“Why good morning to the both of you,” she squealed. “How may I be of help today?” It was hard to tell how old she was, considering all the layers of makeup she had on, but her smile was genuine.
“Good morning to you, too.” Jack found that when he greeted someone, trying to match their tone was best. “I’m looking for the . . .” he searched for the right title but drew a blank.
Sometimes security people try to match police titles and get their feelings hurt when you use the wrong one. At the mall in town, the security referred to each other as Officer, and they loved it when he did too.
“Registration office?” she added trying to help him out.
“Oh, no. I’m looking for the person covering right now.” Jack figured the generic phrase would pay off, and it did.
“Certainly.” She pushed back in her chair and wheeled it over to the phone.
She dialed, and after a short pause, a phone rang. Jack looked over, hearing ringing coming from an open door ten feet away.
“Neil Waters, security,” the man answered, and they could hear him from the office.
Replacement and Jack exchanged a quick wide-eyed look and even faster turned away so they wouldn’t laugh.
“Neil, a nice couple is here to see you.”
“Sure, send them in.”
“Okay. I’m going to run and get a bite,” the woman announced as she waved Jack and Replacement toward Waters’s office door. “Do you want anything?”
“Where are you going?” Neil asked.
“I’m just getting a coffee and muffin at Debbie Sue’s. Want your usual?”
“Sure.” A second later an older man, in one of the whitest shirts Jack had ever seen, stuck his head out of the office. “You kids all set or can May pick you up something?”
“Thanks, but we’re all set, Neil,” Jack reassured him as he walked over and shook his hand. He was hungry, but he didn’t want to complicate things by placing an order with May. “I just have a couple questions, and we’ll be out of your way.”
Neil laughed and ran his fingers through hair almost as white as his shirt. “Okay. See you, May.” He waved. “Come on in, folks.”
“Do you mind if I wait out here?” Replacement asked. Her sad face was back.
Neil checked with Jack via a quick look, then with all the compassion of a grandfather nodded. “Sure you can sweetie. Just come in if you need to.”
His office was as clean as his shirt. A place for everything, everything in its place.
Neil gestured to a comfortable chair as he moved behind the desk. “How can I help you?”
“Jack. Jack Stratton.”
“Now I remember. You helped with the alumni benefit.” Neil folded his hands, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.
Great . . . he remembers that I’m a cop. Nod. Look happy.
“I’m here because I’m a family friend of Michelle Campbell.”
“Oh, uh . . . you’re aware that the police were here and did a safety check on her whereabouts?”
“I am. I had a couple of additional questions. What do you think happened to Michelle?”
Make him feel respected and get him talking.
“Well . . .” Neil straightened up in his chair and Jack could see him gathering his thoughts. “We talked to her roommate, and she told us that Michelle transferred to Western Technical University out in California. I called myself and spoke to the registrar out there, nice group. They’re way up the coast. Get a lot of rain. They said that everything looked good on their end too.”
“Did they say she’d been out there?”
“They couldn’t recall her specifically. Everything is electronic now anyway.”
“Did they have an address for Michelle?”
“They didn’t. It could be she just hasn’t gotten housing yet. She hadn’t started classes, but she was good to go.” His expression was reassuring.
“You said she hadn’t started classes yet. Did they say why?”
“She hasn’t started yet because classes haven’t started. We’re both between semesters now. Maybe she just took a little time to herself, and she’ll check in?” He leaned in and put his arms down on the desk.
In that moment of silence, Jack listened for Replacement but didn’t hear anything.
That might not be a good thing.
“I hope so. Do you know where her belongings are?”
“The roommate said she cleared out. When we got there, the apartment was empty.”
“Well . . . thank you, Neil. I appreciate it.”
Jack shook Neil’s hand, and they walked back out to where Replacement sat with her hands folder in her lap.
Too quiet. What’s she been up to?
As they drove away from the college, neither of them spoke. Jack was lost in his own thoughts, grateful that Replacement was content to stare out of the window.
She finished classes and headed out west? Just took all her stuff and went? That’s something I’d do. Not her. No way would Michelle run out on them like I did.
“Did Michelle own a car?” Jack’s anger was kicking in.
“Yeah. A blue Honda Civic. I told the brainiac detective, and he said he’d put an alert out for it.”
Stupid. I should have asked her about the car first. I’ll have to run it when I get home.
“When did Michelle decide to go to college? She was a lot older than your typical college freshman.”
“She was, so what?” Replacement became instantly defensive. “She always wanted to go to college. She loved computers, school, and learning. She just couldn’t afford it. She was saving up for it and then she heard about that scholarship.” Replacement looked at her feet and shook her head. “She was so happy when she got it.”
“What was Michelle doing for work before college?”
“She worked at McDermott Insurance. She did computer security. She taught me.”
“What do you do for work?”
Replacement shrugged. “I have some . . . computer jobs. I do a little website stuff now and then. I’m sort of on call. Michelle said I should get some certification, so I took an online security class. Michelle . . .”
Replacement’s knuckles hammered on the door panel in frustration. Out the corner of his eye, Jack tried not to watch as she welled up. She looked up at the ceiling of the car and then the tears began to fall.
Jack pretended to concentrate on driving as Replacement quietly cried. He thought back to one of his first criminal justice classes: Psychology of the Victim. The instructor’s words haunted him now.
“When a crime is committed, who is the victim?” Hands shot up all over the room, along with one brave voice.
“A person who suffers harm or death from another or from some adverse act.”
“And using that definition, who is the victim in a missing person case?”
“The person missing?”
“Wrong.” The teacher had brought both hands crashing down on his podium with a loud bang. “What about the mother? What about the poor little brother? The uncle, father, sister, teacher, lover . . .?” He fired down the list, his words hanging in the air, suspended on the silent response to his question.
“And . . . if the victim is a person who suffers harm or death from another or from some adverse act what about you? Will you not lose sleep wondering what happened? Will you not pore over the facts and interview all of the shell-shocked people who want to know what happened? Where’s their loved one they ask, and they have turned to you for help, but you have no answer. You look at them with pity, but you look in the mirror at yourself with frustration. You turn inward and ask yourself the accusatory question, why can’t you find them? In addition, what about your wife or husband who grows tired of asking, 'What are you thinking?' You remain silent and become more and more removed. What about your little child who asks, ‘If I got taken, would you find me?’”
The teacher had paused, the lesson now impaled into every head in the room. They had suffered
a knockout blow and sat silently staring at their desks.
With Replacement still forlornly gazing out the window, Jack again heard the professor’s final words. “For those of you who want to wear the badge of a police officer, you must know this: You will be a victim. You will know pain.”
“Where are we going?” Replacement asked as the exit to downtown disappeared behind them on the highway.
“I’m taking you home.”
“But I thought we were going to look.”
“I will.” He stressed the I. “I don’t know if Gina will—”
“You said she won’t be back,” she protested as she turned in the seat to look at him.
“Look, my landlady’s ticked off. My girlfriend’s off-the-rails crazy. I only got a few hours sleep and I’m tired. I’m working the two to ten shift tonight. I’m taking you home.”
“But . . .”
“Look, kid. My head’s too overloaded to ask the right questions now. You’re going home. That’s it.”
That ended all conversation for the remainder of the forty-five-minute ride to Fairfield.
Jack couldn’t help but smile to himself as the small town came into view. It hadn’t changed much since he’d last been there.
It hasn’t changed since the 1900s.
Fairfield was one of the larger counties in the middle of the state, but it was also on the poor side. A large influx of artists in the 70s had rounded out the population of paper workers, loggers, retirees, and outdoors types that had earlier gravitated to the beautiful area nestled in the hills.
This was his hometown. It wasn’t where he was born or where he’d spent the first seven years of his life, but it was his home. He remembered the drive into downtown where Aunt Haddie lived.
Jack didn’t know if she couldn’t have kids of her own, but he did know she was married once. Alton had been his name, and the only picture she had of him was a wedding picture she kept by her bed. It was on the nightstand in an old, ornate frame.
Over her bed, she had a large portrait of Jesus. It was one Jack liked because it made Jesus look like a real guy. Frames filled with pictures of smiling kids covered the wall opposite her bed. He couldn’t guess how many kids had gone through her care over the years.
Her kids. That’s what she always called us.
He remembered the first time he headed down this road. He’d been numb. His birth mother was a whore. If he ever talked about her, he used that word, whore. There was no other way to describe her. He tried to use prostitute but felt it covered her sins and sounded too kind. It wasn’t just that she sold her body for money. No, it was because of what she’d done to a child—done to him.
Jack hadn’t thought about her for a while, but as buildings and surroundings became more familiar, the thoughts slammed into his already overloaded brain.
Why?
He didn’t know the answer.
Why keep a kid seven years and then give him up?
He’d shouted that question at the therapist who tried to get him to face his feelings.
My feelings? What feelings? Most of me is just numb. Dead. Then there’s the other part . . . The dark part of me that just . . . hates.
“You should have taken that right. Take a right up here.” Replacement pointed with a frown, upset that he missed the street.
She thinks I forgot about the town. She thinks I forgot about them. I didn’t. I’m just remembering too much.
Hennessey’s, the little Bait and Tackle, Bob’s Coffee, and the old candy store. It was almost all the same, yet everything had changed.
He turned down the familiar road.
“This is it. Right here is fine.” Replacement’s hand was on the door handle as he pulled over.
“Here,” She handed him a folded piece of paper. “Read it when you get home.” She hopped out and ran up into an apartment building without a backward glance.
Jack unfolded the note written in a delicate script on a piece of scrap paper. CHECK THE STOVE. TY FOR HELPING.
No signature.
He still didn’t know her name, and he forgot to try to get it from her.
Check the stove? What the hell does that mean?
He floored it and broke the speed limit all the way home.
Chapter 6 ~
Perpetually Weird
Jack stood in the hallway and let the door of his apartment swing open. He was relieved that he didn’t smell gas. Even so, he was glad the hallway light and windows gave him enough light to see. He wasn’t going to risk switching anything on.
Damn.
Someone had turned the place over, or that’s what it looked like at first. Then he noticed what was missing. The pattern of destruction meant Gina had come back.
Now she’s gone for good.
Jack could see that she’d worked the place over. The worst of it was in the bedroom.
No bedding. The pillows, sheets, and the super warm comforter—gone.
She had pulled all the drawers out and strewn their contents across the floor. Jack figured there would be a message in the bathroom, and he was right. It was now past the odd stage when this had happened to him before; it had moved into the chronically weird stage. It was at least the third time a girl had left him a message scrawled across his bathroom mirror.
This one was written in massive red lipstick letters: YOU SUCK!!!
She didn’t make a little smiley face out of the periods on the bottom of the exclamation marks. Erin had done that. Erin had a little more class.
His gun and important papers were in the safe, so he knew they were secure. He looked into the kitchen, across the broken plates littering the floor.
The stove. Replacement’s note. Jack swallowed. What did she do?
What remained of the shattered plates crunched under his feet. He approached the stove with almost the same trepidation as opening a door when clearing a room with SWAT.
All of the dials on the stove were turned off. He didn’t smell gas, but the black glass of the oven door seemed extra dark. He looked and could see there was something in the oven. The light had never worked so after a moment’s hesitation, he yanked open the door.
Stuffed inside the oven was a large green trash bag. He pulled the bag out and set it on the counter. When he looked inside, he laughed out loud. It was the super warm comforter and his pillow. Jack smiled. He removed both items and brought them to the bedroom. He’d have to thank Replacement later.
When he remembered he had to go to work, he grumbled. All he wanted to do was have one drink . . . or four. Instead, he headed over to his computer and began searching his email. Jack didn’t keep many emails, so it was easy to find.
Victor Rodriguez. He met him four months ago at the TEVOC training, and the two got along. Victor was on the police force in Sonoma, California. It was two towns over from Western Tech, but Jack knew Victor would check it out for him. As he finished typing the email, he thought of one detail he didn’t have, and he groaned as if someone had squeezed his heart. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face.
A picture. I don’t have a current picture of her. Some brother I am.
He took a quick half-hour nap.
The glamorous life of a cop.
Jack dressed and headed out the door. He had a love/hate relationship with the police station. Part of him loved going to the new, sprawling two-story building with rows of police cars parked out front. Power seemed to surge into his muscles as he walked the halls. Another part of him hated it. There were times he couldn’t stand the place because of all the people whose lives seemed to be broken apart there.
Jack would walk the station hallways and stare into the face of someone just arrested. Their eyes conveyed they knew the life they’d known would never return. Some days a victim would glance up, silently communicating their pain. That anguish would sear itself into his mind.
He checked into the station, picked up his car, and went straight out.
Today was a day when he hated i
t. Patrol Day. Sheriff Collins had received a call from the County Commissioner’s Office asking how often a marked cruiser patrolled the homes at the county line. One call and now every week, some lucky stiff has to drive in a gigantic circle around the whole county. Today, Jack was the lucky stiff.
Boring. Very, very boring.
Today wasn’t what Jack sought when he decided to become a policeman. He figured that after the Army, he’d be a cop for two years while he finished active duty. Then he’d go for something more exciting like the FBI or the CIA, but he kept putting that off. The problem was his training.
After 9/11, money poured in for police training. At his last job, he took every class he could, but he had to fight with all the other cops for a spot.
Training was the main reason he’d transferred to Darrington. Jack had no idea how Sheriff Collins did it, but the police department’s training budget was a well that never dried up. When Jack contemplated taking the job, another colleague told him no matter how many classes he signed up for, they’d all be approved. Collins initially hesitated about letting Jack take so much training. He said he wanted to give everyone a chance, but it soon became clear that the only one who wanted that chance was Jack. The other cops here were either too busy or nowhere near as ambitious. When Collins realized that those funds would go to waste, he approved almost every course Jack wanted.
When Jack had joined the Army he had started taking specialized classes in everything from terrorism to profiling, high-speed pursuit to sniper training; he just couldn’t get enough. When he’d transferred to Darrington, it was even better. It made the down times bearable. Jack could learn how to wiretap, conduct electronic surveillance, survive in the wilderness, or get TEVOC driver training.
The list of classes he planned to take went on and on. He loved it. To top it all off, he was paid to do it. He felt like a thief.
Who in their right mind would pay me to learn to fly a drone?
The vehicle in front of him slowed to a crawl because a police car was behind him.
Jack caused most of the complications in his own life. He was a master artisan for creating problems via his two main vices: shameless women and too much booze. His adoptive mother always warned him to stay away from both and still chided him about it today.
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