Ryan Jahn - The Dispatcher

Then he turned and left. As soon as he was out the door half the bar burst out laughing. But now it’s morning and ten bucks a head doesn’t strike Diego as a bad deal, even if he is feeling under the weather. After the way Cordelia was looking at him this morning he might just need that money to buy her some flowers at Albertsons on his way home.

He makes a right on Main Street and cruises past Flatland Park, looking to see if any dogs are running around there. But he sees nothing, so he continues south, past the Bulls Mouth Nine where Fred Paulson-Andy Paulson’s brother and owner of the U-Haul rental place next to Andy’s feed store over on Wallace-looks to be finishing up a round. He’s cursing and hacking away at a sand trap with a pitching wedge, face pink with rage, mouth shotgunning curses like he bought a batch on sale at Wal-Mart. Finally he slams down his club and picks up the golf ball and throws it up onto the green. He snags up his club and stomps his way up to greet it, not bothering to rake the sand trap into decent condition for the next guy.

A left turn puts Diego on Underhill Avenue. He continues along, looking left to the golf course and right to woods and blackberry bushes with fat overripe berries rotting on the ground beneath them. He’s about halfway to Crockett Street when he sees a dachshund digging furiously in a kidney-shaped sand trap hooking its way around the fourth green.

He pulls his car to the shoulder of the road and swings open his door. Dizziness overwhelms him as he stands and he grabs on to the car for balance and blinks several times as he swallows back bile. Soon enough the blood gets to his head and the gray dizziness retreats and he squints in the sunlight. He looks toward the golf course. The dog is still digging. He runs toward the chain-link fence surrounding the Bulls Mouth Nine-it’s only waist-level-and hurls himself over it. This turns out to be a mistake.

He lands on his feet, manages two steps, then falls to his knees and vomits. It’s mostly liquid, what’s left of last night’s fun, and what breakfast he managed to eat this morning. He spits a couple times and gets to his feet. Then, blocking each nostril with a thumb, he blows his nose into the grass. He wipes at his watery eyes. His stomach is a bit less sour. Maybe that was the last of it and this is the turning point for this hangover. Maybe he’ll start to feel human again. He spits once more and dusts the grass off his knees and looks to where he saw the dachshund.

It’s now squatting in the rough just north of the fourth hole. He runs toward it, then thinks better of that, and walks briskly.

‘Come here, doggy,’ he says.

After putting the dog into the back of the car he slips in behind the wheel. He reaches to the glove box and flips it open. He fumbles around in there, finding and discarding pens and napkins and other shit he’s stored there, till his fingers find what they were feeling for. He pulls out a travel-size mouthwash he keeps for just these occasions, takes a swig, gargles, and spits out the window.

Then he’s on his way. His goal for the day is fifty bucks.

As he drives past College Avenue he sees Ian Hunt’s Mustang stopped at the intersection, waiting for traffic. They wave to one another, and then Diego is past and Ian’s Mustang is making a right onto Crockett behind him, presumably heading toward the police station, though that’s not where Diego is headed himself.

Now that most of the alcohol is out of his system he’s hungry again.

Ian pushes into the police station. Chief Davis is sitting at his desk flipping through paperwork. He looks up as Ian walks in and says, ‘Mornin’.’

‘Yup. What’s Diego working so early for?’

‘He’s not working.’

‘No?’

Chief Davis shakes his head. ‘Someone crashed into Pastor Warden’s fence and all his dogs got out. Came into Roberta’s last night and offered ten bucks a head for their return.’

Ian nods. ‘Any news about Maggie?’

Chief Davis was smiling when talking about the dogs, but the smile’s gone now. ‘No. Old man at the shoe shop didn’t recognize any pictures and the rendering Sizemore’s boys got from him looks like a bald John Goodman. Useless old fucker. We’re still waiting on prints from the phone, though. Hopefully that’ll lead to something. Also, Sizemore’s got Bill Finch and John Nance looking through records of any missing kids in the county, seeing if he can find a connection between them.’

‘Finch?’

Chief Davis shrugs. ‘Wasn’t my call.’

‘I know it.’ Ian turns toward the dispatch office, then turns back. ‘Think you could call Sizemore, see if we can’t get copies of those files they’re looking at? Maybe I can poke through them myself.’

Chief Davis nods. ‘I’ll do that. Maybe send Thompson over to pick them up. By the way, you see this?’ He holds up a copy of the Tonkawa County Democrat . Ian walks over and grabs it. On the first page of the twenty-page broadsheet, above the fold, this:

KIDNAPPED GIRL ONCE THOUGHT DEAD DISCOVERED ALIVE

Ian begins reading the opening paragraph thinking she was discovered alive the same way a man punched in the nose discovers a fist.

He reads about Maggie being kidnapped while her parents were ‘out of the house on a date’, about how she was declared dead, about how there was a funeral ‘despite a body never being discovered’. He reads a description of the kidnapper that could be a description of anybody of a certain age. He throws the paper onto Davis’s desk.

‘Did you call them?’

Chief Davis shakes his head. ‘Sizemore. He made a statement to local news channels too. It got her picture out, and a description of her kidnapper. And it put his number in people’s faces. “If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Magdalene Hunt or her kidnapper please call the Tonkawa County Sheriff’s Department.” You know the drill. We need it out there. Improves our odds.’

‘Kidnapped while both her parents were out of the house on a date.’ Ian shakes his head. ‘Makes it sound like we just left a seven-year-old alone to fend for herself.’

‘You weren’t there. It’s the truth, ain’t it?’

‘It’s the facts,’ Ian says. ‘It’s not the truth.’

‘It got her picture into the paper, anyway, and on the TV.’

Ian nods, then walks to the dispatch office. At the doorway he says, ‘Don’t forget to call the sheriff for those files, huh?’

‘I won’t.’

Ian walks to the coffee pot and gets it started, then to his desk where he falls into his chair. He exhales a heavy sigh and puts on his headset.

Doing this feels strange. Wrong. He should be out looking for Maggie. He should be out finding her. That’s what he should be doing and it’s what he wants to be doing. But until there are some fingerprint matches with known criminals, or until he gets those files from the sheriff’s office, or until some piece of evidence reveals itself, there’s really nothing to go on. Here, at least, he can accomplish something. It’s a small town and often his days are slow, but in his time in Bulls Mouth he’s helped save more than one life. If he can’t save Maggie’s yet, well, maybe he can save someone else’s. It might help to expend some of this sick energy building in his gut that comes from needing to move forward while being simultaneously locked into place by circumstance. Like trying to fire a live round through a leaded barrel, he’s afraid the whole thing might blow up. If he can feel useful in some way maybe he can relieve a bit of the pressure, making the wait tolerable.

‘Nine-one-one,’ he says. ‘What is your emergency?’

‘I can’t find my car keys.’

‘Excuse me?’