by Jeff Shelby
Tom nodded, staring at the floor, his thoughts elsewhere.
I remembered the moments after Elizabeth was taken from our front yard. There was panic, then confusion, then hope, then despair. It wasn't quite the same as what the Lockers were experiencing, but I remembered the numbness that alternated with the sharp pain as I tried to process what had happened.
“The person on the phone,” Tom said. “She told me she thought it was a hit and run.”
“She told me the same thing.”
“Who does that?” Alice whispered. “Who hits someone and leaves them for dead?”
“Is that what it looked like to you?” Tom asked. “Hit and run?”
“I'm not really qualified to give you a professional answer on that,” I told him. “There are a lot of things that go into recreating the scene that will give them a better idea of what happened.”
Tom studied me for a moment. “Okay. Can you give me an unprofessional answer then? Your gut. Does it say the same thing?”
It was a tricky area to get into and it made me uncomfortable. On one hand, I hadn't thought it looked as clear-cut as Swanson had made it sound when she and I spoke. There were a couple of things that bothered me. But, on the other hand, I didn't want to give Tom and Alice Locker any false hope. Their son was dead and no matter what I told them, that fact would remain unchanged.
“Please,” Tom said. It was impossible to ignore the pleading in his voice. “Just an opinion. I'm not looking to hold you to anything.”
I shifted on the sofa. “It's really hard to say. I don't know enough about accident aftermaths to really assess what I saw. I can tell you that the back wheel of the bike looked...off. To me. It was pretty badly damaged, and it struck me as more damage than a quick hit and run would do. I also thought he was a little bit further off the path than what we'd find with that kind of accident, but I have no way of knowing how fast Desmond or the car that hit him was going. I used this same word with the detective I spoke to, but there are a lot of ‘variables.’” I paused. “So I'd really caution against taking anyone's word about anything at this point. It's pretty early to make any kind of determination about anything.”
Tom nodded again, lost in thought.
“I know this is hard,” I told them. “I'm sorry I don't have better news.”
Tom freed one of his hands from Alice’s grip and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not your fault.”
“Desmond was an excellent rider,” Alice said.
I nodded, unsure of what to say to that.
She unfolded her legs and set her feet on the floor, but kept hold of her husband's hand. “He took a course last summer on rider safety. He knew that that route could be dangerous, so he was extra cautious riding it.” She looked at her husband. “Do you remember he walked the whole thing before he rode it?”
“I thought he was crazy for doing it,” Tom said. “But, yeah. I remember.”
Alice thought for a moment before looking at me. “I'm having a hard time believing he would've put himself in a position to be hit by a wayward driver.”
“The path is right next to the road,” I pointed out gently. “If the car was coming from behind, it would've been hard for him to avoid that, no matter how careful he was being. I have no doubt that the accident wasn't his fault, but I'm not sure there's much he could've done against a driver who wasn't paying attention the way they should've been.”
She sighed and looked away, and I was left not knowing what to say or do. I’d been in this situation a few times before, not being able to give parents the information they so desperately wanted – it went with the territory of looking for missing kids – and it never got any easier.
Tom cleared his throat and I turned my attention to him. “I have a proposition for you,” he said.
I waited.
“I don't have much faith in the police,” he admitted. “I think Alice and I laid all that out when we hired you.”
I responded with a slight nod.
“That lack of faith still remains even though the circumstances have changed. I'm not sure I believe they'll really be able to figure out what happened to our son.”
“I think you should give them a chance,” I told him. “They have the resources and at the risk of sounding insensitive, they treat people who are dead differently than those that are missing.”
Tom nodded. “I understand and I agree. I'm sure they do treat dead people differently. But that doesn't necessarily mean I have confidence in their competence.”
“Fair enough.”
He glanced at his wife. “I think for our sakes, we need to know what happened to our son. Definitively. Is that something you'd be willing to look at?”
I thought for a moment. “It's not something I normally do. I'm not that kind of investigator.”
“But is it something you could do?”
He was staring at me, his expression somehow managing to convey both hopefulness and hopelessness.
“Yeah, I could do it,” I said. “Although I can’t promise how successful I'd be. I'm not sure I'm more capable than the police.”
“But at least you seem to care,” Tom said, with a note of bitterness.
“I know your experience hasn't been great so far,” I told him. “But understand that this will be a different division of the police investigating your son's death. It's their job to figure out what happened to him.”
“I understand that,” he said. “But I think we'd feel better having someone trying to figure out what happened if they had some connection to him. I felt like we established that with you the first time we sat down.”
He wasn't wrong. I was intrigued by Desmond's disappearance, by his story, and by his death. I did feel invested, but I wasn't sure that made me the best candidate to figure out what happened to their son.
But I also wasn't in a position to turn down work at that moment, and they wanted me to continue looking for answers.
“Okay,” I said to Tom and Alice Locker. “I'll see what I can find out.”
TWELVE
The next morning, I went for a quick run on the beach, showered, and ate half a bagel before heading back over the bridge.
Desmond's case had been assigned to SDPD's Northern Division. Their offices were housed in a single-level concrete structure just west of University Town Center, with a La Jolla address. I'd made a couple of calls while I ate the bagel and learned that the name of the lead investigator was Ed Carr. I'd left him a voicemail asking for a few minutes of his time, but figured I might have better luck just showing up.
I ended up being right.
The desk clerk called back for Carr and he was at the desk two minutes later. He was about my age, a little taller and a little thicker. He wore dress slacks and a button-down green shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His black dress shoes had seen better days, and most of his hair had been buzzed off.
He stood next to the desk with his hands on his hips, looking at me, then the clerk.
“I'm Carr,” he said, looking at me again. “Who are you?”
I offered my hand. “Joe Tyler. I left you a voicemail earlier about the hit and run from yesterday? Victim was Desmond Locker?”
Carr pursed his lips, then shook my hand. “Yeah, I got your message.”
“You have a couple of minutes?” I asked.
“Not really, but you're here,” he said.
He motioned for me to follow him and led me to a small conference room just past the front desk. It was nothing more than a sterile rectangle, with beige walls and beige linoleum. He shut the door behind us and pointed at the chair on the other side of the small table.
“I appreciate you taking the time,” I said. “I won't be long.”
“Doing it as a courtesy,” he said, easing himself into the chair across from me. The vinyl squeaked under his weight. “I know Mike Lorenzo. He vouched for you. Was gonna call you back, just hadn't gotten that far yet.”
Mike was my former colleag
ue on the Coronado force and had helped me in multiple ways in finding Elizabeth. Things had gotten rocky between us for a while, but that had been my fault and I'd done my best to repair the damage. Apparently, I'd done an adequate job.
“No problem,” I told him. “I'm working for the family. They had originally hired me to find their son.”
Carr nodded. “I saw your name in the reports. Not sure how long he would've been there if you hadn't found him. Nice work.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I talked to Detective Swanson yesterday. Her initial call was hit and run. Is that how you're leaning?”
“It's more than a lean,” Carr said. “It's what happened.”
“Can you tell me why?”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his buzzed hair. “Because that's what the scene is telling us. He was clearly hit from behind. Damage to the bike showed that, as did his path into the brush. Our numbers tell us the vehicle that hit him was over the speed limit. Kid suffered traumatic injuries consistent with all of that. And given the history of the road, he's not the first to get taken out by some guy not paying attention.” He shrugged. “It's a hit and run homicide, as straightforward as they come.”
“Were you able to pull tire marks?” I asked.
He paused, then shook his head. “No. Nothing definitive, anyway. There was plenty of rubber already on the road and we couldn't tie anything directly to this. But, if the driver didn't see the victim, it's not uncommon that the brakes were never used, at least not in a way that would've left tread on pavement.”
“Any cameras in the area?” I asked.
“We're looking at them.”
“Anything look off to you about the bike tire?” I asked. “The rear one?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Was bent to shit, which I'd expect if some asshole slammed into him.”
“It didn't look extreme to you?”
“Define extreme.”
“I don't know,” I said. “When I looked at that tire, it just looked...like more than if someone had accidentally bumped him off the road.”
He frowned and rubbed at his chin. “Look, I get it. The family is upset. Probably in some state of shock. I don't blame them. They wanna find some thing in this to help explain it. But there's no thing to find. Should the asshole have driven off after he ran the kid off the road?” Carr shook his head. “No. But I could show you a whole bunch of case files that would show you the exact same kind of accident and result. This is textbook.”
I never believed anything was textbook after Elizabeth's disappearance. I couldn't recall how many times I'd heard that hers was a textbook abduction and that finding her was an impossibility. Each day, I woke up grateful that I'd been pig-headed enough to ignore those voices.
But I wasn't going to argue with Carr, either.
“Okay,” I said. “Any details on the car?”
He shook his head. “Nothing yet. We're working the bike, looking for paint or anything that gives us a head start. Like I said, we're working the cameras, too, to see if anything shakes out there.”
“Off the record?”
Carr hesitated before giving me a slow nod.
“What's the probability that you find the car and driver?” I asked.
He grunted. “On the record, we'll keep working until we find who did it. Off the record?” He shook his head. “It'll only happen if we get lucky. Maybe there's something on a camera or maybe someone saw something. It'll take months to identify cars on the closest road cameras and then interview them. We'll do that, but it won't be quick. But would I bet on us finding the driver?” He shook his head again. “No, I would not. It's a semi-remote area, at least in terms of constant eyes. It's an area that people drive regularly and tend not to notice the details around them. The businesses aren't close enough to the location. The kid was there for a while, which tells me no one was even close to that spot for any reason.” He paused. “Off the record, I would not bet on it.”
That was what I thought he was going to say, but I just wanted to hear the words from him.
“So it stays on the books as an unsolved homicide,” I said.
He nodded. “Unless we get lucky. I don't want to rain on anyone's parade. Our lab people are good. If there's anything there, they'll find it. I'm just not sold that there's anything for them to find.” Then he lifted his left hand above his head and his right hand just above his lap. “And I got a case load this big that just keeps growing. We can't just lock onto one particular case.” He let his hands fall back in his lap. “But you know that. You were a cop.”
I knew it, but it didn't mean I liked it. “Sure.”
He glanced at his watch. “And I need to get back to that pile.” He stood up. “I don't mean to cut you off but I don't think I have more to give you.”
“One more thing,” I said, standing up, so he didn't think I was going to hold him up. “His parents said he was a really great rider. Took some safety course, really took the time to learn the route when he knew he'd be riding it almost every day. All of that to say that he probably would've been aware of his surroundings. Would that have made any difference?”
Carr shook his head. “Not unless he was riding that bike backwards. Not much you can do if a bigger, faster vehicle runs up your back. By the time you know it's there, it's too late. It's got you. So I don't care how careful the kid was. It's not the kind of thing you can steer clear of.”
I knew Carr knew his business, but it bothered me that he was so quick to write the whole thing off. I didn't know what had happened on that road, but I thought it was wise to at least consider the other options, whatever those were.
“How fast was the car going?” I asked. “When it hit him.”
Carr glanced at his watch again. “Our analysis says over the limit.”
“By how much?”
He pursed his lips for a moment. “About twenty miles an hour.”
“Speed limit's fifty,” I said. “So you put the vehicle at about seventy?”
He shrugged. “People haul ass on that road.”
“So you don't consider that excessive?” I asked.
Ed Carr glanced at his watch again. “If we'd put it at ninety, I would've considered that excessive, but the kid would've been much further down into the canyon.” He shook his head. “I'm telling you. Just a bad accident, the kind that happens all the time.”
THIRTEEN
A familiar face greeted me in the parking lot, halfway to my car.
“Mr. Tyler,” Detective Swanson said. “This is a surprise.”
“Joe,” I said. “And is it?”
She had on a gray track jacket, jeans, and running shoes. Her jet-black hair was pulled back tightly but a stray strand had blown loose, a strand that was now teasing her cheek. “Well, you don't work here.”
“True enough,” I said. I glanced back at the building I’d just exited. “I'm just following up on yesterday.”
She nodded. “How's the family?”
“The Lockers? Pretty shaken up,” I told her. “Not sure what to do now.”
“That's normal,” she said. “Hard news to take.”
“For sure.” I wasn’t sure if we were going to stand around and make small talk or if there was something else going on.
“So, yesterday.” She had a backpack slung over her shoulder and she adjusted the strap. “I think I was a little out of line. I'm sorry.”
“I don't understand.”
“About your daughter and your wife,” she said. “I just sort of threw it out there and I shouldn't have done that. It bothered me all night. I'm sorry for being awkward and rude.”
“I didn't take anything you said as either, but thanks,” I said.
She hesitated before continuing. “I read a lot about your daughter's case,” she said. “Probably everything that was out there. And the aftermath, though there wasn't much on that. I was just sort of shocked to meet you like that.”
“Really.” I held
up a hand. “It's okay.”
She studied me. “Then can I ask you a question?”
It was my turn to hesitate.
She waited.
I inclined my head with the slightest of nods.
“Your daughter,” she said. “Is she doing okay?”
“She’s graduating from UCSD in just a couple weeks,” I told her. “She's doing very well. We're lucky.”
Swanson smiled. “That's great to hear.” The smiled dimmed for a moment. “And...how are you?”
“I'm fine.”
She adjusted the backpack again. “I...when I read about what happened after you got her back... Your daughter, I mean. I...” She shook her head. “I sound like a lunatic. I'm sorry.”
“Just ask me what you want to ask me,” I said. “I've heard it all.”
“When I read what happened to your wife, I didn't believe it,” she said.
I kept my expression and tone neutral. “It was tough for everyone.”
“No,” Swanson said, shaking her head. “I mean I literally didn't believe the story I read. It didn't feel right to me. So, I've always wondered.”
I was wrong. I hadn't heard it all. I wasn't sure what to tell her. The story that was public was that Lauren had gone to Minneapolis, then to Chicago for work. She'd then gone on a sightseeing boat and drowned by accident.
That, of course, was not in any way what happened. A man named John Anchor murdered her and I, in turn, killed him.
I'd always known there were holes in the story, but no one had ever been brazen enough to ask me about it to my face.
She held up a hand, saving me from struggling to come up with an answer. “I'm sorry. My big mouth. I'll shut up now.”
“It's alright,” I told her.
“I was doing my Master's in criminal justice when you found your daughter,” she said, apparently deciding against shutting up. “Our professor mentioned it and I dove into everything I could find about it. I couldn't believe you hadn't given up. It was amazing. It is amazing.”
“I think my daughter deserves most of the credit,” I said. “She's had a lot to deal with and she's a pretty amazing person.”