Web of Fear

by Mike Omer

  He glanced at Jacob. His partner was watching the medics move the body to the ambulance, his expression unreadable.

  “I think we should inform the mother ourselves,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah?” Jacob said. He sounded distant.

  “Listen,” Mitchell said carefully. “It’s best if I go, inform the mother. You can go back home, be with your daughter. It’s probably better for one of us to stay in Glenmore Park anyway, just in case.”

  Jacob turned to face him, a mixture of gratitude and worry on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “I’ll call you in a few hours,” Mitchell said. “Let me know if Matt or Annie find out anything new.”

  “I will.”

  Mitchell got back into his car and drove away from the crime scene. He turned on the radio, setting it to WERS. He didn’t normally listen to live radio, preferring to handpick from his own collection of indie rock albums that he’d amassed in his phone over the years. But he was going on a long drive up the coast, on his way to deliver the most terrible news a parent could ever receive. This time, he preferred to delegate, and assign the task of song picking to someone else.

  The roads were empty, and he got to Route 128 in less than fifteen minutes. The night traffic, lone cars on a wide highway intended to contain so many more, made Mitchell feel glum. He usually loved driving at night, when the world was asleep, but the face of the dead seventeen-year-old kept invading his thoughts. He almost turned the car back at one point, his determination to do the so-called right thing wavering. But he didn’t, and kept driving.

  He slowed down on the bridge in Portsmouth, glancing at the water deep underneath him, the surface reflecting the city lights. He thought about Jacob, back home tending to his sick daughter, and a pang of loneliness hit him. He turned up the volume, and the car filled with a Frightened Rabbit song

  He nearly missed his exit to I-295, and had to swerve quite sharply, his sleepy eyes widening in alarm as a truck honked at him. But the truck was actually quite far away, the driver only cranky at Mitchell’s abrupt maneuver. At the next gas station, he stopped and bought himself a huge cup of coffee.

  When he finally reached Portland, he was utterly exhausted, disgusted by his own idea of driving all this way with hardly any sleep, just to deliver the bad news himself. Would it have been that bad to let the local police do the job, then call a few hours later to ask some questions?

  He found the address easily, a red brick three-story house on West Street. The sky began to brighten, the stars slowly blinking out of sight as he knocked on the door.

  Curt Haney looked at his wife Betty, her face twisted in horror and confusion as Detective Mitchell Lonnie from Glenmore Park explained that their son was dead. Betty let out a whimper, her hands flying to her mouth, smothering what was perhaps a scream of pain. Curt’s vision misted; his wife swam out of focus as, for the first time in years, his eyes filled with tears.

  They hadn’t seen the body, but the detective had shown them a picture of the car, and another of Glen’s driver’s license. He said they would be contacted later by the morgue to identify the body, but didn’t elaborate on if he meant the Glenmore Park morgue or the Portland morgue.

  What had Glen been doing in Glenmore Park?

  Glen often disappeared for a day or two, though it was the first time he’d taken Betty’s car without asking first. Curt had been furious when he found out. He’d left Glen two angry voicemails. Now Curt wondered if a cop would listen to those voicemails, thinking that Curt had been a bad father. Curt wondered about that himself quite often. Even now he was thinking about small details, like the voicemails or which morgue the body was in, instead of mourning his son.

  Glen had always confused Curt. He was so different from the child Curt had been. He was quiet, and could spend hours in his room online, a pastime that often resulted in heated arguments—or, to be fair, heated monologues, in which Curt would shout at his son, telling him he should do something with himself, while Glen looked at the floor and mumble his agreement.

  Had Glen known that, after those tirades, Curt often felt guilty? After the last time, Curt had crept to Glen’s room at two in the morning, and kissed his son’s forehead as he slept. Had Glen felt it? Curt hoped he had.

  “I’m sorry, but it would be really helpful if you could answer some questions,” Mitchell said.

  The three of them were standing in the entrance hall of their home. They had asked Mitchell to come in, because it was cold outside, but they hadn’t offered him a drink or asked him to sit down.

  Curt wasn’t about to do it now. He wanted the man to leave. “Could this wait?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “We need a bit of time to—”

  “It would really help us to find out who did this if I asked the questions now,” Mitchell said. “It won’t take long.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what he was doing in Glenmore Park?”

  “No,” Curt shook his head. “He just left a note that he’d be gone for a couple of days.”

  “Did he often do that?”

  “Sometimes,” Curt said. He was about to say Glen usually asked before taking the car, but stopped himself. What did it matter?

  “Did your son seem agitated lately, or worried about something?”

  “Not that I noticed,” Curt said.

  “He kept to himself,” Betty said, her words trembling. “He spent most of his time online, or he’d go to his friend’s house.” She suddenly covered her face with her hands, crying uncontrollably. Curt hesitantly laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “Which friend is that?” Mitchell asked.

  “A girl,” Curt said. “Yelena something. Uh… Petrov. Yelena Petrov.”

  “Was she his girlfriend?” Mitchell asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Curt said. “They were just friends.”

  “Do you have her phone number?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yeah,” Curt said. “I’ll go look for it.” He was reluctant to leave his wife alone, afraid she’d crumple to the floor. He led her inside and helped her sit down on the couch. Then he went to get his phone, located Yelena’s number, and gave it to Detective Mitchell.

  The detective rattled off a few more questions, but Curt had nothing to say that could help. He didn’t really know anything. He tried to convince himself most parents didn’t know much about their children as they grew older, but he was still ashamed.

  He wondered, if he had been more insistent, had been a larger part of his son’s life, would Glen be alive today?

  Mitchell sat in his car, sipping coffee from a plastic cup, weariness making him feel heavy and sluggish. He glanced at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked awful.

  He knew he was usually considered handsome by his acquaintances. He had thick, wavy black hair, perfect tawny skin, wide shoulders, and a muscular body. He cultivated the look of a man who knew what pain and suffering was, with sorrow and wisdom in his eyes. He did it mostly by trimming his eyebrows to achieve the desired effect.

  Right now, though, his hair was a complete jumble and his jade-green eyes were red tinged, with dark pouches underneath. His eyebrows were a mess, and his face didn’t look sad and wise. He just looked slightly confused.

  The conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Haney had been predictably depressing. The only useful thing he’d gotten was Yelena Petrov’s number. On the phone, Yelena had told Mitchell she was home, and he’d said he would drop by in half an hour.

  He had wisely used that half hour to eat a small breakfast at a local cafe, and consume as much coffee as humanly possible.

  He sighed, brushed a hand through his messy hair, and got out of the car. He threw his empty coffee cup into a trash can and walked over to Yelena’s home. She lived in a beige-colored building, with peeling paint and boarded-up windows on the bottom floor. Yelena lived in one of those bottom apartments. Mitchell climbed a few concrete stairs and walked down a short, pave
d path between two of the buildings, avoiding discarded plastic bags and candy wrappers. He finally arrived at the door and knocked.

  The door was opened almost immediately by a pale, chubby girl. Her hair was oily and unkempt, her face heavily pockmarked. She wore a shirt with a faded Star Wars print. There was a brown stain on the collar. Her pupils were the size of pinpricks, and she smelled of cannabis.

  “You the detective?” Yelena said.

  “That’s right,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah, okay,” Yelena nodded.

  “Can I come in?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yeah, man, Sure, come in.”

  Mitchell followed her to a dirty living room that consisted of a tattered blue couch, a gaming console, and a large, flat-screen TV.

  “So you said this is about Glen, right?” Yelena asked, plopping on the couch. “Is he like… in trouble?”

  “Something like that,” Mitchell said carefully, still standing. “When did you last see Glen?”

  “I don’t know,” Yelena said, narrowing her eyes. “Last week, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, He was definitely here last Monday. What is it? Glen’s all right. Whatever you think he did, you’re wrong.”

  “Do you know where he went this weekend?”

  “I didn’t know he went anywhere.”

  “When did you last talk to him?”

  “Do you mean like talk-talk?”

  Mitchell thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, or chatted, or interacted on snapchat, or whatever.”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Did he seem tense, or worried, or—”

  “So listen, man,” Yelena interrupted him sharply. “You say you’re a detective, but you haven’t even shown me your badge. I think I should talk to Glen before I answer any of your damn questions. So I’d like you to get out now. I’ll call you if Glen says that—”

  “I’m sorry,” Mitchell said, as gently as he could. “Glen is dead.” He pulled out his badge and showed it to her.

  Yelena stared at the badge, and then looked away. “Oh,” she said.

  “You don’t look very surprised,” Mitchell said.

  “Yeah, well, I am,” Yelena said, her voice subdued. “I just don’t have a very expressive face.”

  She looked back at Mitchell and cleared her throat. “How did it happen?”

  “He was stabbed,” Mitchell said. “His body was found in his mother’s car.”

  “Oh, man,” Yelena said.

  “His parents told me Glen sometimes disappeared for a day or two, every once in a while. Do you know why?”

  “Yeah, man, he’d sometimes go see some friends he met online somewhere. He was a very friendly guy.”

  “Did he ever mention any of those friends threatening him in any way? Were any of them violent?”

  “I don’t think so. Oh man, can you wait a second?” Yelena got up, ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

  Mitchell waited patiently. After a while he sat on the couch, ignoring the aggressive aroma of pot that stuck to its surface. Fifteen minutes later, just as Mitchell was about to check if she was all right, Yelena emerged from the bathroom. Her face was wet, her eyes red.

  “Sorry, man,” she said. “It’s just… Glen was my best friend.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He was really smart. Kept learning new things all the time. Like, he would do those online courses to learn how to draw, or how to build stuff, or pick locks, or play music. He played guitar really well. Learned it online. Most of the people I know, they’re kind of lazy. But Glen had this… I dunno. Like inner energy. He drew that.” She pointed at the wall. There was a small canvas painting of Yelena’s street, with Yelena leaning against one of the buildings. “See how detailed it is? Glen had a real eye for details. He noticed everything.”

  Mitchell looked at the image carefully. As far as he could tell, it had been painted with water colors. He had no eye for art, but he could tell there was a lot of skill there.

  “Do you know where he went this time?” he asked.

  “No, he didn’t tell me he was going anywhere.”

  “Did he usually tell you?”

  Yelena shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Did Glen seem worried about anything lately? Did he seem on edge for any reason?”

  “Nah, not really. I mean, his parents kept hounding him to get off his computer, but I don’t think it was that big of a deal.”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm him?”

  “Not really.”

  “Can you think of any reason why someone might dump his body all the way in Glenmore Park?”

  Yelena raised her eyes quickly. “Did you say Glenmore Park?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where Abigail Lisman was kidnapped.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Aw, shit, man. Sure, come on. I’ll show you.” Yelena got up, suddenly energized, shaking her head, muttering to herself. She led the way to a small, stuffy bedroom that contained a mattress covered with stained sheets. There was a small laptop on the mattress, and a plastic zipper bag full of weed. Yelena dumped herself on the mattress and opened the laptop.

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow and pointed at the weed. “This yours?” he asked.

  Yelena glanced at it. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s tea.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Smell it, man.”

  Mitchell sighed, picked up the bag, opened it, and smelled it. Jasmine. It was the best-smelling thing in the apartment.

  “I like to drink tea, man. Anyway, you’re not here to bust me for tea, or for weed, right? Check it out.” She opened a browser and browsed to a Reddit page. It was a subreddit Mitchell identified immediately: the subreddit dedicated to Abigail Lisman’s kidnapping.

  “There,” Yelena pointed at the screen. “RollingPunches, that’s him. He got really obsessed with this case. Kept messaging me about it, trying to get me to join the thread.”

  “Did you?” Mitchell asked.

  “Naw, man, I don’t dig those crowdsourced policing threads. They always get things wrong, and get all worked up about nothing.”

  “But Glen was involved.”

  “Yeah. But he stopped messaging me about it after a while. And see here? He last posted two days ago.”

  “Okay,” Mitchell said, frowning.

  “Glen was really in to this,” Yelena said. “He might have figured he’d be able to find some more info in Glenmore Park.”

  “Yeah,” Mitchell said, his mind kicking into high gear. “Could be.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hannah sat in the squad room, listening as Mitchell detailed his visit to Portland. He yawned constantly, and occasionally lost his train of thought, staring into the distance like a thoughtful, grazing cow. But his eyes sparkled with determination, and Hannah could tell he felt that incredible buzz that comes with finding a good lead.

  Hansel and Gretel got it all wrong. You don’t follow the breadcrumb trail back home. You follow it into the forest, until you reach the gingerbread house and arrest the witch.

  Captain Bailey was in the room as well, listening with rapt attention to the details of the case. The usual background noise of the station was muted and drowsy, as it always was on a Sunday morning. Only those who had to be on duty were present in the building, and even they tried to do as little as possible.

  Hannah should have been at home too, but the quiet and loneliness of her home got to her. She’d nearly called Clint to invite him over. Then she thought he should be the one to call her. So she did the only thing she could think of, and drove to the station. She was the first to show up in the squad room, followed closely by the captain, who had come to meet with Mitchell.

  Eventually Mitchell’s outline of events came to an end, or maybe he just fell asleep with his eyes open. In any case, he was suddenly quiet.

  “Okay, then,” Bailey said. “Ou
r murder victim is connected to the Lisman kidnapping.”

  “He’s more than just connected,” Hannah said. “It sounds like he was on the right track, and was murdered because of it.”

  “Not necessarily,” Bailey said. “There are other explanations.”

  “It’s highly unlikely that he was searching for her and just got killed by chance,” Hannah said.

  “I wouldn’t know about highly unlikely,” Bailey said. “The kid drove to a city he didn’t know and started poking his nose where it didn’t belong. My father used to say, never lift a rock without putting your scorpion helmet on first.”

  The concept of a scorpion helmet gave them all pause.

  “So, what, you think he just ran into a drug dealer or something while looking for the kidnapper and got himself killed?” Hannah asked.

  Bailey shrugged. “We can’t discount the possibility, but I can think of an even more plausible explanation. Maybe the kid really did have sharp instincts. He began suspecting someone with a criminal past. But unlike us, he didn’t have a gun and a badge, and when he started throwing accusations he found himself dead in a trunk.”

  “We can’t ignore the possibility that he really was on to something,” Mitchell said. “Tracking the murderer here could lead us to one of Abigail’s kidnappers.”

  “That’s true,” Bailey nodded.

  “The FBI should be notified,” Hannah said. “They should take over the case.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Bailey said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Captain,” Hannah said. “The FBI has resources we don’t. If this has a bearing on Abigail’s safety, we can’t be pigheaded. I mean… sure, we could offer our help. But I really think we should let them know right now. It could have real impact on their investigation.”

  Bailey leaned back in the chair, his face thoughtful. Finally, he said, “Okay. You’re probably right. Here’s what we’ll do: Detective Lonnie will go home and get some sleep, because he’s getting drool all over my squad room floor.”