When steady again, she resumed cleaning the remaining machines. Only one closed door remained in the hallway: his office, she guessed, because he spent most of his time there and because she’d found almost nothing personal or revealing anywhere else upstairs. There he must do his “important work,” as she’d improvised in the basement, whatever that might be. Harking back to their first encounter at the garage sale, he did buy that collection of Playboy magazines. Were they stacked in his office for regular attention or the unwanted part of a package deal which he later tossed?
If his office held sensitive secrets, work or play, he still might instruct her to clean there. At last she’d satisfy her curiosity by learning what he did, even if she could never use the information because he’d kill her first. She gulped at this incongruity.
If Wrestler were one of the boys in the hatbox photos, how did the facts connect? The letters suggested first their cruel father abused the boys and then their broken mother, who saw her despised, insane husband in his sons. Jennifer couldn’t imagine hurting a helpless child, but from Childhelp volunteering she recalled the sobering statistic that five youngsters die every day in America from abuse or neglect.
She thought of the school house outside. What if it weren’t a playhouse at all, but a dementedly different kind of “learning” house? If so, what had the boys endured there? And that pet grave under the cross. Was an animal buried there… or something else?
Tina?
Even if the savage cruelty of Wrestler’s mother triggered his hatred of women, despising that horrible woman was one thing but randomly murdering innocent women to defy her, quite another. How differently it might have turned out if he’d broken that chain of violence, by himself or with outside help. She knew the statistics: without intervention, one-third of abused waifs would then abuse their own kids and on and on… What a sickening spiral of vicious human behavior.
Jennifer’s earlier idea to gain an edge by psyching out her captor had faded. Unable to defend herself physically, she’d hoped at least to defend herself verbally, perhaps with a tirade of discovered truths he thought no one else knew. Or would that further enrage him, intensifying his resolve to extinguish her knowledge in ways too terrible to imagine? Or maybe she could calmly talk him out of his plan for her, proposing treatment alternatives instead of further brutality. Sure! Who was she kidding?
Opening the closet to clean inside, she found a zippered plastic suit bag pushed to one end. Glancing anxiously toward the open door, she slid the zipper down and spread the bag open. A military uniform hung inside with two shirts on adjacent hangers and two sets of fatigues behind those. On the hat shelf above the suit bag gleamed a pair of highly polished black dress shoes and a second pair of worn high-top combat boots. Looking furtively again toward the door, she unzipped the bag far enough to see the name stitched above the fatigue uniform shirt pocket. “Yates,” she read before zipping the bag closed, a hasty glance toward the open door confirming that only the dog observed her stealth.
Only one machine left to clean. Two books lay on the treadmill’s stand, one closed and atop it a smaller open book, apparently material he studied when working out the last time.
Sliding the top book aside, she read the title beneath: “The Militia Handbook.” Covering it again with the small opened book, she saw the picture of a small frog with reddish orange upper body above blue legs and hind quarters, almost as if the tiny creature wore blue trousers.
She read:
“Red and Blue Poison Dart Frog (dendrobates pumilio) and its ‘cousins’; small, 2-3 cm brightly colored frogs found in Costa Rica, Panama and Ecuador, eat small insects and beetles. Their toxin, batrachotoxin, more potent than curare and ten times more potent than tetrodotoxin from the puffer fish, affects the nervous system. Currently no effective antidote exists for the treatment of batrachotoxin poisoning. Each frog contains enough poison to kill 20,000 mice. Humans can get sick just by touching the frog’s skin. Central and South American natives use the frog’s poison on their hunting darts. The frog’s consumption of certain beetles, which either make the toxin or get it from their own food chain, appears strategic to the manufacture of the frog’s toxin because captured frogs fed a different diet lose their poison.”
Impossible! Frogs, snails, turtles and butterflies were the “safe” wild creatures she’d encouraged her growing children to catch and play with. She didn’t dream frogs anywhere were dangerous. She riffled curiously through succeeding pages, which pictured more brightly colored frogs with similarly descriptive text. Flipping back to the cover, she read the title, “Poison Frogs and Toads of Central and South America.” Was this her intended fate? Would a poisoned nervous system cause her excruciating end?
No, she guessed, he’d do that job with his own two hands. And thinking of those hands, she realized with resignation that looking at the man’s left hand might serve her curiosity, but not her escape.
She patted her pants’ pockets, feeling the small clock in one and Tina’s frog in the other. She rubbed the little frog. This one containing no poison. But perhaps, a miracle? If ever she needed good luck, now was the time.
The cleaning finished, her finger hovered over the buzzer. If she pressed it, would her life end in the next few minutes? She’d wait, buying time, until he appeared next. But at that very moment, he materialized, nearly filling the doorway with his stocky frame.
“Well?”
“Finished,” Jennifer said, hoping to god it wasn’t the literal truth.
CHAPTER 43
Approaching Hannah’s house to spend some brief time with her before he went to work, Adam fought the triple frustration of getting nowhere fast on an important case, of his personal stake in its outcome and of witnessing Hannah’s anxiety.
He liked Jennifer Shannon from the moment she marched into his office with her logical theories about the moving-sale burglaries. Since then, his tender feelings for Hannah had grown until he felt personally entwined in everything surrounding this case. Now that he and Hannah dated regularly, he enjoyed not only the companionship of this lovely, bright girl, but also the dynamics of her big, affectionate family. He’d missed out on this as an only child.
Working on a case involving people he knew and liked, he vowed early not to let his subjectivity compromise the objectivity the case demanded. In fact, he felt his focus and dedication increased because of his personal involvement, providing heightened motivation that could make a positive difference. For Adam, this wasn’t “just another case.”
Adam hated seeing Hannah so forlorn, his attempt at calming platitudes ringing hollow even to his own ears. What you most want to do is comfort someone you care about who suffers distress. Yet, short of finding her missing mother, he knew his well-meant words sounded ineffective. And despite his best efforts, never mind those of the entire police force, would Mrs. Shannon ever be found—alive or dead? His heart twisted when Hannah looked up at him and said, “You’re a detective. Can’t you do something?”
“If only I could! The department just has no leads, Hannah. We’ve shown your mom’s photo to all the people who listed sales in the paper that day. Some remember her, some don’t, but nobody noticed when she left, what direction she went or recalls her mentioning where she’d go next. You know what a zoo those sales can be. We’ve shown her picture, description and license number on the media. We’re doing everything we can.”
“Adam, I’m so scared. I can’t stand thinking something terrible happened to her.” Hannah whispered.
“The radio and TV broadcasts have netted lots of tips. Nothing productive yet, which is typical, but we check out each one and that’s our best hope at the moment. Someone somewhere surely saw something!”
“Oh, Adam,” Hannah threw her arms around him. “Please find her. I miss her so much!”
To her surprise, Adam revealed, “I do, too. It’s as if I’ve been waiting most of my life for your big family… and most especially for you. The minute I met you I wa
nted you in my life.”
Hannah let him fold her into his strong arms and looked up. They shared a light kiss, this stolen moment of pleasure a sharp contrast to their shared worry over her vanished mother.
But unbidden thoughts of Kevin crept again into Hannah’s mind. She’d promised herself to avoid vulnerability. True, she liked Adam, his good looks, his appealing sense of humor, his intelligence, kindness and dedication to work. But Kevin had many of those qualities also, which he used to earn her trust, loyalty and love… only to betray her. No one wanted that kind of hurt again. How different could Adam be? After all, he was a man.
Shouldn’t she protect herself from heartache by using the valuable lesson she’d learned the hard way? Or might she someday trust and love again, as her dad predicted?
“Oh, Adam,” she pulled away, not wanting to share her perplexing thoughts with him. “I… I do care for you, but…”
“But…?”
“But so much is happening now. I’m sorry to be upset all the time because my mom’s in trouble. I understand how hard you’re trying to find her. Since you’ve been with the police, this is the only case you haven’t been able to solve, much as you want to.” She started to cry softly.
“That I haven’t solved yet!” He hugged her close and then held her at arm’s length. “Hannah, if ever I’ve seen a survivor, it’s your mom. She’s a land-on-her-feet person. I can just feel it.” He stroked her hair. “Look, at the department we’re trained to deal with facts. But intuition can take you places facts don’t. I might not be this optimistic in other situations, but my gut feeling is this will work out okay. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I believe it will.” He hugged her close again, wrapping her in his protective arms.
“Just hearing you say that helps. Thank you, dear Adam.” They shared a real kiss.
Reluctantly he broke from their embrace. “Look, I’m going back to the station to stay on this. I may be up all night, but if anything breaks, you know I’ll call immediately. Keep your cell phone on. Try to calm your family and I’ll see you tomorrow, no matter what happens tonight.”
“Thank you for trying so hard, Adam.” She squeezed his arm affectionately as he walked toward his car and sped away.
Brushing away tears of confusion, Hannah blew a heartfelt kiss toward his departing vehicle. She smiled at the silhouette of his continuing farewell wave through the vehicle’s rear window and watched his car grow ever smaller as it receded down the street, turned the corner and was gone.
CHAPTER 44
The phone on Adam’s office desk rang. “Detective Iverson,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Hello, Adam. It’s Jason Shannon. I don’t want to be a nuisance, but any news yet about Jennifer?”
“No, Sir, nothing yet, but we’re working hard on it.”
“Well, this morning I remembered something that might help. Her car has something called OnStar. I think they offer a service for finding your car if you forget where you parked.”
Adam sat up in his chair. Even if Mrs. Shannon weren’t still in her van, forensics might comb out helpful evidence. The location itself might even be significant, if abandoned at or near the crime scene. With zero clues at the moment, Adam salivated for any new lead.
“I pulled the OnStar file from her desk drawer.” Jason studied the papers as he spoke. “This contract shows her account number, her password and OnStar’s contact number.”
“Right, Sir. I’d appreciate all three.” Adam’s pen flew across the paper as he copied the information in bold handwriting.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Shannon, for calling about this. I’ll get right on it.”
Adam cradled the receiver against his ear, jabbed the phone’s disconnect button and punched in OnStar’s number. At their menu’s prompt, he pressed the button for “Urgent Situations.”
“Hello, this is Detective Adam Iverson of Fairfax County Police in McLean, Virginia. We’re trying to locate the driver and vehicle of your member, Jennifer Shannon.” He read them her member number and password.
“Sir, I’ve copied that. Let me transfer you to a special operator who can help you.”
Adam tapped his fingers impatiently.
“Hello, Detective,” the voice answered. “I’m Brad Billings. How can I help you?”
Adam identified himself again. “We have a missing adult female, last seen driving her vehicle yesterday. Her husband just advised us she subscribes to OnStar. Locating her vehicle could mean locating her. Can you help us?”
“Has a missing person report already been filed?”
“Yes, yesterday.”
“Good. Okay, we cooperate with law enforcement, but at the same time are legally bound to protect our members’ privacy. To do both, we have procedures for police requests like yours, Detective. Basically, we need to verify key pieces of information: that you’re who you say you are, that a missing person report exists, and so on. Then if we find something, we have more procedures for giving you that info. But if we don’t find anything, we may not get to that.”
Adam stiffened, “How long will this run-around take?” he asked impatiently. “We may have an abduction here, we may have a serial... ”
“Detective, we understand your urgency and will process this quickly. Give me your full name, badge number, precinct, city and state so we can verify. Your headquarters will put us through to you when we call back. You should hear from me in ten minutes or less and we’ll get to work. Meantime, FAX me your missing person report. Here’s the number....”
Sighing, Adam provided the information they requested, hung up and strolled down the hall to send the required report to OnStar.
Unbidden, the vision of Hannah’s face floated into his mind. In four years on the force, he’d seen his grim share of frightened family members struggling to absorb terrible news about their loved ones. All policemen dreaded that messenger role. He imagined Hannah’s winning smile crumbling in despair at receiving news of her mother’s death. Rising frustration at his inability to unravel this mystery again swept over him. Hell, solving crimes was his job! Of all he’d encountered, why was this one the toughest?
Back in his office, the sharp ring of his phone jarred him back to the present. Impatiently, he snapped the receiver off the cradle.
“Iverson here.”
“This is Brad Billings of OnStar again, Detective. I have Jennifer Shannon’s screen on my computer. Let’s see, do you know how our system works?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“OnStar offers services through two different links that reach a member’s vehicle; one is a cell phone feature and the other a global positioning satellite locator or GPS.”
“Same way Lo-Jack tracks stolen vehicles?”
“The location technology is similar, although they use a different radio frequency, but unlike OnStar, that’s all they do. Both technologies bounce a signal up to a satellite, telling it to locate the receiver they’ve installed in a particular vehicle. Now, let ’s see if I can locate our member’s van.”
Computer keyboard clicks sounded in Adam’s ear, as the pen in his hand hovered restlessly over his notebook. This could be the breakthrough he needed... this could be it!
Listening with anticipation as Brad’s voice returned to the line, Adam registered a look of disbelief before shouting into the phone, “ What? Are you sure?”
Brad repeated, “That’s right, Detective. Our system is excellent, but not foolproof. We can’t locate this car right now. Conditions on the ground can influence the GPS’s ability to tell us a location, because the satellite can only communicate with what the satellite can reach. Usually we’re successful, but sometimes not. A little like that well-known cell phone phrase, ‘can you hear me now?’ For example, the GPS signal may not respond if the vehicle is shielded.”
“Shielded?”
“….in a covered situation, like a concrete parking garage, or sometimes certain carports or even a very thickly wooded
area. The satellite beams down well enough through the atmosphere, but if the car’s receiver is shielded, not even GPS can perform magic.”
“Damn,” Adam muttered, blanching at the disheartening realization that her car could be in any one of hundreds of parking garages around the shopping malls, office complexes, apartment buildings, restaurants and hotels comprising the adjacent city of Tysons Corner.
Equally discouraging were the thousands upon thousands of single family homes with potentially “shielding” garages, never mind the naturally wooded character of this part of Fairfax County.
“Now there could be another explanation,” Brad resumed. “It’s like this: the car’s battery energizes the GPS response to the satellite, so when the battery’s dead, the GPS is, too. And,” more clicking of computer keys before he spoke again, “her car automatically shuts down the electrical system 48 hours after the vehicle is parked and turned off. The auto manufacturer designs it that way to preserve the battery. When the electrical shuts down, the OnStar GPS shuts down. When the ignition turns on again, OnStar GPS wakes up when the car wakes up.”
Adam slumped dejectedly in his chair. “She’s been missing less than that 48 hour cut-off, so GPS should still work and it’s a fairly new car so a dead battery isn’t likely. Did she use any other services very recently?”
“Well, there’s vehicle diagnostic advice if a member has car trouble, remote door unlock... ”
Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) Page 20