by Ruth Parker
“Fletcher!” It was Sheriff Stella.
“Yeah?” He turned around to see the old man coming out of the conference room.
“Go pick up Laurel and take her with,” Stella said. “You never know what insight she might have.”
“It’s not even six in the morning yet,” Fletcher said, checking his watch. “She’s liable to crack another one of my ribs.”
“Nah, she’s sweet on you,” Stella said.
“Sweet on me?” Fletcher asked. He knew the sheriff was joking around, but he couldn’t help feeling a little surge of excitement at the idea.
“Sure she is,” Stella said. “If she wasn’t, you’d have a cracked skull instead.”
Eleven
Today was going to be worse. Much worse. The bodies of the Clark twins had been bad. Autopsies were always bad. Getting kicked in the ribs had also been bad.
Interviewing the parents was the worst. Every time Fletcher interviewed the parents of a murdered child, it was worse than the last.
Fletcher was in the backseat of the unmarked Crown Victoria. They weren’t fooling anyone; only cops drove unmarked Crown Victorias. Underwood was driving and his partner Jennings was riding shotgun. Laurel was in the backseat, next to Fletcher, so close in the small car that her knee was resting against his thigh. He was surprised that the feeling of her leg on his did not turn him on—it comforted him. He’d almost forgotten what comfort felt like. He hated to admit it: he liked it. He could grow to need it.
In a sick and violent world, it was not good to need anything from anyone else. Some delusional killer could take it all away from you in an instant.
No one was talking. Laurel hadn’t wanted to come. Underwood was pissed off that she’d tagged along. Underwood had already been to the house with the crime scene techs as they combed the place for evidence, but found nothing. The girls did not make it home after school. Their backpacks weren’t at the house and the cable company records showed that there hadn’t been any devices connected to the wi-fi internet that afternoon, which their phones would do automatically the second they walked up the driveway.
They parked on the street a few houses down; the Webb house was a beehive of activity. Friends and family had gathered to coordinate the search. A deputy trained in search and rescue was helping to organize search grids, door-to-door canvass routes, and social media blitzes. Fletcher knew it was pointless. They shouldn’t be looking for the girls.
They should be looking for the killer. The girls were with him.
Fletcher got out of the car and followed Underwood and Jennings. Laurel walked fast so that she could walk alone. The side door was open, so the four of them entered the Webb house. It was easy to find the parents, who were sitting on the couch, the father looking dazed and the mother holding a handkerchief over her nose. The dinner table had been commandeered and was covered with stacks of maps and missing persons fliers. A few people huddled over the table, talking strategy. Others sat with their laptops; Fletcher hoped they were getting the word out through social media and not lounging around playing Freecell.
Underwood approached the parents. There was a knot in Fletcher’s stomach. Please let Underwood be nice. Fletcher didn’t know if that was possible.
“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Webb? I’m Detective Underwood from the Sheriff’s Department. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure,” the father said. He had a distant look in his eyes, like he’d been medicated. That was probably for the better.
“We need to know about your daughters,” Fletcher said, unable to stop himself from jumping in. “Anything you could tell us about their lives. Friends, school activities, volunteer work they do, anyone that they interact with. The more I know about Madison and Melissa, the more it’ll help us find the man who has them.”
“They’re just regular kids,” the dad said. His voice was flat, like he was reading a script. “Go to school, come home. On the weekends they hang out with their friends or we go to the movies. Regular kids.” The father seemed to be in deep shock and hadn’t started to process what was happening.
“I know,” Underwood said, with a genuine warmth in his voice that made Fletcher feel a little guilty for disliking the detective. “I’m really sorry, but I promise you that we’ll bring your girls back.”
“Here,” the mom said, and she took out her phone. “I’ll give you the names and phone numbers of their friends’ parents.” They got a list of the girls’ three best friends.
“Do the girls have laptops or tablets?” Detective Jenkins asked.
“They each have a laptop,” the mom said. “But the girls take them to school, so they’re in the backpacks. And I’ve got an iPad that they use sometimes, but they don’t have any of their accounts logged in.”
“Can we take the iPad?” Underwood asked. “I’ll have our tech guys look at it.”
“Of course,” she said. She got up and left the room to get it.
Fletcher thought that Underwood and Jenkins were handling things pretty well, so he decided to leave them to deal with the parents. He didn’t want to do that anyway. Fletcher scanned the room to find Laurel, but she wasn’t there.
A surge of panic traveled up his chest and lodged in his throat. Where was she? Hopefully she wasn’t having another emotional episode like at the autopsy. He couldn’t stand the idea of Laurel huddled and crying, trying to cope with something that was far too horrible for anyone to go through alone. He went down the hallway, checking the rooms for Laurel. It was a typical house for a family of four, four bedrooms and three bathrooms, framed pictures on the walls, counter tops cluttered with envelopes and pencils and empty coffee cups.
Fletcher found the girls’ bedrooms at the back of the house. Laurel was in one, sitting on the bed.
“Hi,” he said, not knowing what to say.
“This is exactly what it was like at my house after Leigh was taken,” she said. “I stayed in my room with the door closed, hoping that every time the phone rang, it would be good news.”
“I want to be able to make that phone call for the Webb family,” Fletcher said. “We can get those girls before they end up…”
“I can’t help. I don’t know why you dragged me along.”
“Just sit here,” he said. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“But I want to,” she said. “I want to find those girls more than anyone else, except their parents, of course.”
“I’m going to look around,” he said. He inspected the rooms, trying to get a sense of who the girls were.
The two bedrooms were similar, but not exactly the same. One room was decorated with posters of pop singers and stuffed animals. The other room’s walls were covered in pictures of odd art works that had been cut out of magazines. He looked in their desk drawers, finding the usual notebooks and pencils and make-up you’d expect in any twelve-year-old girl’s desk.
In Madison’s room, he stuck his hand between the mattress and box spring, that old tried-and-true adolescent hiding spot. He felt something.
He tweezed the corner between his fingers and pulled it out. It was a large manila envelope, unmarked and unsealed. He opened the thin metal clasp and looked inside.
Pictures. A set of professional photos. An 8-by-10 glossy. A sheet of wallets. A third sheet with a five-by-ten and two three-by-fours. The two girls were together with a gray mottled backdrop. They were posed seriously, hands-on-hips and a sassy over-the-shoulder smirk. They looked like they were doing their best impression of Cindy Crawford on the cover of Vogue. He flipped the pictures over, looking for a watermark or studio stamp, but it was smooth white, not even a logo of the brand of photo paper.
This was not good. But at least it was a lead.
Leaving Laurel alone in the other bedroom, Fletcher went back into the living room and nodded to Jenkins. Jenkins was talking to the deputy in charge of search and rescue, but he excused himself.
“Anything good in their rooms?”
�
��Depends on your definition of good,” Fletcher said. He handed him the pictures. “These were hidden underneath the mattress.”
“That’s where I kept the things I didn’t want my mom to find,” Jenkins said. “When I was thirteen, I got a third-hand copy of Hustler and man, I got a lot of mileage out of that.”
Fletcher took the photos and approached the parents. “Excuse me,” he said to them. “What can you tell me about these photographs?”
The mom’s eyes narrowed and her brow creased. The dad just stared—not at the photos but through them, as if Fletcher had just handed him a still life photo of a bowl of fruit.
“Where did you get these?” she asked.
“In Madison’s room,” he said. “They were hidden underneath the mattress.”
“What?” she asked. “We never took the girls to get their pictures taken. I mean, when did they do this? How did—I just don’t know,” she said. She was getting panicked, Fletcher could tell.
“It’s okay,” he said. He needed to focus her, ask her distracting questions, before she went off. She might never come back. Like the father. “The clothes they’re wearing, do you recognize the outfits?”
“Yes,” she said.
“How long ago did you buy the clothes?”
“Madison’s jeans are old,” she said. “But the shirt she’s wearing we got when we went to Portland for Christmas shopping.”
“That’s helpful,” Fletcher said. The pictures were recent, likely no more than six weeks old. “What about Melissa’s clothes?”
“I can’t keep track. She’s the fashion plate. Madison’s more like me and she doesn’t like to shop as much. Why would they get their pictures taken and then hide them from us?” she asked, the pain in her eyes so stark and honest that Fletcher had to look away. “That’s not a good sign, is it?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Probably not.”
Laurel heard Fletcher’s voice in the living room. She’d been lost in her thoughts. The old Sheriff Reed’s question still echoed in her head: why didn’t you tell us this before? She had been scared, that was true. More than that—worse, much, much worse than that—she’d felt so guilty. She was so sick with the guilt that she didn’t get out of bed, didn’t eat, didn’t sleep for almost a week. She’d been in a stupor, everything around her happening so fast, but everything inside a calm and pinpointed knot of guilt inside her stomach.
She got off the girl’s bed, relishing the girl’s personal scent—that unique mixture of soap and skin. At least wherever the girls were, they were together. Leigh had been alone.
Laurel walked down the long hallway, looking at the photographs on the walls. A happy family. A normal family. Except now, they weren’t either one. “Who are you? What are you doing snooping around?” an angry voice yelled. Laurel looked around, confused, but she was the only person here.
“I’m with the Sheriff’s Department,” she said. There was a man in the hallway, about forty years old with a ruddy face and red-rimmed eyes, either from alcohol or crying. Or both. He was waving his hands in the air, huge hands with thick, blocky fingers.
“The cops are in the living room,” he said. “We saw the cops. You aren’t a cop. You’re not a reporter, are you?” He took a step closer to her. She could smell the tangy sweat, the overpowering scent of mint, as if he’d just eaten an entire box of mints.
“I work in the forensics lab. I’m a scientist,” she said calmly. He took another clumsy step towards her, now within arm’s reach. She could see the pores on his nose and the stray strands of stubble he’d missed while shaving.
“What are you doing here? Get your ass back in the lab and find the girls,” he yelled, swaying on his feet. Laurel took another step back. Just then Underwood came down the hallway.
“Everyone calm down,” Underwood said. Laurel had to grind her teeth together to keep from screaming. She had been remarkably calm until Underwood showed up, his beady little eyes darting from the man to her, as if trying to assess who was the real threat. “She’s here with the Sheriff’s Department. She’s a former victim of the man that we suspect has Madison and Melissa.”
“Former victim?” the man said. “You know who he is? Jesus Christ, you know who he is!”
Laurel glared at Underwood. He’d made this situation a hundred times worse. This drunken man was looking for someone to blame—for someone to hate.
“It was a long time ago,” Laurel managed to say in a voice little more than a whisper.
“But you know who he is,” the man said excitedly.
“We’re doing everything we can to get those little girls back,” Underwood said.
“Don’t give me that.” In a flash, the man was angry again, ready to lash out. “Why haven’t you found them yet if you know who he is?”
“I don’t know who he is,” Laurel said.
“Calm down,” Underwood said again; his attempt to soothe the man was not working. The man waved his hands back and forth as he spoke. He took three quick steps towards Laurel and had her pressed against the wall, his large belly against hers. She could smell the fetid remains of his last meal between his teeth. As she was pushed against the wall, her shoulder struck a picture frame and knocked it to the floor with a loud shatter as shards of glass scattered. The man put his hands on either side of her so she couldn’t move.
“You know who he is,” he said, his eyes moving spastically, unable to focus. “Why aren’t you telling the police? They could still find the girls.”
“I don’t know,” she said, glancing at Underwood, who was standing there looking nervous, not sure what to do and definitely not wanting to enrage the man further.
Just then, Fletcher strode into the hallway. Without saying a word, he grabbed the drunken man by his shoulders and pulled him back, slamming him against the other wall. The man’s head hit the wall with a hollow thonk sound. Fletcher got close enough to the man’s face, their noses were almost touching. “Pull yourself together,” Fletcher said, with a voice so frighteningly calm and icy that Laurel felt a shiver run through her arms to her fingertips. She understood now how a brilliant profiler like Fletcher could get fired from the FBI if his violent temper got out of control.
Even though Fletcher was a little frightening, relief washed over her. She didn’t know what she could have done if Fletcher hadn’t intervened. Underwood sure as shit wasn’t going to stick his neck out for her. She couldn’t help thinking if Fletcher would have done the same if he’d known that she’d lied to him yesterday about what happened fifteen years ago.
If he knew, he’d probably be throwing her against the wall, piercing her with those intense dark eyes and icy calm voice.
Surprisingly, the man did seem to pull himself together, right before Laurel’s eyes. He stood up a little straighter and his eyes flooded with shame and tears. “What’s your name?” Fletcher asked him.
“Paul,” he said, his voice deliberate. Laurel could tell he was trying not to cry.
“We really are doing everything we can, Paul. Are you an uncle?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I just, I can’t stand thinking what some sicko is doing to the girls. And my sister. She’s a nervous wreck. She’ll never be the same.”
“It’s alright,” Fletcher said, putting a hand on Paul’s shoulder. Paul wrapped his arms around Fletcher, sobbing openly.
“I’m sorry,” he bawled. “This is too much to deal with.” Fletcher patted the man’s back and spoke another reassurance.
Laurel was amazed at the compassion with which Fletcher was treating the girls’ uncle. Despite the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of grisly murders that Fletcher had investigated, he was still able to understand the agony that the family was going through.
“Promise me that you’ll find them,” the man cried. “Promise me that they’ll be okay.”
“No,” Fletcher said. “I can’t.”
Twelve
The four of them drove to Laurel’s house. After the incident with the be
reaved and belligerent uncle, she wanted to go home. She was supposed to go into the lab today, but needed to compose herself first. Underwood turned on the flashers and drove like the car was stolen, changing lanes suddenly, trying to pass anyone who wasn’t going at least twenty miles above the speed limit.
Underwood pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. He was eager to go interview the Webb twins’ friend. The studio photographs that Fletcher had found under the bed had galvanized Underwood, given him a deranged burst of energy; it was confirmation that he was on the right track pulling the sex offenders with connections to photography. Laurel could tell that Fletcher didn’t agree with Underwood’s line of investigation. Laurel wasn’t so sure. The man hadn’t done anything overtly sexual when he had her and Leigh in that empty office building—but Laurel had no way of knowing what sick things he’d done to her sister once he got her back to his lair. Lord knew that question played through Laurel’s mind hundreds of times on sleepless, fitful nights.
“Come on,” Fletcher told her. “I’ll go with you.” He opened up his door and got out, quickly walking around the back of the car to open Laurel’s door for her. She didn’t need anyone to open a car door for her; she wasn’t so fragile, so incompetent. She thrust her door open before he had a chance to and exited the car.
“Hurry up,” Underwood said impatiently from his cracked window, then hurriedly closed it again, not wanting to let the chill winter air inside the car. Fletcher ignored him. He reached a tentative hand to the small of Laurel’s back, shepherding her towards the front porch. The way his hand glided smoothly across her sensitive lower back sent a hot fluttery spasm rippling through her stomach. His hand lingered and she felt its warmth, its strength—and she had a sudden, crazy thought that she wanted his hand to travel lower, lower, lower…
But that was a crazy thought indeed. He was a profiler—a victimologist. And she was a victim. He would never be able to look at her without analyzing her. In a week or two, he’d be gone on a plane to plumb the depths of some other madman’s diseased brain.