November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” I said. “You just might be a little more circumspect for a while. Especially in London.”

  The crowd in our lounge area changed about every forty-five minutes, and as it got closer to our flight time, I found myself looking over the passengers in the area and picking out potential hijackers or bombers. If you ever start looking for suspicious people, you’ll find ’em everywhere. I mean, you’re going to be wrong at least ninety-nine percent of the time, but you see ’em anyway. That gave me an idea.

  “Look at that guy,” I said, indicating a particularly unkempt individual with only a small bag. “Doesn’t he look like a hijacker? I mean, really?”

  “What?”

  “Just look at him.”

  “Damn,” said Carson. “You’re right. Should we, like, tell somebody?”

  “Oh, no. I mean, look at that gal to his right, back a row. The one with the big curly hair and the pocket pants. Lots of suicide bombers are young women these days, you know. And with that outfit on, who knows what she might hide in those pockets. Or that hair, for that matter.”

  “You don’t think . . .” he asked, rhetorically. “No, no, she’d have to pass through the same security checks we did.”

  “Yeah, she’s probably not. Well, unless a co-conspirator slipped her something from behind a food counter. They probably don’t check airport employees nearly as close as passengers.” This was fun. “You know, I’d be more likely to suspect that man there . . . the one with the beard and the backpack. See him?” I asked. “Almost looks like he’s kinda hiding behind that pillar, doesn’t it?”

  “Shit. . . .”

  “I’m gonna take a little nap,” I said. “Just keep a mental list of the suspicious looking ones. If you’ve got something hot, tell me when I wake up.”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me about half an hour, would you?” With that, I scrunched down in the seat, and left Carson to fidget. I didn’t sleep, but I enjoyed the silence.

  Our plane was a 777. Big. Way big. We trucked our carry-ons way back to economy class seats 24 D & E. They turned out to be seats 2 and 3 in a group of five abreast. They were also right against a bulkhead. That meant that our seats were not only a little hard to get to, but once we got settled in, we found that they didn’t recline more than an inch or two.

  “This flight is supposed to last how long?”

  “Seven hours,” said Carson. “Plus or minus.”

  “Wonderful.”

  I was in the middle. Carson, to my left, was absolutely delighted to find an attractive young English girl between him and the aisle. He started a conversation immediately, beginning with his being a ‘chief prosecuting attorney’ in his County Attorneys’ office. Chief as in only. Nonetheless, she seemed politely impressed. That was all it took. Although I felt a bit sorry for her, she provided a great distraction for Carson.

  Seven hours and thirty minutes later, we landed at Heathrow airport, London. According to my internal clock, it was about 2:30 AM, and the day was just about over. According to Greenwich Mean Time, it was 8:30 AM, and the day was just beginning. A day we’d gained. It was now the 12th. According to my legs, it was time to go to the hospital.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, November 12, 2003

  10:26 Greenwich Mean Time

  Everything had gone much more smoothly than I expected, and only two hours or so after landing, we had checked into our hotel and were unpacking. All the concern about my obtaining a passport seemed a little silly by now, as I had only been asked two questions upon entry to the United Kingdom.

  First, the man behind the little podium had asked me if the purpose of my trip was business or pleasure.

  “Business,” I said.

  “What is the nature of your business?”

  “I’m a law enforcement officer, over here to work a case with New Scotland Yard.” And, with that, I presented him with my badge and ID. Zip. End of questions.

  I’d had to wait for Carson, who had gone into some convoluted song and dance about being on official but confidential business. He did have a knack.

  “Which bed you want?” I asked Carson.

  He pointed to the one furthest from the window. “That one, if it’s okay with you?”

  “You bet,” I said, and fell back on the mattress. “See you in four hours.” And I was, I’m embarrassed to say, out like a light.

  I awoke at 13:22 local time. Half past one in the afternoon. Great. I’d never be able to sleep tonight. Not only that, I was hungry, my back was sore, the heavy curtains were pulled, and Carson was nowhere to be found.

  I took a shower, dressed, and felt just a whole lot better. I opened the curtains, and got my first good look at Kensington Park. It was pretty. There was a largish brick building in the middle distance, and I made a note to ask somebody what it was.

  We were on the fifth floor of the Thistle Kensington, overlooking High Street. There was a bunch of kids, looking to be about fourth graders, queuing at a crossing sign on an island in the middle of the road. They were all dressed alike, green shorts, skirts and jackets, and accompanied by two women who were wearing reflective vests. They all waited patiently and then crossed with the light, disappearing behind some trees just inside the park fence. It was the first time I’d ever seen real English school kids. Cool.

  I opened the window. It seemed to be about 50 degrees, and the sky was partly cloudy. Not what I’d been led to expect, which was cold and rain all the time. Off to my right was a gold spire sticking up out of the trees. That required another note. When I got home, I wanted to tell everybody what it was that I’d seen. I got the impression that I was going to need a really good tourist map.

  I was just sort of standing there, taking in the fact that I was actually in London, when there was a small commotion at the door, and Carson walked in, arms full of sacks.

  “Hey, you’re up!”

  “You bet. Where you been?”

  “Shopping. I went down to this little store about two blocks that way, and got us some wine, and some pop, and some crackers and cheese.”

  I revised my opinion of him upward a bit.

  “Lemme tell ya,” he said, “we aren’t in Iowa anymore. You can’t believe the women here. I swear to God, I saw a dozen who were almost six feet tall, blonde, and absolutely gorgeous. In less than an hour!”

  “Good for you.”

  “Honest, Big Guy, I didn’t realize how much I missed city life.”

  “You call New Scotland yard yet?” I asked. I surely hoped not, but thought I’d better make sure before I called in.

  “No, I thought I’d wait for you to do that. Wanna wait until tomorrow?”

  “Oh, no. No, no. We get started now,” I said.

  The first real surprise was that the telephone number I’d gotten from Sally was just a general switchboard number at New Scotland Yard. I asked for the Missing Persons unit, and eventually got an officer named Garret, who said that his unit in general was working the case. He then asked who I was, and what my interest was in the case.

  That took a few minutes. His basic response was polite and correct, but there was a very strong tone of ‘What in the hell . . . ?’ about most of his side of the conversation. That was all right, because I was pretty hard put to tell him just exactly why, myself.

  Eventually, I was told that an officer Trowbridge would meet with us the next morning. I was given the number of the Missing Persons unit, I gave him mine at the hotel, and that was that.

  “Get everybody all straightened out?” asked Carson.

  “This ain’t gonna be easy,” I said. “I think he was just a little . . . oh, maybe you could say dumbfounded. I would be, too.” I chuckled.

  “Why?”

  “Well, look. I mean . . . I’m sure he couldn’t find Iowa on a very good map. But he knows it’s one hell of a distance from here, and for a case where there is absolutely no evidence of foul play. . . .
”

  “Well, she is gone.”

  I reached for the crackers. “Yeah, but as far as I know there isn’t anything that’s turned up one way or the other. And I would suppose they have a fair number of missing persons cases in a city this size.”

  “Most of whom turn up?” he said, as much of a question as not.

  “I’d think.”

  “I wonder,” said Carson, “how long the average one is gone before they find they’re all right?”

  “That’s a good question. But I’ll bet it’s not anywhere near this long.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a prosecutor assigned this one, yet.”

  It’s hard not to make a crack at times like that. “Well, probably not.” After all, there wasn’t a crime. Hard to assign a prosecutor if there isn’t a crime. But I didn’t say that.

  “Well, not without a crime, I guess,” he said.

  I was beginning to think he wasn’t such an airhead, but that his mind just was geared a little differently.

  “Right.” I figured I’d limit it to that.

  “So, we go together tomorrow, right? To the police station?”

  Now, New Scotland Yard was bound to be a bit more than a police station, but I let that go, too. He was a prosecutor, not a cop. “You bettcha. I think it’s best if we’re together. They’ll have an easier time,” I said, with a grin, “believing two of us.”

  It wasn’t five minutes later that the phone rang. I thought it was going to be Jane. No such luck. It was an Inspector Whitcomb, telling me that he and a sergeant would be in the lobby of our hotel in ten minutes, and could we, perhaps, meet in the lounge.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Very fine, then. See you in ten,” and he hung up. I told Carson. That sounded good to him.

  “Yeah,” I said, “it does to me, too. I think.”

  “What? You aren’t happy with this?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  The lounge area was very cozy, with comfortable leather chairs grouped in threes and fours around tables. Coffee or tea was provided with a complete service. Sue would really like this, I thought. It was really luxurious, heightened somehow because Carson and I were the only two patrons in the place.

  We’d been seated for about a minute when two men dressed in sport jackets entered, and came directly toward us. They were middle height, fit, and had an air of complete assurance. One was about forty, one maybe thirty and a year or so. Cops. Without a doubt.

  “Mr. Houseman?” asked the younger of the two.

  I stood. There was about a nine inch height difference between us. And about a hundred pounds, to boot. I stuck out my hand. “That’s me,” I said, looking down at him. “And this is Carson Hilgenberg.”

  “Inspector Whitcomb,” he said, presenting his credential wallet for me to see. “And this is Sergeant Trowbridge.” There were handshakes exchanged. He turned to the waiter who was fussing around the next table. “Two teas, please.” He smiled. “Let’s sit,” he said, “why don’t we?”

  We did.

  “Sergeant Trowbridge tells me that you’re a sheriff?” There was an air of amusement about that question.

  “Yes. Well, no, not precisely.” I noticed his eyebrows rise. “A Deputy Sheriff, from Nation County, Iowa,” I said, and handed him my badge case. “Carson, here, is the chief prosecutor for our County.”

  “Ah, a barrister,” said Whitcomb. He looked at my badge, and handed it back. “Very nice, and it’s really a star. I’ve always connected rural US Sheriffs with cowboys and shootouts with cow punchers. Not really that way, is it?”

  “No. Well, hardly ever, anyway. The best thing is that we don’t ride horses.”

  He smiled. “So, now, it’s my understanding that you’re here regarding a missing persons case, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A young woman named Emma Schiller. She’s from our county.”

  Sergeant Trowbridge said her name at the same time I did.

  “A name familiar to all,” said Whitcomb, with a brief smile. “Well, then, right to the point. What has us wondering, really, is why you would be sent over here for a case where there’s no evidence of a crime being committed.”

  “We attempted to explain that in a teletype we sent via Interpol,” I said.

  “Yes. Yes, that arrived this morning, I believe. . . .” and he glanced at Sergeant Trowbridge. “Is that correct?”

  “Right,” said Trowbridge. “I asked for any contact information after Deputy Houseman called today. Central communications gave it me.”

  “Interpol is notoriously slow,” said Whitcomb. “When was it sent?”

  “A while ago,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly, but a good week. . . .”

  “You see. Nonetheless, it offers assistance, but fails to mention your imminent arrival.”

  “That should arrive next week,” I said, in an attempt at humor. “But as to the reason for our visit . . .” I explained the events that had led us to London.

  “Local politics, then?”

  “Only partially,” I said. “It sort of greased the skids. But my Sheriff is genuinely concerned about Emma’s disappearance, and so are we all.”

  “Most understandable,” said Whitcomb. “Ah, Sergeant Trowbridge tells me you have the same last name as one of the missing girl’s roommates? Would you be related, then?”

  “Jane Houseman’s my daughter,” I said.

  “Ah. And that would be another interest, then?”

  “We all knew Emma,” said Carson, speaking for the first time since the conversation had started in earnest.

  “Yes,” said Whitcomb. “And it’s brilliant of you to have come to help us. Truly. But to be perfectly honest, we feel we should caution you not to go about questioning people. At least, if they indicate they would rather not talk to you, you should abandon that pursuit instantly. That would be harassment if you weren’t to desist immediately. Since you lack jurisdiction. And, if there would turn out to be crime involved, you could muddy the waters, as they say, and quite possibly interfere.”

  “I’m very aware of that,” I said. “Believe me. I also know that, if you think you might have a lead, somebody asking questions over the same territory could cause any possible source to dry up.”

  “Too right,” said Sergeant Trowbridge, and earned a cautionary glance from Inspector Whitcomb for his trouble.

  I made a mental note that Trowbridge had developed a possible lead.

  “Just to put all our minds at ease,” said Whitcomb, “you don’t happen to have brought some sort of firearm over with you?”

  “No,” I said. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’d be completely illegal, doing that.”

  “Yes, indeed you would,” he said. “Firearms are illegal in the UK. So, well, brilliant. Trowbridge here has brought you a copy of his report. You can look that over, and give him a call if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the envelope handed to me by Sergeant Trowbridge. “So, do you have any leads?” I wanted to see a reaction.

  Trowbridge looked as if he was about to nod in affirmation, when Whitcomb said, “Not really. But I assure you, we’re still on the job.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, just so you are aware, we do intend to talk with the folks in the pub where she was last seen. And with some fellow students, possibly.” I grinned. “And her roommates, of course. Daughters aren’t allowed to refuse to talk. But, part of our, ah, mandate I guess, is that we make absolutely certain that there can be no connection to any events occurring on our side of the Atlantic.”

  I had a reason for bringing that up. It was bound to make them curious, and if they did have anything they weren’t sharing, it might put them in a mood to do a bit of a deal. Not right away, but if they kept coming up dry, they might remember the Iowa connection.

  “What sort of connection were you thinking of?” asked Whitcomb.

  “Oh, our county has a large repu
tation in the US of being one of the major sources of methamphetamine, for example. And you never know if somebody might have pissed somebody else off and they decided to get even.”

  “Internationally?” Inspector Whitcomb sounded amused.

  “Oh, yeah” I said. “Could easily be. We have individual manufacturers who clear several hundred thousand dollars a year. They trade for dollars, they trade for ecstasy, they trade for heroin. They trade for sex, too, but I suspect that’s gotta be pretty local to do ’em any good.” Only Carson and Trowbridge laughed. “Anyway, it’s really hard to say. The only foreign involvement we’ve actually proved in the last three or four years is a connection to Denmark.”

  “I am truly amazed,” said Whitcomb, and he sounded sincere.

  “So were we,” I said, and this time we all laughed.

  “Do you think Emma Schiller was involved in the narcotics trade, then?” asked Trowbridge.

  “Not as far as I’ve been able to tell, and we have pretty good records,” I said. “I’m not able to say she wasn’t a user, because I really don’t know. I can check that aspect with my daughter, if you’d like. She might know.”

  “I’ve asked that question,” said Trowbridge, “and got the usual reluctance to say much. You must know how that is.”

  “Sure,” I said. I certainly did. Nobody ever wants to snitch off a friend, and nobody ever wants to speak ill of the dead. It’s kind of a universal thing. I was sure that Jane and Vicky weren’t likely to be exceptions. “As time passes and there’s no development, they’ll open up more. Let me see what I can do.”

  “You must have lots of missing persons every year,” said Carson. “Hundreds.”

  “Thousands,” said Whitcomb. “And ninety-nine percent are found or otherwise proven to be all right.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” said Carson. “Isn’t it, Carl?”

  “You bet,” I said, looking at Whitcomb. To us pessimists, that meant that if there were ten thousand cases a year, a hundred were missing permanently. “What’s the usual duration of a missing persons case?”

  Whitcomb shrugged. “I really can’t say, right off.”