Little Girls Sleeping: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Jennifer Chase

  “I will,” she said.

  “I’m not just saying that. I mean anything…”

  Five

  Katie was putting away case files, both recent and old cases. Her mind kept running over the facts of Chelsea Compton’s disappearance and whether to talk to Detective Templeton directly. She didn’t know exactly what to expect, but her gut told her that she needed to ask a couple of pertinent questions. At the very least it might give a gentle push to reopen the case again.

  In her mind, this was a case that needed to be solved whether it had a happy ending or not. There was one theme that ran throughout her textbooks and true-crime books: cases need closure no matter the outcome. But she wanted to check a few things first.

  Denise was busy in a meeting, while most of the data entry and files were already completed. Katie sat at her desk pondering. The more she thought about the case, the more edgy she became. She glanced around the room; there was only one other administrative person and they were involved in a project and not paying any attention to her. With a few clicks of the keyboard, she searched for cases of missing girls broadly matching Chelsea’s description over the past four years from the surrounding five county areas. She found three that were roughly similar. Three years ago, Amanda Harris and Megan Lee, best friends, nine years old, got off a bus and were never seen again until their bones were discovered in Arizona a year later. That wasn’t going to help the case—two suspects had been arrested and were awaiting trial.

  The third girl, Tammie Myers, also nine years old, was last seen three years ago when she walked from her aunt’s house to the small local grocery store, Tango’s Corner Market, to buy ice cream and a dozen eggs. She was visiting her aunt while her parents worked out some type of marital problems. She wasn’t from the area and didn’t know anyone. The case quickly became a cold case. One of the investigating detectives suspected that the aunt was involved but could never prove any evidence of her connection.

  Katie frowned. Instinct and knowledge told her that Tammie was already dead and would probably never be found. As numerous textbooks had taught her, the likelihood of a missing child still being alive after forty-eight hours was slim.

  She twisted her neck and looked around her. The administrative area was completely quiet. No voices were audible and no one approached her desk. She moved her fingertips adeptly across the keyboard and continued a more detailed search until she finally came to a database where she could enter the parameters of what she was looking for in comparable cases. She also wanted to try and find out if there were similar cases of abductions in neighboring counties—if necessary, in the entire state of California.

  It took longer than expected, but after about twenty-five minutes she was able to find two other abductions that resembled Chelsea’s case. Both incidents had happened more than two hundred miles away. She wasn’t getting anywhere, but the searches did show that young girls around the same age as Chelsea were missing.

  She took some quick cryptic notes and then cleared the screen and search history and sat staring at the blank monitor. The blinking cursor was like a consistent heartbeat prompting her to do something—anything. She kept staring at it and didn’t want to blink because then she would see the smiling face of her long-ago friend, Jenny.

  Find her.

  Even the few things Katie had checked so far seemed to point in one direction. The evidence still needed to be sifted through, but it appeared to indicate that Chelsea Compton’s disappearance wasn’t random due to the other girls in the area who were missing without a trace. There was something going on, and she just had to put all the clues together to find out what.

  * * *

  Katie waited patiently for Detective Templeton to finish a phone call. The significance of this missing-persons case still weighed heavy on her—especially because it had to do with a child’s welfare. The more she thought about it, the more determined she was to breathe life back into it.

  “Ms. Scott.” The detective addressed her formally, forcing a stale smile.

  “Hi, Detective Templeton, nice to meet you.” She shook his hand, instantly noticing his exceptionally calloused palm.

  “What can I do for you?” he inquired.

  Katie realized that he had either already heard she was the sheriff’s niece or guessed some relation due to their same last name. It wasn’t clear if that was a bonus or not—at least not yet.

  “I have a few questions about an old case of yours. Would you have a moment?”

  Templeton hesitated but then gestured to Katie to join him at his cubicle. “Of course.”

  There was a large container of small chocolate candies at the corner of his desk; the lid was askew, meaning the detective had either just had a handful of sweets or someone else had helped themselves. Taking a chair across the desk from him, Katie noticed the same scribbly, all-capital-letter writing on the notepads and file folders as in the cold-case file.

  She estimated the detective was in his mid-forties. He had a receding hairline and was about twenty pounds overweight, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She also noted that he still hadn’t mastered a more effective organization process when working on cases.

  The little sign on his desk read: Detective Rory Templeton, Robbery/Homicide. She wondered why he had been leading the investigation of a missing-persons case, unless the department knew, based on experience, that Chelsea was most likely dead before they began looking for her.

  The detective appeared to be annoyed at Katie’s presence, but his curiosity seemed to override his initial emotion. “Ms. Scott, what would you like to know?”

  “Please call me Katie,” she began. “As you may or may not know, I’m helping out in administration while they’re short-handed.”

  “Yes,” he said. His eyes narrowed as if he was studying her behavior and judging whether she was telling the truth.

  “There’s a cold case I came across. Chelsea Compton.”

  “Yes,” he said again, his jaw clenched tightly as he leaned back in his chair. “What about it?” he inquired icily.

  Katie had the sinking feeling that she might have overstepped her bounds, but the truth needed to be stated. The case deserved fresh eyes and it needed to be reopened. She pushed a little more. “I noticed that there were things missing from the case.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, the interview with the neighbors of the Comptons—I believe their name was Stanley—was never followed up. And Terrance Price said that he saw Chelsea in the park that day, and there was a truck he had never seen before a little while later… Wasn’t he known to do odd jobs in the community as a handyman? Did he ever work for the Comptons?”

  “Let me stop you right there,” interrupted the detective.

  Katie waited patiently, never taking her eyes from him, watching every slight gesture and movement he made. She knew that she had stepped on someone else’s turf, but cold cases were there for anyone within the department to revisit. At least her uncle had always said that, and it had been in his office to be re-evaluated. So here she was re-evaluating it.

  “As much as we all appreciate what you did for this country, I think we can take care of our cases in the way we see fit,” Templeton said. “But I’ll humor you. We were able to check the neighbors’ statements, and found they were referring to a different day from the disappearance. They were mistaken. As for Terrance, he wouldn’t remember if he saw Chelsea today, tomorrow, or ten years ago. He’s a drunk, a drug addict, homeless most of the time, and has been diagnosed with a type of paranoid personality disorder.”

  Katie nodded, keeping eye contact, never changing her poker face. It was something she’d learned in the army—never let them see your feelings. She still had more specific questions, but realized that she wasn’t going to get unprejudiced answers, because she was an outsider and only a patrol officer, not a detective.

  “I just thought since it was a cold case and—”

  Templeton interrupted her again, thi
s time with more emotion, drawing the attention of surrounding detectives and administrative personnel. “You thought wrong. It has been four years since the abduction of Chelsea Compton. She is dead. That’s the hard fact, Ms. Scott. The only way we are going to find any more information is when someone happens to stumble upon her bones—most likely in another state. Or if the killer walks in here and confesses.”

  Everyone was staring at Katie.

  “I see,” she stated calmly.

  She stood up but continued to hold her ground. The detective didn’t scare her. She had encountered some real tyrants in the army, from sergeants to training officers, so Templeton was like a yapping little dog to her—fierce, but only annoying at best.

  “Well, thank you, Detective. I appreciate your time. It’s nice to know that every case receives the same attention and investigative doggedness that it should—even the difficult ones.”

  She left with her head held high in case anyone wanted to challenge her—but no one did. She had a plan, whether Detective Templeton liked it or not.

  Six

  Katie finished her first week at the sheriff’s department without any unforeseen hitches or confrontations; however, gossip persisted around the office and Detective Templeton made several snide accusations about her to anyone who cared to listen.

  Most department employees worked four ten-hour days a week, which meant that Katie had a three-day weekend. She wanted to make every moment count.

  Her childhood bedroom was the smallest room in the house. She decided to turn it into her personal library and study area. She had purchased a specialized paint to cover one of the walls, so that she would be able to use it like a giant chalkboard with magnetic capabilities. It would be the perfect way to lay out the investigative timeline for Chelsea Compton—everything that was known from the official file.

  It was a covert investigation for now—she hadn’t told her uncle yet about having a copy of the file—and if her efforts resulted in nothing new, she would just shred the copies and be done with it. But if there was something substantial or important he needed to see, she would come clean and tell him what she’d done, showing him the new discoveries. She didn’t like keeping secrets from him, but there was something about the case that made her feel it was important to bring it back to life.

  She was returning to the kitchen to fix another cup of coffee when a strange creeping sensation welled up inside of her. It began with her lower extremities tingling, followed by the uncomfortable movements shifting up through her torso, and then to her head and eyes.

  Anxiety was a stealthy and unpredictable enemy.

  “Oh…” she whispered, barely audibly. She bent forward, bracing herself for the dizziness and fuzzy vision that usually followed. Her nemesis was back.

  Cisco had a sixth K9 sense and immediately confronted her with soft whines and quick hand licks. He circled her, keeping his trained eyes on her hands and face.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered to him, not recognizing her own tense voice.

  Her breathing caught in her throat and a profuse heaviness pressed down hard on her chest, making it difficult to fill her lungs with air. It was as if a ghost was chasing her down and making her submit to its devious will. It was a scary, debilitating sensation unless you fully understood how to ignore it in order to make the symptoms disappear—a delicate balancing act.

  The most difficult aspect for Katie was the fact that she couldn’t fight the panic attack head on. Relaxing was key at the moment the anxiety struck.

  You couldn’t fight it.

  You couldn’t reason with it.

  And it wouldn’t make you promises that it wouldn’t come back.

  Anxiety, you’re not welcome here anymore.

  Katie wanted to run.

  But where?

  Anywhere.

  She wanted to hide from it as the familiar shakes began to rattle her bones and perspiration soaked her entire body.

  “No!” she yelled. She’d had enough. “No!” She gasped for breath and tried to steady her breathing.

  Cisco barked three times and ran to the window, staring outside to look for anything or anyone that shouldn’t be there. They had coped through these attacks together before, and they’d been happening more often. It was one of the reasons she’d decided to come home for good.

  She pushed her trembling and adrenalin-ridden body toward the refrigerator, opting not to drink any more caffeine. Opening the door, she stood staring aimlessly inside. The cool air from the fan relieved some of her distress, and she was able to breathe deeply, slowly, in and out.

  Cisco returned to her side, seemingly satisfied that there were no bad guys lurking.

  “Crap, Cisco, I hate these episodes,” Katie blurted out.

  She chose a glass of lemonade. The coolness of the drink relieved the rest of the anxiety episode, but she was left re-imagining the smell of spent rounds of ammunition and the dusty heat from the battlefield. It all seemed so real.

  It was an odd realization that her mind could conjure up on a whim the smells, tastes, and feelings of being in the desert of Afghanistan.

  Would it ever go away?

  After these anxiety attacks she generally became exhausted and a little lethargic. This time, however, she had important things to accomplish and she was determined to work despite her personal difficulties. She drank another full glass of lemonade and stood a few more moments until her pulse became slow and steady.

  Her welcome-home basket from Aunt Claire still sat on the end of the counter. Claire hadn’t been her aunt for very long; she’d married Wayne barely six years ago. It was such a thoughtful idea to leave a basket filled with necessities, including a small leather-bound journal with a delicately etched flower on the cover.

  Katie plucked the notebook from the basket and flipped through it. Each page allowed for a personal entry and a reflection on how you were feeling. It made her think. Perhaps her aunt knew more than she’d realized about war and the inevitable post-traumatic stress disorder that came home with most soldiers. Katie had never kept a diary, even when she was a teenager, because she didn’t have much to report or reminisce on. But replacing the journal in the basket, she couldn’t completely dismiss the possible therapeutic effects it would have for her now.

  She padded barefoot back into her study, which was in full investigative mode. She had some ideas that she wanted to work through to see if there was any credibility to them. If so, it would mean that the case warranted more investigation and digging in order to move it forward to a definite conclusion—good or bad.

  Cisco followed her into the room and took a seat in the oversized chair in the corner. He kept an eye on Katie for as long as it took him to fall asleep and release subtle doggie snores.

  Standing in the middle of the small bedroom with her hands on her hips, Katie perused the bookshelves along three of the walls, trying to recall similar cases involving a kidnapped or missing girl in a comparable community within a seventy-five-mile radius.

  She pulled out two thick true-crime books containing various cases of abducted children. Skimming pages quickly to refresh her memory, she found one case where a seven-year-old girl left a birthday party and never made it home to her apartment complex only a half mile away. It turned out that a resident in the same complex had been stalking her and waiting for the right moment. Because she knew him, it was easy for him to get her into his car without raising any suspicion. He drove her to a remote location, raped and murdered her, and then tossed her body down a ravine. It was not until almost ten years later that some hikers discovered her bones.

  Katie read through several other kidnapping and murder cases and found a number of similarities. She decided to jot down the obvious ones.

  At least eighty-five percent of cases involving a child abduction and murder were committed by a family member, friend, or acquaintance.

  * * *

  Most involved the perpetrator making the child feel at ease in order t
o easily whisk them away to another location. The child didn’t initially feel threatened by the perpetrator.

  * * *

  Many perpetrators had a premeditated location as well as means of sexual assault, murder, and disposal.

  * * *

  Most of the crimes were committed by a male between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-five.

  * * *

  There was a distinct modus operandi in a number of the cases.

  * * *

  Investigators were usually led initially on a wild-goose chase.

  * * *

  Cases were closed when an unrelated person or persons found the remains of the child.

  She decided to pinpoint the county boundaries and work out what areas had been searched for Chelsea. She used her laptop to mark out the search areas, based on news articles and the investigative notes from the file. Some of them were the usual places: home, school, friends’ houses, backyards, and parks. Other areas were more rural, including campgrounds, hiking trails, vista points, and historical areas.

  She spent an hour blocking out a map grid she took from the Internet with the areas searched, and was stunned at the regions that were left over. There were several places kids frequented to drink beer and hang out, and some more remote areas that according to her notes on similar cases would be more comfortable for the perpetrator.

  Why weren’t they searched too? she wondered. Shortage of time? Lack of volunteers? Everyone in town knew about these areas, but no one deemed it necessary to search them for the missing girl. Why not?

  In addition to these locations, there were two extremely remote regions that would need an avid outdoorsman or survivalist to investigate properly.