Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1)

by Victor Methos

  “What did he do?”

  “He said he would look into it.”

  “Did you tell your parents?”

  She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “My dad was leaving to play golf when my mom told him. He said, ‘Boys will be boys,’ and then he left.”

  Baudin was silent, stealing a quick glance at Dixon, who was leaning forward, listening to the girl. “Ruth, that will never happen with me. Do you understand? I will protect you better than anyone’s ever protected you in your life. I swear it.”

  Finally, she looked at him. A tear was running down her cheek and Baudin reached up and wiped it away.

  “Alli was hanging out with those boys. I tried to tell her what happened to me. But she said she loved one of them. I don’t know which one, I never met him. But she said she loved him and that he loved her and wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

  “Which boys, Ruth?”

  “The Sigma Mu guys. She was in love with one of them.”

  Dixon asked, “Did she ever say his name?”

  “Dustin. She said his name was Dustin.”

  Baudin looked at Dixon, who nodded and immediately rose and left the office as he placed the call. A quick call to the administration office of the University of Wyoming should reveal a student named Dustin in the Sigma Mu fraternity.

  Baudin turned to Ruth, who was wiping away tears with her sleeve. He took a box of tissues off the desk and handed them to her.

  “What did they do to you, Ruth?”

  She swallowed. “We went over there, three of us. We thought we were so cool. Hanging out with college guys. And they started giving us booze. I swear, I only had one drink. Not even that. Less than, like, five sips. But I was so drunk. I was so drunk I couldn’t move. And one of the boys grabbed me, and he lifted me up and carried me upstairs, away from where anybody could see me. I went in and there was like, maybe twelve of them or more… I don’t know. There were so many…”

  He rested his hand on her forearm and just let it sit there. A long silence passed between them before she continued.

  “And, like, they laid me down on the bed. And they took turns. All of them.”

  “You saw their faces?”

  She shook her head. “They wore these, like… black hoods. I couldn’t see any of their faces except the one who carried me up.” She began to sob. “I couldn’t move, and I tried to scream and one of them shoved a rag in my mouth. And they held me down, and they took turns and…”

  “Shhh,” he said, wrapping his arm around her. Initially, she jolted as though startled, but then she eased into his warmth. Baudin closed his eyes, pretending that he was taking her pain into himself, that somehow he was lessening the agony she felt.

  Dixon opened the door and nodded.

  “I have to go,” Baudin said. “I’m going to stop these boys, Ruth. Do you hear me? They will never hurt anyone again. I promise.”

  She wiped the tears away.

  “Can you think of any other friends of Alli’s I should speak with?”

  “She didn’t have any friends. There’s a girl named Dora Sullivan, and that’s it.”

  Baudin kissed her on her forehead. “You have strength I can only imagine. Use that, turn to it. Hatred has energy, too, more than most things, but in the end it can eat you up—devour everything in your life. You take revenge somehow, whatever way you can, and then you close it like it never happened.”

  She nodded as he rose. At the door, he looked back and saw her sobbing again. Baudin shut the door behind him and walked into Daft’s office.

  “Detective, I assume—”

  Baudin grabbed him by his tie and pulled him across the desk, knocking over everything on the desktop. Dixon ran over and tried to pull Baudin away, wrapping his arms around the detective. Daft was choking from the tie. Dixon finally got the two men apart.

  “What the fuck!” Daft coughed as Dixon dragged Baudin out.

  When they were heading back to the car, Dixon asked, “What is your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “You can’t treat people that way. This is a small town. You’ll get a reputation, and you’ll be out on your ass. Not to mention that he will never help us again with anything.”

  “Fuck him.”

  Dixon stepped in front of him. “You can get more from people if you’re nice. Shit, you don’t even have to be nice, just fake it. Just for a few minutes. Or is that too hard? Would you feel too inauthentic, or some other bullshit you tell yourself to explain why you’re an asshole?”

  “He covered it up, man. That girl went to him for help, and he didn’t do shit. Probably knows one of the frat boys’ daddies.”

  “So what? It’s already done. Strangling him with his tie isn’t going to do anything, and now he’ll work against us. You gotta think, man. These are small town folks. Simple folks.”

  “Idiots, you mean.”

  “Well, everybody’s an idiot compared to the great Ethan Baudin, right? The nut job who can’t handle a big city career so he tries to move to a small town and is fucking that up, too.”

  Before another word came out of Dixon’s mouth, Baudin hit him. The blow was quick, a rabbit punch, and didn’t do much damage. But it was enough.

  Dixon rushed him, tackling him at the waist. Both men hit the ground hard, Dixon on top. He struck with his fist, bouncing Baudin’s head off the ground. When he tried to punch him again, Baudin stopped his arm at the biceps. He headbutted him, Dixon’s head snapping back with the blow to his nose. Baudin rolled him off.

  He got on top and was now the one hitting. Dixon wrapped his arms around him like a wrestler and pulled him close so he couldn’t strike him. Then he thrust his hips up and rolled on top of Baudin again. Dixon scrambled to his feet, holding his fists in a fighting stance.

  “Come on!” Dixon shouted.

  Baudin rose. He wiped the blood from his lip and instead moved slowly toward the car. He sat on the hood and lit a cigarette—one of the few that hadn’t been crushed during the tumble. Dixon watched him a moment and then went and sat on the hood, too. Neither said anything as Baudin smoked, and a bell rang in the school.

  33

  The precinct was awash in activity. The noise swamped Dixon as he stepped inside. The act of purposeful motion was calming to him, somehow, as if everything was just rolling on despite all the chaos. Life just moved on.

  Baudin came in after him. His lip was swollen, and he had a red cheek, but other than that he looked fine. Dixon hadn’t looked at himself and didn’t know what he was showing.

  They sat across from each other without a word and went to work on their computers. Dixon wanted a break from Alli Tavor. He hadn’t wanted to know about rape parties or any of it. His mind needed a reprieve.

  “Kyle,” Jessop yelled from his office, “get your ass in here. You too, tough guy.”

  They glanced at each other before Dixon rose and Baudin followed him. Inside Jessop’s office, Chief Crest sat on the couch, leaning to the side with his elbow on the armrest. A lit cigar held in between his fingers. He looked like a reclining king uninterested in his own kingdom.

  “Shut the door,” Jessop said.

  Dixon shut it.

  “Sir,” Dixon said, “about the vice principal. It was a—”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he said, his hands on his hips as he paced behind his desk. “The Sigma Mus had their house broken into last night.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “The only thing taken was a bunch of photographs. A guy dressed in black snuck in through the back door. You two know anything about that?”

  Dixon looked at Baudin, who was staring down at Jessop’s desk without moving.

  Dixon realized he’d been silent too long. He had to say something. “Why would we want to break into a frat house?”

  “You tell me.”

  Dixon shrugged and shook his head. “We ain’t got no reason for that. And we’re cops. We ain’t stupid.”

/>   Jessop turned to Baudin. “What about you, hotshot? You know anything about this?”

  “No, sir. Probably another frat.”

  He nodded. “Uh huh.” He looked from one to the other. “I find out either of you had anything to do with this… I don’t need to finish that sentence, do I?”

  “No, sir,” Dixon said.

  “Get out.”

  Dixon was the first to leave, glancing back at the chief, who hadn’t moved anything but his eyeballs. His gaze was set on Baudin.

  Once back at their desks, Dixon didn’t say anything. He typed a probable cause statement on a burglary case, finished the entire thing, and emailed it to the office assistant to print and email to the court for a warrant. He rose and headed out of the precinct to grab something to eat.

  Once outside, he was walking to his car when he heard Baudin behind him.

  “Wait.”

  Dixon didn’t acknowledge him. He kept walking, never looking back.

  “Would you wait a second?” Baudin grabbed his arm.

  Dixon pulled away violently. “I can’t believe you did this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Getting your ass in a sling is one thing, but I want to keep my job.”

  “I’m not saying anything about that.”

  He snorted. “So if I’m ever forced to testify against you, I can say I have no knowledge about the break-in. Nice. What the hell is the matter with you? We’re cops, Ethan. We’re fucking cops.”

  Baudin’s eyes changed. A gloominess came over him, and he took a step back and put his hands on his hips. A car drove by, and Baudin didn’t acknowledge it. “The darkness that’s eating this world doesn’t care, man. It doesn’t have ethics. It doesn’t have rules. And without that, it has a natural advantage. If we’re gonna level the playing field, we can’t think like you think.”

  “You mean actually following the law? Yeah, I think cops should follow the fucking law, Ethan,” he nearly shouted.

  “There is no law, man,” he said calmly. “There never was. It’s an illusion. The people in power exploit the people who have no power. We can stand between them. We can fight for people who have no power. And by the way, before you get too high on your holier-than-thou soapbox, everyone is capable of that darkness. Even you, man. Everyone. So don’t judge me for what I did. All my actions are for a greater good.”

  “Bullshit. All your actions are for Ethan Baudin and to hell with everyone else around him.”

  Dixon stormed off and jumped into his car. He peeled out with Baudin still standing there watching him. Dixon wasn’t sure which one of them he was more upset with: Baudin for lying to him and breaking into that house without telling him or himself for being envious that Baudin could do things like that.

  34

  Baudin stood in the parking lot, watching his partner drive away. He was a good man, Baudin decided, but damned naïve. Baudin went inside and got his jacket before heading to his car. Chief Crest was just coming out of the building at the same time.

  “I hope you had nothing to do with that, son,” the chief said. “That fraternity has some members that are… important people. They would be downright furious if they knew the police illegally entered the house and stole property that they weren’t entitled to.”

  Baudin nodded but said nothing. He turned away from the chief and got into his car, watching as the chief spoke into his cell and got into his Mercedes.

  Baudin Googled “Philip Arms” and saw that it was only twenty minutes from the precinct. He pulled out of the lot and drove to the interstate. The window was down, and the hot air blew over him. The smell was different here. The city didn’t have enough humanity to make it stink yet. It still had the scent of brush and desert, of rains that would pound the dirt and churn dust storms; a wild place in the process of being tamed, of becoming normal. That was most days. And every once in a while, the smell of whatever the factories were spewing out would fill the air, making the city stink like any other.

  He stopped at a shack selling burritos. He ordered beans with salsa—he was a vegan—and ate at a bench, wiping his hands with thick napkins. They weren’t the cheap stuff he’d expect from a place that should’ve been cutting costs.

  When the burrito was finished, he threw his paper plate and napkins into the trash. A couple of girls seated at a bench smiled at him. He smiled back and headed to his car.

  Philip Arms consisted of six apartment buildings surrounded by a knee-high white fence. Everything about the place said ostentation and impracticality. Baudin counted no fewer than five BMWs as he parked and got out.

  He walked to the first building, easily stepping over the fence and wondering why they had it in the first place, and scanned a cubby with mailboxes. They had first initials and last names, nothing starting with a T.

  The second and third buildings were the same. In the fourth was a mailbox for T. Aaron. Apartment 406.

  Baudin found 406 on the first floor, the back apartment in the corner. He didn’t check if anyone was home initially. Instead he went around the side of the building and looked in through the sliding glass doors. The curtains were open, and he could see the sliding door was unlocked. He glanced around and went in.

  Baudin shut the door quietly behind him and listened. There was a fan on in an adjacent room, and a shower was running. He cautiously stepped through the front room and peeked around the corner. Down a hallway, a door was open: the bathroom. He glided past silently and went to the bedroom.

  He searched the drawers, the closet, and underneath the bed. Nothing. The dresser was filled with nothing but socks and underwear. A shoebox in the closet held old family photos. As Baudin was about to give up and leave, he saw something in the corner of the closet: a black box. He bent down and lifted the lid.

  Inside were several pipes and a small baggie of marijuana. He smiled to himself, closed the lid, and left the apartment.

  Outside, he smoked a cigarette and paced in front of the building. The day was hot and made his neck sticky and uncomfortable. He checked the clock on his phone and saw that Heather would be coming home from school in an hour. Though not something she cared about or even noticed, he liked to be home when she got there.

  Baudin remembered his own childhood and the terror of coming home. One foster parent in particular, an old man named Gary, would have five or six foster children at all times, mostly boys, whom he treated relatively well—only delivering the occasional beating for disobedience or if he was drunk. But he always had one or two young girls, too.

  The girls were used to make pornography that Gary sent around the world. Gary didn’t make a dime off the porn. It was a phenomenon Baudin had never quite understood, even after his degrees in history and behavioral science and ten years as a detective: the need pedophiles had to share with other pedophiles what they had done. Maybe the fact that others out there shared their darkness made them feel better about it, almost human. But what Baudin saw Gary do to those two girls was certainly not human.

  One day, Baudin was taken from Gary’s home. It seemed Gary couldn’t take what he had done and shot himself. But that wasn’t what Baudin had seen. He remembered the episode as if it’d just happened. He came home from school and saw Gary slumped over a desk, a little girl of no more than ten standing behind him, and a pistol, the one Gary liked to use to shoot cans behind the house, lying on the floor.

  Baudin helped her clean up, and they promised no one would ever know what actually happened to Gary. And they thought no one ever did. But once Baudin became a detective himself, he found that the detectives investigating the case knew almost immediately what had happened and why they chose to ignore it. The death was ruled a suicide.

  Baudin tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk and ground it out before going back inside the building and pounded on the door of 406. A wet-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “You Thomas Aaron?”

  “Yes.”

  He flashed the badge.
“I’m Detective Ethan Baudin with the Cheyenne PD. We got a call of marijuana smoke wafting from your apartment.”

  “What? That’s crazy. I don’t have any marijuana.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I have a look around, will you, sir?”

  The man thought a moment. “No. No, that’s fine.”

  Baudin entered the apartment. He strode to the center of the room and stood still. “I smell pot here.”

  “There’s no pot. I never touch the stuff.”

  “Not fresh pot, but pot. Like you’ve smoked it in the past few days. Carpet absorbs the scent. You get used to it, but for someone coming in, it’s clear as day.”

  The man swallowed. “I don’t…”

  Baudin turned and strode down the hall. He looked in the bathroom and in a hall closet before going into the bedroom and standing in the doorway. Thomas stood in the living room, his face pale and his eyes wide. Baudin went to step inside.

  “Please,” he said. “Please.”

  “Please what, Mr. Aaron?”

  “I’m a CPA. I can’t have a criminal conviction on my record. Please, I’ll do anything.”

  Baudin crossed the hallway and stood in front of him. “How much pot am I gonna find in that bedroom?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “More than five ounces?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “I’m guessing you got a firearm in that closet, too, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. But just a pistol I use for home defense.”

  Baudin made a clicking sound with his cheek. “See, now that’s a problem. Whenever a firearm is in proximity to a stash of drugs, that’s an automatic felony. We assume the gun is used in furtherance of buying or selling drugs.”

  “What? No, I never even take it out of the case.”

  “Well, you’ll have to explain that to the prosecutor and the judge.”

  “No,” he said, grabbing Baudin’s arm. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

  Baudin glanced down at the hand.