C Box - Blue Heaven

Singer ran his finger down the list, noting when the rod and shoe had been found near the river.

Newkirk watched the sheriff as Carey listened to Singer. Carey leaned back against the conference table, with Newkirk on one side and Gonzalez on the other. The other volunteer, Swann, had left hours before to go to Monica Taylor’s home.

“Our last timeline entry was 08:10 this morning,” Singer said, looking pained. “We’ve got nothing since then.” He pointed at a figure he had written and underlined: “These kids have been missing for twenty-seven hours.”

His words seemed to hit Carey like individual slaps.

“Our experience,” Singer said, nodding toward the other ex-LAPD officers in the room, “is that once we pass twenty-four, we’ve got a problem.”

“I know we’ve got a problem,” Carey said.

“Word is out,” Singer said. “Everybody knows we’ve got missing kids. Everyone’s looking for them. But there have been no solid leads or sightings since we found that shoe and the fishing rod.”

Carey swallowed.

“We’ve got people volunteering to join search teams up the wazoo,” Singer said, gesturing toward Gonzalez. “Gonzo’s been keeping a list of names, addresses, telephone numbers. There are three teams of ten out there now, combing through the woods on a grid from where that shoe was found. It’s slow but thorough. So far, we’ve got nothing.”

“I know.”

“Sheriff, in your experience, how long would it take for a body to surface on Sand Creek? Assuming the person drowned?”

The sheriff shook his head. “It’s not very deep, but it’s fast with runoff. The creek completely shallows out before it empties into the lake, so there’s no chance any bodies floated all that way. It’s only eighteen inches deep at the mouth. So all we’re talking about is four miles of creek before it empties into the lake.”

Singer looked concerned. “Is it possible the bodies got caught under debris? Or got sucked into, I don’t know, some kind of deep pool?”

“It’s possible but unlikely,” Carey said sadly. “It just isn’t that deep anywhere.”

Singer looked thoughtful. He rubbed his chin with his hand. Then: “Let’s continue.”

Singer had written SUSPECTS in red, and ASSIGNMENTS in black.

Under suspects were Tom Boyd, Monica Taylor, Fiona Pritzle, transient unknown, and “area pedophile.”

“Can you think of any others?” Singer asked.

“I’d scratch the mother and the mail lady off the list,” Carey said. “The mother’s just too upset. And that mail lady was the one who called us. If she had something to do with it, she could have just kept her mouth shut and nobody would even know those kids went up Sand Creek in the first place.”

Singer gestured to Gonzalez. “Gonzo?”

Gonzalez cleared his throat. “I had a guy once who came into the station and said he’d seen a man lure a kid, a young white male, into his car in East L.A. Later, a call came in reporting a missing kid that matched the description. We turned that city upside down looking for the vehicle the witness described. He even had a partial plate number. But we never found it. Two years later, a naked kid escaped from a house and ran down the street screaming that some guy was raping and torturing him. Turns out the perp was the guy who had been the witness on the other case, and that he had tortured and killed a half dozen boys. He had reported the first one just for the thrill of it, to see how we worked.”

Carey visibly shivered. Newkirk could almost read his mind, like he was saying to himself, So this is what the big leagues are like. “Still, I can’t imagine Fiona Pritzle…”

“Let’s not scratch her off just yet,” Singer said. He pointed to TRANSIENT UNKNOWN. “This is the hardest one. It could be a guy who is passing through, or maybe on a sales route. Who knows? I’d have your guys start interviewing citizens at motels and boardinghouses, B &Bs, asking owners if they’ve got-or had-anybody suspicious staying with them. We should assume they checked out today, probably first thing this morning, so I’d get a list on that. I can’t imagine the guy hanging around.”

Carey pulled his notebook from his pocket, and wrote that down. Newkirk noticed that the sheriff tried to stop his hand from trembling, but his writing was wavery. When he was through, he put his hands in his pockets to hide them.

“Area pedophile,” Singer said. “A little easier. I’m sure you’ve got a list of registrations, right?”

Carey nodded. Newkirk remembered that one of the platforms Carey had run on was aggressively keeping up the known pedophile list.

“There are a couple of names on it, last time I looked,” he said. “I think one of them might have moved away, though. We notified all of his neighbors, which really pissed him off.”

“Then I’d key on the other name,” Singer said casually. Carey made a note.

“Then we’ve got Tom Boyd,” Singer said, drawing a star by the name. “He’s got priors. He’s probably on steroids. He had a fight with the kids’ mother, and he was mad at the kids. He never turned in his truck last night, and now he’s missing. When he left the Taylor house, he likely had an idea where two kids might go fishing. M, M, and O.”

Carey looked up. Newkirk could tell he was trying not to reveal that he didn’t know what the acronym meant.

“Motive, method, and opportunity.”

Carey nodded, visibly grateful that Singer had let him off the hook so easily.

Next to the list of suspects were ASSIGNMENTS.

MONICA TAYLOR-Swann

COMMAND-Singer, Newkirk

GROUND SEARCH-Department

TRANSIENT UNKNOWN-Department

AREA PEDOPHILE-Department

TOM BOYD-Gonzalez

FIONA PRITZLE-Newkirk

LIAISON WITH STATE, FEDS-Sheriff, Singer

“This is only a recommendation,” Singer said softly, “based on a cumulative seventy-six years of experience in this room. But you’re the sheriff, and we’re just volunteers trying to help out. You need to make the call.”

Carey didn’t hesitate. “Looks good to me.”

Singer didn’t smile, didn’t pat the sheriff on the back.

“Then we should go to work,” Singer said.

AFTER THE SHERIFF left the room, Singer looked to Gonzalez.

“Hook, line, sinker,” Gonzalez said. “He reminds me that democracy works, though. A county full of idiots elects an idiot to be their chief law enforcement officer. Fuckin’ rube.”

Newkirk saw smile lines form at the edges of Singer’s blue eyes, even though the ex-lieutenant didn’t grin. There was no need for him, or anyone, to say more at the moment. Newkirk turned away, studied the city council chambers some more, thinking: I’m going to throw up.

Singer said, “Take it easy on the sheriff. He’s perfect. He’s our media strategy. Just look at him-he comes across great on camera. Sincerity just drips off him. Doesn’t he look like he might burst into tears any second? They love that, it’s good television. I mean, if it comes to that. Right now, we want to wrap things up quick so we don’t have to worry about it.”

“Thinking ahead,” Gonzalez said to Newkirk, nodding at Singer. “That’s what he does, think ahead.”

Singer flipped open a cell phone and punched a number on speed dial.

“Swannee? Has there been any contact from the kids yet?”

A beat of silence as Singer listened. Then: “Shit. I’m losing patience. At least things are going well on this end. The sheriff signed off on our action plan.”

Newkirk thought, if a third party heard this phone conversation, they would be none the wiser. Singer and Swann were careful. They’d had years to practice saying things that got their message across but could not be considered incriminating. It sounded like Singer was concerned for the welfare of the Taylor children, and was angry there had been no progress on their disappearance, which is exactly what Singer, and the other ex-officers, were supposedly there for.