensens to discuss how they can further serve as role models to young people in the community.
I dialed Glennie.
“Perfect,” I said when she answered.
“A little thick,” she said. “But I felt inspired to read between your lines, so to speak, and help assuage their collective hurt. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“No. I will do as you say I will. If we can get them to see the raid as an honest mistake instead of an opportunity to call up a lawyer, everyone will be better off.”
We talked a little more, then hung up.
I waited until 9:15 to give Doc Lee time to call the doctor he’d recommended, then I dialed Netman’s office. The secretary put me through.
“Dr. Netman, thank you for taking my call,” I said when she answered.
“Pleased to. Dr. Lee said you were working on the kidnapping of the autistic girl and her brother who was murdered. What a terrible thing that is for her. Do you think she’s still alive?”
“Yes. We’re hopeful.”
“Good. How can I help?”
“Did you ever treat her?”
“No, I’ve only read about her since the kidnapping. I wonder if I can be of much help.”
“I still have questions about autism,” I said. “I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks for me. It would be best if we could talk in person.”
“Certainly. My last appointment today is at one o’clock, then I head home to review paperwork. Can you come to my home in Glenbrook? Let’s say, three o’clock this afternoon?”
“I’ll be there.”
Netman gave me directions.
THIRTY-FIVE
Diamond called and said that he’d seen the paper and would I like to have lunch. I suggested he stop by my cabin.
We grilled brats on the barbecue.
After we ate, the wind came up and we moved inside. Diamond sat in the rocker. Spot immediately walked over and lowered his chin to Diamond’s lap. Diamond rubbed Spot’s head. Because of Spot’s height he has to slouch forward if he wants to rest his head the way a smaller dog would.
Spot slowly rocked forward on his front legs, forcing the chair and Diamond to slide back until Spot’s front legs projected back at an angle. His butt stayed up high and his back angled down so that the full weight of his chest and head was on Diamond’s lap.
Diamond scratched Spot’s ears. “You remember when the lady set me up with the false story when I discharged my weapon a couple months ago?”
“Of course,” I said. “But you didn’t make a mistake. I did. And Mallory made the mistake of listening to me.”
“We learn from our mistakes. Anyway, in my country somebody would have been looking for a serious bribe to clear me. But here, the shooting review board was fair. The system works well. Mallory will be okay.”
“Technically. I appreciate your confidence.”
Diamond nodded, then picked up the small photo of the Ramirez family off the end table. He angled it in the light and squinted his eyes.
“Back when they were happier,” he said.
“Yeah. Scary how quickly life can fall apart.”
“Who’s the father?” he asked.
“Shane Ramirez. He lives in San Diego trying to make it as a rapper. His stage name is NSNG – No Shane No Gain.”
“I mean, who’s the real father. Of the girl.”
I looked at Diamond. “You mean...”
He was staring at the photo. “’What is your substance, whereof are you made,’” he said.
I raised my eyebrow.
“Was looking at Shakespeare’s sonnets the other day.” Diamond said it the way the rest of us might say we’d read the sports section the other day. “Anyway, you’re the cop went private. I’m just a simple public servant. I’d’ve thought you’d immediately notice the salient
features. So why is it obvious to me?”
I reached for the photo. Diamond strained against Spot and handed it to me.
I held it in the bright light coming in the window. It looked the same as before. Charlie and Silence standing in front of Shane and Marlette. “I don’t see it,” I said. “Maybe Silence is lighter than the others. That’s what you’re referring to? I thought it was just a normal variation.”
Diamond was shaking his head. “Call the mom and ask her. You make it clear you know, she’ll capitulate.”
“You mean, ‘fess up.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re confident about this.” I held up the picture. “Because I don’t see it.”
“‘Course,” he said. “The girl’s father is white. Could be a special radar Mexicans got. Pick up white DNA at a distance.”
“I should probably ask her in person,” I said. “Easier for her to stonewall over the phone.”
After Diamond left, Spot and I got in the Jeep and drove to Marlette’s house.
As soon as she opened the door, I held up the photo and sounded as if the facts were clear.
“Marlette, why didn’t you tell me that Shane isn’t Silence’s real father?”
Marlette paled and stammered, “Of course he is.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“I...I thought that...I mean, Shane has always been her father. Even he thinks he’s her father. If he knew otherwise, he’d never have helped raise her. Not that he’s been that helpful.” She looked over my shoulder, staring into the past.
I said, “We have to examine every possible reason for why someone would want to kidnap her. The fact that her biological father isn’t Shane is the most promising bit of information yet. And you decided it wasn’t relevant.”