by Rick Mofina
“The Glider retails for about forty-five dollars, is manufactured in Brazil, and is widely available in department stores largely in South America, Europe, and parts of the southern U.S.,” Cray said. “The Sunchaser is made in Nigeria. It sells for about twenty-one dollars and is widely available in the Middle East, Eastern Europe, Canada, and the Midwestern United States.”
“All that from one footprint?” a young King County detective said.
“We got a bit more,” Cray said as the screen displayed a magnified image of the impression made by the shoe. “The outsole is rubber with a traction pattern. But see here, as we consider the circles, waves, and diamond design of the sole, you’ve got very distinctive characteristics. Unique.”
Cray started clockwise, pointing to a slight gouge in the tip, some wear bars in the center, two nicks and cuts in the inside midstep.
“So what we have is like a fingerprint?” Grace asked.
“Exactly,” Cray said.
“The problem is the Nigerian manufacturer’s offices recently burned down. An FBI agent with the U.S. Embassy in Abuja is working on obtaining a crisp color image of the shoe from a distributor in Senegal.”
“What’s the ETA on that picture?” asked McCusker, a white-haired man who oversaw Seattle’s FBI operations.
“The FBI agent in Nigeria e-mailed me this morning advising that we could have our image by tonight,” Cray said.
“Good.”
“At that point,” Cray said, “we advise that we publicize the security tape image and the shoe’s image in an appeal to the public to report anyone with shoes like this who may have come in contact with a baby, or a van like the suspect vehicle.”
“It’s a double-edged sword,” said an FBI agent in Chicago. “As soon as you do that, your suspect ditches the shoes.”
“But you stand a chance of getting closer to the suspect and the child,” a King County detective said.
“You’re also tipping your hand to your suspect and risk losing them,” the Chicago agent said.
“All views hold merit. The shoe is strong key fact evidence that will ultimately have to withstand a court challenge. Paul, have you run it through ViCAP?”
“Yes. No footwear matches from other crimes in the country.”
“In abduction cases like this, leads to an arrest typically come from the suspect’s social circles. We’ll launch a public appeal once Paul’s team has confirmed the shoe and has obtained the image for circulation. Until then, and let me be clear on this, this is holdback. We must ensure there is absolutely no confusion on the shoe evidence, since we have two possible models.” McCusker checked the time.
“Let’s move along quickly, please. On the vehicle,” McCusker continued. “We have a red 2002 Chrysler Town and Country minivan. We have nothing on the plate but a witness noted the rear door had a small mural showing the sun and trees. We’re checking with airbrush artists, people who do custom paintwork with cars and vans.”
They moved through the status. No ransom call so far. Nothing through the Colsons’ Internet use or phone records that pointed to a lead. A run of all registered sex offenders in the region was ongoing. Criminal checks of neighbors and all of the contractors linked to the construction project at the Lincoln estate down the street were ongoing. The community was being canvassed again and again under the belief that someone had to have seen something.
Time lines for Lee Colson had been checked; as were his financial situation, his insurance policies, and business matters. At this point he was not a suspect and investigators had no reason to believe that he, or anyone known to him directly, had abducted his son. That did not rule out people in Colson’s circles and social networks.
Investigations so far showed nothing criminal in Lee or Maria Colson’s past. No drug debts, extramarital affairs, or run-ins with people who might have harbored a grudge against the family.
Shannon Tabor, the teenager who had been distracted from watching Dylan, was checked, as was her caller. No concerns there.
“Look, I think there may be something to the fact that Maria Colson had trouble conceiving,” Grace told the task force before reading excerpts from what Maria had written in Dylan’s baby book. “I’ve got nothing more than her journal here, but I just get a feeling.”
“But she is Dylan’s biological mother,” Dupree said. “And Lee is the biological father. Hospital records confirmed it and we interviewed the doctor who delivered.”
“I know, it’s an intangible. They went through a rough period. According to Lee they’d considered adopting, or using a surrogate.”
“But never acted on it,” Dupree said.
“We need to investigate beyond their social circles,” McCusker said, “to people they may have had contact with while looking into adoption or surrogates. Charlie”—McCusker checked his watch—”give us your take.”
Charlie Paine, the FBI’s profiling coordinator, cleared his throat before outlining a psychological portrait of people who abduct babies.
“The offenders are almost always women with a pathological need to have a child at any cost. They’re mentally unstable individuals whose acts are fueled by fantasy, delusion, drugs, alcohol, trauma, or a combination of any of these things. They have usually lost a child by stillbirth, miscarriage, or accident, or simply cannot bear children. A child is paramount to their existence. They may see the replacement, or the filling of the void, as the cure-all to their psychological distress.”
McCusker and the others took careful notes as Paine continued.
“Their desire to have a child evolves into a plan with months of detailed and careful preparation. A family or mother can be selected or targeted for any number of reasons, none of which could be logical. They can be surveilled and stalked, and the operation may be practiced over and over as part of the offender’s obsession. The event can also involve a blitz attack, whereby the desperate offender simply acts when an opportunity arises.”
“Sounds like our situation,” someone around the table said.
“The fact violence was used makes it clear the offender in this case will not allow anything to prevent them from fulfilling whatever fantasy is driving them.”
“Do you believe Dylan Colson is still alive?” Dupree asked.
“It’s a possibility, depending on who else is involved. If one of the individuals is a violent sex offender, then that injects an entirely different dynamic into the scenario.”
“Meaning?”
“The child would likely be killed and discarded within hours of the abduction. In such cases, you’re seeing the work of a serial sexual predator who’s likely offended before and travels extensively.”
“All right, thanks, Charlie,” McCusker said. “So, we go back to every woman who was in Maria Colson’s birthing classes, or was in the same hospital around the time she had Dylan. We comb all hospital records, and go to hospital staff in Seattle and King County, and fan out from there, for women who’ve suffered stillbirths, miscarriages, or deaths of children under the age of two, over the last two years. We ask psychiatric services for help on serious cases of postpartum women. We check with clinics and welfare agencies about women who suddenly have a baby. Detective Garner will continue to keep a vigil for a dying declaration from Maria Colson, who remains our best hope on identifying the suspects, while we roll. Thank you, everyone.”
“Remember,” Dupree called out as the meeting closed. “As you knock on doors, keep your eyes open for Oxford-style sneakers.”
“Kinda like Cinderella, only this time if the shoe fits, Cinderella is read her rights,” Perelli said to Grace.
She didn’t hear him.
She’d stepped away to take a phone call, her face creased with concern.
21
Jason had to check out his tip fast.
Some ten blocks after pulling out of Sunset Hill Park, he wheeled his Falcon into a secluded corner of a Burger King parking lot and began pressing numbers into his cell phone.
/> “Newsroom library, Nancy Poden.”
“It’s Jason. I need your help on something. It’s urgent.”
“Let me close up what I’m doing. Okay, what is it?”
“I need you to mine every databank we subscribe to, local and beyond, for everything you can get on a Diane M. Fielderson.”
“Spell her name.”
He did. Twice.
“Got a date of birth?”
“Approximate date of birth is early 1980s,” he said, judging from the sketch.
“That’s general. Specific would be better.”
“I know. It’s all I’ve got. To be safe broaden the date of birth from the late 1970s through the 1980s and narrow it to Michigan and New York, and Ontario, Canada.”
“What’re you looking for?”
“Anything and everything that matches the name. From news stories to property and divorce records, relatives, obits. Everything. From birth to now.”
“This will be expensive. Is this related to the Colson story?”
“Yes, but Nancy, swear that you won’t tell anyone about this search. It’s a wild hunch.”
“You’re such a cloak-and-dagger guy.”
“Humor me, Nancy, please.”
“Sure, but you’re going to owe me, buddy.”
He had to be careful with this lead, given the circumstances by which it had come to him. Unsubstantiated allegations came with risks: moral, ethical, legal, you name it. And while he was wary and skeptical, his instincts urged him to chase this down fast.
Studying the notes and sketch, he sipped coffee in a booth at the Burger King, and decided on how best to pursue his tip. He wouldn’t tell anyone about it. Not Spangler, not anyone. First, he would try to confirm any part of the information. If he could verify it, he could then develop it, then go to Seattle PD and the FBI and try to parlay it into a major exclusive.
But time was working against him.
He pulled out his wallet, fished out a worn, creased slip of paper bearing several penned phone numbers. His most dependable law enforcement sources. He started making delicate enquiries on the name without giving up a single detail of the context. He sniffed peripherally, politely asking if Diane M. Fielderson rang any bells with anyone in any way. “Whaddya mean, Wade?” “Well, as in traffic tickets, charges, noisy party complaints. Anything. Does her name come up?” His sources promised to check and ask around and get back to him later.
Back in his Falcon, Jason turned the ignition to start for Ballard, then shut it off to follow an idea. He’d make one more call. Be careful, you’re playing with fire, he warned himself as the line rang.
“Garner.”
“Jason Wade.”
“Jason, can this wait? I’m kinda tied up at the moment.”
“A few seconds is all I need. I understand there was a case status meeting this morning. Anything new come out of it?”
“Things are still being assessed.”
“What does that mean?”
Grace considered matters, then said, “The FBI’s leading the abduction, you should be talking to Dupree.”
“Is that a yes, as in, there is a development?”
“Look, ask Dupree. There might be something later.”
“Like what? Do you have any breaks, like a suspect, or a name?”
“There may be an update later. Other than that, I have no information and don’t you dare quote me. Ask Dupree, or the press office. Now, do you have anything critical you want to discuss? Did you dig up something, hotshot? Because I’ve really got to go.”
The name Diane M. Fielderson burned from the tipster’s pages on the seat next to him. Staring at them, he contemplated telling Grace about his lead.
“Jason, is that it?”
Don’t tell her everything yet. He’d wait until he nailed it down.
“I’ve got a thing but it needs checking.”
“You want to tell me about this ‘thing’?”
“Ah, it’s likely bogus, you know, somebody claiming to know something. I’ll let you know if there’s anything to it.”
She waited for a beat.
“All right, well, like I said, there might be something later.”
Jason spent much of the day in Ballard knocking on doors, talking to the Colsons’ neighbors, trying to flesh out a profile. At times he would float Diane Fielderson’s name with people in the community, which succeeded only in prompting shrugs and head shaking.
He went to the hospital to try to interview Lee Colson. The press pack keeping vigil there was told that Lee was not making any statements today. He’d refused to leave Maria’s side. Jason secretly managed to get one of Lee’s friends to ferry Diane Fielderson’s name, scrawled on a page from his notebook, to Lee inside the hospital.
“Doesn’t mean a damned thing to him,” the friend confided later after coming outside for a smoke.
By the end of the afternoon, Jason was back in the Mirror newsroom. He was putting the final touches on his profile of the Colsons when, one by one, his cop sources got back to him on Diane M. Fielderson. And one by one, they told him that her name didn’t register with anyone and didn’t surface in any of their checks, not even as an alias.
He pondered his tip while he waited for a BLT in the paper’s cafeteria. At least he was checking it out. Before he dismissed it, he’d check with Nancy Poden on her search. News librarians often put detectives to shame with what they could unearth, he thought, clearing the mess at his desk for a spot to eat.
He was curious as to why he hadn’t heard back from her yet. Moreover, he was concerned that the secret documents from his tipster seemed to have vanished from the controlled chaos of his desk. What the heck? Where were they? He had just begun rummaging when his phone rang.
“Jason, it’s Grace. A heads-up, there may be something later.”
“Like what? Give me a hint.”
“There may be an update, that’s all I can say. It may come real late.”
“Fine.”
His stomach was growling as he searched used notebooks, ancient press releases, and news pages for the small yellow papers. He’d left them in a blue file folder on his desk and the damn thing was—he glanced toward Spangler’s glass-walled office, where he saw him holding a blue folder and talking to Sonja Atley, the chief news librarian.
His newsroom line rang.
“Wade.”
“Jason, it’s Nancy in the library. Sonja found out about the search because of the—”
“Wade!” Spangler summoned him to his office.
“Got to go, Nancy.”
After Atley left, Spangler closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit down.” He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I could fire you right now for what you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You neglected to inform me of what you were doing. Of certain information you were pursuing. The search you requested just cost one thousand, six hundred, and forty-one dollars and seven cents and didn’t yield a damned thing.”
Jason followed Spangler’s forefinger to the stack of database searches and the automated billing rates and said nothing.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the money. I just approved it out of my Metro budget to keep Sonja happy.”
Jason swallowed.
“You failed to tell me about this, Wade. In my book, I have grounds to fire your ass.”
“I wanted to confirm—”
“Shut up and listen. I called Rosemary at home, she said you’d received a tip this morning from a caller she’d patched to your home. I talked to Nancy Poden and found this on your desk.” He held up the blue folder, opened it to the small pages and the sketch. “This is it, the tip and data you were secretly pursuing without my knowledge and at great expense to the company?”
Jason nodded.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me everything.”
Jason updated Spangler; he played his tape of the caller
, told him about the park and how he’d acted on her information. Spangler let several tense moments pass in silence.
“We’re going to run this story and sketch on the front page.”
“What? I don’t think we should do that.”
“That’s right, you don’t think. Period. What you have here”—Spangler studied the file—”is a person who thinks they’re a psychic. It’s clear from the tone and syntax. We used to get a lot of this when I worked at the Daily News.”
Spangler plucked a card from his Rolodex.
“Call this number. Ask for John Gordon Chenoweth. He’s with a foundation that police go to when they quietly want to call in a psychic. He’ll give you some on-the-record comments about the use of psychics in policework. Very respected guy with a highly regarded group.”
“But the library search found nothing. The tip is unsubstantiated. I object to us running the story as it is,” Jason protested.
“We’ll hold the story until you talk to Chenoweth.”
Relieved, Jason exhaled.
“Good; that will give me time to ask the FBI and Seattle homicide to respond to the name.”
“No.”
“No? Why?”
“Because they will not respond. They will urge you to sit on this, or kill it, and by then we will be overtaken.”
“If you run that name and sketch, aren’t we opening the door to all kinds of problems—maybe a lawsuit?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“But it’s likely a bogus tip.”
“We don’t know that. Besides, your tipster could’ve gone to the Post-Intelligencer or the Seattle Times. Right now, it’s our exclusive. You call the foundation in New York. Chenoweth will give you balanced comments on valid and invalid psychic work.”
“But with the time difference the New York office is likely closed,” Jason protested.
“Quit stalling. Try reaching him now and Wade, be thankful you’re still employed. Now move your ass!” Spangler ordered.
Jason could not reach Chenoweth in Manhattan. He tried well into the night, until they were pushing first-edition deadline; he notified the night desk.