The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  The next call I make is to Amanda’s father, Arthur Meyer. It’s his cell phone. I light up a cigarette before making that call.

  I’m thinking it’s going to go straight to voicemail, but he answers after the fourth ring. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Meyer?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers.

  “My name is Frank Marr. I’m a retired DC police detective.”

  “I know who you are,” he says kindly. “I wanted to meet you and thank you personally, but Ms. Costello said she’d thank you for me. How are you, Detective?”

  “She did, and thank you, I’m fine. I appreciate that, but I’m calling for another reason. Unfortunately, I’m looking into another case similar to your daughter’s. I was hired by a family whose daughter is still missing.”

  “Yes, I know the family. They were recently in touch with us. I gave them Ms. Costello’s number and the number of the detective in DC in charge of our case. I hope you don’t mind, but I also gave them your name.”

  “I know. I spoke to the husband and wife the other day. Because the two cases are so similar, I really have to interview your daughter.”

  It takes him a moment, and then he says, “She’s been through…a lot. I don’t know. Can’t you just get the information you need from Detective Davidson? Or the FBI?”

  “I’ve already spoken with Detective Davidson several times. I knew him when I was on the department, so he’s been very helpful. What I really need to do is show Amanda a photograph of the missing girl. That’s all. See if she knows her. Maybe ask one or two other questions. It’s something I have to do in person.”

  “I certainly don’t want to stand in the way of you possibly finding this other poor girl. It’s just that—”

  “I can appreciate your concern for your child, Mr. Meyer. I can’t imagine what she went through. The last thing I’d want to do is make it more difficult for her, but I should tell you, in the short time I spent with her, I found her to be a very strong young girl.”

  “She is very…” he begins with difficulty. “Yes, she is.” It takes another brief moment. “I can come home early from work tomorrow, say, around four? I’d like to be there, too.”

  “That’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Meyer.”

  “No, thank you, sir. We can’t thank you enough.”

  Damn, if I don’t feel taken aback by that. Didn’t think I could get so affected.

  Shit.

  I snuff out the remains of my cigarette and light another one.

  Twenty-nine

  I was able to get in touch with all three of Miriam’s girlfriends. The parents were okay with my meeting with them. Well, except for one.

  I’ll meet the first girl, Carrie Deighton, shortly after she gets home from school. She doesn’t live far from the Gregorys’ house, so I told her mother that I’d come over when I’m finished there. The second girlfriend on the list is Tamara Moore. Her parents agreed only to a phone interview, and I set it up for Wednesday at three thirty, when she gets home from school. And then there is Justine Durrell, also on Wednesday, but at four thirty.

  We’ll see. I’m not expecting much, but there are times when some of these younger kids will more willingly offer up information to someone like me over their parents. But that experience of mine is based on my work with kids in DC who are little thugs, soon-to-be thugs, or wannabe thugs. There’s a big difference between them and these teenage girls. At least I’m thinking there is.

  Strong wind gusts outside. What leaves are left on the few trees in my neighborhood are shaken free.

  It’s still a few hours before rush hour, so I decide to take I-95 to the Lorton Road exit. It’s just a few minutes out of the way, but I know that area.

  Lorton Prison used to be there. The department had a facility behind the prison where we’d go through civil defense and firearms training. There used to be cows roaming around behind the barbed wire that stretched along a dirt road leading to the facility. Back then it was farmland that surrounded the prison.

  It’s been some years since that time. Now there’s a retirement community, and a high school on one side, and some sort of community arts center and a golf course on the other. The redbrick watchtowers and most of the housing units surrounded by tall brick walls still remain on a portion of land that the county hasn’t decided on what to do with yet. Maybe a future mall? I certainly wouldn’t shop there. Too much torment in that land.

  Miriam Gregory’s home is located in a quiet community off Lee Chapel Road, in Burke, Virginia. It’s almost an hour outside of DC, but then I did take a longer route, so it could be less than an hour. A lot of pockets of small communities in this area, and it looks like a lot of land yet to be developed. That’d be a shame. I’d like to think nice wooded areas have a purpose, and I don’t mean for hiding bodies.

  I can’t imagine how Amanda got herself involved with those Salvadoran boys in DC, but then this dude Edgar would be the one to talk to about that. Suburban life. It’s never been something I’ve desired. But maybe if I grew up in an environment like this, my life wouldn’t have turned out the way it did. Then again, probably would have. I might have gotten so bored I’d have turned to drugs sooner, maybe even have gotten myself locked up. You didn’t want to fuck with Fairfax County back then. They’d slam you for a joint. Not the case nowadays. It’s not even a slap on the wrist. Not even that.

  I pull to the curb in front of their house, step out, and shoulder my briefcase.

  Nice landscaped yard. A lot of fall colors. I walk up the driveway along the edge of their grass to a redbrick walkway lined with mums.

  Elizabeth Gregory opens the front door before I even step up to the porch, as if she’s been waiting for me.

  “Detective Marr, please come in.”

  I still like being called detective even though I’m not one anymore, but I think she knows that and it’s meant as something respectful.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregory.”

  I follow her along a short hallway to the living room, where she invites me to sit on one of two matching armchairs across from a sofa and separated by a large wood coffee table. It is a well-ordered living room. I sit down, thinking she might want to talk before taking me to her daughter’s room.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No thank you.”

  It is obvious she is taking some kind of sedative. She is too calm, but her face still gives away all the sleepless nights she’s been having.

  She sits on the sofa, picks up a cup, and sips from it.

  “Tea,” she informs me. “Chamomile. Would you like tea?”

  “No, I’m good, Mrs. Gregory. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

  “No, no, there isn’t, really. I think we covered everything. There is something, but I know it’s something you can’t answer. You seem like someone who would not have a problem speaking his mind.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but then it would also depend on the question.”

  “The police here always seem to have such rehearsed lines. I imagine there are only certain things they are allowed to say. I just really want—need—to know what you think, what the possibility is, based on your experience or whatever, that she is still…” She wipes away a tear. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Elizabeth. I don’t normally take on missing persons cases.”

  She seems surprised.

  “Now, it’s something most cops have experience investigating, so I know what to do, but it is not something I take on as a private investigator.”

  “Then why my daughter?”

  “Because you need me.”

  More tears now. She grabs a tissue from the end table and wipes her eyes.

  “And the reason cops don’t answer questions like the one you were about to ask is simply because they can’t. Not because they’re not allowed to; it’s just an answer they don’t have. Any answer I might come up with would just be bullshit.”

  She smi
les kindly.

  “Would you mind if I asked you something very personal?”

  “You can ask.”

  “How is your marriage?”

  It takes her a moment. “Are you married, Detective?”

  “No, ma’am. I never got around to it.”

  “Well, after time, marriage becomes something comfortable. Ours was always comfortable, but then it got shaken up by a terrible storm.”

  “So your daughter saw that it was comfortable?”

  “Yes, yes, she did,” she says, like she understands why I asked. “We fought like most families fight. Never talk of divorce. My husband has to travel a lot because of the work he does. He can also be emotionally distant at times, and has a hard time showing affection, but he loves Miriam and I know Miriam knows he loves her. So she didn’t run away, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know the police detective here thought that is what happened, but she didn’t. I hope you don’t think that, especially after you were the one to rescue that other girl and the situation is so similar.”

  “The similarities between the two are another reason I took on this case, but I still had to ask.”

  “I understand.”

  “Would you like to show me Miriam’s room?”

  Thirty

  I’m checking out the room, and it’s what I would imagine a typical teenage girl’s room to be like. Maybe a bit too tidy, like the rest of this house, but I’m sure Mrs. Gregory straightened it up.

  There’s a twin bed with several stuffed animals on it. There’s a little nightstand with a single drawer and a bedside lamp. There’s a study desk with three drawers and a laptop, and beside it a dresser with four drawers and a vanity mirror. There’s a sliding door that opens to the closet and to the right of that a small bookcase.

  “Would you like me to stay?”

  “Only if you want to. It’s not necessary, though. But tell me first, did the police find anything they thought might be useful, like a diary or maybe something on her laptop?”

  “She hasn’t had a diary since she was eleven years old and she only uses the laptop for schoolwork. Everything the police have, you have. It’s on the list we gave you. I know it’s not much, but she only had a few close friends.”

  “Will I need a password for the laptop?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “I’ll be right downstairs, then.”

  “Okay.”

  I’m used to looking for drug stashes, sometimes secreted where you’d least expect to find them, so how hard can it be to find a teenage girl’s secret hiding place?

  I look everywhere I would normally look, including areas of the carpet that look like they may have been pulled up. After squeezing all her stuffed animals, I go through the drawers, including, admittedly, the drawer containing her underwear, which is something I’m not comfortable with but had to be done. I dig through the closet, her clothing, boxes, and even shoes. I move to the bookcase and go through all the books, hoping to find photographs or pieces of papers with notes or phone numbers.

  Nothing.

  I find a high school yearbook for last year. She would have been a freshman. I search the pages and find her picture. She looks a lot younger. I guess these are the years they grow quickly. I search through the M’s and see Amanda’s photo.

  I tear off a piece of paper from my notepad and mark the page with it, then I set the yearbook on my notepad.

  I go to the desk, search through the few papers she has, and then the drawers.

  Nothing.

  The last thing I do is go through the laptop.

  I check the icons for anything that might indicate an account for email or social media, but don’t find anything.

  I click the icon for Google hoping I will find something useful on the bookmarks bar or in the browsing history.

  It’s another dead end.

  I’m not surprised, though. If I wanted to hide something from my parents, the laptop they gave me would be the last thing I’d use.

  So much for that secret hiding spot and that smoking gun of a diary I was hoping to find.

  I walk downstairs with the yearbook, find Mrs. Gregory sitting on the sofa. She sees me and stands.

  “It took a little longer than I thought,” I tell her.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  “That’s all right. I’m meeting with one of your daughter’s friends from the list you gave me. I don’t want to be late.”

  “The police already did that. I know my husband gave you the list for your investigation, but can’t you just compare notes with the detectives here, speed things up?”

  “It doesn’t really work that way, and even if it did, I’d still want to talk to her friends. By the way, I couldn’t find anything having to do with social media on her laptop. Was she on Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat or anything like that?”

  “Certainly not Snapchat. And she wasn’t allowed to use social media on the laptop because that was for schoolwork. We did allow her to have Facebook on the iPhone, but she never used it. I guess it’s become more of a grown-up thing.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not the social media type.” I smile.

  She forces a smile in return.

  “You said you have a son.”

  “Yes. He’s in school. The school bus will be dropping him off at the corner soon.”

  “Oh, school. I was wondering why he wasn’t here.”

  I pull the yearbook from under my notepad. “Can I borrow this for a day or two?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be going, then.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  She walks me to the door, but before she opens it to let me out she says, “I know I keep saying thank you, but I really do mean it.”

  “And I appreciate hearing it.”

  The first thing I do when I get to my car is take a pill container out of my briefcase, but not the container with the blow. I need a couple of Valiums.

  I chase them down with a swig of Jameson, out of a flask I carry in an inner pocket of my suit. The Valiums will take a bit of the edge off my desire for coke. Klonopin is good for that too, but doesn’t last as long. Since that big score, I’ve been using more than I normally do.

  I’ll have to find some good grapefruit on the way home.

  Thirty-one

  Carrie Deighton lives in the same community, just a few blocks away. The home is of similar design, but there’s not much attention paid to the landscaping. Carrie’s mother opens the door. I introduce myself. At her request, I show my identification, and then she invites me in.

  Carrie is in the kitchen, sitting on a barstool at a tall breakfast table. She closes a book she’s been reading.

  Her mother offers me a barstool across from Carrie, and then sits next to her. I’d like to tell the mother I’d rather talk to her daughter alone, but I have a good feeling she’d say no, and that would diminish my credibility with her daughter. It is going to limit my line of questioning to something less personal, but I gotta go with what I got. I’m sure she hangs with certain boys. I’m equally sure she won’t share that kind of information when her mother is sitting next to her. It is definitely a handicap having a parent around when you need to conduct an interview.

  Shit, I wasn’t even offered coffee, so what does that tell you?

  “I appreciate you meeting with me, Carrie.”

  “No problem,” she says.

  I take out my notepad, flip to a new page.

  “How long have you and Miriam been friends?”

  “Since middle school.”

  “Fifth grade,” the mother steps in.

  “That’s a long time. In kid years, anyway.”

  They don’t even crack a smile.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  She looks at her mother. “I told the other officers this. Why do I have to answer the same questions?”

  Before the mother can answer I say,
“Because I’m new to the case, and it’s better to hear it directly from you than read something on paper.”

  The mother nods.

  “What was the question again?” Carrie asks.

  “When was the last time you talked to Miriam?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It was summer vacation, though.”

  “She was reported missing on July ninth,” I say. “That would’ve been a Friday.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it was that long ago,” Carrie says.

  “She told her parents she was going to the community pool here. Did you go there with her sometimes?”

  “Yes. It was summer, so we went to the pool a lot.”

  “Would you mind writing down the names of friends you guys went to the pool with or met there?”

  She looks at her mother again.

  “The police have all that information,” the mother says.

  “Yes, ma’am, but I don’t. I don’t know why there should be a conflict here, Mrs. Deighton. It’s my job to try to find Miriam Gregory. I need your daughter’s help to do that; there are a lot of pieces to put together and a lot of time has passed. So will you help me try to put those pieces together?”

  The mother places her hand on Carrie’s shoulder and nods.

  “Thank you.” I tear off a sheet of paper and hand it to her, along with a pen. “Phone numbers, too, if you have them.”

  She writes several names, looks up their phone numbers, and writes them down. All girls and all of them on the list I already have.

  “Thank you very much, Carrie.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you know a girl by the name of Amanda?”

  “I’ve heard the name before, but I don’t know her. It’s a big school.”

  “What about Edgar?”

  “I’ve heard his name, too, but don’t know him either.”

  “Who have you heard mention his name before?”

  “I don’t know, people at school. Not even friends.” She hesitates, but this time she doesn’t look at her mom for reassurance. Her mother doesn’t seem to pick up on it, though.

  “What, he hung with a different crowd?”