The Flats

by Kate Birdsall

  “We should have called the police,” Elaine tells the table. “We should have called right away once he disappeared. We never should have waited. This is horrible, just horrible.” She starts to cry again.

  Graham flexes his jaw and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “We were afraid to call.” He directs his comments to Fishner rather than me. “We were hoping we’d find him, that he’d just wandered off. And then we thought… well, we thought if someone had taken him, they’d be after money. We thought we’d get a note or a phone call, you know, for ransom. We thought Kevin would be safer if we didn’t involve the police.”

  “Let’s back up just a little bit,” Fishner says. “Can you tell us, step by step, what happened? What made you want to come in today instead of waiting for the detectives to come to your home?”

  “We had to get this out,” Elaine says in a voice thick with tears. “We lost you a day. An extra day the police could have been looking for Kevin…”

  “Take us through what happened,” Fishner says.

  Graham clears his throat. “Peter asked us to look after Kevin on weekdays, while they were at work.”

  “He’d just gotten a promotion,” Elaine adds, “to interim department chair.”

  “That promotion meant that he had to work regular hours in addition to his weird professor hours,” Graham adds.

  “When did the babysitting start?” I ask.

  “End of August, year before last,” Graham replies. “It was mostly because of Teresa and that stupid book. She was on a deadline.”

  “And she was teaching three classes,” Elaine quickly throws in.

  Graham sets his jaw. “She never seemed to have time for anything but her manuscript and grading papers. So we agreed to help, but then the hours got longer and longer, sometimes stretching into several days and nights at a time.” He coughs.

  “And Graham has a bad heart, so it was hard on us,” Elaine adds.

  “Is this a medical condition?” I ask. It could be a euphemism for maybe stealing all that money and getting away with it.

  “Angina and a bad mitral valve,” he replies. “I’ve been putting off the surgery—it’s open-heart surgery, nothing to mess with—until Kevin starts school.”

  “How many days a week did you usually watch Kevin, especially in these past couple of months?” I ask.

  “Five,” he says. “Weekdays.”

  “How often did he typically stay overnight?”

  “Two, maybe three nights a week.”

  “And this went on for how long?”

  Elaine opens her mouth to speak, but her husband interrupts her. “I told you,” he says. “About a year and a half.” He shifts in his chair.

  She doesn’t look at any of us. “We should have called,” she whispers.

  He scowls. “Damn it, Elaine, just stop it.”

  “Okay,” I say in my soothing witness voice. “Okay. Take us through what happened leading up to that, okay?”

  Graham gives his wife another harsh glare, but she ignores it. “Everything was going along just fine until last Friday around noon,” she says. “I was at the grocery store when Graham had an angina attack while he and Kevin were playing hide-and-seek outside.”

  Graham nods.

  “Hide-and-seek in March?” I ask, trying to get them to confirm that this occurred last Friday, which was one of those weird Midwestern March days that tricks us into thinking spring has arrived.

  Graham nods. “Yes. It was almost fifty, and we’d been cooped up indoors for weeks, so we went out. Kevin was excited about it. I had an attack and went inside—very briefly, I might add—to get my medicine. When I came back, Kevin was… gone.”

  There’s something in Elaine’s face that bothers me. She averts her eyes whenever I try to look at her. At one point, she even covers them with her hand. I’m certain she didn’t kill her grandson. She wouldn’t have the physical strength. But that doesn’t mean she’s completely innocent.

  I switch tactics. “Why didn’t you tell Peter and Teresa right away, when Kevin went missing?” They lied to Kevin’s parents for an entire day, which is maybe what sickens me most.

  They look at each other.

  “We agreed that it would be best,” Graham replies. He clears his throat. “We said Kevin wanted to spend the night.”

  “And they didn’t want to talk to him, say good night, that sort of thing?”

  “I said he was in the bath,” Elaine whispers.

  “Whose idea was it to keep it from his parents?” I ask.

  “We thought for sure it was about money. Everyone always thinks we have money,” Graham says, and I swear he looks ashamed. “But we don’t. Not really. We live beyond our means.”

  “I see.” Since you tried to pay back what you stole, I don’t say. I also don’t bring up the fact that I’ll be going through their bank records.

  “I didn’t take that money,” he declares. “I know this isn’t about me, but I need for you to know that.” He jabs at his sternum with a thumb. “I took the fall to save my company.”

  “Graham, please,” his wife says. She turns to me. “Please. I’m so sorry. We should have called. We should have told Peter and Teresa. We should have…” She looks away.

  His nostrils flare. “It must have been about money. I think something went wrong. We were sure we’d get a ransom note or something. We have an unlisted number. Maybe they lost their nerve. But it must have been about money. Who’d want to hurt Kevin?”

  Elaine sputters into sobs.

  That oily feeling stirs my guts again, and I hand her some tissues. “I saw a lot of Kevin’s artwork at Peter and Teresa’s house. Some of the pictures have a woman with yellow hair in them. Do you know who that is?”

  They glance at each other, then Elaine looks away. “Our neighbor is a blonde,” Graham Whittle says.

  “How well do you know this neighbor?” I ask.

  “Decently well. She gets our mail for us when she’s out of town, and sometimes she lets Kevin play with her dog.”

  “Would Kevin have drawn pictures of her?”

  “Yes,” Graham replies. “He said that woman in the drawings was her.”

  Elaine stares at the table.

  “We need to ask if anyone can verify your whereabouts on Thursday night,” I say. When they look stricken, I tell them that it’s just a formality, completely routine.

  He makes a fist. “We were at home, trying to figure out where the hell Kevin was. All of this is ridiculous. Now, are we free to go?” He stands up from the table. “I don’t like being accused of things I didn’t do.”

  I get up and meet his gaze. “Sir, I understand. We’re not accusing you of anything. We just have a few more questions. Everything we ask is to help find Kevin’s killer. Please sit back down.”

  He deflates a little and returns to his seat. His wife never left her chair.

  “Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts on Thursday night?” I ask again.

  “Probably either of our neighbors,” he replies. “The car was out front. I didn’t pull it into the garage until late.”

  “You only have one car?”

  He nods.

  I take down the neighbors’ names and phone numbers on Fishner’s legal pad. “Do you have a security system or anything that you might have set?” I ask. “Something that could verify that neither of you left that night?”

  Elaine turns to him. “Did you set it?” she asks.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

  I write down the security system information on the pad so I can check with the company later. “Do you know anyone named Brian Little or Sean Miller?”

  He frowns. “No. Why? Are they suspects?”

  “Just persons of interest. How about you, Mrs. Whittle?”

  Sh
e shakes her head. “No.”

  “Have you received any threats? To you, your property, that kind of thing?”

  They both look at me, at each other, then back at me. Graham clears his throat. “After I was accused of doing those terrible things—things I never did—I’ve received quite a few threats.” He flexes his jaw and looks out the window.

  His wife puts a hand on his arm. “Tell them, Graham. You have to tell them.” When he doesn’t respond, she says, “About three months ago, a former associate of Graham’s contacted me,” she says. “Louis Randolph.”

  “Randolph didn’t have anything to do with this,” he mutters.

  I write his name on the pad. Okay, good. Something to go on.

  Elaine glances at her husband. “He’s never gotten over what happened. He’s convinced that Graham stole his money.”

  “He’s always been an asshole,” the man mumbles.

  “Graham!”

  “I’m sorry, but he has.” He looks at me. “He worked for me for a long time. I caught him following me about a year ago, so I guess he knew that we were caring for my grandson.” Worked for me. My son. My wife. My grandson. Such ownership.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs. Whittle, about the manner in which Mr. Randolph contacted you?” Fishner asks. “Are you sure it was him?”

  “It was him. I’d recognize his voice anywhere,” she says. “He called me at home. He said he would get his money back or something terrible would happen. He told me to look over my shoulder everywhere I went. He said that hurting me would be the best way to get back at my husband.” She sighs and slumps a little in her chair. “It was about a hundred thousand dollars. Right, Graham?” She turns to me. “Do you think he did this?”

  “What does Randolph look like?” I ask.

  “He’s stupid looking,” Graham replies. “Never has clothes that fit. I always told him that going to a tailor was a good idea. Did he listen? No.” He huffs. “I didn’t take his money. He lost that hundred thousand investing badly. He’s not very bright, that Randolph.”

  I pull the picture of Brian Little up on my phone and show it to them. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

  “No, he doesn’t look familiar,” Graham says after a brief hesitation, and Elaine shakes her head.

  I scroll to Sean Miller’s photo. “How about him?” I ask.

  They lean forward and squint at the screen. “No,” Graham replies as his wife shakes her head.

  “Is there anything else we should know?” I ask.

  “No, not that we can think of right now,” he replies.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Fishner says in her nice voice, “but I have to ask that you not leave Cleveland until we get all of this sorted out. Someone will be by to take a look at your house and property, too, okay?”

  “Someone was already there,” Graham says. “Olsen. He was already there.”

  “Since then, Mr. Whittle, this has turned from a missing persons case into a homicide,” I reply.

  He looks shocked, and Elaine gasps, but they both nod.

  “Okay,” I say, pulling a business card out of my wallet. I scrawl my cell phone number on the back. “Here’s my card, with my direct line on the back. Call me if you think of anything—anything.” I hand the card to Elaine, and she slides it into her purse, nodding.

  “Thanks for coming in today,” Fishner says, standing. “Detective Boyle will show you out.”

  After they leave, a quick internet search takes me to the website for Louis Randolph’s new company. On the directory page are pictures of staff, but next to his name is a gray box that contains the words “Photo Coming Soon.” I take a detour through various online social networks. No photos there, either.

  I fill in the crime board with the information gleaned from the interview then stand back, leaning against my desk, to take it in. I’m a visual person, and it’s time to assess what we have, look for patterns.

  Who: Kevin Whittle, unknown suspect

  What: Kidnapped, murdered, mutilated

  Where: Kidnapped from grandparents’ home, body discovered in Flats

  When: Time of death - Approximately 7:30 to 8:00 p.m. Thursday

  Persons of interest: Brian Little, Sean Miller, Louis Randolph

  I study the photographs from the scene and my sketches of the alcove, the alley, and the position of the body. “Roberts,” I call across the squad room. “When did you get here?”

  “Not long ago. This case is rubbing me the wrong way. I couldn’t sleep, so I came back.”

  “Yeah, I understand. Hey, look into this guy, Louis Randolph. We need his address, financials, anything you can get. And check out this security company and these neighbors. Try to verify what Graham Whittle told me.” I fill him in and grab my coat. “I’m on my way to Akron to get Sean Miller”—I tip my head at Fishner’s office—“in case she forgets and wonders where I am.”

  “You got it,” he replies.

  Chapter Nine

  On my way to Summit County, Josh calls, but I let it go to voicemail. Seeing my best friend’s name gets my mind wandering. He was popular, but I was that kid in high school, the weird one with the blue Mohawk. I kept to myself most of the time, but I led my team to the state soccer championship and played guitar in a band. I pretended nothing could touch me, even while I was taking care of my younger brother when he had the stomach flu, helping him with his homework, and making crap dinners out of a box or can because Mom was too shitfaced to care. I was the kid who made it work in spite of it all. Maybe to spite it all. Music, soccer, and solitude: those were my solace. All that was after my mom moved us to Willoughby, away from the home we’d grown up in and known our whole lives. Josh and I were neighbors until then. We’ve known each other since we were born two months apart. Well, since we became sentient, anyway.

  Josh was there when my sister went missing, and he was there the day the cops came to tell us they’d found a body that might be hers.

  We’d been having a lip-synch contest on his front porch when the patrol car pulled up in front of my house. At first, I expected my sister to hop out and go running up to our front door, but instead, two cops got out. Plainclothes detectives, I know now, with badges clipped to their lapels. The looks on their faces said she wasn’t with them. Josh—still “J.J.” then—saw them at the same time I did, and some instinct compelled him to shut off the boom box and take my hand. We were sitting there, holding hands, when I heard my mother wail through the open windows of our living room. We didn’t say anything when my dad came outside, got in the car, and followed those cops to the morgue.

  I didn’t become a cop for some kind of atonement, though. It was kind of because my little sister was raped and murdered and then my dad killed himself over it. But it also wasn’t. I struggle to keep it from defining me. I shove it in the back of my mind with the reptile functions. Tragic family cases flip that switch, and I don’t like it. It makes me feel erratic and unpredictable.

  “You need some fucking therapy,” Josh said when I told him the department had mandated me to see someone after shooting that perp. “You have for years.”

  He’d said something else before that, too, one time when he was pissed off at me for blowing off his partner’s birthday party. “You’d better start telling me what the hell is going on with you. You need to start caring as much about living people as you do about murder victims.” I’d heard that kind of thing before, just not from him.

  I shake my head and flip on the radio. Scanning through the stations, I look for something upbeat. Nothing sounds good, so I shut it off and hit the off-ramp to go into downtown Akron. At the jail, I park in a visitors’ spot and stride into the reception area.

  The deputy at the front desk narrows her eyes at my badge. “Police ID.”

  I slide my ID out of its case and hand it to
her. She takes it over to the photocopier without a word, then she returns. She holds it out to me. “Is this a custody transfer, or did someone post bail?”

  “Custody transfer,” I reply.

  She taps on her keyboard. “It looks like bail just came through.”

  “Well, he’s still coming with me. Care to tell me who posted that bail?”

  “A bondsman out of Cuyahoga Falls. That’s all the information I have right now.” She slides me a clipboard. “Here, you need to fill this out.”

  I sign the paperwork that says Summit County is releasing Sean Miller into my custody. She tells me it will be a few minutes, so I go over to a chair in the corner and call Goran. “Hey,” I tell his voicemail, “get someone to find out who posted Sean Miller’s bail.”

  I thumb through an ancient copy of People then flip to the back, but someone has already filled in the crossword. I toss it back on the table and gaze at the more-ancient TV in the upper corner of the room, which is playing that courtroom reality show with the feisty judge and redheaded bailiff. After an hour, I get up and remind the deputy that I’m still waiting.

  “He should be out in twenty minutes,” she replies. She sounds like a robot, but I don’t tell her that.

  Thirty minutes later, Sean, hands cuffed behind him, is escorted through a large metal door. When he reaches me, he asks, “Am I still under arrest?” He looks exactly as I remember from the crime scene, down to the clothes.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” I reply.

  The deputy uncuffs him and gives me a little salute.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Sean,” I say. “You’re coming with me.”

  “My friend was supposed to come pick me up. Who are you?”

  “Yeah, well, change of plans.”

  The deputy hands Miller a plastic bag with his personal effects and asks him to sign for them. He scrawls his name on the form and takes the bag without verifying its contents.

  “Who are you?” he repeats on the way to the car. “You’re obviously a cop, but what the hell?”