Kidnapped ik-10

by Jan Burke

  “Yes. If any of the major networks had heard about it, they might have sent a camera crew over, as long they were in the neighborhood.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did Anna know Ben was there?”

  I was speechless.

  Mark smiled. “As my mama used to say, ‘Better close your mouth, or you’ll catch flies.’”

  So I stopped gaping, but I didn’t feel any less dumbfounded.

  “Is that silence a yes?” he asked.

  “It’s a — I can’t believe it. It would go against — I mean, he might easily have told her where he’d be, or she could have heard him talking to the coroner when he got the call, and she obviously knew he was going to be tied up there for a few hours, because she used that time to move stuff out of the house. That bitch!”

  “Oooh. I can see who’s going to get Irene Kelly when the two of them divvy up their friends.”

  “Never in doubt. Not given what Ben and I have been through together.”

  He grew suddenly serious. “No, of course not. Sorry.”

  Ben and I were among the few survivors of an expedition to the mountains that had gone horribly wrong. Unfortunately, one of the other survivors was a serial killer. That man inflicted the wound that caused Ben to lose the lower half of his left leg. I just lost at least half my sanity, but Ben helped me back from that, too. It’s not too much to say we’ve saved each other’s lives, but that’s not nearly saying enough about our friendship.

  “No need to apologize,” I said to Mark. “I’ll be sorry to lose Anna’s friendship, if it comes to that. I hope it doesn’t. But to go back to what you were saying earlier, it would be… let’s say, unlike Anna to talk to someone about where Ben was working on a crime scene, but not impossible.”

  “I’ll ask Sheila about it when I talk to her. But that wasn’t what was bothering you when you were talking about the next-of-kin notification.”

  “Sorry, got distracted. Here’s the thing. Ben sifts through the soil at a scene where there are remains. Children’s bones are small and could be carried off by scavengers, but I find it hard — almost impossible — to believe that Ben found absolutely no trace of a child’s remains if they were there.”

  “Okay, not impossible, but I agree, especially because she went to the same search area. And I’m with you and Ben about Sheila — the bullshit buzzer is going off for me, too.”

  “So if she planted those teeth and pretended to find them — which would be easy enough with Anna standing so far from her — and the teeth belonged to a child, how did she know about the missing boy? The coroner hasn’t even issued a press release about the father. So if Gerald Serre’s name isn’t out yet, why would you assume the body of an adult would be accompanied by the body of a child?”

  His response was gratifying. I didn’t even remind him about what his mother said on the subject of catching flies.

  “If they can get DNA from them,” he said, “they’ll prove that.”

  “If — but it’s not always possible to get it from teeth. Besides, the county lab is doing all the DNA work now. And they’re backed up. DNA will take weeks if not months.”

  “This will get high priority, I’m sure, but you’re right, even if they rush it, we’re looking at a week at least.”

  “So, Mark — let’s find out all we can about Sheila Dolson.”

  “Better leave it to me, Kelly. John won’t like you getting yourself too far into this story.”

  Knowing he was right, and was perfectly capable of doing the job, did not in any way ease my sense of frustration.

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday, April 24

  6:47 P.M.

  A CONDOMINIUM IN LAS PIERNAS

  CLEO SMITH slept odd hours, waking and rising as suited her needs. At a time of day when others would be sitting down to family meals, she was asleep in her large, antique feather bed. She awakened the moment the phone rang. By the time it rang a second time, she answered it with typical alertness. The person on the other end of the line heard no drowsiness in her voice as she said in a cool and neutral tone, “Yes?”

  “There was a disturbing report on the news this evening.”

  A man’s voice. She knew the voice. Giles. While she had been ready to hang up on a misdialer, nothing about this caller caused her to relax. She turned on a small lamp next to her bed. It gave off a soft, low light.

  “Really?” she said. Noncommittal again.

  “A man’s body was found on the Sheffield Estate.”

  She felt the tension go out of her. She had the upper hand now. “Why are you telling me about it?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me—”

  “Don’t say my name,” she interrupted, knowing her name would have been the next word out of his mouth. Studying herself in the mirror over the bed, she tapped a cigarette from the pack on her nightstand and lit it.

  “Are you smoking?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She made a smoke ring, knowing he would be annoyed if he could see it.

  “What’s bothering you?” he asked, his voice gentle now.

  “I’m not the one who called.”

  He waited.

  She sighed. “How big a mess are you in?”

  “We.”

  “Hmm. Okay. We.”

  “No name released yet, but when I learned — Well, it’s only a matter of time, and probably not that much time.”

  She was silent.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “Two years ago—”

  “Not this again!”

  “Two years ago,” she said firmly, “you-know-who gave my job to someone else. And what has come of that?”

  “You weren’t in the country.”

  “Thanks to you!”

  “Are you saying it would have been better if you were here?”

  She hesitated, then said, “No. Only that you should have waited for me to return.”

  “We couldn’t wait! Listen — if you want me to say that this whole business is completely fucked up, and that if you had done it, we’d be all right, then fine, you have that admission from me.” He paused but could not keep himself from adding bitterly, “Again.”

  She smiled. Took a drag. Blew a smoke ring.

  “I know the address,” she said.

  “You know…” He was clearly shocked. She found it delightful that she could throw him so off-balance.

  “I know the address, the layout, the obstacles. I’ve been preparing for weeks.” Years, she added silently.

  “I just — You amaze me, that’s all.”

  Time to relent a little. “Say the word, and I’ll deal with it.”

  There was a long silence, but she could hear his breathing, the change in it made by certain kinds of stress. This was always so hard on him. She wished she could be there with him, to actually see the tension in him.

  “Please,” he whispered at last.

  “Of course,” she said, soothingly now. No point — or pleasure — in pushing him too far.

  She looked at the clock next to the bed, anticipating his next question. He didn’t disappoint her.

  “When?” Still whispering.

  “Within the next few hours. Call me at ten. Not this number.”

  “Of course not.”

  She smoked the cigarette, listening to his breathing steady.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. She made a kissing sound. “Good-bye for now.”

  “Be careful,” he said, just as she knew he would.

  “You, too.”

  He made a kissing sound, too, just before he hung up.

  She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray — almost never used — next to the bed. She looked up into the mirror and ran her hands over her skin from shoulders to crotch. Then she stretched like a cat — a very proud cat, pleased with what she saw. Time to get up.

  She sang a little song to herself as she made her way to the shower.

&nbs
p; She loved her work.

  CHAPTER 16

  Monday, April 24

  7:20 P.M.

  OFFICE OF THE EXECUTIVE EDITOR

  LAS PIERNAS NEWS EXPRESS

  JOHN was still in his office when we got back to the paper. Mark and I spent a few minutes filling him in on recent events, then Mark went to his desk to make a few changes in his story — and to try to contact Jane Serre for comment. I was still talking to John when Mark leaned his head in the doorway.

  “She’s got a photo of her son she’s willing to give me. Want to run it?”

  John glanced at the clock on his wall. “Hurry. I’ll hold the front page as long as I can. If you can talk her out of one of her ex, even better.”

  As Mark left, John sighed and said, “There goes the whole front page.”

  He stood up, ready to go out and start ordering changes.

  “I’m headed home, then,” I said.

  “Kelly, hold up.”

  I looked back at him.

  “I know you and Ben Sheridan are close friends, and that probably prejudices you against this dog woman, so I still want Mark to cover this—”

  “I understand. I was glad to be of help today, but it’s Mark’s story.”

  “Thing is, he’s tied up tonight tracking down the widow. But after listening to you talk about this Sheila Dolson, I find myself being as cynical as Ben. Mind putting in a few minutes on research before you head out this evening?”

  “A few minutes?” I laughed.

  “Just make a start, anyway. By all rights, we should at least cover what happened out there with the dog tonight. We can be careful about how we phrase things, but… I smell a setup here, and let’s just say I don’t want the paper to be burned if it turns out she’s a fake.”

  The paper had been caught up in a scandal of its own making not many weeks earlier, and I knew John was being extremely cautious these days. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll look into it.”

  “Good. And tomorrow morning, let’s talk about that follow-up piece about the missing children you pitched to me earlier. With this story on the Serres, maybe we can make a go of it.”

  THE name Sheila Dolson didn’t produce any likely hits on any search engine. That amazed me. She had the kind of need for attention that surely would have put her name up on the Web if not in a newspaper, and stories of dogs finding people — even dead ones — would usually find space in a paper.

  I considered trying a business search. Most search-and-rescue work was done on a volunteer basis, but Sheila claimed she was also a trainer. I was about to enter “obedience training” — although I quickly realized I’d probably have to sort through a lot of hits for bondage sites — when I had a sudden inspiration. I looked up the home phone number for Melna Knox, a friend who started out at the Express but had moved to Chicago a few years ago and now worked for the Tribune. She’s a dog lover, and when she lived here, her dogs had been in dog shows and competitions.

  Sheila had told me she moved here from the Chicago area and had once mentioned to me that she did agility training, which implied the possibility that she had dogs in competition. Melna’s dogs might be involved in something completely different, but there was a chance Melna might know Sheila from that world of highly trained dogs. If so, Melna might be able to give me some insight even a news file wouldn’t provide.

  Or tell me she had never heard of Sheila, and remind me that in a city the size of Chicago, they could work in the same building and not know each other — but I wouldn’t be any worse off for trying.

  I dialed, and she answered on the fourth ring.

  The hello was sleepy.

  “Melna? It’s Irene. Sorry — I didn’t think you’d be in bed at” — I glanced at a clock and did the arithmetic — “ten o’clock.”

  “Irene? Oh… usually I’m not. But I’ve had the flu.”

  “Sorry you’ve been ill.” I felt guilty. I should have just used the computer to search for information. Maybe Altair had his own Web site.

  “What’s up? Must be a story if you’re calling me at this time of night.”

  “Just trying to get some background. Dog world stuff.”

  “Unless it’s agility competition, there’s probably not much I can help you with.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Do you know a dog handler named Sheila Dolson?”

  “You’ve got the name wrong, I think.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Dog is a German shepherd named Altair.”

  “Now I know you’ve got it wrong. Her name was Chula — C-H-U-L-A. Not Sheila.”

  The name difference surprised me, but it wasn’t what caught my attention. Amazing how one small verb can make you feel cold. “Was?”

  “She died — she was murdered near the beginning of the year. Sad case.”

  I fell silent, trying to take in all the implications.

  “Irene? You there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting that answer. Did she live in the Chicago area? Did the Trib cover the murder?”

  “Yes to both. Several articles. I think we ran an obit on her, too. I didn’t know her, really — she was involved in SAR, so her agility work was related to that, but people say that she and the dog were a great team.”

  “You know what happened to the dog?”

  “I can’t help you much there. I remember hearing that some relative might take him, and there was gossip that the SAR community wasn’t all that happy about that. Felt he should go to someone who knew how to work with him.”

  She woke up enough at that point to ask me why I wanted to know, and I simply said that I thought I had met the relative with the dog and was trying to get some background. She seemed skeptical but settled for an assurance that I’d call or e-mail her if anything connected with Chicago came up. We spent a little time catching up with each other after that, but between her illness and my deadline, we couldn’t talk for long.

  The name Chula Dolson brought up forty hits, mostly from Illinois papers and television stations. I used the Tribune obit as my starting point.

  It was dated January 18. A photo of a woman with her arm around Altair was included with the story. The dog in the photo looked exactly like the one I had met earlier in the day. But the woman next to him was at least twenty-five years older than Sheila Dolson.

  Chula Dolson had the face of a prizefighter who hadn’t won many rounds. She might have been a handsome woman before her nose had been broken and healed crooked, before someone had given her a rope of scar tissue that ran diagonally across the left side of her face and pulled at one eyelid.

  She died at the age of fifty-one. She was the founder of the nonprofit Forensic Search Associates of Illinois, Inc., and according to the article, a beloved trainer who had shared her expertise with hundreds of other dog handlers.

  She had established what she referred to as “an interdisciplinary search team,” using dogs, forensic anthropologists, a helicopter pilot, and a wildlife specialist, and a variety of other experts. She talked corporations into funding their equipment, travel, and other costs. The organization helped various law enforcement agencies throughout the state and had received honors from a number of civic groups. The article noted that she avoided the spotlight and always made sure the group’s sponsors received glory in exchange for their generosity.

  I stopped and reread that line. It would have been enough to assure me that I was dealing with a different person, even if the photo and the age of Chula Dolson hadn’t run with the obit.

  The obit included a number of tributes to her from those in law enforcement, who spoke of the help they had received from her work with Altair.

  There were also tributes from groups involved in fighting domestic violence, which she also supported, again in a quiet way — mostly by talking to women in shelters. Chula had been severely abused by her ex-husband, Derek Mansfield. She had seen him successfully prosecuted for his abuse, divorced him while he was in prison, moved from California, c
hanged her name, and started life anew in Chicago.

  Derek Mansfield was being sought in her murder.

  I found the person I was looking for a few paragraphs down the page.

  “She is survived by a daughter, Sheila.”

  OTHER stories revealed more about the murder.

  Released from prison after serving time for abusing his ex-wife, Derek Mansfield violated his parole and traveled to Illinois. No one knew how he had learned of her whereabouts, but using false identification, he had checked into a nearby motel and apparently spent several days studying Chula’s movements. One evening, as Sheila took Altair for a walk, Mansfield entered Chula’s home, shot her, and set fire to the house.

  Neighbors were able to give a good description of the man they saw fleeing the house after hearing the shots.

  A follow-up story, two weeks later, said that police had received a tip that he was staying in a rural motel. His body was discovered in his room; he had apparently shot himself before he could be captured. The gun he used to kill himself was believed to be the one he used to kill his ex-wife.

  One story about Chula came from the local paper of her small town outside Chicago and had a little more to offer about Sheila. Chula’s neighbors were quoted as saying that one source of great joy for Chula was that she had been recently reunited with her daughter.

  In California, almost thirty years ago, Chula had complied with her then-husband’s demands and made arrangements for a private adoption of Sheila at birth. Her husband had gladly pocketed the fee the couple had paid. Over the years, Chula had mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was relieved that Sheila had not grown up with Derek Mansfield’s abuse, and had not witnessed the domestic violence Chula suffered, violence that had disfigured her. She knew that the couple who had adopted Sheila had taken good care of her. But Chula was also haunted by her separation from her only child.

  I CALLED John over and showed him what I had found out.

  “Kelly, you saved us. I knew this one didn’t smell right. Taking credit for her murdered mother’s work. Ugh.”