by Robin Roseau
Suffice it to say, I was at work, pushing paper, digging through numbers, watching trends... you get the idea. My cell phone rang. I glanced at the number before answering; I didn't recognize the number, but it was local.
"Detective St. Claire."
I listened to the caller before I advised, "File a missing persons report."
"I did. The lead investigator worked diligently, then all of a sudden he stopped taking my calls. I finally showed up at his office, and I sat there all day before he'd finally tell me, 'We'll contact you if we learn anything.' Someone shut the investigation down."
"I don't do missing persons anymore, and if you suspect police malfeasance, there is an internal affairs division."
"You owe me. Find out what happened. And find my cousin. You owe me. Check your email. It's everything I have."
* * * *
I stared at the phone afterwards. I sighed and turned to my computer.
The email was already waiting for me. I read through everything. The missing woman was Rachel Spencer, 34 years old, five-foot-six, brown hair, brown eyes. Pretty. I stared at the photo for a minute or two, remembering the only time I'd seen her. We'd met once, and I'd been warned she was "a rabid Christian". But I'd liked her, and while she might, indeed, have been a rabid Christian, she wasn't a homophobe. And so I had liked her.
I switched programs. It took only a minute to find her file. I read through it.
Her disappearance was reported a month ago; it had taken a while before anyone reported her. It appeared she'd now been missing for six weeks. There had been a week and a half of serious investigation, but then suddenly, the only updates were to record phone calls from the worried family.
The department had clearly dropped the case.
Sometimes, we find someone who doesn't want to be found. If that had happened, there would be an update.
But that hadn't happened.
I read through everything again.
There were notes, early on. An airline search had been done; she hadn't been registered as a passenger anywhere in the last six months. I began an updated check to see if that had changed.
Her car had been reported -- parked in a Quick Stop parking lot. It had been towed and eventually claimed by the family. I checked the dates -- the car had been towed four days after Ms. Spencer's disappearance. There was no note for how long it had sat in that particular parking lot. Some places towed aggressively; some advertised no overnight parking or towing after 24 hours, but they didn't necessarily actually tow as aggressively as they threatened.
I went back through the early reports. The initial investigators -- Officer Janes and Sergeant McCullum -- had checked the area nearest the Quick Stop, but they reported the typical, "nobody saw anything or remembers the woman".
Still, the Quick Stop was miles from Ms. Spencer's home, and that part of town wasn't known for the sorts of businesses a "rabid Christian" would frequent.
Of course, like anyone else, "rabid Christians" sometimes had things to hide.
It was tempting to call Sergeant McCullum and get his take, but I didn't. I had a well-developed set of skills that fell under "job security". Meddling in someone else's case was antithetical to getting along with my fellow officers. Unless I found something concrete, I'd eventually have to talk to the sergeant, but I wasn't going to lead with that.
No, no. I'd start with the woman's -- I checked -- apartment. And her car. I'd go from there.
Investigation
Before I could see the apartment or car, I needed keys. I wouldn't mind permission, either. Otherwise I was trespassing. That's not a good step for job security, either. And so, I presented myself to the front receptionist at Tate, Armstrong, Harris, and Jackson Legal Services. It wasn't the first time I'd been here, but the receptionist was new since my last visit.
"I'm Detective St. Claire," I said, "here to see Ms. Brewer."
"Detective," the woman said, her smile professional. "Ms. Brewer is unavailable, but I have this for you." She slipped me an envelope. Inside were two keys and a note that I'd find the car keys in the apartment. The car itself was in its stall in the apartment building's underground lot.
It was probably best I hadn't come face-to-face with Ms. Brewer, not with our history.
I thanked the receptionist.
* * * *
I drove around the block once. It was actually a pretty nice building, although I wouldn't go so far as to call it "upscale". There were three floors, ample parking for guests, and a fenced garden in back. Not bad for the city.
I had already decided I wasn't going to canvas the building. McCullum and Janes had already done that. Nobody had known anything, and the apartment security didn't log the comings and goings. I didn't think I'd find more than they had. I could always come back. But I didn't think the case was going to be solved here. I thought it was going to be solved at the Quick Stop. This was background, and that's all it was. Or at least that was what I decided.
I parked, climbed from my car, and approached the front door. I had a fifty-fifty chance of choosing the correct key for the lock. Of course, I chose wrong. I hoped that wasn't a sign of things to come.
There wasn't anything special about the apartment. If you've seen one and all that. Ms. Spencer lived on the second floor, and I took the stairs. I let myself in, pocketing the keys.
It was a simple, one-bedroom apartment. It was clean and sparse, although homey in a way. All the artwork had a religious theme, and there was a Bible on the living room coffee table. The inserted bookmark brought me to Revelations.
On the kitchen counter I found a key for a Toyota -- Ms. Spencer drove a Corolla. There was also a key for the mailbox downstairs. I eyed it for a minute. There was a significant stack of unopened mail on the dinette table, leading me to believe someone had been stopping by to collect the mail and leaving it here. I wondered if that same person was paying the bills.
I left the mailbox key where it was. If someone had been taking in the mail, then I wouldn't find any hints in the mailbox; any available would be on this table. I pocketed the car key then pulled out a chair and sat down in front of the mail. I began sorting.
"Bill. Junk. Junk. Junk. Bill. Hmm. Bill. Junk. Junk." I ended up with a very large pile of junk, a modest pile of bills, and three of interest. I stared at them, sitting in front of me.
Opening someone else's mail could get me into trouble. If this were my case... I stared at them.
"Fuck it," I said. I grabbed a knife from the block on the counter, slit the three envelopes open, returned the knife to the block, then emptied the first envelope.
It had looked far more interesting on the outside. It was nothing but a marketing letter from a Christian Retreat center in Maine. "Nut jobs," I said. "Demons and Devils: Cleansing Our Earth." Seriously? They have retreats where you learn to throw holy water at people you think are demons? "Nut jobs," I repeated. I replaced the contents in the envelope and slipped it into the middle of the "junk" pile.
The second envelope caught my eye only because it was hand-addressed. It was clearly personal. I opened it and withdrew two sheets of handwritten paper. It was a letter between friends. "Hey, Rach," it began. "What's up? You never replied to my last letter." After that, it was a typical letter, catching Rachel up on the uninteresting events in the life of Naomi-no-last-name. Naomi hadn't been so kind to leave a return address on the envelope, either. The only thing the letter told me was that it was unlikely Naomi knew Rachel's whereabouts. I replaced the letter and shoved it near the bottom of the bills pile.
The third envelope contained something very interesting. It was a newsletter titled "The Witch's Circle". It took me about a half a minute to come to the conclusion these witches weren't real witches; they were witch wannabes. An article titled "the healing power of crystals" was a pretty big hint, I must admit.
"Interesting," I said. "The good Ms. Spencer is interested in demons and witches. Interesting, indeed."
I shoved the envel
ope in amongst the rest then randomly resorted everything, leaving it in a pile vaguely resembling the appearance when I entered. No one need ever know I'd taken a peek.
After that, I prowled the apartment. As I said, there wasn't much to find. Her closet contained the sort of clothes I might expect. Jeans, skirts, blouses, a few dresses, all of average quality. It was divided business clothes on one side, casual on the other.
But there was an entire dresser devoted to sweaters. This girl liked her sweaters.
I pawed through her underwear for a minute, wondering if I was going to find anything shocking. Disappointingly, no, I did not.
"Rachel, you are one boring woman."
There were no sex toys tucked in the back of the nightstand or hidden amongst the sweaters, no packages of just-in-case condoms, no evidence of any sort this woman kept overnight visitors. There was one toothbrush in the holder and no signs of a backup. No slutty shoes. The skirts and dresses were all knee-length or longer. The blouses were good cotton and carefully pressed.
"Boring, boring, boring. All right. Wholesome, but boring."
I turned to the bookshelf. She had two, side-by-side in the living room. She still kept her college textbooks, or some of them, anyway. She had a few books on current events and two shelves on world history. The second bookcase consisted of various religious texts and one shelf of Christian fiction.
The only thing I found interesting: there were holes in the shelves, a space big enough for a book or two. Other than the Bible, I hadn't found any other books in the apartment.
I tapped my lips. "I wonder what's missing." Maybe she had loaned them to people. Maybe she hadn't put them back where they belonged.
I prowled, looking for any sign, any sign at all that something else might be missing. But I didn't know what to look for.
She had a guitar. I picked up the case, set it on the sofa, and opened it. I rummaged through it. She had two songbooks -- religious music, of course -- and an envelope of loose music, much of it written out in hand. It was all more of the same.
I strummed the guitar, then pulled it out, tried a barely-remembered C-chord, and strummed. The guitar wasn't in perfect tune, but it was close, as far as my ear could tell.
I put everything back.
I turned on her television. It was tuned to the local public television station. I turned it off. At least I hadn't found myself staring at Pat Robertson. I shuddered just thinking about it.
I turned to her computer last. I hadn't found a laptop, but I did find a tired-looking Windows computer. It was turned off. I found the power switch with my fingers and turned it on. Silence.
"Interesting," I said.
I found the power strip. It was turned on, with a flickering little red light cheerily wasting a trickle of energy just sitting there, providing light no one needed. It took me five minutes before I discovered the power cord was pulled out of the back of the computer. I felt stupid.
I dug around under the desk, plugged it in, and made sure the other connections were good. I flipped the power switch, and the fan began to hum.
I crawled out from under the desk, sat down at the inexpensive desk chair, and waited for the computer to finish booting.
Except it didn't. It went through the boot sequence but then happily informed me there was no boot device.
I stared. No boot device? Seriously?
I wasn't a computer expert. If I were, what was I doing working as a cop? I'd make a lot better money if I were a geek, right?
But I wasn't an idiot, either. I knew how to use a computer; I knew how quite well. And I also knew how to open up a computer and take a peek inside.
In my rummaging around, I'd found a small toolbox in the front closet. I grabbed it and came back. I powered down the recalcitrant machine, unplugged everything, and pulled it out. It took me two minutes to get the cover off and another minute to verify one simple fact: the slot that would normally hold the hard drive was empty.
I grabbed my phone, took a bunch of pictures, and then sent a text. "Does Rachel's computer work?" The reply arrived before I had the machine all the way back where it belonged, no evidence I'd been there. "As far as I know. Why?"
I didn't respond.
Until then, I knew we had a missing person's case. But now I was positive it wasn't a simple disappearance. This was a deliberate cover up.
I wondered what books were missing.
I wondered what was on that missing hard drive. If Janes and McCullum had wanted the information on the computer, they would have taken the entire computer. But there'd been no note they had even touched it.
This was a real case, and the cover up involved the department.
"Fuck!"
Breadcrumbs
I searched the car; it was clean. Either there hadn't been anything to find, or someone had made sure there wasn't anything to find. I couldn't be sure which. I returned to the apartment to drop off the keys then sent a text.
"Call me ASAP. Urgent."
My phone rang five minutes later. "What did you find?"
I gave a summary. The phone was still for a while. "Cover up."
"Yeah."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Is she dead?"
"I don't know. Probably."
"Why isn't the department taking this more seriously? Someone like Rachel doesn't just disappear."
"Because someone told them to drop it."
"Oh, fuck."
"Yeah."
More silence. Finally, "What are you going to do next?"
"Get a lawyer on retainer. Know any?"
"I'm loaning you a buck." I heard rustling. "Hell, I don't have one. I'm loaning you $20. Now you're paying my firm to put us on retainer. Teigan, are you in trouble?"
"No. Do I need to sign anything?"
"You'll keep looking."
"Yes."
"Are you going to lose your job?"
"I might. I'm not worried about that. I'll get my job back when my lawyer threatens to make this a national case. I can't imagine $20 is going to buy me much of your time."
"It won't be me. Don't worry about that. If you need a lawyer, I'll pay it."
I thought about it. "I'll try to avoid that, but thanks."
"You'll keep looking?"
"You know the drill."
"I know. You'll keep looking?"
"For now. There's a lot still to look at."
"Thank you for doing this."
"You're welcome."
"Are you still going to say that if you lose your job, or need a lawyer?"
"Yep." I paused. "I tried to get away from this shit."
"You're in white collar now. Why?"
"White collar doesn't lead to closed casket funerals."
We sat on the phone for a minute, neither saying a thing.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"You're welcome."
* * * *
I called Sergeant McCullum. We didn't know each other, but I said I wanted to ask about a case of his. We arranged to meet at a Starbucks. Twenty minutes later, I was buying coffee for both of them, and then we sat down at a quiet table in the corner.
"Rachel Spencer," I said.
"Don't know the name," McCullum said immediately. I refreshed his memory.
"Oh. Right. Missing girl." He narrowed his eyes. "She an old girlfriend?"
"I'm a friend of the family. They're wondering about the case."
"I told that one -- the lawyer. God, I hate lawyers. I told that damned lawyer I'd let her know if we found anything. She keeps calling anyway." He leaned forward. "I think she took off with some guy. The family seems really uptight, and the girl lived a really sheltered life. She finally found someone exciting. You know how it is."
"Did you check out her apartment?"
"Of course we checked out her apartment. It was the first thing we did. Nada."
"What did you find on her computer?"
"We didn't look that hard. We didn't have her
password."
"I checked the file." He narrowed his eyes again. Before he could complain, I went on. "You know how it is. Family friend and all that. If you got a call, you'd check. I'm not stepping on any toes. I just want to be able to tell them we're still looking."
"We're still looking," he said. "But it's been six weeks. She's either going to show up on her own, or she's not."
I actually didn't blame them for that. They were probably right, now that it had been six weeks. But it had been a lot fewer than six weeks when they stopped looking.
"When you checked her computer-"
"I told you. We couldn't get around her password, and without any evidence of foul play, it wasn't worth going all CSI about it. I shut it off and we moved on."
I leaned closer. "I was in her apartment when I called you."
"God damn it, St. Claire! You're interfering-"
I cut him off. "The hard disk is missing from her computer." Then I leaned back. "So sometime after you checked, someone entered her apartment and stole the hard disk."
He glanced at his partner, but the sergeant was the lead investigator. "Look, St. Claire, you need to drop this. It's not your case."
"It seems like it's not your case anymore, either. Something happened to that girl, and shacking up with some guy isn't it."
"We don't have the manpower-"
"I think she's dead, and so do you. Why isn't homicide involved?"
"There's not one sign-"
"Missing hard drives. Something was on them, or at least somebody thought something was on them. Are you going to do something about it?"
He leaned back, watching me. Finally he spoke. "I'll check it out."
"Thanks. Will you keep me posted? Maybe I can keep the pesky lawyer off your back."
He paused a moment before nodding.
"Thanks," I said again.
But I was pretty sure he wasn't going to do a thing.
* * * *
I drove to the Quick Stop. I introduced myself to the clerk, who called the manager up. The manager invited me back to his office, and we got right to business.