She came in so fast that she almost hit me with the door. Her eyes jumped back and forth between Encino and me, trying to figure out what was going on. She was on the alert, ready to explode. But I didn’t say anything for a moment or two. I was so glad to see her that I wanted to hug her. Just having her there made me feel steadier. She’d know what to do, know how to cope.
“All right,” she panted, out of breath from hurry and anxiety. “What’s going on?”
It was still a tough question, but I could handle it now. “After we talked this afternoon, Sergeant Encino went through his files for the past couple years. He found six more young white girls like Carol Christie who ran away from home and later turned up dead. All seven of them were heroin addicts. In one way or another, they all died as a result of overdoses.” I faltered for a second, groping for courage, then went on.
“According to the medical examiner, they all showed signs of ‘intensive sexual activity.’”
That’s how the coroner put it in all seven reports. In each case, he’d concluded that these twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls supported their addictions by prostitution.
Ginny took it in like a sponge. Whenever she’s listening really hard, she doesn’t react to what she hears—she just concentrates on absorbing it. When I stopped, she asked in a flat voice, “Have you got the details?”
I showed her my sheaf of notes.
She nodded sharply, then turned to Encino. “Were these cases investigated?”
“Of course. Yes.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “No connection was found.”
“No connection?” she snapped. “They’re identical!”
If he resented her attitude, he didn’t show it. “Drugs, yes. Prostitution, running away from home. But drugs are available everywhere. For a young girl to get drugs, she needs money. Especially for heroin. It’s common. What connection is there?”
I said, “He’s right.” I didn’t agree with him, but he had a good point. “These seven girls lived in different parts of town. They went to five different schools. According to their friends, none of them knew each other. Their parents don’t have anything in common.” When I thought about it, the individual investigations looked pretty thorough. “None of them went to the same church or belonged to the same club or had the same family doctor.”
Ginny didn’t even glance at me. “Who did the investigations?”
“Detective-Lieutenant Acton,” Encino said.
“All of them?” she demanded.
He nodded.
“Is he a good cop?” I asked.
Encino thought for a moment. “He’s Anglo—but not like Captain Cason. He’s hard on drugs. It’s said he searches for the pushers who supplied these children.”
Ginny started to ask another question, but I stopped her with a nudge. Policewoman Rand was coming through the door behind us. I didn’t know which racial or political faction she belonged to, but I didn’t want to risk getting Encino in trouble for helping us. In Puerta del Sol, the police department is like the city—so fragmented, broken up into groups that can’t stand one another, it’s a wonder they get any work done at all. About the only time I’ve ever seen the cops stick together is when one of them gets killed.
Maybe Rand was on the wrong side. Encino’s tone changed suddenly as he said, “No, it’s impossible. I’ve done everything I can. No more.”
Two hints were more than enough for Ginny. “If that’s the way you want it,” she sighed in her aggrieved-citizen voice. “We’ll get a subpoena if we have to.” That was a nice touch. It kept Encino in the clear as far as Policewoman Rand was concerned. I liked it so much that I almost made the mistake of grinning. “Come on, Brew. Let’s get out of here.”
We turned to go, but the door was already in use. A short dried-up little man practically ran into the office. He had thin gray-and-black hair sticking up in all directions, a stiff mustache covering his mouth, and a face that looked like it’d been redesigned by a pair of cleats long ago. His eyes bulged as if they were about to fall out. He didn’t react to us—I don’t think he even saw us—but I knew who he was. One of Ginny’s less-successful competitors, a private investigator named Ted Hangst. Mostly because he didn’t have any choice about it, he worked in the grubby world of “domestic relations,” spying for people who were jealous, greedy, or malicious enough to pay him. I seemed to remember hearing somewhere that his wife had run off and left him a few years back.
He almost jumped the counter to confront Sergeant Encino as he thrust half a sheet of paper onto the counter. His hands shook. “See! I told you she didn’t run away.”
Ginny and I froze.
There was no triumph in his voice—just urgency and fear. “Read it!”
Encino scanned the paper, then turned his sad eyes back to Ted. “It says that she has run away, Mr. Hangst.”
“She didn’t run away!” he insisted. “This proves it. Listen.” He held the note trembling in front of his face.
“‘Dear Dad, I won’t be coming home for a while—maybe for a long time. Don’t worry about me. There’s something I have to work out. Love, Mittie.’” He slapped the paper down on the counter. “See?”
Without inflection, Encino repeated, “It says that she has run away.”
“No!” His whole body twitched with frustration. “Mittie didn’t write this. It says, ‘Dear Dad.’ She never called me Dad. She always called me Pop. That proves she didn’t write this. She didn’t run away. She was kidnapped!”
“For what purpose?” the sergeant asked. “Not for ransom. So why?”
“I don’t know.” He was close to crying. “It doesn’t make sense.” Then he recovered his determination. “You’ve got to help me. I can’t get anywhere alone. There are too many things that could’ve happened. I can’t do it alone.”
Encino leaned closer to Ted. “Mr. Hangst, I sympathize. We will look for your daughter. We understand the importance. But truthfully there is little we can do.” He stopped Ted’s response with a short gesture. “For now, you should perhaps speak to Mr. Axbrewder.”
“Axbrewder?” Ted turned, saw Ginny and me. “Oh.” He nodded at us, swallowing hard. “Brew. Ginny.”
At once Ginny said, “We’re working on a case that sounds a lot like what happened to your daughter. We’d like to talk to you about it.”
Ted said, “Oh,” again, weakly. He looked back at Encino. But before he could add anything, Ginny took his arm and started him toward the door. “Sergeant Encino understands the situation,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure he’ll do everything he can.”
Policewoman Rand was taking in all of this, so I didn’t try to thank Encino. I just followed Ginny and Ted out into the corridor and closed the door behind me.
“Where shall we go?” she asked me over the top of his head.
“Somewhere we can eat.” I hadn’t had any food for close to fourteen hours, and I was feeling it.
Ted didn’t resist. He looked like he’d used up all his energy or resolution just going to see Encino. Now he mumbled along beside Ginny like an empty shell. We took him out of the Municipal Building into the night.
The streetlights are bright in that part of town, and you don’t see many stars. But streetlights don’t fool anybody. They just make the shadows look more dangerous. The people on the streets—there’re always a few—moved as if they had secrets they were trying to hide. The cars that went by were going either too slow or too fast.
Night is the only time when I feel like I understand the city.
We went to a twenty-four-hour diner. After we’d ordered a good-sized pile of food, Ginny asked Ted to show us his note. He took it out without even a question—he looked like he was numb with shock. She scanned it, held it up to the light, then handed it to me.
It was a half sheet of good twenty-pound bond, neatly torn along one edge. The handwriting scrawled every which way. I held the paper up to the light and looked through it. It had part o
f the same watermark that was on the two notes in my pocket. I dug them out and gave them to Ginny.
She compared them from several angles, studied all three of them against the light, then handed Lona’s and Ted’s notes back to me.
With the torn edges together, they matched perfectly. Ted’s note held the top third of the watermark missing from Lona’s. There couldn’t be any doubt about it—both these notes came from the same sheet of paper.
Sonofabitch! It was all I could do to contain myself. Fortunately the food began to arrive. I shut myself up by shoveling things into my mouth while Ginny told Ted about Alathea.
Just to look at him, you wouldn’t have thought he heard a word she said. But when she asked him, “How long ago did Mittie disappear?” he blinked suddenly, and tears started running down his cheeks. It was hard to watch. His eyes were gushing, but he didn’t let out a whimper. A couple minutes passed before he finally answered faintly, “Three days.”
Five—no, six—days after Alathea turned up missing.
For no reason in the world that I was aware of, I found myself thinking, The bastard’s getting greedy. More time had passed between the disappearances of the other seven girls.
Then Ginny asked, “How old was she?”
He had to struggle to make himself audible. “Thirteen.” Then he covered his face with both hands. “She’s all I have.”
When Ginny looked over at me, her eyes were glittering the way they’d glittered after she’d shot the punk who broke her nose. “I’m ready to hear the details now,” she said flatly. I glanced at Ted, but she answered, “He has a right to hear this.”
He must’ve been paying attention despite his grief. He pulled out a dirty handkerchief, blew his nose hard. Then he fixed his watery eyes on me and didn’t let go.
I put my notes on the table beside my plate and started to recite.
The basic facts were simple enough.
Two years ago, Marisa Lutt, a seventh-grader at Ensenada Middle School up in the Heights, failed to return home from school. Her parents filed a complaint almost immediately. Five days later, they reported receiving a letter from her, asking them not to worry. Her description—“very attractive” —was given to all police units. A detective spoke to her friends, her parents, and their friends, but failed to trace her. Three months later, she was killed by a truck while walking in the middle of the southbound interstate. The M.E. found evidence of massive heroin addiction, which he described as being of recent origin. He also found evidence of intensive sexual activity. The coroner concluded that she’d turned to prostitution to earn money for heroin. Death accidental as a consequence of an overdose. Investigation in progress to determine where she obtained her drugs. She was thirteen years old.
Twenty-two months ago, Esther Hannibal, a seventh-grader at Matthew Pilgrim Junior High down in the southeast part of town, failed to return home from school. Her parents reported her missing, but refused to file a complaint and didn’t call again. Her description—“good-looking”—was given to all patrol units. Five months later, she fell off the roof of an abandoned building in the old part of town and died a few hours later of internal injuries. The M.E. found evidence of massive heroin addiction, which he described as being of recent origin. He also found evidence of intensive sexual activity. The coroner concluded that she’d turned to prostitution to earn money for heroin. Death accidental as a consequence of an overdose. Investigation in progress to determine where she obtained her drugs. She was thirteen.
Eighteen months ago, Ruth Ann Larsen, a sixth-grader at North Valley Middle School, failed to return home from school. Her parents were frantic initially and didn’t hesitate to file a complaint. Four days later, however, they withdrew the complaint. Her description—“mature for her age”—was given to all patrol units. Three months later, she was found dead in the bottom of a construction pit out on the east side of the city. The M.E. was getting in a rut. Ditto the coroner. And the investigation. She was twelve.
Sixteen months ago, May-Belle Podhorentz, a seventh-grader at South Valley Junior High, failed to return home from school. Her parents reported her missing but were unwilling to file a complaint at first. However, three days later they received a letter from her, asking them not to worry. They asserted that the letter didn’t fit their daughter and must have been written under duress. They then filed a complaint. Her description—“lovely”—was given to all patrol units. A detective spoke to friends and so forth and so on. Six months later, she crashed in a hang glider at night and was killed instantly. M.E. and coroner as usual. Investigation as usual. She was thirteen.
Eleven months ago, Rosalynn Swift, a sixth-grader at Matthew Pilgrim Junior High, failed to attend school after missing half her classes the previous day. The school reported her to the police. When questioned, her mother said that she hadn’t come home the previous day. Her mother reported her as “a no-good chippy who’s only interested in boys” and refused to file a complaint. The school filed instead. Her description—“cute and well-developed”—was given to all patrol units. Investigation went nowhere. Six months later her body was uncovered by a plow in the city dump while sanitation workers were redistributing garbage. The M.E. reported death by suffocation about a month previously. The rest of the report was as usual. She was twelve.
Seven months ago, Dottie Ann Consciewitz, a seventh-grader at Alsatia Junior High, failed to return home from school. Her parents filed a complaint immediately, claiming that she’d been kidnapped by her uncle in Detroit. Three days later, they received a letter asking them not to worry. This they showed to the police as evidence that her uncle had kidnapped her. They claimed she couldn’t have written such a letter without his help. She was described as “beautiful.” The Detroit police were unable to locate either her or her uncle. Five months later she was found in an empty apartment on the south side of the city. Death by electrocution—bad wiring on an electric hot plate. The M.E. and the coroner had nothing new to say. The investigation went nowhere. She was thirteen.
Three months ago, Carol Christie, a seventh-grader at North Valley Middle School, failed to return home from school. Her parents reported her missing. They appeared distressed, and her father filed a complaint without her mother’s approval. Her description—“healthy and pretty”—was given to all patrol units. A detective and so on, without success. Her father called the police frequently to complain. Several times he made vague threats. Three months later—Monday this week—her body was found floating in the Flat River, drowned after a heavy overdose of heroin. The rest of his report was the same as the other six. Likewise the coroner’s findings. Investigation still in progress. She was thirteen.
Ginny didn’t react to any of it. She was just absorbing data. But a change came over Ted while he listened. Gradually he went rigid. Before I was finished, he’d turned so pale that I was afraid he’d have a coronary. He looked like a man whose whole life was falling apart. So he surprised me when he said in a tight flat voice, “You tell it as if all those girls were tied together—as if this is some kind of sick conspiracy. I don’t know about that. What does it have to do with Mittie? She isn’t a junkie. And she isn’t a wh—” for a second, he couldn’t get the word out—“a whore.”
“Neither is Alathea,” I growled.
“We don’t know for sure that there is any connection,” Ginny said. Her voice was abstract, and she didn’t look at either of us. She was just thinking out loud. “All we know for sure is that both Mittie’s and Alathea’s notes came from the same sheet of paper—which happens to be the same kind of paper Carol Christie’s note was on. Those three notes say almost exactly the same thing. If there were anything more solid than that, the cops would’ve found it by now. Obviously there’re a lot of differences. But there’re a lot of similarities, too. They were all in the same kind of trouble before they died. They all overlap by about a month—each one died a month after the next one disappeared.”
Except for Alathea and Mittie, I sai
d to myself. But I didn’t interrupt her.
“And they all disappeared from school. None of them ran away at night, or after school, or over the weekend, or during the summer. Also none of them seem to have been on the stuff for very long.”
“Three to six months,” I agreed.
“I didn’t know it was that easy to get,” she muttered. “I didn’t know a kid could buy enough of it to actually kill herself in three months—or even six.” Suddenly she was angry. “Who the bloody hell supplies children like that?”
I was about to say that was what Acton reportedly wanted to find out, but Ted distracted me. He didn’t look like he’d heard what Ginny just said. He was fumbling for his wallet. He got out a picture, showed it to Ginny and me. “And they were all cute.”
He was right about that. I could vouch for Alathea. And Mittie looked very nice in her picture. It was hard to believe she was actually Ted’s daughter.
For a while none of us said anything. Ginny was staring at a burnt-out light bulb in the ceiling, and I concentrated on eating. Judging from past experience, this would probably be the last food I could hold down until after the next withdrawal crisis. I didn’t know when it was going to come—but it sure as hell was going to come. After that maybe being sober would get a little easier for a while.
Ted didn’t eat anything. He was fidgeting under the silence. Finally he asked in a thin voice, “What’re you going to do?”
Ginny’s thoughts came down off the ceiling with a jerk. “The first thing we’re going to do is try to get a look at some more notes.”
Ted nodded. For a moment his lips trembled. Then he said, “I want to help.”
“I’m counting on it.” The glitter was back in her eyes. “If Mittie and Alathea really are tied in to Carol Christie and the rest of these girls, we need to move fast. Where did Mittie go to school?”
The Man Who Killed His Brother Page 7