“No. See, it’s written backward,” he said as he pointed to the paper.
“How do you know this?” Heather said.
Steve tapped his temple again before saying, “Here, I will show you. Do either of you have a mirror?”
“I do,” Heather said as she reached into her purse and pulled out her compact. She held it over the paper. When she saw the letters reflected in the mirror, she stepped back. “What the hell?”
There, reflected in the mirror, was the phrase ‘DID YOU LIKE THE ICE CREAM.'
Steve turned to Sylvia, cleared his throat, and said, “well…, maybe you should pay a visit to your neighbor after all.”
Chapter 10
April 20th, 1996 - 1 Police Plaza - NYPD Missing Persons Division - New York City - 4:45 PM
“Ma’am, would you like a cup of coffee?” the officer asked.
“What…?” Sylvia asked, her voice trailing off into a whisper. She could barely hear what the officer was saying, and she shook her head back and forth, trying to clear her thoughts. Her mind was foggy like she had just woken from a deep dreamless sleep. Her ears rang constantly. Everything sounded as if her head was inside an empty fishbowl — all echoes and hollowed out sounds. The voices she could make out, like the officer’s, were unclear — everything muffled by a constant pound-pound-pounding of her heartbeat thumping in her head.
The fog lifted. Her mind cleared, and she emerged from her stupor. She took in her surroundings. Her vision was still blurred and everything seemed to move at half speed, but it was improving. In the cavernous room, dozens of desks were all around her. She saw numerous other distraught individuals like herself. Each were busy pouring out their lives to earnest and yet apparently jaded men in blue. The officers took notes, and all had the same world-weary look on their faces — attentive, efficient, and numb. Each had seen this tragic movie before and they knew the ending. Blaring over the sea of chattering voices, in a constant patter, was the continuous sound of sprat zip sprat. The incessant noise came from countless printers, all pounding out the missing person reports, potential suspects, physical descriptions, and last known addresses of New York’s lost and missing. She was surprised there were so many and frowned as a brief splash of clarity spilled into her brain. She was now one of them, too. How on earth did it come to this?
She raised her hands and studied her palms. Those hands — the ones that had brushed Billy’s hair this morning, the ones that had bathed him last night, the ones that had made his favorite breakfast this morning — Captain Crunch, now looked foreign to her. They resembled lifeless chunks of meat clinging to her body.
“Sylvia…? Sylvia…? Are you OK?” John asked.
“What? Oh…, yes…, I’m sorry,” Sylvia said as she shook her head. “I just got a little … It is just all too…,” she paused as a sob caught in her throat.
“I understand,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “It is difficult, very difficult.” He was an enormous man — like a vast amorphous blob of pink flesh poured into a tight blue polyester suit. Twenty years of RC cola, ho-hos and pork rinds had taken their toll, and the buttons on his shirt were buckling as if at any moment they might break free of their synthetic bindings and shoot across the room. His eyes were kind, though, and Sylvia could see his genuine concern.
“It is a very difficult time,” he repeated. “But, know this, Ma’am; we are going to do everything humanly possible to get your son back. You can take that to the bank.” He glanced over at a large institutional style clock on the wall, and added, “and any minute, I am sure the sketch artist will be finished with the Sampson boy’s description. Mark my word — once we have the sketch, I wouldn’t be surprised if this doesn’t turn out to be just a big misunderstanding. It usually does.”
“Do you think…, I mean, how good are these sketch artists?” Sylvia asked.
“Oh, Ma’am, you are in good hands. We have the absolute top professionals working in our forensic art department.” He smiled as he added, “one of the many advantages of living here in New York, I suppose. You can’t swing a dead cat and not hit an artist, you know. Why, I bet we probably have more artists in Manhattan than anywhere on earth — and many of them work for us. They will help us find your boy in no time. Do you have a picture of your son?”
Sylvia lifted her purse to her lap. Because they were spending the day in the park that day, it was her big one and was bulging full. Opening it up, she saw the suntan lotion, her romance novel, and the bag of gumballs she was going to save for later as a surprise for Billy. Her gut dropped. It was just the detritus of a simple fun day in the park, but now it seemed coated in sadness. Who knew that a day spent in joy could turn tragic so quickly? In the briefest flicker of a moment, everything she knew and loved was turned upside down. She felt tears begin to well up in her eyes again, but she ground her teeth together and steeled her nerves. She had to be strong. Crying would not help find her son.
She found her wallet and fished out Billy’s school picture from last year. He looked so small in the photograph, much smaller than she remembered. Her hand shook as she gave the Sergeant the picture. The thought of her tiny child, just a baby, really, out there in New York, all alone, made her stomach churn.
Sergeant McIntyre took the picture in his hands, looked at it, and smiled. “Cute kid,” he said. “How old is he?”
“Seven,” Sylvia said. “He will be eight in June.”
“I got a daughter that age,” he said. “And my twin boys are ten. They keep me and my wife hopping, let me tell you.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said, her voice blank and lifeless. She struggled to form words on her lips, all small talk now was a herculean effort to pull off.
“And boys, especially at that age, will worry you to death,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “What was he wearing today?”
Sylvia glanced over at John and frowned.
“Is there something unusual about what he was wearing today?” Sergeant McIntyre asked after noticing Sylvia’s withering look at her husband.
“He was wearing a Spiderman costume,” John said.
“Spiderman?” Sergeant McIntyre asked as he wrote something down in his notepad.
“Yes…,” Sylvia said. “It was his favorite, and he wanted to—”
“—Oh, I understand, Ma’am,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “It’s funny, but my two boys are big fans of Spiderman too.” He smiled as he added, “You know, last Halloween, they both gave my wife and me a big scare. Similar to the one your Billy is giving you now, I bet.”
“Oh?” Sylvia said. “What happened?”
“It’s embarrassing,” Sergeant McIntyre said, “but, you will appreciate it. My wife and I sent our boys out trick or treating in our building. We do it every year, and all of our neighbors are good eggs, so we let them run free. Just like we all did when we were kids.”
“Yes, times are different now,” John said.
“They are,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “But, my two boys wandered into one of my neighbor’s flats when they were trick or treating and joined into a Halloween party. They were gone for hours and, being in costume, our neighbors didn’t know they didn’t belong. I thought I would have to take Shelia…, my wife, to Bellevue she was so upset. And in fact, I figured I was going to have to go there myself.”
“Oh,” Sylvia said, the tension on her face visibly releasing a bit, if only a small degree.
“Like I said, kids will worry you to death. But…, just like your Billy, I am sure, my boys were just fine.”
“But this isn’t Halloween, Sergeant,” John snapped. “And Billy was seen talking to—”
“—Billy…, oh God! This is such a nightmare — a nightmare!” Sylvia said as she put her face in her hands and began sobbing.
“Please, Ma’am,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “Let me get you that cup of coffee. I am sure it will help.”
Sylvia looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, her mascara running down her face in long dark streaks and nodded weakly. She said
, “OK, perhaps you are right. It might help clear my head.”
“Trust me, it will,” Sergeant McIntyre nodded as he turned and lifted a small glass pot from the hotplate on the table behind him. He poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup and slid it across the desk to Sylvia. “Too bad I can’t Irish it up for you.” He added, “Everything is going to be just fine…, just fine.”
Sylvia took the cup, lifted it to her lips and took a long sip.
Sergeant McIntyre said, “Feeling better?”
“A little.”
“Good. You know, in the vast majority of these cases we find the missing child within twenty-four hours. Typically it turns out to be—”
“—Yes, but…, I…, oh Billy!” she said before her voice cracked into a sob.
Sergeant McIntyre turned to John while pushing a box of tissues across his desk to Sylvia. “It is true what I say, Mr.—”
“—Delaney,” John said. “John Delaney.”
“Right,” Sergeant McIntyre said as he looked down at his notes for confirmation. “I know this is very upsetting for both you and your wife, but, you really should take my word on this. I see cases like this all of the time, and in 97% of the cases, everything turns out to be a big misunderstanding.”
Sylvia wiped her nose as she sniffled out, “and in that other 3 %?”
“Let’s concentrate on the likely scenarios,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “Now, most of the times a child goes missing it turns out to be a disgruntled, divorced parent at the root of the issue. Is Billy both of—”
“—Billy is our son!” John snapped. “Neither one of us have been married before, and we do not have any other children.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Delaney,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “I know these are difficult questions, but…, I had to ask.”
“Yes…, I understand,” John said.
“Do either of your parents live locally?”
“Why do you want to know that?” John said.
“Well…, it is well known that grandparents, and occasionally aunts or uncles, will sometimes take a child without the consent of the parents. Especially if there has been any kind of…, trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Sylvia asked.
“Oh, you know. Some families are well adjusted and get along better than others. Sometimes it’s a relative who doesn’t agree with how the child is being raised and so…, they sort of take matters into their own hands. Has there been any trouble in this area?”
“No!” John said. “My mother lives in New Jersey, and she simply adores Billy. She would never —”
“—I did not mean to insinuate anything, Sir,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “But, it’s just that, in my experience, I have to explore the avenues where I have seen this sort of thing happen before. It is not personal, you understand.”
“I do,” John said as he sighed. He wiped his forehead, now red and perspiring with his handkerchief. “It is just very stressful. I just want to get Billy back.”
“As do I, Sir. And it is because I do, plus the witness’ testimony, that led me into this area,” Sergeant McIntyre said.
“Witness testimony? What do you mean?” Sylvia said. “What did that Sampson boy say? I haven’t even gotten to talk to him yet!”
“He is still with the sketch artist, but, he seemed to indicate it appeared Billy knew the person he spoke with.”
“What? I didn’t know that he saw Billy being kidnapped,” Sylvia cried.
“No…, the Sampson boy did not see any abduction. In fact, we cannot even say he was kidnapped yet, that is too preliminary. But…, he did say he saw Billy talking to someone, and, it appeared Billy knew the person. That is why I asked the question about the extended family. Perhaps it was an uncle he was talking to? Or even a grandfather?”
“My father is dead, and my brother lives in California,” John said.
“And you Ma’am?” Sergeant McIntyre said as he turned to Sylvia. “Any family nearby?”
“No,” she said quietly, her voice trailing as she dropped her chin to her chest.
“So, are you new to New York? Perhaps it is someone from where you—”
“—No,” Sylvia said. “I grew up here. I don’t know why you are focusing on this! It is like you are accusing us of knowing who kidnapped our son!”
“OK…,” Sergeant McIntyre said, his voice dropping. “Look, I am not accusing anyone of anything, but…, it really would be helpful if you—”
“—Sergeant, my parents are dead,” Sylvia said. “They have been dead for quite some time.”
“Ah…, sorry.”
“But, they lived here. Actually, we had a three-bedroom up on Amsterdam.”
“Well, I live not far from there,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“No,” Sylvia said. “Only child.”
“How about uncles?”
“Listen, Sergeant,” John interrupted. “Perhaps once we see the sketch something will click. But I am telling you, you are going in the wrong direction here, and we are wasting precious time. Sylvia has no family in the city, and neither do I. I do not know why you seem so confident it is a family member involved in this. I think you should concentrate on—”
“—It usually is a family member involved in these kind of cases,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “Or a family friend. Stranger…, abductions,” he added as he winced, preparing himself for an outburst from Sylvia, “are very rare.”
Sylvia suppressed a sob.
“Well, you are the expert,” John said.
“Are either of you — religious people by any chance?”
“Religious?” John asked as he rose from his chair. “What is this? Why are you asking about that?”
“—Sit down, Mr. Delaney, it is a standard question,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “And…, I have a hunch about this.”
“Well, my mother is religious, but there is no way she would take Billy without our knowledge. No way in hell!”
“No, of course not,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “But, the more background information we can gather, the easier it will be to track down the appropriate leads.” He turned to Sylvia and said, “how about you, Mrs. Delaney? I take it you and your husband are not religious.”
“You can say that again,” Sylvia snapped. “And I don’t see how this is helping anything.”
“How about your late parents, though?”
“What? Why would you be asking about them? They have been dead for many years.”
“Yes, but, you aren’t answering the question. The more I know about your families’ backgrounds, the better results we are going to have in this search.” Sergeant McIntyre placed his hands on his desk and added, “I am just trying to do the right thing to help find your son. I am only trying to help. I have dealt with many cases like this over the years, and I do know what I am doing.”
“Of course, of course,” Sylvia said as she lifted a tissue up to her eye and wiped away a tear. “And, if you must know, my parents were quite religious; bordering on zealots, frankly. No doubt this is the main reason I am not.”
“And we certainly did not raise Billy that way,” John said. “My wife and I are committed to raising our son in a loving and nonjudgmental environment. Neither of us goes in for all of this hocus pocus nonsense.”
“I see,” Sergeant McIntyre said as he scribbled more notes in his book. “Are any of your close friends religiously oriented?”
“I really do not see what this has to do with—” John said. “Look, we don’t hang out with that sort! This is getting old, and we are wasting—”
“—Do you know if Billy had any religious inclinations on his own, then?” Sergeant McIntyre asked.
“What? A seven-year-old boy developing religious inclinations on his own?” Sylvia asked. “What is going on here? What did that Sampson boy say?” She jumped to her feet from her chair, clutching her hands together as she cried, “this is not right. I must know what was said! I must know!”
�
�Sergeant McIntyre,” a police clerk interrupted as he approached the desk. In his hand, he carried a manila envelope. “The forensic art department told me to bring this up to you right away.”
Sergeant McIntyre opened the envelope and looked at the picture inside. He glanced back at the clerk and said, “have you checked this against the 428 file?”
“Yes, and we are still reviewing, but so far, the results are negative. Nothing hit,” the clerk said.
“Well, that’s a good sign,” Sergeant McIntyre said.
“Let me see it!” Sylvia said as she reached forward for the sketch. “I must see the face of the person who kidnapped my son.”
“We don’t know that he was abducted, yet, Ma’am,” Sergeant McIntyre said. “But, at least now we have a picture to review.” He glanced at the drawing, raised his eyebrow and asked, “are you sure neither of you have any religious relatives or friends? Look carefully at this picture and see if you recognize this man.”
*****
“My, my, my,” JoAnne Tucker said as she grinned and nodded her head. “You seemed to really enjoy those.”
“I did,” the stranger said as he wiped the dribbling syrup off his chin. “I am positive they were the best pancakes I have ever had…, ever!”
“Well, that’s what we are famous for. That, and our raisin pie, of course,” JoAnne said as she refilled the stranger's cup of coffee. “Can I get you anything else?”
The stranger looked deeply into her eyes. His cool, steely blues cut through her like a knife. A smile slid easily across the stranger’s face as he said, “Well, I could use a little company before I have to head out.” He glanced around the restaurant and said, “I hope that is ok, but, it appears you are a bit slow right now.”
It was true. It was slow, and that was unusual. Big Joe’s All-Day Breakfast Diner, located off exit 18B on US-71 in Allentown Pennsylvania was typically packed with customers. Being so close to the interstate, and only a two-hour drive from New York, it was a popular diner, especially with truckers. Before the endless hassles of the toll roads loomed, it was always best to stop at Big Joe’s and load up on scrambled eggs, pancakes, gallons of coffee and of course, their world-famous raisin pie.
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