Pamela Tracy - What Janie Saw

“Tell me,” Rafe said, bringing himself back to the case, “did Derek share his drawings or writing in class? Is it possible that he showed it to another student?”

She took a moment; her face scrunched in concentration.

“No, I don’t think he showed it to anyone. Amanda’s the only one who ever showed any interest in his drawings. I doubt any of the other students even glimpsed the one he turned in last Wednesday,” Janie said. “It was a new art book. It only had those six pages altogether.”

“What do you mean, it was new?”

“All semester he’s been handing in an art book. It was full of ideas, projects and such. This time he gave me a brand-new one. I thought maybe he’d misplaced the one he’d been working on previously...” Her words tapered off as Rafe pulled off the road and swung the vehicle around again. This time he didn’t wait for a spot on the side of the road, he just did a U-turn, scaring up dirt and revving the engine.

“Hey!” She slid slightly toward him, her left hand reaching out to gain balance. It brushed against his knee. Rafe barely noticed—he knew when a lead was handed to him.

It took only a moment to get Derek Chaney’s parents’ address from the system.

“We’re heading to Adobe Hills,” he told Janie. “You’d recognize the previous art book. Maybe he added something to it, something we need to see! If we can get Derek’s parents’ permission, maybe we’ll have some new information within the hour.”

He was of two minds about taking Janie along. He hated involving a civilian. On the other hand, she knew what the art book looked like and could save him a lot of time.

Next, Rafe phoned Nathan to get his go-ahead. After all, they’d be on the other man’s turf. No luck there; Williamson’s number went right to voice mail. The deputy who answered the main number took a message and promised Nathan would return the call. Rafe neglected to tell the deputy exactly what was going on or why the call was necessary. The second call he made was to Derek’s parents. More luck there. They were eager to talk to anyone who might shed light on why their son had died. After hanging up, Rafe quickly called his office and got someone to do a background check on the Chaneys.

Janie seemed confused. “Don’t we need a search warrant to go through Derek’s stuff?”

“Not if the person in control of the property gives us permission to search.”

She checked her watch. “It’s two o’clock. I usually don’t help on Thursday night, but an instructor asked if I’d come in. You should take me back to BAA so I can get my own car.”

After returning Janie to where she lived and seeing her safely to her vehicle, Rafe spent the whole drive, nearly an hour, checking to make sure she was still behind him, and getting the dirt on Derek’s parents—there was none, and none on Derek’s much older brother, either.

In the early afternoon, there wasn’t much traffic on Interstate Ten. There was a slight slowdown because of Nathan’s accident that put them in one lane for a while. Nathan didn’t even notice them drive by. He was pacing while looking at a clipboard, talking on the phone and giving orders to a patrol officer.

Multitasking, getting things done. Nathan was doing it. Rafe, too. It was an exhilarating feeling, chasing down a lead, especially one on a case that was personal. It was also bittersweet. His grandfather had been a cop. His father hadn’t wanted to become one but had, all because of a missing child.

Rafe’s brother.

Rafe had long ago given up the hunt for Ramon. It had been thirty-six years, after all, and Rafe knew how to shove the memories aside, not that there were many. And today, the memories would only distract him from what he had to do.

The Chaneys’ restored two-story home was just a mile into Adobe Hills and in an established neighborhood. A basketball hoop stood guard over the driveway, and a swing sat on the porch.

It looked a lot like the house he’d grown up in.

As soon as Janie pulled up behind him, parked and joined him, Rafe headed toward the porch and rang the bell. It was Mrs. Chaney who answered. Her hair was wild, as though it hadn’t been combed in a week. Her yellow-and-red-striped T-shirt was on inside out and didn’t go with her orange pants. Her green eyes were watery and bloodshot. She kept dabbing at them with a Kleenex. Judging by the lines on her face, she was about the same age as Rafe’s mother.

Rafe wondered what she’d looked like last week—before her youngest son’s death.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Rafe said. “This is Janie Vincent, she was—”

“Derek’s teacher.” She held out a trembling hand, and Rafe was glad he’d followed his instincts to bring her.

“He talked a lot about you. I’m Judy Chaney.”

“Derek was a talented artist,” Janie murmured, shaking Judy’s hand.

Mrs. Chaney held the door open so they could walk into the living room. “We’re so glad you called, Sheriff. We’re desperate to know what’s going on and how we can help. This shouldn’t have happened.”

She didn’t invite them to sit but seemed content to let them peruse their surroundings. The couch looked comfortable, inviting and well-used. A television dominated the room. There were two bookcases cluttered with books, knickknacks and photos. Above the fireplace were three portraits. The middle showed a family: mom, dad, two boys.

Derek’s father was another tall blond.

Flanking the family portrait were high-school graduation photos. The one on the left showed a craggy blond-haired young man with a crooked grin and kind eyes. The one on the left showed Derek, black-haired, no grin and guarded eyes. On the fireplace mantel was a basket full of sympathy cards.

“We received twenty-two in the mail today.” Mr. Chaney entered the room from the kitchen. “Twenty-two.” His voice caught, and he faltered for a moment. “My wife’s only been able to open six.”

Rafe cleared his throat. Five years ago, when his father had died, they’d been inundated with cards. Rafe’s mother cried over every one.

“They’re from my friends at work,” Mrs. Chaney said.

“Mine, too,” Mr. Chaney added.

Mrs. Chaney added, “Some are also from family.”

Rafe waited. He wasn’t getting the we-received-so-many-cards report because the family felt the need to talk. Both parents were looking at the card basket as if it were an enemy.

“We didn’t get a single card or phone call from any of Derek’s friends,” Mr. Chaney said. “Not one. Or even from the parent of a friend. My wife noticed that first.”

“Of course, it’s early. Kids tend to take a little prodding. They assume they have all the time...”

Her words faded, and Rafe quickly inserted, “It’s early yet.”

“We received a few from our neighbors, and even from Derek’s past teachers,” Mr. Chaney said, “but, they were so generic—‘Sorry for your loss. Please know you’re in our prayers.’ Nothing personal.”

Rafe almost said that it had only been a couple of days and that they’d be receiving cards for months yet. Instead, he asked, “Why does this surprise you?”

“Used to be, he was surrounded by friends, kids who laughed, kids who would talk to us. I’m so mad at myself. We could sense something was going on.”

“How well do you know the friends he has now?” Rafe continued examining the portraits.

“For the last two years, not well at all.” The Chaneys looked at each other. Two people, one emotion: regret.

Mr. Chaney went first. “We mentioned this to the officer who came to notify us about finding Der—” His voice cracked. “About finding Derek’s body.”

Mrs. Chaney joined in. “We didn’t like any of Derek’s current friends. He’s been in and out of trouble lately, serious trouble, with them. They weren’t the kind to knock on the door and be respectful. They honked and Derek ran. The few times one of his friends came in, well, let’s just say his new friends didn’t bother to curb their language, hide their cigarettes, or even clean up after themselves.”