The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “THINGS LIKE THIS don’t happen in Kenilworth. I’ve lived here all my life.” Fran is scraping the griddle with the sheet rock trowel she uses to flip pancakes and eggs. She doesn’t see me take a stool at the counter. The fall heat wave isn’t giving up and I can see rivulets of sweat trickling down the back of her neck. Fran’s Café is the place where most Kenilworth street cops start their day. Fran is like a mother hen to them and as the widow of KPD’s only line-of-duty death, she holds a special place of respect.

  “All those years working the street, BG never worked sex trafficking or pornography. Not once.” A formal photo of BG in his Kenilworth PD uniform looks out over the restaurant from a shelf high above the stove, safe from the grease splatters, surrounded by plastic plants, and the framed, folded American flag presented to Fran at his funeral.

  “Are you kidding? He saw stuff, maybe worse, he just never told you.” Eddie Rimbauer wipes his hands on his apron and starts clearing the breakfast dishes off the counter.

  “BG told me everything.”

  “That’s what you think. There’s things us cops see that we never talk about, not even to each other.”

  The café is quiet. Except for a few retirees with no place to go, the breakfast rush is over. I’m here because I’ve had two pre-employment screening cancellations. Cops apply to several agencies at once and take the first offer that comes to them. I’d rather they spent time researching the departments they applied to, rather than going for the first offer or the biggest paycheck. On the other hand, most cops like toys, trucks, cars, speedboats. Anything with a motor. And anything with a motor costs money. A better long-term investment would be figuring out which agency fits best for their personality. Some crave the action of a big-city department. Others prefer a quiet suburb like Kenilworth. The consequences of making a bad choice can be disastrous because once you sign up, those golden handcuffs, money, and security make it hard to start over in another department at the bottom of the totem pole, pushing a patrol car on dog watch.

  “You don’t know BG like I did.”

  “I know cops. We don’t talk about certain stuff. Especially not to our families. You have to have someplace to go that doesn’t stink like a sewer.”

  “Morning, Eddie. Morning, Fran. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Hey, crazy lady, when did you sneak in?” Crazy lady is Eddie’s pet name for me. He thinks it’s funny calling a psychologist crazy. He pours a cup of coffee into a worn porcelain mug and sets it in front of me. “What’ll you have?” I order a plain toasted bagel with cream cheese. “You’re the shrink. Tell her how cops don’t like talking about work, except for the funny stuff.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Eddie shoves someone’s left-behind newspaper at me. There’s a photo of Manny and two others on the front page, all of them smiling, thumbs up. “Our boy Manny and his team caught some upstanding resident of our fine city, a lawyer no less, with a shitload of child porn he bought from a dentist in New Jersey. I knew that kid was bound to do good things because he had a good trainer. Me.” He takes a bow, first to the left and then to the right. “Thank you, thank you, hold your applause.” He slices a bagel and drops it into the toaster. “Seems the good dentist was offering free services to some kids from poor families, putting them under, undressing them and taking more than X-rays of their teeth. Sticking more in their mouths than—”

  “Stop it.” Fran turns around. Her face is red and shiny with grease. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s disgusting.”

  “See what I mean, Doc? Nobody wants to hear what we do for a living. Half the time they don’t believe the stuff we see. My third wife complained when I wouldn’t talk to her about work. So I used to make shit up. Something she could understand.” He dabs at his jowls with a towel and purses his lips. “I had the best day, sweetie. I caught two bank robbers and saved an old lady from a mugger.”

  Eddie’s been a cop for years until he was put on medical leave to treat his alcoholism. Our relationship is good now, although it hasn’t always been. While he was still on the job and I was new to KPD, we fought over the way he was treating a rookie he was training. Then I tried to hit him over the head when he sneaked into my house thinking I was being burglarized because he saw an open window on the ground floor of my condo. Someone had recently broken into my house and when I heard Eddie sneaking up the stairs, I thought the vandal had returned. Last year I asked him to help me unmask an unethical therapist. He took a bullet in the gut for his efforts, which didn’t help him get his job back. Fran’s been looking after him since he was a small boy. Working for her is part of his therapy.

  “One day I got fed up with her whining about my never talking. So, I told her the truth. We’re in a Chinese restaurant. She’s babbling about something. I’m eating rice and thinking about the maggots I saw on a homeless dead guy. She wants to know what I’m thinking about. So I told her. She walked out of the restaurant. Left me there. By myself.”

  My bagel pops up. Eddie slathers it with cream cheese like he’s texturing a wall. Slices a tomato and a red onion, flicks some capers on top, and hands me the plate with a sideways motion like he’s throwing a Frisbee.

  “Probably ’cause you don’t close your mouth when you eat.” Fran slaps his backside with her trowel.

  “You’re just like everybody else, Fran. You think living in Kenilworth is like living in LaLa land. Nothing bad ever happens here.”

  Fran whacks the trowel against the stove. The sound of metal on metal reverberates like a shot.

  “If anyone knows that bad things happen in Kensington, I do,” Fran says without turning around.

  Eddie drops the pan of dirty dishes he is holding on the counter and shakes his head in shame. “I’m an idiot. That was a stupid fucking thing to say. Sorry.”

  Fran turns around, her face drained of color, and gives him a slap on the arm with her trowel. “Enough already. Stop your yammering and get to work. What am I paying you for?”

  “You don’t pay me; did you forget?”

  “I feed you, don’t I? The way you stuff yourself, you’re eating up all the profits.” She whacks him again on the backside. “Get those dirty dishes in the back, you big oaf.”

  As soon as he’s out of earshot she leans over the counter. The smell of bacon grease clings to her clothes and hair.

  “He didn’t mean anything bad, I know that. But can you please, please, please, help him get his job back?” She puts her hands together as though praying. “Not only is he going stir crazy working here, he’s driving me nuts.”

  Eddie comes back with the empty dish pan. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Doc?” Fran turns back to the stove, but I know she’s listening. My love life is of consummate interest to my friends and my mother. Frank’s been asking me for months to go home with him at Thanksgiving. Last year I wiggled out of it by saying my mother would be crushed if I didn’t spend it at her house. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She had a gaggle full of her women friends over for cocktails and then we all went out for Mexican food and a movie. If I hadn’t been there, she would have hardly noticed.

  It’s not that I don’t want to meet Frank’s family. They seem really nice. We Skype together and they send me charming handmade greeting cards on every occasion, sometimes just to be friendly. Now that we are officially engaged, I don’t think I can put it off any longer. I don’t know why I’m hesitant. Afraid I won’t fit in? Afraid they won’t like me? Afraid I won’t like them? I doubt any of them have ever knowingly had a conversation with a psychologist, let alone a Jewish psychologist. Frank tells me my fears are unfounded. His family is not judgmental. He thinks I’m projecting my concerns onto them. I told him to stick to hammering, that he’s not licensed to practice therapy.

  “So?” Fran says. “You haven’t answered Eddie’s question. After all his blubbering, he’s finally said something important. Are you going to Iowa for Thanksgiving?”

 
; I put a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Stay tuned,” I say, borrowing Pence’s phrase. “All will be revealed.”

  I’m being coy. I know perfectly well I am going to Iowa. What I don’t know, couldn’t have known, is that, at the same time I’m planning what to pack, someone is planning to kidnap Chrissy.

  That’s why, three days after we get to Iowa, Frank and I head back to California. The plane ride is uneventful, largely because we are seated in separate rows, having to settle for whatever seats were available on standby. Thanksgiving is a better day to fly than the day after, unless you’re hoping the airline attendants will be cheerful about spending the holiday with strangers. During the interminable wait for our luggage we decide to take separate taxis to our separate houses. We’re being rational. Frank wants to go home, put the leftovers his sisters stuffed into his suitcase in the refrigerator, take a shower, and go to JJ’s place. I need to do the same and get over to the PD. Neither he nor I want to take on the tangle of feelings hovering between us.

  My house smells stuffy and unused. It’s cold, not as cold as Iowa, but colder than when I left only a few days earlier. I open the refrigerator. There’s nothing to eat and I’m hungry. Amazing, considering the endless calories I consumed in Iowa and the promise I made to myself never to eat again. I’m tempted by a few hours of sleep but determined to go to headquarters first to show my concern. I take a quick shower, pull on some slacks, a sweater, and a jacket. As I back out of the garage, the sky is turning from black to purple.

  The command center at headquarters is blanketed in silence. No talking, no laughing. Being able to laugh is as important to a cop’s survival as is a gun. It’s a pressure valve that relieves the tension accumulated from controlling emotions and trying not to react to the daily dose of misery and miserable people that come with the job. The only problem is that cop humor doesn’t work when it comes to children. There’s nothing funny about a toddler who’s been neglected or abused. No way to blame a child for being raped, murdered, run over by a drunk driver, or kidnapped.

  The command center walls are covered with flip chart paper. An annotated timeline extends across one wall. Suspect sheets are scribbled with notes. It is so quiet I can hear the photos of local known sex offenders flutter every time someone walks by the wall where they are pinned. Chrissy’s photo is posted at the front of the room. It’s the photo from JJ’s exhibit, Chrissy naked, in front of a white background, wearing only a headband decorated with a floppy organza bow.

  Manny is bent over a laptop. The ceiling light illuminates his shiny black hair. I hadn’t noticed before, but there are tiny wisps of gray along the sides. His face concentrates with effort. I stand in the doorway unnoticed. There is nothing I can do to help him or anyone else. This is a police operation, full speed ahead. At times like this cops need a psychologist like a fish needs a bicycle. There will be room enough for my services after Chrissy is found. If she’s ever found. And if she’s alive.

  I leave the command center and grab a cup of coffee from a vending machine. It’s hot and vile. Pence has called a meeting of command staff in the conference room. If he’s surprised to see me back early from vacation, he doesn’t show it. He raps on the table to start.

  “We have a media storm to deal with, people. A frenzy. Every newspaper and TV reporter in the Bay Area is here. We have to play this right. Be transparent without revealing any information that will jeopardize the investigation. Any questions before or after the press conference, refer them to me.” He studies his notes. “What I plan to say to the press is the minimum, short and sweet. I’m going to read it to you. If you think of anything I’ve overlooked, shout it out. I don’t want to be blindsided.” He stands, notes in hand.

  “Thank you for coming. We are dealing with a terrible tragedy. An innocent child stolen from the safety of her bedroom during the night.

  “Because this is an ongoing investigation, I cannot release the name of the victim or the family. All I can say is that the mother put her child to sleep in the evening, checked on the child before she herself went to bed, and when she returned in the morning, the child was gone. The mother heard nothing during the night. Thank you for your patience. I will be giving periodic updates on the progress of our investigation as I have them.”

  He folds his paper and looks at us. His airtight smile gone. He has no love for a voracious press, beyond getting his face in the paper when something good happens.

  “What am I missing, folks? Just shout it out.”

  “Someone’s going to ask about a ransom note.”

  “Can’t answer. Too early.”

  “What about the FBI, Chief? Are they coming in? If I’m asking, they’ll be asking.”

  “They’re available to help, should we need them. But I doubt we will. I have every faith in you guys. You know the community, they don’t. Anything else?”

  “What are you telling parents?” I say. “They’re going to want to know if they should keep their children home from school. If you anticipate more kidnappings.”

  “Good one, Dot. I’ll remind them that parents should be aware of their children’s whereabouts at all times. Stay calm and continue their lives as usual.”

  “But the child was at home, asleep in her own bed.”

  A swath of red blooms on Pence’s forehead. He does not like being pushed.

  “What about the ICAC team?” My second question sends a flush of red down his neck. I gave up several days of vacation to come back here. Might as well make it worth my while.

  “What about it?”

  “Some reporter is going to ask if you were aware at the time you assigned Manny to the team that Kenilworth children were in danger from traffickers or pedophiles. And why you withheld that information for ten months.”

  His lips furl into a tight line showing his extra-white teeth. “I resent the implication behind your question, Dot. I would never . . . have never put the citizens of Kenilworth in danger by withholding information that would lead to their safety.”

  The room rustles with discomfort.

  “I’m not asking the question personally,” I say. This is only half-true. “I’m merely suggesting you need to be prepared for the press to ask this question. That’s what you asked us to do, isn’t it?”

  “The community doesn’t need reassurance that I’m doing my job. It is because I initiated the task force and have a certified investigator at the ready that we are able to respond to this incident so quickly. It is because I had the foresight to face this problem squarely and not pretend something so loathsome couldn’t happen here that I am ready to deal with it. I’ve canceled all leaves. Removed all restrictions on overtime. Asked the surrounding communities to provide mutual aid as needed and to handle all minor calls for service. The community doesn’t need reassurance, Dr. Meyerhoff. I know what I’m doing, because I’ve prepared.” He heads for the door, chest out, spine straight, a soldier heading into battle.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I WAIT FOR Frank to call me—and when he doesn’t—I leave a message for him. It’s been two days since we came home from Iowa. Two days without any contact and no news about Chrissy. I tell myself I’m not personally involved. But I’m lying. How could I not be involved? I open the refrigerator. Nothing there. I prepare my fallback cuisine, popcorn with red wine, preferably pinot noir, and turn on the evening news. With Chrissy still missing and no ransom note, Pence is going to step two, put JJ in front of the TV cameras to plead for Chrissy’s return. He has already begun talking from the council chambers podium.

  “As promised, I can now give you the identity of the missing child. Her name is Chrissy Stewart, two years old. Chrissy’s mother, JoAnn Juliette, is here tonight.” There’s a low murmur. Reporters are turning in their seats. “She’s waiting in an adjoining room; she’ll join us in a minute.” He pauses, waiting for everyone’s attention. “Ms. Juliette wants to make a public statement. I’m sure you’ll understand that she is under a great deal of strain and wil
l not take any questions.”

  JJ steps out from behind a door, a uniformed officer next to her. She is simply dressed in jeans, a boxy black sweater, and flats. A large round basket with leather straps hangs over her shoulder. Her face is bare, no makeup to cover her swollen eyes. A lock of hair has pulled loose from her braid and hangs over her face. She brushes it back with one hand and looks at the crowd of reporters.

  Pence moves upstage, dismisses the officer, places his hand on the small of JJ’s back, and escorts her to the podium. She moves as though she’s walking through frozen slush. Pence tilts the microphone toward her mouth. She looks at it and then at Pence. He nods, smiles, signals her that it’s her turn to talk. She takes a deep breath.

  “I’m Chrissy’s mother. My name is JoAnn Juliette. Friends call me JJ.” Her voice is soft. Pence moves the microphone closer to her mouth. “I’m a photographer. I’m better with pictures than words. I don’t know if I can express what’s in my heart.” She takes a deep breath. “I love Chrissy more than anything in the world. I don’t have words to tell you what being without her is like, not knowing where she is or if she’s safe. She’s my life and I’m hers.” She licks her lips. Pence offers her a glass of water. She takes a drink and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Chrissy is a happy child, a free-spirited child, very sweet with a wonderful disposition. She loves everybody. You only have to have known her for a little while to see how sweet she is.” This is the scripted part of the mother’s appearance. Humanize Chrissy. Make her real. The more real she is, the harder it will be for someone to hurt her. That’s the theory at least.

  “Please. Whoever has Chrissy, please return her. Leave her at any church or fire station. Anywhere safe. Please.” She grips the edge of the podium with both hands. Long shiny streaks of tears make their way down her face, bright with reflections from the overhead lights.