STOLEN

by DAWN KOPMAN WHIDDEN

  When he got to the squad room, Jean and Frank were already there and apparently had been for a while. They were going over the crime scene photos. The pictures were graphic. A frontal view of the deceased victim showed him with his eyes wide open. Marty couldn’t figure out if he looked surprised or if he looked angry that his life was about to take a dramatic turn for the worse. The area above his mouth showed torn flesh coated with dry blood. A close-up showed a small bullet hole on the left side of his head, grey hair plastered down his scalp caked with blood. The shotgun lay a few inches from his body.

  Frank looked up. “How’s the Captain doing, Marty?”

  “He’s doing well. They have already moved him into a regular room, and he’s driving the nurses nuts.” He looked up. “Do we know who this guy is?” he pointed to the photograph.

  “We ran down his prints, and they match the I.D. on one of his driver’s licenses. Archibald Fredrick Blakey, age seventy-four. Last known residence, Fort Rock, Oregon. There is an outstanding warrant out for his arrest for failure to appear in a domestic dispute and he is wanted for questioning in a homicide of a young woman in Lake County, Oregon. I left a message with a Lieutenant Sanders, the State Trooper in charge of the investigation. I won’t be here tomorrow, so I left your names and numbers for him to contact.”

  Marty nodded an okay, then he noticed the video camera sitting on Frank’s desk.

  “Anything on it we can use?” he motioned to the camera.

  Frank was tall, his skin a crisp shade of mocha, the result of his bi-racial heritage. Marty noted his eyes, a pale blue, almost grey; the color of a hazy summer sky, began to well up with tears. Verbal answers weren’t necessary; the man’s eyes relayed the message loud and clear.

  Marty’s phone buzzed and he pushed the extension that lit up red.

  “Keal,” he said impatiently into the phone.

  “Detective Keal, this is Lieutenant Sanders of the H.I.T.S. division of the Oregon State Police. I got a memo that you are investigating a homicide of an Archie Blakey, is that correct?”

  Marty answered loudly, so Jean and Frank were aware of whom he was talking to.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, thanks for calling.”

  Marty pulled out his chair and sat down. He had a load of questions for this guy. He cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, so his hands were free to grab a pad and pen from the drawer.

  He began to talk before Marty was settled in place.

  “Dead, huh, too bad. I had quite a few questions for the old man. I see here by the message that Troy was shot, is he still alive?”

  “Barely,” Marty answered. “Last word we got was that it was pretty serious. He made it through surgery yesterday and hopefully he will make it through the day. Look, Lieutenant, what can you tell me about this kid, the little boy? Do you know who he is and where he came from?”

  On the other end of the phone, Sanders became distracted for a moment and then apologized for the disruption. “I’m sorry, what was that, which kid? Are you talking about Tristan? He wasn’t hurt, was he? Cute kid, but he doesn’t talk. I think he’s autistic or something. Do you know what the circumstances were that led to the shooting?”

  His casualness while mentioning Tristan caught Marty off guard. He was expecting him to ask him, ‘what kid?’ They had all assumed the boy was kidnapped like Michaelah. Now this new information had him bewildered.

  Marty told him the boy was fine and in the custody of family services, but he repeated his request, though changing the context of the question. “What about the boy’s mother? Do you know where we can find her?”

  Marty heard him chewing something and trying to be discrete about it. He swallowed whatever it was and then answered. “I’ll tell you what I do know, Detective, it’s a little hard to follow. Are you with me?”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead.” Marty leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground, balancing on the rear legs.

  “The kid’s mother’s name was Donna Barrie.”

  Marty’s gut turned at his use of the past tense.

  “Story goes, that when the girl was thirteen years old, Donna Barrie disappeared while on vacation with her parents from Scotland. The teenager got into a quarrel with her mother and left the hotel and then just vanished. Her mother, Norma Barrie, reported her daughter missing, but authorities chalked it up to a teenager who had a history of being a runaway, so not too much of an effort was put into the case.”

  Marty heard him pause and he imagined him shuffling through paperwork. He waited anxiously for him to continue. He didn’t have to wait too long.

  “Her mom, Norma Barrie, stayed in the states for two months hoping the kid would show up, but finally went back home to Scotland. Once the kid’s mother went back to Scotland, the case went on the back burner and went cold. He chuckled to himself. “Weird huh, goes on the back burner and goes cold? Kind of ironic, that expression.”

  Marty was going to answer him, but he started to talk over him. “Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, a few months ago, some workers found some skeletal remains in some wooded area while excavating the area for a strip mall. Turns out the corpse’s dental records matched this kid Barrie that went missing about nine years ago. You following?”

  “Yes, go ahead.” Marty started to jot down what he was saying, but the pen ran out of ink. Rummaging through his desk, he found one that worked and began to take notes.

  “Here is where it gets sticky. Turns out this Donna Barrie, her fingerprints also matched someone else. She was also positively identified as M’leigh Blakey, wife of Troy Blakey, your shooting victim. Blakey reported her missing six years ago. Claims he came home from work and found his three-year-old son fast asleep in the crib, but the kid was alone. His wife, M’leigh, was nowhere to be found. I was one of the investigators on that case and I remember thinking the whole thing stunk, but my superior just chalked it up to a female with itchy feet that liked to run. Especially when the elder Blakey gave us a picture of the lady, and one of the investigators recognized her as the missing Barrie kid. Donna Barrie and M’leigh Blakey were one in the same. My supervisor at the time figured if she ran away from her parents, it wouldn’t be too farfetched for her to run away again. He decided the girl liked to run; and when things got boring, she took off. This time, instead of leaving her parents, she left her husband and kid. I just started with the unit, but I remember being there when they interviewed Troy’s father, Archie. He really kept pushing that angle. Kept telling us in interviews that the girl was always complaining that life with them was boring, and she didn’t want to be a mother anymore. You following this?” He interrupted himself.

  Marty told him, “Yes,” and readied himself for more of the story.

  “I got the feeling that Troy didn’t buy his father’s theory either, and insisted that the girl wouldn’t desert her son, and insisted we investigate her disappearance. He came in looking for updates almost every day, and then once a week; but as time went by, and nothing new was reported, eventually he just stopped coming around looking for updates. I think his old man finally convinced him she ran. Something about that whole family gave me the willies. They lived way back in the woods and pretty much kept to themselves. The old man was one of those survivalists and kept his kids close. He owned a recycling place on his property, a real junkyard. Anyway, both his boys worked for him. His youngest boy, crap, what’s his name, Shane, yeah, Shane and the old man would get into some really explosive disputes and we were called out a few times to intercede. Last year the old man went too far and beat the kid up for mouthing off. Kid, well, not a kid, he’s a grown man now, I think he’s in his late twenties, well anyway, the guy fell and slammed his head against a toolbox and got a concussion.” He paused, probably out of breath.

  “To make a long story short, this kid had finally had enough of his father’s bullying him and decided to press charges, and the old man was given a date to appear in court. Well, the old man, Archie, never showed up for
court, so we issued a warrant for his arrest. We thought the boys really knew where he was, but for some reason they were covering it up. Even Shane seemed to have changed his mind about pressing charges. So we were about to let it go, but a few months later a construction crew was prepping an area for a strip mall and uncovered the remains of a young woman. We matched her dental records, and she was positively identified as the missing Scottish girl, Donna Barrie aka M’leigh Blakey. When the girl’s body showed up close to his home, well, I was very interested in talking to the old man again; so I went back to the Blakey place to tell Troy that we found his wife’s remains, and again ask if they had any idea where I could find their father, but they claimed ignorance. But I got different vibes this time. Something was not kosher about the whole thing, so later I went back to interview them again, but the boys were gone. Crazy, huh?”

  He took another deep breath, and then without waiting for Marty’s answer, continued.

  “And if that’s not enough for you, while we were investigating these guys, we turned up something really interesting. According to the social security records, Troy and his brother Shane are as dead as Archie and the girl. All four of them had stolen names and social security numbers. When we did a search in the system, we found a shitload of court documents; one of them a birth certificate for the kid, Tristan. According to the birth certificate, he was born October seventh, two thousand and five. That’s about three years before this Donna Barrie disappeared for the second time. Mother’s name on the birth certificate is recorded as M’leigh Blakey, father Troy Blakey. According to social security records, they are both deceased. We know who M’leigh is; she’s really that kid, Donna Barrie, from Scotland. What we don’t know is who the hell Archie and Troy Blakey really are, or for that matter, the kid’s uncle, Shane Blakey, or for that matter, the little boy. Although he probably is the only one who is exactly who they say he is. I suppose if we can find out who these guys really are, we may be able to get some answers. You follow all that?”

  “I think so.” Marty told him, his ear burning from keeping the phone against the side of his head all this time.

  “Anyway, if I can find the money in our budget, I would like to come out there and have a talk with Troy about the Barrie case. I mean, that’s if he survives.”

  “Sure, no problem, Lieutenant. Just let me know your plans and I will make arrangements.”

  He promised to fax over the file, and as Marty disconnected the call, he swore he heard the Lieutenant muttering, “What a tangled web we weave.”

  While Marty was on the phone, Jean and Frank took the opportunity to watch the video. Within seconds, Jean felt bile rise up into her throat, and her face turned a pasty white. She wanted to scream, “Turn it off!” but she knew whatever discomfort she was feeling, it needed to take a backseat to the fact there might be some evidence hidden in the video leading them to the third possible suspect, the missing weapon, and hopefully some insight into the shooting itself. She closed her eyes, and she bit down on her lip, trying not to cry as the little girl was subjected to the horrific acts of one sick pedophile. “Pause it! She cried out, walking closer to the makeshift screen Frank had set up in front of the wall.

  “Go back about one frame and raise the volume!” She said, looking at Frank, whose mocha-colored cheeks were stained with dark tears. Frank didn’t say a word, just hit the slow motion reverse and then hit the play button. It was hard to make out, but it was obvious to both of the detectives that Blakey heard something outside the room and stopped what he was doing. He slowly got off the small cot, leaving the child alone in the room, walking out of range of the camera, but not out of range of the audio. For a few seconds, they were able to decipher Blakey engaging in an argument. The detectives could only make out a few brief seconds of the encounter just before the video went black. Something or someone must have reached over out of range to turn the camera off. Jean strained her ears to try and listen to what was going on out of range of the video. She scratched her head, frustrated at not being able to hear what was happening. She could definitely make out what she imagined to be male voices in an argument, but it just wasn’t audible enough. “Do we have the capabilities to have that audio enhanced?” She turned to Frank.

  “I don’t know, Jean, I’ll go down and ask. I need a break anyway.” She noticed for the first time that he was starting to go grey around the temples. She flashed back to the wedding picture on his desk, it was taken in the eighties and his sideburns were at least two inches longer, but jet-black. She wondered if he was at all tortured that he was getting older and they were no longer the new kids on the block but the next ones to be put out to pasture. She decided she really needed to talk to Hope and find out why she, suddenly, was so obsessed with the mechanics of aging.

  “Hey, while you’re at it, see if they found anything on the hard drive on that laptop!” She called out.

  “Yeah, yeah, got it.” He walked out, head down, as if he was just too tired to turn around, too exhausted emotionally to answer.

  With his belly full, he was able to think a little clearer. Just as he was getting up to pay the check, two uniformed officers were walking in the door. He played it cool, by tipping his hat, and offered them a “Good afternoon,” as if he had done it a hundred times before. He knew he needed to get to the hospital and see what was happening with his brother, but he was less anxious now. He was lucky enough to overhear some conversations of the other patrons in the restaurant. The small town’s residents were just abuzz with news of the murder that occurred in the woods just outside of town. Apparently, homicides were becoming quite plentiful in the sleepy town and it was all anyone was talking about. He was able to overhear someone say that the gunshot wound victim was out of surgery and in recovery. He inconspicuously tried to eavesdrop, but couldn’t make out whether the person had said the man was or wasn’t expected to recover. Leaving the pub and walking somewhat aimlessly, he realized he had to figure out how to get into the hospital and into his brother’s room without being noticed. The cops were all around the cabin and searching through the truck so the truck was a wash. If he was going to have wheels, he was going to have to either steal one or hitchhike his way around. Hitchhiking didn’t seem like a viable method because he needed to stay out of sight before some small-town busybody noticed there was a stranger in town. He tried to make himself invisible as a small group of teenage girls giggling like a cackle of hyenas pushed past him and entered a convenience store. He felt a stir in his groin as he admired the backs of the tight jeans that the girls wore. It had been a long time, but this was no time for him to get off track, he reminded himself. His brother needed him. Tristan needed him. He started to cross the street when he noticed the black Harley pulling up to the gas pump. A tall, skinny kid wearing a black leather jacket got off the bike and took his helmet off. A mass of black wavy hair fell out and the kid wiped his brow and pushed the hair away from his eyes. Placing the helmet on the sissy bar, he swiped a credit card and waited as the gas filled the tank. He pushed another button and waited for his receipt to come out of the machine. It never came out of the slot, so the kid headed into the store, leaving the key in the ignition. The man glanced around and was satisfied when he was sure no one else was in the vicinity. He casually walked towards the bike, scanning the area. He stood next to the bike as if he was admiring the late model black-and-chrome-accented Harley. It looked like it had taken a few hits, and had a few miles behind it, but clearly someone was taking good care of it. From where he was standing, he could see the kid still at the register. He was about to walk away, deciding not to take the chance and steal it, when he noticed the group of girls surrounding the kid in leather, preventing him from leaving the store. He took it as a sign. He jumped on the bike and turned the key and hit the clutch. The back tire spun and squealed, leaving a black skid mark as he took off. He thought he heard a girl screaming for him to stop, so he turned around. It was one of the girls he saw walking into the store earlier
, the pretty one with long blonde hair. He kept his eyes on her for just a moment, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her. She was about the prettiest thing he had seen in a long time, but he had other matters to attend to, so he turned back around and he sped off, the helmet still secured to the sissy bar.

  It was finally beginning to make sense and would account for the missing weapon. There was another suspect out there. Now Marty wondered if he had identified the man in the hospital correctly. Was he Troy Blakey or was he the brother Shane Blakey? If Sanders was right, and they both had stolen identities, who were they really? Marty walked back to Jean and filled her in on the conversation he had with Lieutenant Sanders.

  “So we don’t know who that is in the hospital. It could be Shane or Troy?”

  Suddenly it hit him. “Not dirty, he wasn’t calling the guy Dirty, it was Daddy!”

  Jean looked up at him, not looking too convinced.

  “Maybe. If he were calling him Daddy, well then, that would make the guy in the hospital Troy Blakey. Is Sanders faxing over pictures of these guys?”

  Just as she got the words out, they heard the fax line’s shrill tone go off.

  Marty started to walk to the machine when his cellphone rang. He reached into his pocket as he continued to make his way to the fax machine.

  “Keal,” he uttered impatiently.

  “Detective Keal, this is Sophie Harris from Child Services. I’m afraid I have some disturbing news. I just got a call from the foster family. I’m afraid Tristan took off. We don’t know where he is.”

  He could tell by the sound of her voice she was flustered and probably in a state of panic. She had the responsibility to keep this boy safe and she had neglected to fulfill that.