by Rick Mofina
“What situation?”
“Let me paint you a picture,” Zubik said. “You were inside the Lane home last night, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Even though it was against the family’s wishes, you were there.”
“Crystal invited me.”
“Maybe you suggested you come over so you could have sex?”
“No, she invited me.”
“You like Maddison Lane, even though she’s twelve, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Don’t lie. You think she’s cute.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were standing outside her bedroom window last night, weren’t you?”
“Is that what this is about? Because I smoked a joint outside?”
“Don’t play dumb, Zach. You like Maddison Lane a lot, you think she’s cute. You stood under her bedroom window thinking about her, and after you took Crystal home, you were still thinking about Maddison and that’s why you came back, isn’t it?”
“No, I never went back. I went home to bed.”
“You like little girls, don’t you, Zach?”
“This is bullshit.”
“Is it? You like Maddison. You were in her house, you were under her bedroom window—now she’s missing and you tried to leave town.”
Keppler shook his head.
“Make it easy on yourself, Zach,” Asher said. “Just tell us what you did with Maddison. Maybe it was an accident, things got out of hand. Tell us what happened.”
“Nothing happened because this is all your twisted fantasy.”
Zubik let out a long breath. “We’re in the process of getting warrants to search your phone, your backpack, your house, your dad’s car. We’ll see if you have other phones, if you tried to clean up any evidence. We’re going to scour every inch of your life. Our crime scene experts are processing Maddison’s room and the ladder, and if we find you’ve been lying to us, the district attorney will bring the hammer of justice down hard on you. But if you cooperate now, tell us everything now, well, maybe things will go better for you. What do you think, Zach? Are you ready to tell us the truth about what happened?”
Keppler blinked several times, glanced at the camera, at the detectives, then looked down at his hands as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I want a lawyer now.”
19
I’ve got to do something.
Ryan felt the steady continuous hum of alarm in the back of his brain.
It wouldn’t stop.
They found something in that forest, but they won’t tell us. I’m not going to stand here wringing my hands. I’ve got to do something.
After the news conference, Ryan, Karen, Tyler and Cole’s family had walked the few blocks to the community hall that was being transformed into the search center. Tables had been set up, maps taped to walls. Cole and his people were helping police and the neighborhood groups register the volunteers streaming in to help look for Maddie. People talked on phones, were given flyers and assigned to areas to search.
A sense of controlled urgency filled the air.
Ryan was numb to the compassionate back pats by friends, deaf to the assurances of well-wishers. Then, across the room, he saw his brother holding Karen’s shoulders. He saw her look up to him, nodding in her anguish. He knew they were close, knew that closeness went back to Cole’s darkest days. In that moment Ryan felt a pang of resentment toward them. It subsided when he turned to accept a handshake. When he turned back, he saw that Karen and Tyler were now being comforted by Maddie’s friends, neighborhood moms and Karen’s coworkers.
Observing it all, Ryan felt an awful anger and panic swirling in his gut.
I’ve got to do something.
He stared at Maddie’s picture in the flyer he held in his hands, folded it carefully and without telling anyone, left the building unseen through a back door.
I know what I have to do.
Seconds later Ryan was walking fast on Lime Tree Street toward his home, then before reaching it he turned toward the lane that led to the edge of Lucifer’s Green. A helicopter was still circling the forest, and police continued their probe of the woods, which remained sealed.
Careful to keep his distance from any police vehicles, Ryan used parked cars as a shield to reduce chances of him being spotted as he stayed clear of the activity. Propelled by his anguish, he walked the perimeter of Lucifer’s Green.
It’s my fault Maddie’s gone. I should’ve put up a better fence. I should’ve installed security.
As he covered the distance, he studied the forest, the only thing between his house and DeBerry Street. Maddie’s room and the halfway house were linked by those dense, hilly woods.
They found something in there, but they won’t tell us anything. What if it’s linked to that halfway house? We have a right to know and, I swear to God, one way or another I’m going to find out.
Some twenty minutes later, Ryan was on DeBerry.
Police and media vehicles dotted the side of the street bordering Lucifer’s Green. Ryan steered clear. He hadn’t had reason to be on DeBerry for a month or so, but he knew his destination, the three-story stucco building facing the forest.
When he came to it, he saw the sign: Residential Reentry Management Center. His pulse was throbbing from the walk and the anger pounding through him. A news box for a free community paper was out front, and he feigned interest in it, waiting until someone exited the building.
Ryan turned, caught the door and entered.
The clicking of a keyboard sounded as a man worked on the computer behind the front desk when Ryan walked by, exploring the facility.
Ryan was partway down the first hall when the clicking stopped.
“Excuse me, sir?” the front-desk man called. “You can’t go down there.”
Ryan took a breath, dragged his hands over his face and kept going.
“Sir!”
“I’m looking for my daughter. Someone here knows something.”
Ryan stuck his head in the first room, an empty dorm-style unit with two beds neatly made. He moved on to next and heard a chair scrape behind him at the front desk.
“Stop right there, sir!”
“Maddie!” he called.
Someone grabbed Ryan’s arm, and he turned to see the front-desk man.
“Sir, you can’t be here. Come back. I’ll get a case manager.”
Ryan jerked his arm free.
“Don’t touch me! You people know something!”
Drawn by the sound of a TV, Ryan moved to the end of the hall and came to a dining area where he saw several men, inmates, eating supper and staring at the screen suspended on the wall.
They were watching a weekend sports show.
A new man approached him. “Sir, my name is Burnham. I’m a case manager. We don’t know who you are, but you can’t be here and we need you to leave.”
All the others turned.
“I’m Maddison Lane’s father. Someone in this halfway house knows who took my daughter.”
“You have to leave, sir,” Burnham said.
“I’m not leaving until I get answers. Where’s my daughter?”
Men moved to take Ryan’s arms.
“Don’t touch me!” He struggled against the men. “Let go of me!”
“Call the police,” Burnham said to the man at the front desk.
“Maddie!”
More men moved to restrain Ryan, forcing him to the floor on his stomach, locking him in a cage of muscled, tattooed arms, smelling of cologne, deodorant and soap. Struggling was futile as Ryan battled his emotions.
“Tell me where my daughter is! Just tell me!”
The room fell quiet, except for the sports anchor’s voice from the TV and a ripple of—“Who’s that guy?”—whispered ar
ound the room.
* * *
Among the inmates staring down at Ryan was Kalmen T. Gatt, an IT expert finishing his sentence for white-collar crimes.
He knew exactly who Ryan was.
Gatt also knew something no one else in this world would ever know.
Gatt had a connection to Maddison Lane.
20
At the search center a circle of compassion had formed around Karen.
Her friends, her coworkers and mothers from the neighborhood had touched her, patted her, hugged her, and with eyes glistening offered heartfelt encouragement.
“Everybody’s looking everywhere.”
“We’re going to find her, Karen.”
“It’s going to be okay.”
“We just have to keep praying.”
“You need to stay strong.”
But Karen was drowning in their assurances. She didn’t want sympathy right now. She didn’t want prayers. She needed answers, and she searched the youngest faces to find them: Maddie’s friends. When she spotted Amanda Morber, who’d known Maddie since they were six or seven years old, Karen broke from the circle.
“Amanda, sweetheart, I need your help.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lane.” Amanda was with her mom, Valerie, in a small group.
“You must’ve texted Maddie last night or used Instagram or something?”
“Yes.” Amanda looked at her phone in her hand, then at her mom.
“Police are going to talk to all the kids, Karen. We’ve been notified,” Valerie said.
“I know, I know, but Amanda, sweetie, please tell me what you and Maddie talked about yesterday before it got late?”
Amanda looked to her mom, who nodded.
“Just about clothes and shoes we saw online and wondering if they were at the mall.”
“Is that it? Was there anything else Maddie said, or told you? Anything at all?”
Amanda blinked and she looked at her mother again, who nodded once more.
“Well, she said she argued with you about boys and stuff.”
Karen swallowed. “Would you show me your phone, honey, let me see?”
Amanda’s grip tightened slightly on her phone.
“Please, sweetie,” Karen said.
Valerie encouraged her daughter. “Go ahead honey, its important.”
Amanda took a breath and her fingers tapped on her screen. She passed her unlocked phone to Karen. Scrolling through it, Karen read her daughter’s exchanges. They were made around 9:00 p.m. and concerned shoes, clothes, then boys, and arguing with her mother about dating.
She’s so stupid, Maddie had said.
Why so harsh to your mom?
She doesn’t get it.
Get what?
That I’m so old enough for boys.
Not all boys are old enough for you.
Ha ha. I hate her for ruining my life. She’s such a bitch. Don’t get me started on my dad.
Uh-oh, gotta go Mad. Later.
The exchanges ended.
Karen gave Amanda her phone and nodded her thanks.
“Mrs. Lane,” Amanda said, “it’s just stuff kids say.”
Karen turned away, putting her hand to her mouth to gulp back a sob.
I hate her for ruining my life. She’s such a bitch.
It was like a knife in her heart.
Jill found Karen, read the fresh pain in her eyes.
“What is it?”
Unable to articulate the wound, Karen shook her head. She needed Ryan and searched the hall for him, wondering where he’d gone.
At that moment, there appeared to be a disruption outside the entrance, and Karen joined the people who’d moved toward it.
Outside in the parking lot, Ryan was being helped out of the back of a police car where Cole was waiting for him. Karen rushed to them. Ryan’s hair was messed, his face was white and he looked exhausted.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Ryan went into the halfway house looking for Maddie,” Cole said. “He won’t be charged. Everyone knows what he’s going through.”
“Let’s get everybody inside,” Jill said. “Have some coffee and something to eat. They’ve brought in some food.”
They stayed at the search center well into the night.
When Karen was unable to bear another minute in the hall, she told Ryan, Cole and Jill she wanted to walk back to their house.
“I need to be there in case she comes home.”
21
That night Chief Supervisor Vernon Pike stood at the front of the room, looking over the group seated before him in the Residential Reentry Management Center on DeBerry Street.
Everyone knew what was happening, but no one had spoken yet.
A few men coughed, others shifted in their folding chairs causing them to squeak, underscoring the tension in the center’s meeting hall.
All forty residents were in the room—no exceptions, a full count.
All passes had been suspended, work, rec, school and job search, all of them. Everyone, including those out in the community, had been ordered to report back to the facility immediately.
“Listen up!” Pike looked over the men. “It is my duty to remind you that you are all still serving your sentences, you are all still confined, you are all still inmates and will abide by BOP rules or be subject to an infraction that could return you to prison.”
Pike indicated the contingent of new faces standing alongside him.
“These people are with SPD and the Onondaga County Sheriff’s Office,” Pike said. “They’ve reviewed your case files as part of their investigation concerning the missing girl. Now they’ll interview you individually and conduct any other actions needed to support their work. I expect that you will cooperate.”
Chairs squeaked, a few residents coughed and Pike let a moment pass before he continued.
“I have to inform you that it’s your right not to cooperate, but I would advise you to weigh the implications if you don’t,” Pike said.
Before ending, he added: “Your personal items will also be searched.”
Kalmen T. Gatt was among the first selected for an interview. He was guided to the office of his case manager, George Pinson, where Detectives Carver and Balovitch waited with Pinson. Things were cramped.
“Have a seat, Kalmen,” Carver said as he and Balovitch looked over the computer monitor and their phones. Carver also had a clipboard on his lap.
“You’re coming to the end of your sentence for internet fraud.” Carver kept his focus on the monitor, reading. “White collar fraud and investment stuff. You’re a smart guy, doing well here at the center. Your reintegration back into society is going smoothly. Impressive, actually.”
Gatt said nothing as Carver’s attention shifted to him.
“Your passes are generous. Your curfew is 11:00 p.m.”
Waiting for a question, Gatt said nothing.
“The surveillance camera and log shows you returned at 10:50 p.m. Where did you go last night, Kalmen?”
“The diner on the corner. I had some apple pie, sir.”
“Do you have a receipt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see your expertise is in IT and you’re employed at a firm developing software, but you’re blocked from access to the internet. How does that work?”
Gatt knew that police often knew the answers to questions they asked.
“I have access to only one computer, and it is not connected to the internet, sir.”
“I see you own a cell phone, too. Does it have internet access?”
“No, sir. That would be a violation.”
“What about the ability to take photos with it?”
“No, sir. It’s an approved cell phone.” Gatt glanced to Pinson
to back him up, but Pinson’s face was noncommittal. “I use my approved phone to receive and return calls and messages from my approved list in my file.”
“Are you in possession of or have access to any other cell phones, laptops, tablets?”
Possession of any other devices would be a serious violation.
“Do you have any other phones, maybe a burner, Kalmen?”
“No, sir.”
“You know we’ll be conducting searches, and if you’re lying to us and we find something, that’s going to bring a world of trouble down on you.”
“I have no other cell phones in my possession, sir.”
“Where do you go on your rec passes?”
“I walk to the library to read or walk to Rose Garden Park, sir.”
“What about the woods across the street, Lucifer’s Green?” Carver pointed with his chin. “Do you walk there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you do there?”
“I go there to think about rebuilding my life. When you’ve been locked up, a place like that is like Heaven, sir.”
“Do you exit the woods on the other side where houses back onto it?”
“No, I don’t walk that far, sir. I follow one of the old trails. It runs about a quarter mile and it’s circular.”
“Were you in the woods in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know anyone who might have been in the woods?”
“No, sir. I keep to myself.”
“Would you tell us if you knew?”
“Like I said, sir, I keep to myself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Kalmen. If you withhold information, that’s obstruction and you go back to prison for a long time, so I’ll ask you again: Do you know anyone who might have been in the woods within the past twenty-four hours?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“What about your roommate, Brandon Kane?”
“I don’t know what he does when he leaves the center, sir.”
Carver paused to flip through pages affixed to a small clipboard, tapping his pen on it as he read and consulted the monitor.
“All right.” Carver exhaled. “I think we’re done. You can go.”