“Yep,” Detective Woods said.
“One set belongs to my brother . . .”
“Yep.”
“. . . and one set belongs to my son.”
“Yep.”
“Does that mean Max is alive?”
“Not necessarily.”
I interrupted.
“How’d Max’s fingerprints get into the system in the first place?”
“I fingerprinted him when he was two,” Julie said. “In case he ever went missing. I used one of those child ID kits.”
A child ID kit enables parents to take and store their child’s fingerprints. If the child ever goes missing, the stored fingerprints can be entered into the National Crime Information Center database. This improves law enforcement’s ability to locate the missing child.
“That was smart, Julie,” I said.
“Thank you.”
I glanced at Detective Woods.
“Any security cameras in the Spencer’s store?”
He nodded.
“But the lenses were covered with duct tape,” he said. “There’s security cameras in some of the other mall stores. Maybe one of them picked up something. We’re looking into it.”
He pointed his pen at Julie.
“Has anything, ah, unusual happened to you lately?”
Julie looked at me questioningly.
I nodded once.
“Yes, Detective,” she said. “Something unusual has happened.”
She told him about Kirsten Love’s Facebook profile. She told him about the video that showed a boy’s hands communicating in sign language. She told him about the video’s creepy message.
“I’d like to watch it,” he said. “You can use my computer.”
Julie brought up Facebook and played the video.
Detective Woods pinched the end of his chin as he watched.
“Play it again,” he said when the video had finished.
He squinted while he watched it the second time.
Then he creaked back in his swivel chair and pursed his lips.
“We’ll look into this.”
CHAPTER 9
OYSTERCATCHERS IS A seafood restaurant located at the edge of Tampa Bay. The star of the lunch menu is a fish entree. I have lunched there on a few occasions and as a rule have never ordered the fish entree.
Since Julie and I were already in Tampa, we decided to have lunch at Oystercatchers. The view from our outdoor table was spectacular: A blonde sitting two tables over had cleavage on display.
Julie peered over her menu.
“What are you staring at, Rip?”
“The ducks.”
The waitress came over. We ordered. The waitress went away.
“I have hope again,” Julie told me. “Fresh hope that Max is still alive. It gives me something to hold on to. I have to let myself believe it could be true. Max could be out there somewhere. I could get him back. I have hope.”
“So you’re beginning to doubt what you saw at the morgue?”
“The morgue?”
“The morgue. Five years ago? When you identified the body they found? You must have told them it was Max.”
“I never went to the morgue.”
“You never saw the body?”
“No. I was hospitalized at the time. Unconscious.”
“From the hit-and-run accident.”
“Yes. It happened two days before they found the body.”
“Only two days before?”
“Yes.”
Coincidence? I had to wonder. The timing was suspect.
“And your mother was unconscious in the hospital too.”
“Yes. So neither one of us identified the body.”
“So how’d they determine it was Max?”
“DNA. While I was in the coma the coroner’s office got hold of one of Max’s old hairbrushes. DNA from the hairbrush matched DNA from the unidentified remains.”
Our food arrived. We were quiet while it was served. When the waitress had gone we began to speak again.
“How about the autopsy photos, Julie? You ever see those?”
“I spoke to the assistant coroner about them.”
“The assistant coroner? Why not the coroner?”
“Because the assistant coroner handled Max’s case.”
“Why didn’t the coroner handle it?”
“I don’t know. He was on vacation or something.”
“Okay. So you spoke to the assistant coroner about the autopsy photos. When’d you speak to him?”
“A month or so after I came out of the coma.”
“You ask to see the photos?”
“I did. But he talked me out of it.”
“How?”
“He said the body was unrecognizable. In a severe state of decomposition. It had been locked in the suitcase and buried in the swampy ground for a very long time. Water had seeped in and accelerated the decomposition of the body and . . .”
She shut her eyes, tilted back her head. She took a deep breath and let it out. After a while her eyes opened again and they were moist. She dabbed at them with a linen napkin.
“Sorry about that.”
“Perfectly understandable,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“I want to finish what I was saying.”
“Okay.”
“And so the assistant coroner told me the body was decomposed beyond recognition. He said I could see the autopsy photos if I wanted to, but they weren’t something a mother would want to see. He said the memories would haunt me forever.”
“So you decided not to look at them.”
“I didn’t want to remember Max that way.”
“What happened to the body?”
“I had it cremated.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The high heat of the cremation process destroys DNA. So no DNA can be extracted from cremated remains. If the body had been buried instead of cremated, another DNA test could have been performed on it.
“Tell you what,” I said. “If you want me to, I can go visit the coroner’s office myself, check out the autopsy photos.”
Julie took a moment to think about it. Then she nodded.
“Before I go I’ll need to see a photo of Max.”
She nodded again.
“Could the assistant coroner have made a mistake?” she said. “Is it possible he could have wrongly identified the body?”
“A mistake? By a government employee? You’re actually wondering if that’s possible?”
Her eyes smiled.
“Can I ask you something, Rip?”
“Like?”
“Do you think Max is still alive?”
“At this point I wouldn’t rule anything out. One thing I learned in law enforcement is that things aren’t always what they seem.”
CHAPTER 10
SARASOTA OCEANFRONT CAMPGROUND. Six a.m. The waves crashed and churned and the orange-red light of the morning sun rose slowly out of the sea. Hundreds of RVs winked brightly in the warm Florida sunshine.
I had already eaten my usual breakfast of oats and blueberries. And of course coffee.
Julie was still in bed. She was a night owl and I have always been an early bird. We were the odd couple in that way.
I went to the drawer where I keep my Adidas running gear and I put on running shorts and a running shirt. Both black. But I didn’t want to wear my running shoes. Not on the beach. Not in the sand. Not with my OCD. Getting sand in my running shoes would have been an OCD nightmare. So I went barefoot.
There is something cathartic about running on the beach in the early morning when nobody else is around. Something that reinvigorates my mind. Something that sharpens my thinking.
I had a lot to think about. There was a lot going on. A lot I didn’t understand. But I was used to that.
As I ran I thought about the Facebook friend request Julie had received from Kirsten Love. And I thought about the fingerprints on the safe at the mall. Both ev
ents were related to Max. And both had occurred within hours of each other. There had to be a connection. Had to be.
Five years had passed with no new developments in Max’s case and now all of a sudden there were two of them. What were the odds of that happening?
And why were they happening now? What was significant about now? Why now?
Because it was an anniversary.
The fifth anniversary.
Exactly five years had passed since the body of a small child was found buried in a swampy area. A body that had been wrapped in a blanket and locked in a suitcase. A body that had become decomposed beyond recognition.
It was now questionable whether that dead child was Max or some other unfortunate boy.
Who was behind all this? Who had motive? Who stood to benefit?
Could it be Julie’s brother?
His fingerprints and Max’s fingerprints were both recently found at a crime scene. Did it mean they had robbed the store together?
No. It didn’t. No conclusion could be drawn.
Max’s fingerprints had been entered into the National Crime Information Center database. Julie’s brother would have had access to them. And so he could have planted them at the crime scene.
But why would he have done that? To mess with Julie’s mind? Did he hate her that much? Was it all about revenge?
What about the Facebook video? Was he behind that too?
Maybe Julie’s brother had nothing to do with any of it.
Maybe Julie’s ex-husband was the culprit. What had Julie called him . . . ? Oh yeah. A domineering son of bitch.
Or maybe Julie’s mother was behind all this.
Or maybe it was Julie herself.
Julie? That makes no sense. No sense at all. Stop stretching, Rip. Stick to real possibilities.
Focus on Max. Is he still alive? Could he still be alive?
Could the assistant coroner have made a mistake?
Or could he have falsified the report?
Why would he have falsified the report?
For all kinds of reasons: money, blackmail, revenge.
I finished my run. Sweat oozed out of me. I welcomed the smell.
It was now time for me to do some bodyweight training. It is impossible to maintain a Herculean physique without robust effort.
From the beach I jogged up to the grassy lawn and dropped to the ground and ripped through sixty push-ups. Then I flipped over and knocked out sixty sit-ups. I sprang back to my feet, trotted over to a low tree branch, polished off thirty pull-ups.
Back in my RV I took a long long shower. I shaved my face and my head. My shaved head gleamed.
I had gotten tired of the whole hair thing years before. Hair maintenance is a hassle. It takes time and money that could be better spent doing other things. Besides I like the way I look with a shaved head.
I switched on my laptop and waited for it to boot up. A phone number was listed on the website for the coroner’s office in Hillsborough County. I got out my phone and punched in the number.
“Coroner’s office.”
“I’d like to speak to the assistant coroner.”
“One moment, please.”
I waited.
“Stan White speaking. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about a case you worked on five years ago.”
“All right.”
“Max Collins. That name ring any bells?”
Silence.
“Let me refresh your memory, Mr. White. He was a small child. Found buried in a swampy area. Wrapped in a blanket and locked in a suitcase. Remember the case?”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“Name’s Rip Lane.”
“And what are you, Mr. Lane? A family member? A lawyer?”
“A retired deputy U.S. marshal.”
“Retired? Really, Mr. Lane? That hardly qualifies you for snooping around, now does it?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you want, Mr. Lane? We’re very busy here.”
“I’m calling on behalf of the boy’s mother.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Lane.”
“You remember the boy’s case?”
“But of course.”
“Were you the one who identified the remains?”
“Indeed I was.”
“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions about . . .”
“Something just came up here. Let me call you back.”
“Sure. Let me give you my phone number.”
But the line was dead.
CHAPTER 11
I SAW THE little girl again. She sat alone on a playground swing. Her hair wasn’t combed. It was greasy and lifeless. Her tiny hands held on to one of the books I had given her. I could see she was lost in another world and I didn’t want to disturb her.
I continued on to the campground pool.
When I padded past the kiddie pool I noticed the water was a little discolored. One little swimmer seemed smug.
My mind kept drifting as I sat sprawled in the plastic lounge chair and tried to focus on the suspense novel in my hands. I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl sitting all alone on the playground swing.
Divorce is tough on kids. I had seen it time and time again when I worked in law enforcement. I knew the statistics.
Children of divorce are more likely to:
— suffer from symptoms of psychological distress
— develop behavioral problems
— act out in school
— suffer academically
— drop out of school
— become incarcerated for committing crimes
The list goes on and on.
I tried to imagine what the girl must be going through. The pain. The loneliness. The feelings of abandonment.
I wondered if she would begin to play the blame game. I wondered if she would blame her parents for everything and refuse to take responsibility for her own actions.
Playing the blame game would lead to behavioral problems. Which would lead to a parade of other problems.
A child of divorce had once told me the hardest part of divorce was having to listen to your parents badmouth each other. I could imagine that to be true.
I have been one of the lucky ones. My parents never got divorced. In fact they recently celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Fifty years. Lucky me.
The girl on the swing wasn’t so lucky.
I felt a lump build in my throat.
I am supposed to be a tough guy. A marshal. A manhunter. A bad-ass. Yet there was something about the girl that got to me.
I put on my sunglasses to hide my wet eyes.
CHAPTER 12
THE HILLSBOROUGH COUNTY Coroner’s Office is located in northeast Tampa. The nondescript building is stark and forbidding. Not the kind of place where I would want to work. Of course I am retired. Which means no place is the kind of place where I would want to work.
I had decided to show up without an appointment. Only because I couldn’t get an appointment. In fact I couldn’t even get a return phone call from the assistant coroner. But he was a government employee and it was part of his official duties to make life difficult for any and all taxpaying citizens.
Julie had decided to accompany me, though she had no plans to look at the autopsy photos. She still didn’t want those memories to haunt her forever. Which I could understand.
The plan was for me to look at the photos. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it wouldn’t be traumatic either. I had spent twenty-five years in law enforcement and saw more than my share of gruesome sights.
I knew what Max used to look like because Julie had shown me several of his old photos. Photos of Max as a baby. Max on his first birthday. His second birthday. His third. Max at Christmas. Max and his parents on the front porch of their house. Max and his grandparents.
He was a good-looking kid and I hoped to hell he didn’t resemble the images in the autopsy photos.
The assistant coroner
had told Julie that the body was decomposed beyond recognition. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. I would see for myself.
When we rolled into the parking lot of the Hillsborough County Coroner’s Office I slowed my motorcycle. It burbled along until we pulled into a parking spot marked VISITORS and came to a stop. I killed the engine, dropped the kickstand. The engine began to make a ticking noise as it cooled.
My motorcycle is a Honda Fury. It is a handsome motorcycle. It is a reliable motorcycle.
In some ways it is like me: It isn’t flashy, it doesn’t seek attention, it isn’t all about the bling. It is understated and it gets the job done.
Those who work for the U.S. Marshals Service are like that too. They care more about getting the job done than about getting credit for it. They do it without fanfare. They do it without media attention. They capture more criminals than all of the other federal law-enforcement agencies combined, yet they routinely let cooperating agencies take the credit.
I store my motorcycle in the back of my RV. There is a garage back there with a ramp that allows for easy loading and unloading. I also store an ATV and a bicycle back there.
Julie and I got off the Honda. Nobody in the parking lot asked me for my autograph. Which was fine by me. I didn’t need the attention.
“We’re here to see Stan White,” I told the woman behind the glass partition.
“Who?”
“Stan White. The assistant coroner.”
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. White?”
“Well here’s the thing . . .”
“You need an appointment to speak to anybody in this building.”
“Including you?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“I don’t like your tone of voice, sir.”
“People bellyache about it all the time. But it never seems to fix the problem.”
She sneered at me and tapped a pencil rapidly against the counter.
I sneered back at her and wished I had a pencil too.
I could have remained like that until closing time.
But luck intervened: The coroner appeared. I knew he was the coroner because it said so on the little plastic name tag pinned to his white shirt. It also said his name was Walter Hogan. He seemed to be in a hurry as he scuttled past us on his way to the front door.
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