As the Monroes gathered at the conference table, Streeter hesitated a moment to see what they’d do with Jackie. Dr. Monroe proceeded to settle the child on her lap. Scott Monroe pulled his chair close to them, and Jackie reached out to pat him on his arm, a tender, natural gesture. Could these parents be behind the abduction? Had they for some perverse reason wanted to eliminate two of their three kids? For a long moment he just observed, all his senses tuned to the Monroe parents. All he could feel was their profound distress and Jackie’s total trust. His impression: these parents were not faking. How could the confusion and grief etched on their twisted, tearstained faces not be genuine?
He needed to get started despite his discomfort with exposing the child to uncomfortable questions. Streeter began his interrogation gingerly, then moved to rapid fire: Who would want to do this? How much were the Monroes worth? Answer: comfortable, but not wealthy enough to make them a ransom target. Any enemies? No. What about professional motives? Anything to do with baseball rivalries? No, everybody loved and respected Scott Monroe. How about Katie? Her pediatric psychiatry practice? Testimony in child abuse cases — physical as well as sexual — sending perpetrators to jail, removing children from abusive parents? Sex offenders exposed? How many vengeful adversaries had she accumulated? Plenty.
But nothing in Michigan, Katie insisted as she kept twisting her daughter’s hair in and out of a braid. All that was in Florida, and much of it before a five-year hiatus between the birth of the triplets and when they’d started kindergarten four years ago. Wasn’t it too much of a stretch to think that a child abuser or sexual pervert would track her to Detroit to abduct her children?
Streeter wondered. The evil he’d seen in human beings defied logic and exceeded the worst horrors that most people could not even dream. Except for Katie Monroe, she’d seen that kind of evil. He could imagine the desperate scenarios that must be playing in her mind.
Streeter’s first impression of Katie had been admiration. A woman with the guts to go up against the scumbags of the world in order to protect little children. Tough, raising a family and holding down such an emotionally demanding job. She was different from his ex-wife, Marianne, who seemed exhausted just taking care of their kids.
To him it seemed cruel to keep hammering Katie with questions, but he had to be relentless if he was to find her daughters. After two solid hours, a faraway look crept into Katie’s eyes and Streeter realized that he’d hit the point of diminishing returns.
“Let’s take a break,” he suggested.
As Streeter headed for Plummer’s inner office, he knew he’d need to uncover the worst of the child abusers that Katie had helped put away. He’d have the Tampa field office pull court records to generate leads. But his interrogation did identify one glaring person of interest. Dr. Monroe was scheduled to testify in a child sexual abuse case the following week. Guy by the name of Maxwell Cutty.
Streeter picked up Plummer’s phone and called the Tampa field office. He spoke to the special agent in charge and asked that Dr. Katie Monroe’s cases, whatever was in the public domain, be pulled with immediate attention on Cutty. He asked for subpoenas to access whatever was sealed. It would be a long night in Detroit and in Tampa, too.
Could the abduction of the Monroe kids be racially motivated? Streeter wondered. The Monroes were a mixed-race couple. Could there be a maniac bigot out there who would do the unthinkable? Detroit was a fanatical place and Streeter knew his history; riots in 1943 and in 1967. The city never had recovered from them, and now with the collapse of the auto industry who could predict what might erupt? Hate crimes were on the rise. He searched his memory for details of the bureau’s recent briefing on white supremacy organizations and grimaced. The National Socialist Movement (NSM), one of the country’s largest neo-Nazi groups, was based right there in Detroit.
CHAPTER 4
Two Tampa Children Missing in Detroit Suburb.
— Tampa Morning News, Monday, June 15
Maxwell Cutty tossed and turned, the silk sheets cool against his skin. He hated sleeping alone and craved the warmth of a young body, male or female, either would do. He hit the muted light on his night stand and reached into the drawer for his bottle of Ambien. He shook out two tablets and gulped them down with the bottled water he kept by his bedside. No wonder he had trouble sleeping. His life had spun out of control. First Olivia, his wife, had screwed him over big time when she found out that he was gay, or bisexual, as he’d tried to explain. They could have lived together in the house with their sons. They could have remained partners in the business they had built together. But no, Olivia had freaked. Kicked him out of his own house — at least temporarily. Damn near bankrupted him, demanding her share of the business. Then that bullshit about the boys — way over the edge even for that vindictive bitch. Oh yes, Olivia deserved what she got.
But Olivia’s revenge was in the past. Maxwell’s most hurtful betrayal still stung. Adam Kaninsky, his young lover, had been penniless, loaded with student loans after he’d graduated with a degree in architecture. And Maxwell had taken him in. Taken him as an intern into his firm, taken him into his home, taken him into his heart. Only to be betrayed, to have Adam tell that Monroe shrink hideous lies about him and his own sons. How could such a beautiful creature be so unappreciative?
Maxwell tossed off the light blanket. Then suddenly chilled, he pulled it back over his naked body. Adam, that self-righteous ingrate, was far out of reach by now. So why not just try and get some sleep? Adam would not show up at the hearing. That doctor-bitch would not get away with her fucking lies and innuendoes. Hell, more than innuendoes. That bitch was trying to put him on a public pervert list. Even worse, she wanted him behind bars. No way that was going to happen. He knew what inmates did to child molesters. He’d made fucking sure she would not testify in tomorrow’s trial.
Having finally drifted off to sleep, Maxwell awoke to the intrusive ring of the phone. Groggily, he searched the inky blackness for the luminescent dial of his clock. 1:33 a.m. He picked up the receiver and mumbled a hello. Nothing. Must be a wrong number. With a jerk, he disconnected the phone, planning to bury his head back under the blanket, when he stopped. Was that the doorbell?
Maxwell kept a pair of velour shorts at the foot of the bed. Hesitating long enough to make sure he was not hearing things, he slipped out of bed, donned the shorts, grabbed a robe, and headed for the front door. By then the pleasant ring of the bell was accompanied by insistent pounding. What the heck? Should he answer it or call the police? Subsequent shouts of “FBI!” settled his dilemma. What the fuck was going on? This was a prestigious neighborhood. What would the neighbors think?
Again, Maxwell hesitated. This time to take a deep breath. Did this have to do with Adam? Another deep breath and a gulp. Did this have to do with Olivia? No, impossible, he determined, flipping on the array of porch lights.
With an expression of sleepy bewilderment, he inched open the front door. Badges flashed. Several of them.
“What the fuck?” flew out of his mouth.
“FBI. Are you Maxwell Cutty?”
“Yes,” Maxwell shrunk back far enough to allow them to enter. “What do you want?”
The agents introduced themselves. Rather politely, making Maxwell relax just for an instant before they told him they needed him downtown to answer some questions. They wouldn’t tell him why. Shouldn’t he call his lawyer? Or should he appear innocent and just go with the pricks? Shit, he had a court appearance that day, and he needed his lawyer well rested. He decided to comply, see what the feds wanted, and go from there. One of the agents waited by the door and the others followed Maxwell into his bedroom and stood there, watching him change into khakis and a golf shirt. That must be a violation of his rights, Maxwell thought, but he said nothing, just gave the impression that he was willing to go along with all their crap even when they patted him down for weapons.
On the way to FBI Headquarters, few words were exchanged. Once there, the age
nts led Maxwell into a brightly lit rectangular room. Inside was a conference table around which were placed four chairs. They motioned for him to sit in one, the one closest to shackles bolted to the floor. Then the agents left. When Maxwell heard the bolt slide shut behind them, he felt a sick panic. He couldn’t help suppress a scream, “I want my lawyer.”
But the agents did not return for a very long time.
CHAPTER 5
Search for Missing Monroe Children Intensifies in Auburn Hills.
— Morning Detroit News, Monday, June 15
Every light in the Hill Mall shone bright through the early hours of the morning. The cleaning crew had been scrutinized by the police as they reported for work. Then they’d been told to report any sign of the missing girls. No one reported anything. Not a single scrap of evidence that Alex or Sammie Monroe had ever been in that mall. Special Agent Tony Streeter mopped sweat off his forehead, as he returned to Clarence Plummer’s office.
“Looks like you could use a pop.” The big man grimaced as he held out an ice-cold can of Vernors ginger ale.
Streeter had recently relocated from the Los Angeles office to Detroit, and still hadn’t gotten use to the way Michiganders called soft drinks “pop” and how they loved their Vernors. Thirteen years ago, he had joined the FBI right out of Georgetown Law School. He was assigned to Chicago, and three cities and three children later, his wife, Marianne, could take the life no longer. The irreconcilable issue: she’d been no competition for her husband’s total dedication to the job. Three years ago she packed up his daughters, now eight, six, and four, and moved back to her hometown, Grand Rapids, Michigan. That’s why he’d requested a transfer to Detroit. Tony missed his girls and was gunning for the SAC job for the Detroit office, special agent in charge. Maybe then he’d go to Marianne, ask her to reconsider. At the very least he’d stay in Michigan, only 150 miles from his daughters. Streeter figured that if he solved this apparent kidnapping case quickly and efficiently, he’d have a crack at that promotion.
“Only ones left here are the mom and dad and the poor little kid,” said Plummer, slapping Streeter on the back like they were old buddies. “The grandma and cousin and the aunt were reluctant to leave, but I convinced them that there’s nothing they can do here. Just wish the parents had let the girl leave, but tell you the truth, I can see why they want her by their side. Just in case — protective instinct.”
Tony thought of his own girls. How Marianne would react? How he would react? He’d be insane with fear, he knew that. “You have kids?” he asked Plummer.
“Yeah, a daughter. Grown. My pride and joy. How about you?”
“Three daughters. Oldest just a year younger than the Monroe girls.”
“We’ll find them, Agent Streeter,” Plummer said. “You just let me know what more I can do. I’ll work day and night.”
“Call me Tony. Okay? You did a fine job tonight. Nobody could have jumped on this faster. You found the only lead we have.”
“Didn’t pan out to be much. Just that Davis woman with two little kids who ‘thinks’ she saw the two Monroe kids walk out with a middle-aged woman. Nondescript, useless description. Not fat, but overweight. Medium height. Musta been a few thousand of them in the mall. Teased auburn hair, gray streaks. In ‘frumpy’ dark blue housedress.”
“We’ll take another go at her tomorrow.”
“Hopefully without her screaming brats,” Plummer said. “Makes me wonder if I really do want grandkids.”
“She did seem pretty stressed out, our lone witness,” Streeter said. “First thing tomorrow, I want to set up an interview process for all your employees that worked the afternoon shift yesterday. I know that’s a tall order, but somebody must have seen something. We’ll especially squeeze those working in and around the movie theatre. Meantime, I’m going to talk to the parents, then head back to the field office. I’ll have an open line for you to call in anything. I’m not one of those Feds that take all the glory. I’ll take all the help I can get.”
Streeter found Katie and Scott in each other’s arms, sobbing with abandon. What else could they do?
Thankfully, the little girl was asleep on a bench, her head resting on her mother’s purse.
“Uh, excuse me, Mr. Monroe, Dr. Monroe. Why don’t you go get some rest?”
“Not until you find my daughters,” Katie said, her voice hoarse from crying. “I just can’t.”
“I’m leaving for my office now,” he told them. “It’ll be easier for me to work the system there.”
“Then we’ll go with you,” said Scott as he and Katie stood.
What could Streeter do? Of course he’d let them accompany him. They’d be dead on their feet as would he, but if they were up to it, he’d keep pushing them, especially the doctor. He was sure there was more to be learned about her past, and the shady people that she’d pissed off as a forensic psychiatrist. He wondered what had possessed her to chose such an unseemly career. Treating the children of abuse and kids with all kinds of mental illness, that he could understand, sort of. But going head-to-head with abusers, pitting her expert opinion against the lowest rung of human deviants? It took a special person, and from what he’d been hearing from the Tampa district attorney, Katie Monroe was a special person, indefatigable, tough, yet compassionate. But what he was seeing now was a woman unraveling, faltering, unsure of herself. Streeter had seen this before and he’d seen the opposite, too, with mothers, passive and meek, who’d transformed in a crisis threatening their children into aggressive tigers.
During the ride into downtown Detroit, Streeter sat up front with his driver and the Monroes in the backseat. All were quiet on the ride as Jackie slept in her father’s arms and Streeter contemplated the most difficult of questions. Had either parent played a role in Sammie and Alex’s disappearance?
The Sunday evening news had reported the missing Monroe children, but by Monday morning the story exploded throughout Detroit, across Florida, and was going national. Despite their lack of sleep, Streeter had advised the Monroe’s to tape an appeal. Scott wanted to spare Katie, but in the end they both sat in front of the cameras, teary eyed and in voices hoarse from endless crying, pleading for the safe return of their daughters. Both parents had experience with the media, but huddled together, they looked like innocent children themselves, so pathetically scared were they. The networks lobbied for an interview with the third triplet, Jackie. Katie and Scott refused. Yes, they would provide photos and videos of the triplets if that would help.
By mid-morning, the viewing world had become obsessed with the triplet images, trying to decipher which was which. Friends and teachers were approached for interviews by the media, soon followed by the Tampa police, looking for any clue. By afternoon, stories of the girls’ individual personalities became talk-show fodder. Sammie, the feisty one; Alex, the shy one; Jackie, the friendly one. Added to that was a rehash of Scott’s baseball career, all the old pictures, the replay of the injury that took him out of the sport. The local Tampa station ran video clips from the girls’ baseball games. “Condors” in red letters against white uniforms. Sammie, the pitcher; Jackie, shortstop; Alex at third. Startling, the alacrity of media access to show-and-tell video content.
With all the publicity flack, it was after one o’clock when Agent Streeter called each parent, one at a time, into his office for another interrogation.
Streeter had spoken to the manager of the New York Yankees just prior to leading Scott into his office. Don Plese pretty much corroborated what Scott had told him. Scott was a stand-up guy. Players liked him. Managers liked him. Hell, even opposing teams liked him. Type of guy that transcended cultures, races, social strata. Any enemies? No, but a qualified no. His job did require decisions. Who would move up to the majors. Who wouldn’t. Any vendettas against him? None known. Any family troubles? No, the guy was a dedicated husband and father, devout Catholic. Gave out Communion at Mass. No girlfriends hiding in the closet, or boyfriends for that matter? An adamant
no, that Streeter believed credible. Any racial problems? After all, the guy was white married to a black woman. Any inkling of threats or taunts from bigots, racists, ordinary rednecks? Not that anyone in the Yankee organization knew about. Scott had white friends, black friends, Asians, Hispanic, you name it. Did Scott Monroe qualify for sainthood? Streeter had asked. The answer came back, “yes.”
Streeter interrogated Scott more about Katie than about himself. About the nature of her job. The creepy people she helped put away. And there were plenty. Sexual predators and monsters who abused kids both physically and psychologically. But, Scott admitted, much of what Katie did was covered under doctor-patient privilege and had to remain confidential. But Streeter could see that this line of questioning scared the hell out of Scott. That his wife was exposed to horrors so heinous that she could not even divulge.
The bottom line for Streeter, “Would any of these creeps want to hurt Katie so desperately that they’d take her kids?”
Scott could not answer that. He could only stare ahead and finally mumble, “I don’t know.”
When Katie replaced Scott in his conference room, Streeter could see that she was fading into uselessness.
“Dr. Monroe,” he began, “I do need to talk to you about Maxwell Cutty, but I’ll keep it brief. The FBI questioned him during the night. You were supposed to testify in his trial today?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at Streeter, eyes so swollen that he wondered if she could see.
“As you know, he made a threat of sorts toward you and toward the judge the last time you were in court. Remember?”
“Yes. He said something like, ‘How would you like someone — fucking — in the head of your kid?’ Those were his actual words to me. The judge threatened him with sanctions.” Then Katie leaned forward, a sudden pulse of energy flashed in her eyes. “Agent Streeter, are you telling me that he took my daughters?”
And Then There Was One Page 3