Missing Daughter

by Rick Mofina

  Foley thought for a second. “Kitty, you know the rules about confidentiality and patient consent. We have to follow them. I’ll let this go this time because it was an emergency and you worked at Dr. Bannister’s office, but don’t ever do this again. I want you to secure consent and stick to the rules every time. All right?”

  Kitty’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, Doctor. I got caught up in the excitement of seeing Maddie. Sorry.”

  “Okay, who’ve we got next?” Foley said.

  “Ida Mahoney for a checkup and cleaning in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Kitty. I’ll be in my office.”

  * * *

  Foley shut the door to her office, still a little rattled from Kitty cutting corners on the transfer of patient records.

  This kind of thing could result in some pretty severe penalties, including the loss of her license.

  What’s done is done. We’ll have to get things rectified. Foley took in a long breath and let it out slowly. She began working at her computer. As long as she had Maddison Lane’s previous records, she might as well look at them and make notes for the next visit.

  The radiographs had been downloaded with her digital chart.

  Foley began reading them, comparing the results with her new radiographs, when she stopped. She blinked several times, enlarged the images and leaned closer to her monitor.

  Something’s not right here.

  In the radiographs from Bannister when Maddie was twelve, two of Maddie’s first molars have resin restorations in them. Foley went to the radiographs she just made today. Those same teeth show no restorations at age sixteen.

  What’s going on?

  And look, at age twelve she’s got a missing adult premolar and a retained primary molar in its place, but at age sixteen the missing adult tooth is suddenly there?

  “No, this is wrong. These are the wrong records. And this only makes matters worse,” Foley said to the monitor, then got up and went to the front desk.

  “Kitty, your friend at Bannister’s office sent the wrong records.”

  “What? No, I’m sure she didn’t. Sally’s good at her job.”

  “Call her right now, please, and double-check.”

  Kitty reached for her phone, punched the number. Dr. Foley drummed her fingers on the counter, waiting as Kitty consulted with Bannister’s office, looking at her computer monitor, checking, nodding several times before ending the call.

  She put the phone back in its cradle. “Sally absolutely confirms that the records she sent belonged to Maddison Lane.”

  Foley stared at Kitty, thinking for a long time.

  “All right,” Foley said, and returned to her office.

  * * *

  Foley sat alone at her desk, studying her monitor.

  She was staring at the dental records. Both sets were clearly labeled Maddison Lane, but the records were those of two different girls. Her stomach tightened. What does this mean for the family, for the girls involved, the case? The questions began spinning in Foley’s mind.

  She went online to read stories about the case, coming to a recent in-depth feature in the Washington Post. Her attention went to the part about the detectives having yet to determine who, or how, Maddison Lane disappeared from her bedroom, what had happened to her in the four years she was gone and how she surfaced in Florida.

  The girl that was in my chair was not Maddison Lane.

  Is that why the mother didn’t take Maddison to Bannister?

  Veronica knocked on Foley’s door.

  “Sam, I’ve got the next patient ready for you.”

  * * *

  At home alone that night, Foley poured herself a glass of wine. Sipping from it, she read more news stories about the Lane case.

  She’d also accessed her practice’s drive from her home computer and studied the dental records again.

  The tightness in her stomach had evolved into a knot. She didn’t want to risk losing her license over this, and was struggling to determine the right course of action when her phone rang.

  “It’s me, got your message,” her husband said from Albany. “Sorry, it’s been one of those days.”

  Foley recounted everything in detail to her husband.

  “Wow, Sam, that’s just—my God. I agree you can’t sit on this.”

  “I’m going to call your sister.”

  “Candy?”

  “Yes. She’ll know what to do, how to proceed.”

  Her husband thought about it. “Okay, I agree. Call her, then call me after you talk to her.”

  “All right.”

  Foley had her sister-in-law’s business card next to her tablet and looked at it again before dialing Special Agent Candice Young, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Los Angeles Division.

  74

  They’d set up in a small boardroom at police headquarters.

  Lorenzo Bartucci from the district attorney’s office had brought his laptop, and Asher helped link it to the large, wall-mounted monitor at the end of the room.

  Along with Zubik, the new captain, Eric Flynn, a seasoned veteran promoted through the ranks, and Lieutenant Tim Milton had joined them at Bartucci’s request to view the video.

  “We’re good to go, just play it,” Asher said, shutting the door and dimming the lights.

  The images were slightly grainy on the larger screen, but visually the video was strong and clear. The footage was taken from a second-floor window and showed a pickup truck parked in front of a rural house. The name on the side of the truck was clear: Lane & Sons Drywall Contractors. A man was standing at the front door of the house. In the bed of the truck were tools, including a shovel, and a tarp. It appeared that no one answered the front door. The nervous-looking man went to the back of the truck. The camera pulled in on the tarp, with its bulge and what appeared to be blood seeping from under the tarp. The man seized the shovel. As he turned his face, he was recognizable as Ryan Lane. He walked to a small forest and started digging, as if rushed. Then he came back and collected the tarp and whatever was under it, carrying it in both arms, walking back to the hole he’d dug in the forest.

  “Well, that sure as hell is interesting,” Milton said.

  “This is why I thought you should see it,” Bartucci said. “This was recorded by a man who was burglarizing the house near Willowind at the time.”

  “Why did he sit on this?” Milton asked.

  “Self-preservation. In his mind, it would’ve put him at the scene of a crime and ended his successful career as a thief. He figured he could play his ace when he needed it,” Bartucci said.

  “And now he needs an ace,” Milton said.

  “Now, he’s facing burglary and assault charges, and is angling for some kind of plea deal in exchange for this evidence and testifying, should it lead to charges.”

  “What do you think, Stan?” Flynn asked.

  Zubik was flipping through a file with reports and notes. “Lorenzo, your summary says the video’s date-stamped the day before Maddison disappeared.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But we’ve got witnesses,” Asher said, paging through her notes. “The babysitter, Crystal Hedrick, her boyfriend, Zach Keppler, the pizza guy, Bennie Price, who all saw Maddison in her home the night before, so that should rule out any possibility that it’s her under that tarp.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Flynn said.

  “Well, and this is puzzling,” Zubik said. “Our crime scene reports indicate no traces of blood in Ryan’s pickup or the family vehicle.”

  “I get that. I’ve been through the file too, and you and Fran have done great work, but we have something critical with this video.” Bartucci loosened his tie. “As for the witnesses, they could’ve been mistaken, or the girl’s disappearance could’ve been staged to cover for another crime. As for getting rid of th
e blood, Ryan Lane could’ve used a detergent containing active oxygen, could’ve washed the truck. The thing is, and I think all of us here agree that one day before his daughter disappeared, dad here, who in the past had struck her, who admitted money and temper problems, who did not pass a polygraph, is acting exceedingly suspicious in the video, and this footage is revelatory to everyone involved in the investigation. Wouldn’t you agree, Stan?”

  Zubik was nodding slowly.

  “Oh, I agree all right, Lorenzo. This video changes everything.”

  “Yeah.” Flynn clicked his pen. “This is a stunner. We need to determine exactly what Ryan Lane was doing. Let’s get out to that property and see who he buried. All right, Stan?”

  “Definitely.”

  At that moment, Milton’s phone vibrated with a call.

  He took it at the far side of the room, keeping his voice low as he listened. It didn’t take long before his expression grew serious, and he turned to the others as if the call involved them.

  “Okay, thanks for calling.”

  Milton ended his call, returned to the group. “You won’t believe what’s happened.”

  “After seeing this video, try us,” Flynn said.

  “That was a friend of mine with the FBI. We’ve got a dentist in town who needs to talk to us confidentially as soon as possible.”

  “A dentist?” Flynn said.

  “She just treated Maddison Lane. Or, not. She says that the teen recently found in Florida who returned to Syracuse is not Maddison Lane, and she can prove it. She wants to meet us here with her lawyer.”

  “What the—” Asher looked at Milton and Flynn. “This case is busting wide open.” Then she looked at Zubik.

  He was staring at the image frozen on the large monitor, of Ryan Lane digging what appeared to be a shallow grave, and nodding.

  “Wide open,” Zubik said.

  75

  Gray Easton, the bow-tied attorney for Dr. Samantha Foley, withdrew a large laptop from his briefcase, set it on the table, entered commands until it displayed records in the case of Maddison Lane.

  Easton then angled it, giving detectives Zubik and Asher a clear view.

  “As we discussed, my client Dr. Foley will provide her analysis,” Easton said.

  Foley cleared her throat, then, pointing with a pen, began.

  “On the left we have Maddison’s radiograph taken at age twelve. On the right is Maddison’s radiograph taken at age sixteen, yesterday, when her mother brought her in for emergency treatment of an abscess.”

  For the next several minutes, Foley pinpointed the differences in the records, concluding that they had been verified and cannot possibly be from the same girl.

  “Is Karen, Maddison or the Lane family aware of your finding?” Asher asked while making notes.

  “No, only my office and that of Dr. Bannister, who treated twelve-year-old Maddison, know. We’ve consulted with Dr. Bannister, who signed off on some administrative expediency regarding the transfer of records. We are all bound by confidentiality.”

  “To reiterate,” Easton said, “my client is volunteering this, shall we say, preliminary information, but will retain the records until compelled by warrant to release them. She will then fully cooperate to give a formal statement and testify to her role in discovering what appears to be an impostor.”

  Zubik stared long and hard at the two sets of records, then thanked Foley and her lawyer.

  Just like that the case pivots, Zubik thought. It was an astounding break, but they had to be careful against becoming overconfident.

  76

  Moving fast through the night...over the fence into the cool dark forest... I trip...my lace is undone... I break it... Dalton grabs my phone... “I can fix it so no one will know where we go.”... We keep moving fast, his phone flashlight showing the way...branches smacking me...so thrilling, this is wild...we come out of the forest, a car is waiting...bigger boys, older boys, laughing, drinking beer...one moves the front seat, tells me to get in the back where another boy sits... I’m in the middle, Dalton’s beside me...the music’s throbbing...the car goes like a rocket through the city...they pass me a can of beer...the boys have drugs too...

  “Drink up, baby,” one of them says over the music...we drive and drive... “You didn’t lie, Dalton, she’s a hot little piece of ass!” Someone grabs my leg in the dark... I smack his hand away... I don’t know where we’re going...where’s the party? Where’re we going, Dalton? I can’t hear, the music’s so loud...we’re going so fast, flying through the night...

  We’re far away from my home...in the country...the headlights find only woods...what’s going on? We turn off the pavement, bumping down a road...we stop...nothing here, no one here...the music stops.

  All is quiet. The doors open. They keep the car lights on. Everyone gets out, laughing, drunk, some are burping, some are peeing. Where’s the party? Through the woods I hear the roar of waterfalls in the distance. “This is the party, baby, just you and us because you’re such a cute piece of tail.” “What? No!” One of the boys unzips his pants, grabs me so fast, forcing me to my knees, shoving my head into his...down there...

  “Come on, you know what to do!” Pulling my hair. I fight. I struggle. They laugh. No, no, Dalton, why? No, I’m screaming. Dalton yells at them to stop. The other boys are bigger, stronger than Dalton, but he’s fighting them. I’m fighting them, screaming. “Shut the fuck up!” I’m hit in the head... I see stars... I keep fighting. Dalton tries to help me... I’m fighting, kicking, biting, scratching, gouging, breaking free...running into the night, to the river, to the falls. Running for my life...

  77

  In the minutes after meeting the dentist and her lawyer, Zubik and Asher went to their captain’s office where he and their lieutenant were waiting to be briefed on the case.

  “The dentist just proved that Maddison Lane from Florida is not our missing girl from Syracuse,” Asher said. “She’s an impostor.”

  The captain and lieutenant traded glances.

  “Unbelievable,” Lieutenant Milton said. “So we could pursue criminal impersonation charges against the girl.”

  “Yes, but there has to be more to this,” Zubik said. “Some things are starting to connect, fit and make sense. Let’s go through the facts.”

  The detectives went through key points of the case. Since Maddison’s return, the Lanes had resisted requests to fingerprint her. Perhaps they were fortunate that the Florida prints went astray, or they possibly had help. Consider how fast Cole Lane moved to pay the reward to Anna Croll, the Florida woman who helped identify Maddison, Zubik suggested. The detectives also noted how during their interview of Maddison after her return, she held the soda without leaving prints on the can. They noted how the cognitive interview had failed; that, since returning, Maddison had been unable to recall, or provide, details of her experience; that they’d been unable to track Maddison’s trail in Florida; the school rumor that the returned girl is not Maddison. And that they could never place the suspect, Kalmen Gatt, in her room. Then there was that disturbing video of Ryan Lane hauling Maddison into his truck and striking her in the time before she’d disappeared; there was Karen’s arguing with her; and that the Lanes’ polygraph results were inconclusive.

  “All right.” Milton took a challenging position. “What about the mystery phone number Maddison communicated with before she left? Where does that fit?”

  Zubik shook his head. “Don’t know, yet.”

  “Okay, then why?” Milton asked. “Why welcome this impostor into your home and pretend that she’s your daughter? Why would the Lanes do it?”

  “To cover up an accident, or some crime,” Zubik said.

  “But why?” Milton asked. “It’s been four years and they’ve gotten away with any possible crime in the home all this time. So why accept an impostor to pose as
their daughter?”

  “Maybe something happened that risked exposing them? Something that forced them to go the impostor route. Something that we haven’t discovered yet.”

  “Like what?” Milton asked.

  “Could be anything. We just don’t know. Let’s go back to the theory that the disappearance was staged to cover something up,” Zubik said.

  “But the grave-digging video dates are off,” Milton said. “That’s a flaw.”

  “Maybe,” Asher said, “Ryan was preparing a practice grave?”

  “A practice grave?” Flynn repeated.

  “Maybe?” Asher said. “We don’t know what he put into the ground.”

  The room fell silent except for the creaking of Flynn’s chair as he rocked gently in it, thinking on the next steps in the investigation.

  “This is where we’re at,” Flynn said. “We can’t arrest or charge anyone, not just yet. We need more strong evidence. We need everything documented and locked.”

  “But we’re close,” Zubik said.

  “We’re very close but we need this to be solid. Big pieces have come together, but we need to nail everything down tight. We’ll request warrants for the dental records, and we should have the warrant to search the property by Willowind at any moment now. I’ve already set things in motion to marshal our resources out there.”

  “What about the Lanes?” Asher asked.

  “We’ll put an unmarked car down the street to surveil the Lane house for activity,” Flynn said as his phone sounded with a message. He read it. “And there it is. We’ve got our warrant for the property. Let’s go.”

  78

  For more than two centuries for as far as you could see, before the new Willowind subdivision emerged, the region produced corn, potatoes, onions, apples and other crops.

  Dairy farms dotted the gentle rolling hills, and a few operations still remained alongside the rows of big new cookie-cutter houses.