Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  “A few,” Janet conceded. “But never like this, with cops knocking at the door.”

  “Okay. So here’s what we know and what we don’t know. First, we know she was last seen with a close friend, someone trustworthy. Second, sometimes Christie is impulsive. She’s never been one to turn down an adventure. Third, she’s leaving for grad school in three weeks. What better time for one final adventure, a last road trip or something, before starting another year of school?”

  “You’re making me feel better,” said Janet, squeezing his hand. “Go on.”

  “Okay. What we don’t know is this—and just this: where she is and why that car was there. We don’t even know for sure they were the last ones to drive it. They could have lost the keys or left them in the car. Someone might have stolen the car for a joyride. There are a lot of possibilities; most are harmless. They could have met up with some friends and gone out, spent the night at a friend’s, gone camping or on a road trip. Just bad timing. She might have lost her phone. Or her purse. We know she probably isn’t hurt—the cops have checked every hospital in town. And as they pointed out, how could someone abduct two women from a crowded mall—even the parking garage—without anyone seeing a thing?”

  It made Jensen feel dishonest to use his formidable advocacy skills to sell an idea he wasn’t sure he believed in, but making Janet feel better was worth it.

  “I’ll be glad when we can go by her place and pound on the door ourselves,” she said.

  “No need,” Jensen said, producing a key. “We can let ourselves in.”

  Denver Police Headquarters sits near the Denver Art Museum, but no two buildings could be less similar. The museum is a modern work of angles and lines reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright, while the police building looks like a postmodern blend of hardened bunker and medieval castle, foreboding and unfriendly, with little in the way of markings. To Jensen, the fortress of concrete slabs appeared designed to repel rioting hoards, as though the city planners expected Denver to sink into violent chaos.

  Within the building, they waited for thirty minutes on a hard bench in a starkly lit waiting area before a detective came out to greet them. He wore dark green slacks, cowboy boots and a large western buckle hiding beneath his overhanging belly.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jensen?”

  Jensen stood and extended his hand. “Yes, I’m Mark Jensen, and this is my wife, Janet.”

  Rather than shaking hands, the detective gestured toward the door from which he’d just emerged. “I’m Detective Taylor. Please come this way.” They followed him down a long hallway and into a small conference room.

  Once they sat down, Taylor opened a cream-colored folder. “You folks just flew in from California?”

  Jensen nodded.

  “Well, thanks for coming in today,” Taylor said. “This case has moved around some, but now it’s assigned to me.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” Jensen said, noting the tightness in Taylor’s voice and his lack of eye contact.

  Taylor cleared his throat and placed a small digital recorder on the table. “Okay. So. This Dawson thing. Robert Sand’s missing white girl.”

  Shocked at the unveiled racism, Jensen raised his brow. “Excuse me?”

  Taylor appeared not to have heard him. “You folks mind if we record this?” Without waiting for an answer, he pressed a button on the recorder and a small red light came on.

  Jensen glanced at Janet. Her face had gone slack.

  “Detective,” Jensen began, “We’re here because—”

  “Of course,” Taylor cut in. “It’s about your daughter too. Christine Jensen. Still haven’t heard from her?”

  “Correct. We’ve checked—.”

  “Yeah, I know. Home, cell, neighbors, but that’s it?” Leaning to one side, Taylor reached into his back pocket and withdrew a metal tin of chewing tobacco. He pushed a wad into his mouth, tamping it next to his cheek. “We were hoping you could give us a few more leads. Names of friends, other contacts, employers, known hangouts.”

  Jensen slipped a small envelope from his jacket and placed it on the table. “We brought some photographs of Christie and Jackie together, taken this summer.”

  “Thanks.” Taylor opened the envelope and examined the snapshots. “Your daughter is the blonde?”

  Jensen nodded.

  “Pretty girl. Does she also hang out with Sand?”

  This time Janet responded, her eyes sharp. “She’s spending her summer break in Denver, Detective Taylor. She’s working a summer internship with a medical company called Medtronic. She has just finished her bachelor’s degree in chemical engineering at DU. We understand she disappeared two days ago with Jackie and that you have them both officially listed as missing.”

  Taylor continued looking at the snapshots.

  There was a knock at the door. Taylor made no move to rise, and the door opened. A tall man stepped into the room; he wore a pressed white shirt with a dark brown tie that matched his short hair. Mark and Janet came to their feet. Reaching across the table, he shook hands with each of them, speaking softly as he introduced himself.

  “Special Agent Derek Sawyer, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Sorry I’m late.”

  “What section are you with, Agent Sawyer?” Jensen asked, mentally ticking off the legal jurisdictional flags potentially raised by the FBI’s involvement in a local missing persons case. This was a bad sign—the first thing that came to mind was the interstate transport of kidnapping victims.

  “Major Crimes. Colorado Office. We do a lot of the same stuff as Taylor and his team.”

  “His team?”

  “I’m just here to listen,” Sawyer said as he took a seat at the table. “Have a seat, everybody. Don’t let me interrupt.”

  Returning to his chair, Jensen asked, “What triggered FBI jurisdiction on this?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, I’m just here to observe.”

  “What else can you tell us about the girls?” Taylor asked.

  Jensen shrugged. “What would you like to know?”

  “Do you have any guesses where they are?”

  “If I did—”

  Taylor nodded. “If you did, you wouldn’t have come to Denver, I get it.” He pointed to the recorder. “We just have to ask the question, Mr. Jensen.”

  “We just arrived, and we plan to check her apartment as soon as—”

  Taylor interrupted. “You have a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re a lawyer?”

  “Yes. A prosecutor, in my former life.” The change in direction of Taylor’s questions surprised Jensen. He’d expected the man to ask if he could tag along and gain access to the apartment for a consensual search.

  “Used to be?”

  “Now I am in private practice.”

  “Criminal work?”

  Jensen raised his hands with his palms outward. “I don’t defend criminals. Strictly civil litigation.”

  “Lucrative practice?” Taylor flashed a plastic smile, gazed into the file before him once more, scanning a handwritten note clipped inside. “Flush enough to make your girl a ransom target?”

  Jensen shrugged. “I suppose so. Why? Has someone contacted you?”

  “Not us. You?”

  “No.” Jensen shifted his gaze from Taylor back to Sawyer. “Why is the FBI ‘unofficially’ involved in this case?”

  Taylor cut in. “Tell us about Sand.”

  “We don’t know him. I’d like an answer to my question.”

  “There is no answer to your question,” said Sawyer, “I’m here strictly as an observer. There’s nothing that would invoke FBI jurisdiction on this matter. This is Detective Taylor’s case. I really don’t want to interfere with his work or be a distraction. I’ll leave if there’s a problem with my being here.”

  “No problem,” Jensen said. “I just want to make sure all the cards are on the table.”

  “Okay,” Taylor said. “Back to Sand. You know a
nything at all about the guy or your daughter’s relationship with him?”

  “Only that he’s an older man who’s dating Christie’s friend Jackie. I don’t think Christie has any kind of ‘relationship’ with him other than a casual acquaintance. Detective, we were hoping you could tell us something.”

  Taylor nodded, stealing a sideward glance at Sawyer, who remained impassive. “Okay. Here’s what we know. They ditched Sand’s car with the key in the door at the Cherry Creek Mall parking lot, west deck, level three, and took off somewhere.”

  “How do you know they ditched it there? All you really know is that you found it there. And what is it that leads you to the conclusion that they ‘took off’ as you put it?”

  “Hey, counselor, ease up,” Taylor said with a gentle tone. “No sign of foul play. They’ll probably turn up.” Taylor closed his file on the table and stood. Sawyer rose with him, reaching for the door. “Only reason we’ve opened a file is because of Sand’s reports.”

  “Reports, plural?” Jensen asked.

  “Several calls. Very persistent fellow.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jensen protested. He looked imploringly at the FBI man. “What’s going on here?”

  Sawyer met his gaze. “We don’t have enough information to be sure of anything,” he said, “They may very well have just ditched the car. When they turn up, we’ll know for sure.”

  “Gentlemen,” Jensen said in a voice that reflected three decades of court battles, “These girls are missing. They didn’t run off. They wouldn’t do that. Sand expected them back at his house two days ago, with his car. They never made it. They wouldn’t just ‘ditch’ a car entrusted to them and wander away for days without leaving word with somebody. You can’t just wait for them to ‘turn up.’”

  “Mr. Jensen—” Taylor started.

  “Please hear me out. You’ve got to do more. I can see why Sand made so many calls. This is a serious case. They’ve vanished; they’re missing, and it is your job to find them.”

  “Settle down, cowboy,” Taylor said caustically. “We’ve already started.”

  “If this were your daughter—”

  “Hey, we’re not blowing this off.” Taylor raised the file in his hand. “We’ve opened a case file. We’re investigating.”

  “Exactly how are you investigating?” Jensen probed.

  “We’re following up on any leads we might come across. Taking statements.”

  “Any leads you might come across?” Jensen parodied. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “We’ve taken your statements now,” Taylor countered, standing.

  “Just a minute,” Jensen said. “Please, sit back down.”

  Taylor hesitated but then resumed his seat.

  “You say you’ve taken our statements?” Jensen said softly. “You’ve barely interviewed us. This is no investigation. We’re getting the bum’s rush—a brush-off. Not unusual in a municipal police station, I concede, particularly on a missing persons complaint no one is taking seriously. But why would the FBI Major Crimes Unit have a man sitting in if this isn’t a real case? With all due respect, officers, this doesn’t pass the smell test. I’m asking you to be straight with me.”

  Taylor and Sawyer just stared at him. Jensen waited for an answer, letting the awkward silence build pressure.

  Taylor spoke first. “We’ve searched Sand’s home. He gave his consent. First time we asked. Dawson keeps her things there. Clothes, toiletries, shoes—all in her own closet in the bedroom. She is twenty-two; he is fifty-six. Clearly a sexual relationship. Now, we’ve canvassed the mall. There are no video cameras in the parking lot where we found the car. No reports to mall security. We’ve rechecked every day. There were no signs of struggle inside or outside the car. We’ve dusted it for prints and found only a few; all seem to be Jackie’s or Sand’s or your daughter’s.”

  “But we heard no one checked the car for fingerprints,” Jensen said.

  “We finally got around to it. We compared them with samples taken from various objects Sands offered for sampling. Your daughter’s prints are on file, from her application for a concealed-carry permit. Sand volunteered to be printed, and we took him up on it. He’s ex-Army, but his prints are missing from the database. We sampled Dawson’s prints from personal possessions, like hairbrushes, a purse, her personal scrapbook and other places. There have been no calls made or received on either of their cell phones since before they failed to show up at Sand’s home. We’re following up on phone numbers from their cell records. There have been no credit card purchases on the cards we’ve located. There are no known witnesses who claim to have seen either of the girls after they departed from Sand’s home. We have interviewed store owners and employees at the mall.”

  Jensen nodded appraisingly. “Why didn’t you tell us any of this sooner?,” he said quietly. What else do you plan to do?”

  “We’ll see,” Taylor said. “You know a lot about police procedure, Mr. Jensen?”

  “As I said, I used to be a prosecutor.”

  “Any recent arguments with your daughter?”

  “No,” Jensen answered tiredly. “Do you consider Sand a suspect?”

  “Too soon to say,” Taylor dodged. “But like I said, he didn’t blink when we asked to search his residence. He was actually very helpful. My read is that if he’s hiding something, he’s a pretty good actor.”

  “Have you pulled his sheet, done a background check?”

  “Yup.” Taylor shrugged. “Clean. No priors, no complaints. Sand was ex-Army, but his prints were missing from the database. That might be one red flag at least.”

  “You have him under surveillance?”

  “Counselor,” Sawyer cut in with a good-natured chuckle, “you know he can’t disclose something like that in an ongoing investigation, even to you. Detective Taylor has already given you a more detailed and candid report than policy allows at this stage. You must understand that at this point we have essentially the same information you do. Less.”

  “We?”

  “We’ll keep you informed and ask you to do the same.” Sawyer obviously wanted the meeting to end. Taylor picked up on the cue and turned off the recorder before rising from his chair.

  “Us?” Jensen asked, probing again. “So you’re officially in the loop?”

  Sawyer gave Jensen a small smile, shaking his head slowly.

  Taylor patted Jensen’s arm. “We got your mobile number from Irvine PD. How long are you planning to stay in town?”

  “Until we find my daughter.”

  “Okay. Let us know where you’re staying. If you leave Denver, please inform me before you go.”

  “May we have Mr. Sand’s address and telephone number?”

  Taylor shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t release that information.”

  “He’s listed,” Sawyer chimed in. “Google him.”

  Chapter 11

  Dawn brought the gift of faint light. Christie could at last make out shapes and surfaces that became clearer as the light grew stronger and the fog in her mind continued to lift. They were against a concrete wall inside a cage of three sides of chain link and steel poles, roughly ten feet by six, with a roof about six feet up from the cement floor. Her eyes traced rough timber joists above.

  A basement.

  She sat up, which made her head throb and brought on another wave of dizziness. The cage contained only Jackie and herself, the plastic mattress, a porcelain toilet and a roll of toilet paper on the floor next to a dog bowl. Beside her, Jackie slept on her belly, breathing deeply, her long hair matted and filthy, crusty with dried bile.

  How long had they been in here? It seemed like days. She was aware of getting drugged repeatedly, and she dimly remembered a long, terrifying journey in the trunk of a car.

  Where were they?

  They were both still naked, but she didn’t think either of them had been sexually assaulted. At least not yet.

  She was desperately thirsty. She looked at t
he dog bowl. It was empty and dry. She had knocked it over during the night in the darkness.

  Her lips were parched and beginning to crack. She thought of drinking out of the toilet, but she could not yet bring herself to do it.

  Maybe she would change her mind later.

  She saw a hose coiled on the floor outside the cage. It ran upward along the cement wall, where it was attached to a spigot. In the shadows, she saw a long table and a cabinet that looked antique. There were objects on the table, but she couldn’t make out what they were.

  She tried to stand, but a searing pain behind her eyes got the better of her, and she lay back down and waited for it to pass, closing her eyes. After several minutes the pain subsided, but her head still throbbed. She ticked off the possible causes in her mind: drugs, dehydration, low blood sugar. She would kill for a couple of Tylenol. She scooted furtively to the edge of the mattress.

  Steel bars securely bolted the corners of the cage to the cement floor. Several steel bands welded into place secured the chain link. Her stomach tightened as she realized how solid the cage was. This was no makeshift thing—it was a permanent part of the house.

  The smell raised a frightening thought. Had others been here before her? Were they still alive?

  When she tried to recall what happened, her mind swam.

  It was easier to focus on the present. Sitting up again with great effort, she sighed and looked down at Jackie, who twitched and moaned, curling in her sleep into a fetal position. She was dreaming, but no matter how bad her dream might be, it could never equal the nightmare of reality.

  Christie would let her sleep as long as possible.

  That their captors had stripped and caged them made it seem most likely that they had taken them to serve some dark cravings. The thought made her stomach hurt. She noticed the sharp curve of Jackie’s hip and the size of her breasts. She looked down at her own body. She was scrawny compared to Jackie. Her skin was white; Jackie was tan. Her short hair was matted to her face. The skin of one breast was bruised and tender to the touch. It made her shudder. She wanted something, anything, to wear.