Total Victim Theory

by Ian Ballard

  My mind keeps circling back to something Jaci said. Her explanation for why she didn't take custody of Danielle when Lisa was in the mental institution. She said it was because Lisa's father had a criminal record. But I happen to know Jaci and Lisa's father, Mason, were divorced by then—so, the story doesn't hold water. And Jaci seemed so defensive about that topic.

  Indulging my suspicions, I get on the NCIC database and pull up criminal histories on both Mason and Jaci Walters. Mason, indeed, has an extensive criminal record, including convictions for aggravated assault, domestic violence, and soliciting a prostitute. His most serious offense, however, occurred in November 1992. The original charge was sexual assault on a child, later pled down to felony child abuse. Jaci's record, on the other hand, is clean, except for a single item—a misdemeanor conviction for failure to report child abuse, also in November 1992.

  I notice I'm scratching away at the scar on my hand. Thinking very bleak things. Thinking about that phrase “sexual assault on a child”. That's one of my flaws. Being too eager to jump to conclusions—especially negative or horrific ones. As if my mind thinks the world predisposed to worst-case scenarios.

  There's nothing to suggest who the child was that these charges refer to—Lisa had three other siblings and Mason may have had other children as well—so, it could have been any of them or even another unrelated child. But my mind wants to connect this crime with other things I witnessed long ago. Lisa's nightmares and her scars and what she told me about wanting to forget.

  Lisa would have been just ten years old.

  Is there any crime, any act at all, that's more despicable than doing that to a child? To a little ten-year-old girl.

  The same age that Danielle is now.

  My hands are shaking. It’s making me sick just thinking about it. Need to put these thoughts aside. Disentangle myself from all this personal stuff and pretend I'm still a detective.

  As far as the case goes, the question's whether I should go to Midland. Whether there's a justification for doing so given all the pressing matters that may require attention back in Juárez. After all, Danielle doesn't seem to be linked in any substantial way to the killings—her only connection being that Lisa's murder occurred close in time to the planned Midland visit.

  On the other hand, we know nothing about what's behind these crimes or about the motives of the perpetrator. What I do know is that I'm now personally tied to the Neruda Dune in three ways: through the names in the ledger, through the burns on the victims, and through Lisa. And if all this points to some special animus, some grudge against me, then the threat, like the sway of some diabolical shadow, must fall over everything that touches me.

  And Danielle now touches me.

  I picture someone watching her as she walks to school.

  No, this isn't ludicrous or paranoid. The facts make these fears plausible. Maybe I can't spell out what's going on, but I can feel it. There's the outline of a pattern, and even though I can't see it all, I know damn well what direction it's pointing in.

  I have to protect her. I have to go to her.

  There's sweat on my fingertips as I hurriedly pack up my things and check out of the hotel. Within five minutes, I'm behind the wheel of the Accord, heading off to Midland, Texas.

  *

  After four hours on the road, I pull up in front of 301 Tracy Cove, the home of Lou and Martha Sherman. I keep telling myself nothing's happened to her yet. I say it over and over, as if repetition might increase the chances of its being true.

  I park a block down from the house and around the corner—since it's just as well that no one gets a peek at what I'm driving. I've been trying to think, to plan out what I'll say and do once I knock on that door. I guess I'm basically following up on a lead, though a lead of a far more nebulous variety than most. Of course, the real purpose is making sure Danielle's safe and keeping her that way.

  I glance at my face in the rearview mirror and the mug that confronts me isn’t a pretty sight. Two days of stubble. Bloodshot eyes. Crooked tie. I look more like a drifter who mugged an agent for his suit than an actual member of the Bureau. I straighten my tie and mash down a few tufts of unruly hair. Gun’s in the shoulder holster. Loaded, safety on. Because you never know.

  Heart's beating hard and I remind myself to be calm. Remind myself that in a couple of minutes I'll be meeting my daughter. Mine and Lisa’s. Jesus. That one's still sinking in. I don't want to lose sight of it amid all the creepy shit that's going on. What's about to happen—seeing her for the first time—that will only happen once.

  I get out of the car and round the corner onto Tracy Cove and approach the Sherman's front door. Today's Saturday and it's about . . . 2:15. Hopefully, I'll catch them at home. I ascend the two steps leading to the porch and after a moment's hesitation on the welcome mat, I ring the bell.

  A dog barks and claws scurry on a wood floor.

  Footsteps. Could it be Danielle? Probably not—unless her footsteps sound like a full grown man's.

  A moment later a bald, middle-aged man appears in the vertical window alongside the door. He wears glasses and his cheeks are lined with the tiny purple marks of broken veins. This looks like the man from the photo I took from Lisa's desk.

  He cracks open the door.

  “Lou Sherman?” I ask, while behind the man, a gray schnauzer scampers in ecstatic circles.

  He looks me over with a pair of kind, if slightly beady eyes. “Let me guess—FBI?”

  “Agent Kenneth Burton, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” I flash my badge—hopefully quick enough that he won't notice the names don't match. “What gave me away?”

  “The suit and tie, though that stubble threw me for a loop.”

  “We've just put in some long hours. I'm afraid I'm a bit worse for wear.” I smile at him.

  He looks skeptical. “Have there been new developments since this morning?”

  “I'm sorry?” I say, not following him.

  “Well, you're the second agent that's stopped by today. I figure something important must be going on.”

  I hesitate, unsure what he's talking about. No one at the Bureau knows about Lisa, so there shouldn't be other agents involved. Did he mistake a plainclothes detective for a Fed—maybe someone who’d come down from Mustang working the abduction case? “Yes,” I finally say. “There have been some . . . developments.”

  “How can I help?” Sherman asks.

  “May I come in?”

  He blushes. “Of course. Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude. We've just all been a little jumpy since we got the news. It must be affecting my manners.” He gestures at the sitting room and tells me to have a seat.

  After peeking around the first floor for a second or two, I sit down in a pink chair next to a coffee table. Sherman takes a seat on a sofa across from me.

  “Who’s home?” I ask.

  “Just me at the moment,” Sherman says.

  “You also have a wife and a daughter—is that correct?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And where are they?”

  “At the grocery store. They'll probably be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Is everything okay?” he asks.

  “Everything's fine,” I say.

  “Did you need to speak with them?”

  A hesitation. “Yeah, I’d like to ask them a few questions if it's not inconvenient.”

  “Sure, but Danielle had only spoken with Lisa twice. So, I’m not sure if—”

  "You can never be too thorough,” I say.

  To my right there's a bookcase. A few of the shelves have photos on them. One shows a young girl, maybe six or seven, in a soccer uniform. It's Danielle a few years back. A little smile crosses my lips. My first taste of fatherly pride.

  When I turn back to Sherman, he’s looking at me—probably wondering why I'm inspecting his family photos.

  “A minute ago you said you felt jumpy about what happened,” I say. “What did you mean by that?”

  Sherman pur
ses his lips. “Under the circumstances . . . wouldn't anybody be?”

  “The circumstances being Lisa Walter's disappearance?”

  “Well, her disappearance and her murder.”

  I balk for a moment, unsure how Sherman knows about Lisa's death. “Did Jaci Walters call and tell you about that today?”

  “No. I haven't spoken to Jaci in a couple of days. The other agent told me.”

  “I see.” Actually, this makes no sense. No local agent, if it was a local agent, could know about Lisa. So who the hell was this person? And where's Danielle for that matter? I wish she'd hurry up and get back.

  “It's a terrible thing,” says Sherman. He's looking at me with his head tilted slightly to the side, like he's trying to read me.

  “Yeah, really shocking.” I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. “Apart from this matter with Lisa, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary or suspicious?”

  “In what context?” asks Sherman.

  “Just generally. Has anything happened around the house or even at work that's seemed strange or suspicious?”

  Sherman scratches at some stubbly red hairs on his throat. “Not that I can think of . . . at least, not recently.”

  “Was there something farther back?”

  Sherman takes a deep breath. “Well, I'm not sure what the question is aiming at, but something did happen a few months back—it had nothing to do with Lisa—but I guess you could say it was out of the ordinary.”

  “And what was that?”

  “It's probably not worth mentioning, but about four or five months ago, Danielle claimed she woke up in the middle of the night and saw someone in her room.”

  The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle up. “Who did she see?”

  “A man. She said he was just standing at the foot of her bed. Watching her. And smoking a cigarette.”

  “What happened?” I say.

  “She didn’t scream or anything. I guess she was too scared. She closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep. When she looked up a few minutes later, he was gone. She ran to our bedroom and woke up me and my wife. She was terrified. I never saw Danielle shake like that. She even, well, she even wet her pants.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  “Of course. Right then. They came out and did a search, but didn’t find anything.”

  “No sign of forced entry?”

  “No.”

  “No cigarette ashes in your daughter’s room or footprints outside?”

  “No, nothing. No direct evidence of an intruder at all. The cops thought she just had a nightmare. I'm tempted to agree with them now, but it was pretty convincing at the time.”

  “You said there was no direct evidence. Was there something else to suggest there was an intruder?”

  Deep furrows appear in Sherman's brow. “Well, no. I mean, kind of. Our dog Baxter ran away the same day Danielle saw the man in her room. Anyway, Baxter never came back. Though I guess that's more of a coincidence than proof of an intruder. This little guy is Baxter’s replacement.” Sherman pats the schnauzer on the head.

  I glance at my watch. “Weren’t you expecting your wife and daughter to be back by now?”

  “They should be back any minute.”

  I look out the window, hoping to see a car pulling in the drive—but no such luck. I rap my fingers on the coffee table. “The other agent that visited you this morning . . . what was his name?”

  “You mean you didn't know he was coming?” Sherman asks.

  “There's quite a few of us working on this one. Sounds like we may have gotten our wires crossed.”

  “I see,” Sherman says, but his expression looks doubtful. “If memory serves, he said his name was Agent Allen.”

  “Agent Allen,” I repeat. The name doesn't ring any bells, though I hardly expected it would. “And when did he come by?”

  “Around eleven this morning.”

  “You're sure he said he was with the FBI and not some other organization?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure he said FBI.”

  “Did he show you his ID and his badge?”

  “I don’t remember. . . . Just his badge I think.” He pauses. “Should he have shown me both? Is that a policy?”

  “There's not a strict policy,” I say. “I was just curious.”

  Sherman's hand is slightly trembling.

  “And what did this man look like?” I ask.

  “Tall, dark hair, maybe late thirties—

  “Who was at home at that time?”

  “Just me.”

  “Where were your wife and daughter?”

  “At Danielle's swim meet. They were there until one or so.” He gives a long sigh. “I wish I understood why you're asking all these questions. Was Agent Allen not who he said he was?”

  “I don’t . . .” I hesitate. “I don’t have any convincing reason for thinking Agent Allen wasn’t who he said he was.”

  Sherman looks agitated. Like he can't make up his mind about something. “You asked me before if there was anything out of the ordinary. There was one other odd thing in regards to Agent Allen’s visit.”

  “And what was that?” I ask.

  “Maybe I should just show you. Could you wait here for a second?”

  I give a nod. Sherman stands and disappears up the stairs.

  I’m feeling pretty antsy about who this Agent Allen was. And about how suspicious Sherman's acting—and I wish Danielle would hurry up and get home already. The schnauzer sits there staring at me. It has big eyebrows. I reach out and pat its head.

  Just now, a car, a Subaru Outback, pulls up in the drive. It's got to be them, thank God, though the windows are tinted and I can't make out who's inside. I hear the garage door open and the car disappears inside. The schnauzer barks and leaves the room, presumably to greet its owners as they come in the house.

  I see Sherman's lower half coming down the stairs. He's carrying a dark brown something at his side. I squint trying to make out what it is.

  “I didn't know what to make of this,” Sherman says, approaching me.

  “Where did you get that?” I say, as the blood drains out of my face.

  “Agent Allen handed it to me when he came in. He said he found it sitting on the front porch. And, well, you said you were interested in anything out of the ordinary.”

  What Sherman's holding in his hand is the same raggedy and eyeless Teddy bear I saw last night in Lisa's apartment.

  32

  El Paso, 1992

  Emilia closed the study door so carefully it produced only the faintest of creaks. So far, so good, she thought. Glancing out the window on the other side of the room, she could see the blue-hued landscape with its rolling hills stretching all the way to the lights of El Paso. The bunkhouse was just over the first hill, she reminded herself. Not more than a quarter mile away. If and when she needed it, she could find help within a few minutes.

  Emilia turned on the flashlight, exposing a circle of gray carpet in front of her. The light formed concentric rings in different shades of yellow. With a few silent steps, she crossed the room and kneeled down by the desk next to the bottom drawer. The only drawer that locked, it was the most probable hiding place for the two letters that had so raised her suspicions. She opened her hand, revealing the silver shimmer of Gary's keys. From among six or seven taller colleagues, she located the small desk key.

  Just then, the heater clicked off. The noise startled her and she gave a little gasp. The house was silent now, as if every wall and rafter were holding its breath. The only sounds were her own. Her breathing. The rustling of her nightgown. The sound of her swallowing. She tried to line up the key with the keyhole, but tremors in her hands botched the attempt, as the key's tip made a metal tap a millimeter off target. On the second try, she felt it find the groove and slide in. Holding her breath, she gave it a turn. The lock made a sharp, crisp clink. Louder than she'd expected, the sound resounded like a gunshot through the quiet room. She froze,
wondering if it was loud enough to have awakened anyone.

  No, surely not. And the ensuing silence seemed to support this.

  She just wanted to hurry up and get out of there. The beam of the flashlight shook in her hand. Whatever the answer was, she'd decided she couldn't stay there anymore. Even if nothing had happened, look at her. She was terrified beyond belief. What she wouldn't have given to be back safe in Juárez right at this moment.

  Following a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the bottom drawer open and shone the beam inside. The light revealed several items, the largest of which was a wide leather notebook or album of some sort that lay at the bottom of the drawer. On top of it were two wallets, two gold rings, and a pair of envelopes just like the two Gary had in his hands earlier that night.

  Emilia looked at the wallets and saw that they belonged to Fernando and Esteban. Then she picked up the topmost envelope. It was unsealed and contained only a single sheet of paper folded into three segments. Unfolding it, she saw it was a short handwritten letter. She scanned it, but was confused by what she read. The letter was signed “Fernando Lucero,” one of the men Gary had loaded into the Ford's hidden compartment earlier that evening. Taking up the second envelope, she found it contained a letter almost identical in its language to the first, though this one was signed “Esteban Duarte.”

  The letters were addressed to the men’s families in Mexico. The pair, the letters claimed, had decided to leave El Paso for a job opportunity on a citrus farm in California. They would be moving there soon and would write again once they were resettled. Only when she looked at the wallets and saw that they also belonged to the two men did Emilia begin to understand. Her stomach turned, as the horrible conclusion took root in her mind. Gary had forced them to write the letters—before he did whatever he did to them—so their families, if they ever came looking, wouldn’t come looking in El Paso.

  She had to get out of there and alert the others. What she'd seen might not prove anything, but it was all the proof she needed. She'd take the letters and the wallets with her as evidence and make a break for the guest house. There were ten men there, so there would at least be safety in numbers while they figured out what to do.