When I finally got up the nerve to open the folder, the first thing that hit me was a portrait photo of my sister, Susan. It was not one that I remembered, and it was an odd feeling to see her face staring back at me in a different memory than I had of her. I knew when that photo had been taken; our parents had made each of us dress up for a department store photo about six months before Susan disappeared. She was on the cusp of being a teenager, and Mom was in one of her ‘time is fleeting’ moods, which made her want to record everything we did.
Still, I couldn’t remember what either my brother or sister had worn that day. I just recalled my own button-down striped shirt and jeans. I wondered if my mother still had that photo of me or if she’d thrown it away in the purge of everything related to her daughter. My mother had very few memories left of my family. She’d thrown out photos, report cards, messages, anything that reminded her that she’d been unable to keep her daughter away from the evils of the world.
The first police statement I saw was my own recounting of the facts. I wondered if my piece was on top by chance or because Green had pulled it to see what I’d said about the disappearance. Part of me even wondered if she’d read it because she was interested in finding out what a pre-teen Griff was like.
I smiled as I read the statement. I noticed several turns of phrase that I’d used as a kid, and the piece definitely sounded like something that had come from me. There was not much here that I couldn’t have recalled without a few seconds’ notice. Susan had been supposed to be going to the movies with her boyfriend. He’d waited at the theater until the movie started to call the house. She had never showed. I’d answered the phone and told him that she’d left on time to be there before the show started. We lived less than ten blocks from where the movie house was. He called again 35 minutes later to tell me that she still hadn’t shown. His parents had driven him the entire way to our house and back, yet they’d not seen any sign of her.
At that point, I couldn’t contain what was happening. I’d informed my parents who spoke to the other parents. They hung up, and my mother had immediately called the police. They were limited in what they could do at such an early time. However, given the age of the missing girl and the proximity to her destination, they gave my parents a list of things to do, which included calling all family members, all of her known friends, and things like that.
The statements had been given on the second day, when it was more obvious that Susan wouldn’t be walking through the door and explaining why she’d been gone for 48 hours. The case was switched to a missing persons case, and the police began to walk the same steps we’d made as we called people.
My statement came from that time when they’d started to work on the theory that she’d left of her own free will. I’d been asked about her attitude that evening, if she’d seemed overly excited or nervous. I had answered that she always seemed nervous before a date, so it was hard to tell if anything had been out of the ordinary.
The police asked about my phone calls with the boyfriend. I explained that I’d originally kept the news to myself, not wanting Susan to get in trouble for her actions, but I’d told my parents when it became obvious something was wrong.
What my statement didn’t contain was the enormous guilt I’d had over the years, asking myself what might have happened if I had let my parents know that she was missing after the first phone call. I’d been trying to keep things quiet to keep her out of trouble, but with that decision, had I doomed her? I couldn’t even count the number of sleepless nights I’d had during my teen years, asking myself what would be different if I’d told my parents then. Perhaps my sister would have been found in those first few hours. Perhaps my dad wouldn’t have drunk himself into a premature liver failure. Perhaps I’d be closer to my brother and mother. If life is made up of defining moments, this was one of my moments, a simple neglect to save my sister a punishment that might have lost her forever.
None of that guilt was evident in my pre-adolescent statement, but I could still see it there. The worries about being taken and the desire to be non-descript to the point of becoming invisible would come later, but even in this statement I could see the harbingers of it under the surface.
My brother’s statement was also in the folder, and I read it next. I’d been two years younger than Susan, and as such, I’d tempered what I’d read with the adult knowledge that kids don’t interpret everything correctly. I was interested to see what my brother, who’d been the wise old age of 15, had said about Susan’s disappearance.
As I skimmed through it the first time, I realized again how much I missed my brother. He’d moved across the country after his college graduation to get away from the gloom of the family tragedy and the wreck of what had once been my parents. I understood why he wanted to do that. He’d settled out there and begun a family, which practically ensured that he would never return here to live. His visits would be short and managed. The real tragedy of that move, in my eyes, was that he’d lumped me in with my parents, so that now we rarely spoke and almost never saw each other.
His statement was not much different than mine. He’d heard me answer the phone and talk to someone twice before handing it to my parents on the third call. He’d not talked to Susan that evening. Frankly, he had not been interested in her dating, and he’d stayed away from any drama that came with the age.
I had to wonder in looking at his statement if my brother had always been aloof from the family. He’d not seemed overly concerned by Susan’s disappearance, only in how it affected him. Perhaps that was just teenaged behavior, but it made me rethink my relationship with my brother. Perhaps our estrangement would have occurred even without Susan’s disappearance.
The next sheet was the original police report. There was nothing much to read in the report, other than a mere recitation of facts, most of which I’d supplied to the officers who wrote it. If Green had thought this would be of any help to me, she was wrong. I knew these things and still held them in my memory. I didn’t need to read the police report as well.
I was about to pick out another paper to read when the phone rang. Part of me was grateful to be able to put the file down without reading more. I meticulously put the papers back in the file and closed it again. I answered the phone.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick? I’m Allison from Saved by the Bell, the rescue center that you called today. How can I help you?”
I explained the situation with the multiple records on the database regarding the cats going to Mrs. Miller. “I’m helping my friend with his app to scan those chips, and we just wanted to verify that you actually sponsored two cats with two different chips, since they went to the same person on the same day and were very similar in description.”
“I’m at home right now, but I can look that up tomorrow if you’d like. I can’t really tell you about the person who adopted for confidentiality purposes, but if you have the person’s name and address, I can certainly tell you if it’s a mistake or legitimate entry. Would that work?”
I agreed and told her that I’d meet her at 10am the following morning. Having put the file down, I had no desire to pick it back up again. It was approaching 9pm, and the thought of having nightmares about my sister again was more than I could handle. I’d had too many years of those dreams to ever need another. I chilled for a couple of hours watching TV and went to sleep without dreams.
Chapter 6
The following morning at 10am, I was at Saved by the Bell, waiting on Allison. I’d been early, and no one from the facility was there yet. So I sat in the car and tried not to think about my sister and what else might be in the file. Allison finally showed up about 15 minutes after our meeting time, but since I was asking for a favor, I didn’t comment on her punctuality.
She unlocked the door, threw her purse onto the chair behind the first desk in the office, and fired up the computer. Even though it was after 10, she headed for the coffee pot and turned it on. I thought she was being very trusting, given that I wa
s only a few feet from the door and her purse, but she seemed to think I was worth the trust.
After the coffee had brewed, she returned to the desk. “Now can you give me more information about the cats?”
I pulled out my phone and read the information on the microchips to her as well as giving her descriptions of the cats. The level of information I provided made her feel more comfortable that I was legitimate. I showed her the app and explained how it worked. I almost felt as though I was a salesman for Brett. Honestly, I think she was far more interested in the app than she was in the details I’d requested.
After about 10 minutes of discussing the pros and cons of the app, she finally pulled up the information. She broke out into a smile. “I remember these cats. They were adorable. They were adopted at about age three. They’d been together since birth. One of the cats was the definite alpha of the pair, and the other one followed him everywhere he went.”
My ears perked up at this last statement. “Is that normal? I thought cats were more independent.”
The girl sighed. “Most are, but you’ll see some dependency, especially if they’ve not had an easy life. They’ll rely on each other more than other cats would.”
Since I was still only working for Brett on his app, I tried to keep my questions related to the two cats. “So there definitely were two of them? And they were adopted together?”
“Yes, they were so attached that we wouldn’t have dreamed of splitting them up. It would have been too sad. They were in a good foster situation, so they could have stayed there until someone would love them both.”
Knowing the proprietary nature of adoption centers, I already knew that they’d have detailed information about the family who took the cats. “As I shared with you on the phone,” I said, “I know Mrs. Miller, but I’m not good friends with her husband. Did you meet him during the adoption process?”
“Just briefly. She was the person we dealt with most. Of course, since she lived in Ottawa Hills, there was little question that they’d be mistreated or that they couldn’t be provided for.” I saw the tinges of snobbery that would lead to Mrs. Miller getting away with details that other families would not.
I just nodded. “Mr. Miller is, errr was, a very busy man. I’m sure it was hard for him to find time meet with people.”
She gave me a broad grin, I presumed for understanding their position. “Is there anything else I can answer for you today? It does appear that your friend’s app is working properly. Does he have a timeframe for its introduction? I know a lot of people here would be interested in it. Right now, we have to use the services of a vet to learn this sort of information.”
“The last time I talked to him there were some issues that he had to ironed out, but I know he hopes to have it on the market soon,” I said honestly. I didn’t want to talk to her about the privacy issues of the app, since I’d just been asking questions about other people. It seemed hypocritical to say the least.
“Speaking of services, would you be willing to talk to a couple of our dogs today? We have a poodle with a nervous condition and a schnauzer with aggression issues. They’re here at the site today to see if we can get answers to their issues. If you could…” She let the words hang in the air.
I sighed. “I guess so.”
She led the way to the back of the offices. If the dogs were here now, I highly suspected that they’d been brought in by their foster families while I was talking to Allison in the front. These pets were typically pampered and kept by trusted families until they could be adopted. I wouldn’t dream of leaving a nervous dog alone in a strange place, so I knew that they wouldn’t either. I’d been had, and now I was paying the price for my information.
The poodle was an easy case to diagnose. The dog had quite obviously been abused. He was scared of loud noises, any sudden motion, and especially any time I raised my hand above my chest level. Otherwise, he seemed like a good dog. I put on my show for Allison, playing with the dog, nodding my head as if in agreement, asking questions that would later be used as part of my analysis of the situation. After about 10 minutes, I stopped, petted him gently and looked up at the woman. “I’m sure you can guess that he’s been abused. From what he said, he was hit on a regular basis, and sudden movements and arm raises frighten him. He told me that he thinks he can get over it with time, but you’ll need to be patient with him.”
Allison nodded her head. “I thought so. I’ll call the foster family in a bit to explain the situation to him. They’ve worked with abused dogs before, so they know how to treat him.”
We walked over to a second crate. The schnauzer seemed at ease in the crate. I opened the door and sat down for her to check me out. She came up to me sniffed, and then began to prod me to do what she wanted. When I refused, I received a rough growl in return. I did a few more things with her, all the while talking to her as if we were carrying on a conversation. I lay prone on the floor, and she jumped on top of me. I petted her while she stared down at me from her perch. I finished up a few more games with her before looking to Allison. “She was the alpha at her old home. She’s used to being the boss. The other dogs and the humans did what she said and she was vocal about telling them if they ignored her. She said she feels very useless at her new home. She’d like it more if the family gave her tasks to do or showed her how to help out. She went from being queen of the home to a hanger-on, and it feels uncomfortable to her.”
Allison had been nodding along with my words. “You’re just wonderful. I don’t know how you talk to them, but they always tell you the most interesting stories. Thank you so much. I hope you can come back soon to tell us more about some of our other pets.”
I gave her a smile and headed out the door. Now that I found out that the second cat was a follower, I wanted to know what it had followed and why.
When I returned home, I found the newspaper lying in the yard. Chalk one up to Detective Green for insisting I should do my chores. My hair had been another matter. It had become frozen to the ice during the fight for my life on Lake Erie last winter. As a result, it had been a decision of cutting my hair or pulling it out by the roots. The EMTs made the wise choice in my mind.
The result was that I was beginning to feel like I actually blended in more as someone who tried to be “normal” at everything, rather than hiding behind the lack of interest in my clothing, appearance, and upkeep. Perhaps the changes would make me more invisible than if I took no care at all?
I opened the paper as I sat down with another cup of tea. The headline was bold and unavoidable. “Miller’s ex-wife is implicated in inventor’s death.”
I immediately saw that Green had been busy after we talked. The police had tracked down the first wife at her home, questioned her, and then requested her presence at the station. I knew from experience that the requests were anything but that. They were merely a way to take away the security of the person being questioned and put them in an awkward environment. I hoped that Evangeline Miller had a good lawyer. She’d be needing one.
The paper included a photo that was likely ten years old, taken at a time when they were still married, when she’d had both money and a father. She had dark hair with streaks of gray in it. Her face was turned slightly to look at Miller, and the look in her eyes said that she loved him very much. There was warmth and admiration in her smile. Little did she know what would happen, I thought.
The paper went on to tell that she had been Evangeline Vires before her marriage. Her father had been an inventor until his untimely death. Adding to her grief, she and Miller had divorced about six months after the suicide. He had cited irreconcilable differences. She’d later counter-sued for adultery.
She attempted to resume her career as an actress following her divorce. She worked with the Adams Street Theater group until Miller had become a major sponsor of the organization. She’d refused to work with him on any projects there, and finally severed her ties with the group. The paper didn’t have any information on her
following that.
She had stopped attending social functions. She rarely contacted her fellow actors from the troop. She’d sold her interest, inherited from her father, in the business that Miller now ran. She’d only had enough of the company to be a nuisance, but not to impact the growth or focus of the company. I could understand that after multiple crushing blows, the desire to lock yourself away could be overwhelming. My mother barely left her home these days. She ordered everything she needed from groceries to clothes from online vendors who delivered it to her house.
According to the article, Evangeline had been questioned extensively at her home in Southwyck and then taken in for additional questioning. This was not in my favor on two counts. First, I wouldn’t be able to talk to her about her knowledge of the cats and the trick that had been used on her father. Second, it also meant that Detective Green would not be available to talk either. I was stuck with only the reported news as a source of information, which was of little help since it couldn’t answer any questions for me.
I thought about going downtown to the Adams Street Theater to learn more about Evangeline, but given the fact that it had been more than five years now along with Miller’s financial involvement in the troop, I doubted that I was going to get much information on the matter. Maybe even less information than the newspaper had to offer. It was a shame, because I’d started to develop a few theories about Miller’s death. However, the questions I needed answers to would never be included in an article. I’d have to specifically question someone about Evangeline to learn what I needed to know.
While I waited a reasonable amount of time to call Detective Green – I still wasn’t sufficiently over my grudge to call her Sheila again, I decided to make a few phone calls. I called Brett and let him know that his app was fine. Two cats had been chipped at the same location and the same day. He expressed his gratitude, and we wasted 20 minutes discussing the privacy issues he’d run across and how he’d opted to get around them. I admired him for his tenacity. I’m not sure that I would have stuck with it for so long.
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