November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  It took me a second to remember that Janine would have been one of his high school teachers.

  “You know it, Mrs. Schiller,” he said. “We won’t let you down.” He looked at me in a desperate sort of way. “I think Carl has some more to say, Mrs. Schiller.” With that, he handed me the phone.

  “Janine,” I said, winging it. “Look, we’ll keep you posted. We can send regular emails, and get any reports that are available right to you.”

  “Carl, could you talk to Martha for a minute?”

  Martha Dressler was Janine’s sister. “Uh, sure. You bet.” It’s not easy when you know these people.

  “Carl? Carl, this is Martha. How are things going over there?”

  I told her pretty much what I’d told Janine.

  “Carl, some of us were thinking we could really help if we came over, too. What do you think?”

  Oh, boy. Even a small percentage of that clan would be five or six people. My first reaction was to scream and drop the phone, to tell you the truth. My training prevailed.

  “Well, Martha, I don’t know. We’re the only ones the cops will talk to in any depth, and that’s because they could demand we be fired if there are any leaks. They’d probably just turn you over to their PR people, and . . .” The little wheels were turning, though. Having a couple of family members sitting on the doorstep of New Scotland Yard could have its advantages. The local press would have photo ops constantly. That would keep the case in the public eye. That could increase the chances of a tip, or of an informant coming forward.

  “Yes?”

  “. . . well, ya know . . .” and I told her what I was thinking. “It’d have to be somebody pretty self possessed, and kinda tough,” I said. “And they’d have to have very little contact with us, because we don’t want the coverage on us. I don’t know, Martha. What do you think?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “Three of us, I think,” she said. “We can be there in a couple of days.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’ll be me, Harriet and Wendy.” Harriet was another sister, and Wendy was a sister-in-law. “Wendy because she’s the only woman I know who cries pretty.” Martha had a mind like a steel trap, and when she was pissed, she was formidable.

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  She complimented me on my quick thinking, and then kind of took it back when she said, “I don’t remember you being this fast on your mental feet in high school, Carl.” She’d been a year behind me.

  “I seethed within,” I said.

  “It must have been pretty deep,” she replied. “But we’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think this will have a good outcome, Carl? The hostage business?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We can just hope and do what we can.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I think you’re right.”

  When all the phone calls were done, a sad silence settled down on the flat. Nobody really wanted to say anything, and we’d probably all said just about everything we had to say, anyway.

  It was, well, not exactly awkward. Just uncomfortable. Finally, Jane asked if we wanted any coffee or tea. We did.

  While Jane was in the kitchen, the phone rang again. It was Sergeant Trowbridge. I took the call.

  “You’ve seen the tape, then?” he asked.

  “Just what they showed on TV,” I said.

  “Ah. Well there was a bit more. Not lots, and just more of the same.”

  “Okay.”

  “We think the absence of audio is due to their not being able to get her to cooperate . . . verbally, you know. We believe they tried to have her read a prepared script, and she wasn’t cooperating.”

  “Sure.” I wondered how they knew that. “How can you tell?”

  “We have a lip reader viewing the tapes now. That’s his opinion at this point, at least.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “They weren’t either bright enough, or at all well informed about these things. We’d have thought they’d dope her first. Just enough to make her pliable. This is very likely a first effort on their part.”

  “That sounds reasonable. It looked clumsy as hell.”

  “Yes.” Then his voice became even more serious. “That can be rather, well, hazardous, you know. For her.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Are you able to talk quite freely?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Ah, then. Well, there was a note, as well. They call themselves the London Reform Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous and Lions of the Front for Jihad in Britain.”

  I’m used to speaking while I adjust. “Okay. . . . Long title . . . never heard of that one.” You hear about having your worst fears confirmed, but it happens so seldom.

  “Strangely, neither have we,” he said, with just a touch of sarcasm. “We’re still checking with other sources, but we can’t make any connections with anyone at this point. It might be useful to keep in mind that it could be a hoax of sorts, or a dodge to keep us looking the wrong way.”

  “Are they saying what they want?”

  “No,” said Trowbridge. “They just tell us they’ll be in further contact. No specific date. I thought we might drop round tomorrow, and discuss things.”

  “Here or at the hotel?”

  “There would be fine, I’d think.”

  “Any idea what time?” I was trying to prolong the conversation, trying to adjust to the jihad business.

  “We’ll call ahead,” he said. “I’ve got to go, now. Tomorrow, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention the name of the group to anyone, just yet. We’ll want to release that at the appropriate time.”

  “Fine.” Great. I’m really good at keeping secrets, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy.

  “What did they say?” asked Jane, as soon as I put the phone down.

  “Not much more than we already knew,” I said. “There’s just a little more tape, it’s longer than the bite they show on TV. But nothing significant.”

  “Ransom?” asked Carson.

  “No, at least not yet. They got a note with the tape, apparently. The kidnappers say they’ll be in touch again.”

  “Oh, God,” said Jane. “Oh, Emma . . . how long do you think this will go on?”

  I shrugged. “There’s no way to tell.”

  That little piece of encouragement seemed to be sufficient for the moment, so I didn’t add that there was also no guarantee that it would turn out well. I think we were all adequately aware of that, anyway.

  Carson and I hung around quite a while, but the girls didn’t think it necessary for us to sleep over. They had to be up early for class, and they were now beginning to put a positive spin on the evening’s events. Emma was, after all, alive. That was the most important thing.

  We left the flat, and made arrangements to get together again after classes tomorrow.

  Carson was unusually subdued. “I just got the weirdest feeling with that tape that Emma’s not gonna make it.”

  “I kinda got the same feeling,” I said.

  “Did Trowbridge say anything you held back because of the girls?” he asked.

  “He said they struck him as amateurs. The kidnappers. That that makes it kind of dicey for Emma’s survival.”

  We walked about a minute in silence. I noticed that we only met two other people, and both were alone. I also noticed the streetlights on Southwood Lane. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such yellow streetlights,” I said.

  “I was noticing that, too,” said Carson. “I was hoping it wasn’t something I drank.”

  “Yeah. It makes everything look different.”

  We walked down the hill, back to the tube station. The entrance was a good block from the exit, and down a long flight of exterior steps. I felt like I was descending into the woods. It was kind of remote, although it was lit pretty well. “You don’t suppose she went
back into London that night, do you?” asked Carson.

  “Why would she?”

  “I dunno. Maybe she just went somewhere to meet somebody else . . .” He shrugged. “Just talking to hear myself talk, I guess. It’s easy to travel in a herd, here.”

  “I wonder . . . did anybody ever say if she had a cell phone or not? I can’t imagine that the troops at NSY would neglect that . . . but it wasn’t in the report.” I didn’t have a cell phone with me because mine wouldn’t work in the UK, so I’d left it home. But Jane and Vicky had one, and I thought it was fairly likely that Emma would have one, too. I made a mental note to call Jane when we got back to the hotel.

  Moments later, we discovered that the tubes in London apparently stop running at midnight. There was absolutely nobody around. We went to a small pub by the tube exit, persuaded the clean up crew to let us in, and called a cab. It was one of those big black jobs, the kind you see in all the movies.

  Once we got in, I got another bit of education. I hadn’t realized just how much we stood out, and how quickly we could be identified at US citizens. All I did was tell the driver the address of our hotel.

  “You’re Yanks?”

  “Yeah. Just got here.”

  “Have you heard about that American girl, the one that was taken hostage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bloody awful thing, that. Awful. Grabbing people off the street, threatening ’em and all that.”

  “It sure is,” said Carson.

  “I hear she was staying here in Highgate,” he said. “Would you happen to know her?”

  “We sure would,” said Carson, before I could stop him. I glared at him anyway, but I don’t think that he caught it.

  “Well, you have my sympathy, there. My cousin was killed in an IRA bombing, a few years back. Awful thing for the wife and kids. He was a clerk walking home from work, when the bomb went off in a store. Instant it was.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “What’s this world coming to, I always say.” He glanced back toward us, over his left shoulder. To someone like me, who had always driven left-hand drive cars, it was unsettling. “Here’s hoping she comes out of it well and good,” he said.

  “You got that right,” I said.

  “Bloody shame the pols get involved now, though. What with terrorism and all. They won’t be able to let it alone.”

  That opened a whole new avenue of worry.

  It was about 10:10 when we got back to the room. The message waiting light on the phone was flashing. I picked it up while Carson went to the john.

  “There is . . . one new message for room . . . 515,” said the bland, computer generated voice. There was a pause, and then Sergeant Trowbridge’s voice came on the line. “Deputy Houseman . . . this is Sergeant Trowbridge at New Scotland Yard. It’s 7:00 PM. There’s been ah, a development in the Emma Schiller case. Pleas call me at . . .” And he gave his number.

  I scrambled to find a pen and paper, found them in a drawer, and then had to replay the message to get the number.

  “What’s up?” asked Carson, coming back into the room.

  “Something in Emma’s case,” I said. “Just a sec. . . .”

  I wrote down the number, hung up, and said, “That was Trowbridge. He left a number . . .”

  Another detective answered the phone, and told me that Trowbridge was out of the office. I explained who I was, and named the case I was interested in.

  “Oh, you’re the Sheriff from the States?”

  “A Deputy . . . yes.”

  “Oh, right. Ah, I think Trowbridge’s up in Stevenage about now. Let me give you his cell number . . . I know he wants to talk to you. Just a bit . . . ,” and he gave me the new number.

  I called it. After six or seven rings, he answered.

  “This is Deputy Houseman. You have something on Emma’s case?”

  “I’m afraid we might. We’ve recovered a body. It’s a bit difficult to identify at the moment . . . would you be able to assist us with identification?”

  “Probably,” I said. A body? But we’d just seen her on TV, for God’s sake. “What’s the condition?”

  “I’d rather not go into it on the phone. We’re at the Stevenage police station. Could you come up? We could have someone meet you at the train station. . . . We should be back at the hospital by the time you arrive.”

  He had to give me directions as just how to go about that.

  I hung up the phone. “They’ve found a body that they think might be Emma,” I said. “We have to go to a place called Stevenage right now.” I grabbed a jacket and put the pen and notepad in my pocket. “We’re supposed to go to King’s Cross station, and take what he calls a ‘proper train’ to a place called Stevenage. He said to take the express, and we should be there in an hour or so.”

  “Hell, we just saw her on TV! It can’t be her,” said Carson. He pulled his jacket out of the closet. “Can it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, heading out the door. “But I don’t think they’d call us unless they were pretty fuckin’ sure.”

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday, November 12, 2003

  23:39 Greenwich Mean Time

  We finally got to Stevenage at about midnight. We’d run into a little problem at Kings Cross station, and obtaining the right tickets, and . . . well, at least we’d gotten to Kings Cross in good time. Taxi’s aren’t cheap over here, either, but since the tube was closed, we’d had no choice.

  The train ride seemed longer than it was. We speculated a little, but even that wasn’t too lively, as we still had so very little information to go on.

  We were met on the second level of the Stevenage train station by an officer who introduced himself as Constable Julian Richards, Hertfordshire police, who checked our identification at about the same time he shook our hands, and said he was very glad we were available. He ushered us to his patrol car, which I found uncomfortably small, and drove us immediately to Lister Hospital.

  Richards ushered us down a ramp and into a remote area of the hospital where the deceased were kept until the proper funeral agents could take charge of them, and also where those necessary autopsies were performed. Trowbridge met us outside the door.

  “Sorry to bother you, but we think we may have a match with your missing girl.”

  “No problem.”

  “Before we go in, let me fill you in a bit. She was, oh, discovered, early this evening. By this officer, in fact,” he said, indicating Richards.

  I turned to Richards. “Cool, good for you,” I said.

  “Mostly luck,” he said.

  “You know what they say,” I said, “about rather be lucky than smart.”

  “Yes. At any rate,” said Trowbridge, “she was in this small freezer and we’ve had a devil of a time getting her out. All we could tell until she was removed was that it appeared to be a small person with reddish brown hair.” He opened the door for us. “That description fit well with at least three missing persons in London, and two more throughout the UK. Now that she’s out, and thawing, we can tell a bit more, you see.”

  My first impression was that it was much warmer in the autopsy area than I would have expected. Then I saw the body, and knew why. It was the damndest thing I’d ever seen. On the exam table was a human female, naked, beaded with moisture, and roughly in the shape of a cube. Her ankles were crossed, with the feet bent inwards. Her calves touched the backs of her thighs, which in turn were flat up against her chest. Her arms were pressed in tightly against her torso, with the forearms folded so they, too, lay back against the arms in a sort of hyper-flexed position. Her head was folded tightly to her right, with her right ear pressed firmly into her right shoulder, and her face pressing into the recess formed by her arms and knees. Her long hair was matted to her right side, and pushed up between her feet. Her flesh was flattened on all the outside areas, like they were pressed against the other side of a glass surface instead of freestanding. Those areas were much whit
er than the rest of her. Her external genitals were very much exposed, and everyone in the room assiduously avoided looking in that direction. I, myself, discreetly moved around to the other end of the body.

  There seemed to be abrasions and ligature marks at her wrists and ankles. They were pretty rough looking, with well defined lines. The closer I looked, the more I thought I couldn’t tell if they were from ligatures or simply from the severe folding that had taken place. I did notice that the skin of both knees was broken, and there seemed to be scabs on those injuries. Pre-mortem, so to speak.

  “Shit,” I said, softly. I approached the body more closely. Her face was mostly concealed by being pressed against her knees. “It sure as hell could be Emma,” I said. The hair’s the right color, all right.” I peered more closely. There seemed to be some pretty significant damage to her forehead and the right side of her face. It looked to me as if she’d been beaten up, probably with an instrument.

  I turned back to Trowbridge. “How much longer till she can be unfolded?”

  “The pathologist will start soon,” he said. “He’s waiting for a second pathologist. And, he wanted a cup of tea after he was able to remove her from that . . .” and he pointed to a small freezer that was standing in the corner, with it’s top removed and leaning against it at an angle.

  I was astounded. “She was in that?”

  “She was.”

  “God, it doesn’t look possible. . . .”

  “The interior dimensions,” said Trowbridge, looking at his notes, “are twenty-two by twenty-two by twenty-one inches.”

  “Emma’s about five-one. . . . I never would have thought it possible,” I said.

  “We think there’s some evidence that there was a bit of pressure applied to the lid, to force her into the space. You can see the cracks in the plastic liner of the lid, from her ankles, we think.”

  There was a sound behind me as Carson went back out into the hall.

  “So, you have a suspect?” I figured that if the freezer had been found in a residence, they had their man. If it had been found in a commercial place, they would have at least the names of those with access to the freezer. Regardless, they had to be off to a good start.