The Abducted Book 0 (3 page)

They arrived at the crime scene, where even
more officers had flooded the area. Two helicopters now circled
overhead. The area was being cordoned off with police tape. Yellow
numbered markers rested on the ground, around the disturbed area
where the blue Buick had stopped before it had fled. A single shell
casing lay on the ground next to a fresh pool of blood. Deputy
Lang’s body was nowhere in sight.

Miriam exited the
car and
saw that his body was already concealed inside a zipped-up body bag
and resting on a stretcher outside a waiting ambulance, its lights
flashing.

“
I’m sorry,” O’Leary said, leaning
against his car door.

Her heart sank as she rushed over to the
ambulance, where two paramedics were preparing to load the gurney
inside.

Captain Porter stepped out of nowhere,
immediately blocking her path.
“Slow down, Sergeant.
We need to talk.”

“
Sir…” Miriam began. She had nothing
to say to him. Nothing she wanted to say to him, anyway. Her
partner was in a body bag not five feet from them. That was all
that mattered.

“
What were you doing out here?” the
captain began. “How did this happen?”

She looked up then, past him. His thin,
clean-shaven face had a slightly stern but sympathetic expression,
clearly evident behind his square-framed glasses. She tried to look
over his shoulder toward the ambulance. His white button-down shirt
had two double-bar ranks on the collar.

“
Sergeant Castillo, I’m talking to
you,” he added.

She flashed him a quick glance,
verging on anger.
“Sir, the only thing I’m interested
in is catching the bastard who did this.”

“
We’re on it,” Captain Porter said.
“The suspect won’t get far. In the meantime, I expect a full
report. There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense.”

Miriam looked at him
quizzically.
“Like what, sir?”

“
Like how the suspect was allowed to
pull a gun on Deputy Lang, let alone shoot him?”

Miriam felt as if her insides were
being pulled apart. The weight of what happened hadn
’t
fully sunk in yet.

“
Now, I’ve got one officer dead and
another who fled the scene,” Porter continued.

“
I was trying to—” Miriam began. She
had yet to even take notice of the dried bloodstains covering her
uniform.

“
I know what you were trying to do,
Sergeant,” Captain Porter said. He looked her over and shook his
head. “Are you okay? Why don’t you let the paramedics check you
out?”

She watched as they lifted Deputy
Lang
’s gurney and pushed it into the back of the
ambulance. “I’m fine,” she said and then turned to look at the
bustling activity—the area filled with police, some taking photos
and videos, others looking for blood and other evidence, and
looking as if it were some kind of convention. “Any word on the
suspect?” she asked.

“
Not yet,” he answered with a sigh.
“They’re looking.”

The sun was going down—a blurry orange orb
in the pink sky. The helicopters in the distance had their
spotlights on. Time was running out, and the shooter had vanished
even with the number of law enforcement on the scene. She had never
witnessed an act so cold, callous, and evil. It made her sick
inside. She still couldn’t believe it.

***

Hours later, Miriam sat across from
Chief Walker in his office, with Captain Porter seated next to her.
Her detailed report was sitting on the police chief
’s
desk as he scanned it with quiet interest. The room was quiet, but
much commotion could be heard from outside. Chief Walker, a black
man with a shaved head and slender build, had a strict, no-nonsense
demeanor. He hadn’t dealt with an officer killed in the line of
duty in his entire career with the department, which was more than
ten years. Such a crime occurring in Palm Dale was as rare as a
bank robbery or drive-by shooting would be. He was as shocked and
perplexed as everyone else. He placed Miriam’s report down on the
desk and studied them both with his dark, inquisitive
eyes.

“
I’ll go ahead and state the obvious.
We’re dealing with a very dangerous individual,” the chief began in
his gravelly voice.

He placed a palm flat over the report and
then gestured at Miriam with his other hand. “Your details account
for most of everything, and it’s nothing short of tragic.” He
tensed up and balled a fist. “A sad day for our department. I spoke
to the mayor earlier, and he’s already ordered the flags at
half-staff for the entire week.”

Miriam stared back at him, nodding. She was
cleaned up from earlier, and her face was stone-like, emotionless.
Inside, however, she was torn apart.

“
A search of the area hasn’t yielded a
thing,” the chief said solemnly. “An APB has been issued and proper
channels notified. Mayor’s even talking about a curfew.”

Captain Porter cut in.
“Sir, it’s quite possible our suspect found a home or some
kind of temporary sanctuary to hide in. I still believe it’s only a
matter of time.”

“
I appreciate your optimism, Captain,
but the media are going to have a field day with this either way.”
He then turned to Miriam. “Sergeant Castillo, your report is vague
on descriptions. You mentioned long blond hair. What can you tell
us?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “The
vehicle came up on the report as being registered to Mrs. Betsy
Cole. Assuming that was the driver, Deputy Lang approached the
driver’s-side door”— Miriam stopped and rubbed her eyes—“to let
Mrs. Cole know that she had a taillight out.”

Chief Walker took a deep
breath.
“What we know is that Mrs. Cole’s station
wagon was reported stolen outside the Dollar General parking lot at
approximately 2:05 p.m. as she was leaving her shift from work. An
hour later, that same blue station wagon was seen leaving the
parking lot of Windcrest Elementary School by a janitor. A
nine-year-old girl, Jenny Dawson, was subsequently reported as
missing by her mother after not being there after school. A gift
bag given to her by her teacher was the only thing recovered at the
scene.”

“
Just terrible,” Captain Porter said,
shaking his head.

“
As shocking as this is, it gets
worse,” the chief said. He leaned forward and produced a sheet of
paper, handing it to Captain Porter. “This isn’t the first
time.”

The captain turned his attention to the
paper. It was a copy of a newspaper story from the year before. He
studied the sheet then handed it to Miriam.

The headline,
SNATCHER STRIKES CLEARWATER
, grabbed her
immediately. Her eyes moved down the sheet to a second story copied
from another newspaper:
CHILD GOES MISSING
OUTSIDE OCOEE MALL.

“
What is this all about?” she asked
the chief, gripping the paper—though part of her already
knew.

“
For the past five years, a child has
vanished from surrounding municipalities in similar fashion. In
each case the circumstances have been the same. The victim, usually
six to eight years old, vanishes and the case goes cold. The latest
abduction in Palm Dale leads me to believe that we’re dealing with
a serial predator. And I believe it’s this serial predator who
murdered Deputy Lang in cold blood.”

Miriam’s sadness subsided with rage and a
sense of vengeance. She didn’t say a word.

“
Don’t worry,” Chief Walker said to
her, folding his hands. “We’re going to find him.” The assumption
that it was a man just came naturally, despite Miriam’s claim of
long blond hair.

“
That’s what I keep telling her,”
Captain Porter added.

“
In the meantime, I need to address
our team,” the chief said. “The media are going to want a statement
too.” He looked at Miriam with a veiled look of pity that made her
feel even worse. “Why don’t you take a few days off? Get your head
together. We have to get with the Lang family and… assist with the
funeral arrangements.”

“
Yes, sir,” Miriam said in a low tone,
staring ahead, dazed. Her head was pounding. She stood up with both
hands balled up at her sides. “Requesting permission to join the
search.”

“
Request denied,” Chief Walker said
not skipping a beat. “Go home, Sergeant Castillo. We’ll take it
from here.”

She turned and left the office, not saying a
word. She closed the door lightly and walked out and onto the busy
floor, where a number of workstations and cubicles were aligned in
tidy rows.

Detectives and patrol officers alike moved
about the stations, talking on cell phones and with each other,
completely immersed in their work. A few of them paused when they
noticed Miriam walking through. She continued without making eye
contact, even as the police chief came out to address them.

“
Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have
your attention please.”

The room grew quiet, with only a few pockets
of activity still going on. Miriam passed through the floor and
came to a long hallway leading out of the building, where portraits
of past commissioners adorned the wall.

“
As of 3:45 p.m., Deputy Lang has been
reported killed in the line of duty by a single gunshot to the
head. The shell casing indicates a .44 magnum round. As of now, the
suspect is reported at large, armed and dangerous.”

The chief’s voice trailed off as Miriam made
it down the hall, to the lobby, and past the front desk. The desk
officer barely got a word out before she pushed open the double
doors and went out into the night air.

Her black Honda Accord was parked
quite a way from the building, in a lot across the street. News
vans were approaching in the distance, getting close to the
station. An avalanche of media, swarming the department for the
latest scoop. The
“Snatcher” was back in the
news.

She quickly crossed the street and made it
to her car without looking back at the station. She fell into the
driver’s seat, unable to muster the energy to so much as put the
key in the ignition. Instead, she put her head against the steering
wheel and cried in silence.

One Year Later

Detective Dwight O’Leary was at a
standstill. His nights, as of late, were haunted by images of
nine-year-old Jenny Dawson, missing for more than a year. O’Leary
had been one of the first investigators assigned to discover
her
whereabouts. Weeks turned to months before it
became more apparent that Jenny would never return. Many in the
department were hoping to at least find her remains. Nothing,
however, had turned up.

O’Leary had scoured the records for previous
child abduction cases. No such crime had occurred in Palm Dale in
seven years. The last case involved an estranged, divorced father
taking his son across state lines. The boy was soon safely returned
to his mother. She opted not to press charges.

Jenny Dawson had vanished. The abduction was
random. There were no suspects remaining. And no closure for the
family. Her parents, Ted and Patricia, clung to the hope that she
would return. It was all they could do. O’Leary had made a promise
to them, albeit foolishly, that he would solve the case and get
them the answers they desperately desired.

In his ten years as a detective, he had
honed his skills and, since Jenny’s disappearance, had dedicated
himself to the case, using every resource at his disposal. But
finding Jenny soon became a test not just of his ability as a
detective, but as a measure of his overall worth.

It was Tuesday, and he
woke in the middle of the night with a dry throat and
headache. In a cold sweat, he tossed the blankets off him and
reached for a glass on his nightstand, only to find it empty. Next
to the glass was a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey. Things started
to come back to him. It had been another night of drinking himself
to sleep.

Too tired to move, he lay in his bed
as raindrops beat against the nearby window, providing some odd
sort of comfort. He looked at his alarm clock: 3:11 a.m. He was
supposed to meet the Dawson
s that day and let them
know that their daughter’s abduction had recently been categorized
as a “cold case.” He wasn’t looking forward to it. Perhaps it was
time to move on. There were other cases on his plate too. It had
been a rotten year so far, and O’Leary needed a win to change the
tide.

By morning, rain had turned to drizzle.
Outside, daylight glowed behind the thin, transparent curtains.
O’Leary opened his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. It was ten
after nine, and he was due at the Dawson house in one hour.

He turned over and sat up, wearing only
boxer shorts. His modest bedroom was littered in files, newspapers,
photos, take-out boxes, and empty soda cans. He stepped onto the
carpet and hobbled over to his bathroom to throw some water on his
face. A nice hot shower would do the trick. Some coffee would get
him started too.

He splashed water on his stubbly cheeks and
cooled his forehead. Living in a one-bedroom apartment following
his lengthy divorce had its perks. He never had to wait for the
bathroom. The apartment had become a second office of sorts. His
job was his life, but lately it seemed that everything had slowed
down. He’d grown stagnant, and at thirty-nine years old, the
thought was terrifying.