Transience (8 page)

"Held over a period of time," Jack said.

"What?
 
Oh yes, that was his assertion too."

Jack searched the report, finding pictures that corroborated the sheriff's account.
 

"Anything else you can tell me?"
 

The sheriff took another sip of his coffee and smacked his lips.
 
"A witness saw her climb into a tan car, not sure the model.
 
Claimed she didn't get a good look at the driver."

"Her statement in here?"

"Just the reporting officer's transcript, she refused to file an official one.
 
Afraid we might put her on the next bus to El Salvador."

Jack found several photos of Lisa, posed pictures with good lighting.

"These look like modeling photographs."

Sheriff Miller nodded.
 
"Pretty girl. You say you got four similar cases on your ledger?"
 

"Three," Jack said, "Angelina Rosa's body hasn't been found.
 
No denying there's a pattern here." Jack closed the folder and looked around the room.
 
"You got a copy machine I can use?"

The morning traffic heading back to Lansing was stop and go.
 
Jack cursed himself for not using the men's room before hitting the road.
 

He tried to distract himself from his full bladder by processing the information he'd just received.
 
He grabbed a small personal voice recorder from his glove compartment to collect some quick thoughts.
 
His best judgment came with his initial gut reaction, before things became fragmented by theories and alternate scenarios.

He pressed record, pausing a moment to gather his thoughts while his other hand kept the wheel steady.

"Held captive over an extended period of time.
 
Possibly for sexual gratification.
 
Body stripped clean, no trace evidence of any kind.
 
No attempt to conceal the body.
 
Victim was last seen getting into a tan late model car, no struggle.
 
According to the witness, she opened the passenger door herself.
 
Possibly knew her attacker.
 
Pretty.
 
All of them.
 
Preying on vanity, a ruse maybe."
 

Jack squirmed, keeping an eye open for a clean looking gas station to pull over and relieve himself.
 
He placed the recorder down next to Rebecca's file.
 
He glanced at her name
,
written in black sharpie on the label.
 
Curiosity was getting the better of him.

CHAPTER 13

"What did you say your name was?" Jennifer asked again, adjusting the phone.

"Robert, Jack's brother," the voice repeated.
 
Jack has a brother?
 
She held her palm over the receiver, debating how to respond.
 
If Jennifer had mastered anything in life, it was the art of small talk.
 
Give her 3 uninterrupted minutes, she'd know your whole life story.
 
She was the one who always remembered the cake on someone's birthday.
 
When you had issues at home, she demanded constant updates on your well being.
 
It was her nature to pry — a trait she felt would make her a good detective someday.

Having known Jack for several years and only just now learning he had a brother seemed, well…impossible.
 

The caller must have been lying — maybe a reporter trying to get an edge on the competition.
 
The weird part was, this guy sounded a little like Jack, just without the raspy tone.
 
She wondered what else Jack was keeping from her.
 
Like that cough he claims is nothing but a dry throat.
   

At that moment, Jack wandered past her desk, his arms bursting with paperwork.

"Jack?
 
You got a call on two.
 
Says he's… your brother?"

"Tell him I'm dead," Jack said flatly, never breaking stride.
 
He entered his office and closed the glass door.

Jennifer removed her hand from the receiver.
 
"I'm sorry, he's dead."
 
She looked back at Jack's office, confused.
 
"Just now.
 
You wanna leave a message?"

Jack tossed the case report he'd copied from Sheriff Miller's office onto his desk, dropping Rebecca's envelope on top of it.
 
The cassette tape slipped out, Jack caught it before it fell to the floor.
 
On one side was hand written simply:
Rebecca
, and a date.

He remembered seeing an old cassette player collecting dust around somewhere.
 
He pulled open a few drawers, then checked a tall cabinet in the corner, finding it was buried under a pile of books and stationary supplies.
 
He cleared some room on his desk with his arm, inserted the tape and pressed play.

There was no sound, so he raised the volume.
 
A static hiss, followed by some commotion, the sound of a microphone rubbing on fabric.
 
Then Leonard's voice reciting the date.
 
Jack increased the volume more.

"October 21, session 6, subject's name Rebecca Lowell, 9 years old."
 
Leonard's voice sounded tinny, but he enunciated his words clearly, very procedural-like.

"Initial observations: bright, articulate, but difficulty with social interaction.
 
Suffers from persistent insomnia, stomach ailments, blackouts.
 
Having trouble procuring the source of her distress, so far unresponsive to open dialogue & session Q&A."

Jack fast forwarded the tape a bit.

"I believe the problem is being obscured by a defensive subconscious.
 
Ruled out possibility of parental abuse, however the query is not completely off the table.
 
I'll attempt to probe deeper, possibly regress into early stages of development."

Jack pressed fast forward again, growing impatient.
 
"That's good, just relax,"
Leonard said, the recording acoustics had changed a bit.
 
Jack could hear another person in the room, breathing.
 
It was high pitched.
 
Rebecca
.

"Listen to the rhythm of my voice.
 
I want you to count backwards from 10-"
Jack hit fast forward once more.
 
Time was precious but he was willing to give Leonard one more chance to impress him with
something.
 
He pressed play
.

"When you were a little girl, what was your favorite doll?"
 
There was a slight pause, followed by Rebecca's answer, slow and groggy.
 

"Mimmy."

"I want you to think about Mimmy, think about the first time you saw her.
 
Think back.
 
Can you see her?
 
Hold her?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"
…
Three."

"Are you happy here?"
 

"Yes,"
Rebecca's voice was soft, lispy.

"Now, let's move to the time you were most frightened."
 
Leonard's voice took on a very serious tone, making Rebecca's breathing quicken.
 
"Remember, they're just memories, you're safe with me."

There was a long beat of silence.
 
Jack checked to make sure the machine was working.
 

"Rebecca?"
 

"I'm cold,"
she answered, her voice suddenly deeper, shaking.
 
"I hear a train.
 
It's loud."

"Tell me more of what you see,"
Leonard sounded energized.

"The river.
 
There's a willow tree.
 
It's all black.
 
Burned.
 
It's falling into the water."
 
Rebecca's breathing grew rapid, her words sharp, the way someone gets when they want to stop talking about something, anxious to change the subject.
 
Leonard employed his calming voice to try and soothe her.
 

"You're safe with me, Rebecca.
 
I'm by your side.
 
I won't let anyone hurt you.
 
Please, tell me what else you see."

"I'm scared,"
she said, sniffling.

"What are you scared of?
 
Is someone there with you?"

"Yes."

"Is it your father?"

"No,"
she said in a hushed whisper.
 

Leonard mimicked her, whispering back,
"Your mother?"

Rebecca didn't answer.
 
Jack's eyes watched the wheels of the tape recorder spin around and around, his interest piqued.

"What happened here, Rebecca?
 
What frightened you-"

Another long silence.
 
Then:

"She's hurt."
 

"Who?
 
Who's hurt, Rebecca?"

"She's not breathing!"
 

"Who's hurt, Rebecca?
 
What does she look like?"

"P
…
pretty.
 
Black hair.
 
There's blood.
 
I see blood."
 

"Whose blood?
 
Can you describe her?"

"I don't want to look!"

"Please Rebecca, nothing can hurt you, you're safe with me.
 
Do you know her?"

"She has no clothes on."
 
Rebecca began to hyperventilate.
 

"Stay calm."
 

"She can't breathe!
 
She can't breathe!
 
Stop it!"

"Rebecca, who are you shouting at?"

"I want to go home!"
Rebecca sobbed.

"They're just images, memories, let my voice guide you, protect you."

"No, she's not dead, don't!"
Jack could hear Rebecca kicking and flailing about, Leonard struggling to calm her.
 
"No, please, no!
 
Stop!"

"Who is harming the girl, Rebecca?
 
Can you see a face?"
Leonard's responses started to sound desperate, he was losing control, and had to shout above Rebecca's shrieking.

"Please don't!"
Rebecca started choking.
 
There was a violent crash, like something was knocked off a table and shattered.
 
Leonard's voice got very close to the mic, distorted:
"Rebecca, it's okay, you're safe, you're safe!"
 

Jack anxiously hung on every word, the hair on his neck stood straight.
 

"Help.
 
Help!"
Rebecca was making herself hoarse.

"Concentrate on my voice Rebecca!"
Leonard's voice trembled.
 
"On the count of three, I'm going to bring you out.
 
One, two—"
 

Rebecca let out a blood curdling SHRIEK.
 

Jack smacked the stop button.
 

His office fell silent.
 
He'd unknowingly been grasping the arms of his chair so tightly his nails dug right through the fabric.
 
He unclenched his fists — then the rest of his body, with one loud, long exhale.
 

He looked over his shoulder at his office door, wondering if anyone had overheard the chaos on that tape.
 
There was no group of people pooled in his doorway — as he half expected there to be.
 

He could hear his own breathing, feel his heart racing.
 
It was like listening to someone actually being murdered.
 
Something only a real killer would have been privy to.
 
A person would have to be cold blooded to not be affected by it.
 

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, massaging it in thought.
 
He stood up and reviewed a few of the details Rebecca provided before it all went bad:
 

Burnt tree, a river
…
the train.
 

Jack looked up at his map on the wall.
 
He took a fresh blue thumbtack and pressed it home, right where the tracks of the local freight trains crossed the river, deep in a wooded industrial area.
 

Rebecca's case file included her home address and phone number.
 
Jack had taken the time to look up where they lived, it was only a few miles from the area Rebecca had spoken of.
 
Coincidence?
 
Jack didn't dare get his hopes up.
 
If there was an award for most cynical detective, Jack would be the odds on favorite.
 
A glass half empty kind of guy. So it was with a full container of salt that Jack decided to pick up the phone and call Laura Lowell to ask if he could speak with her about her daughter.
 

Leonard would not approve, might even get hostile, but that was no longer his concern.
 
A human life hung in the balance.
 
Or, at the very least, the successful recovery of a body and closure for Carl Rosa.
 
Perhaps even enough of a lead to catch a killer.
 
But he was getting ahead of himself.
 
First thing's first.