Noah Boyd - Last Chance to Die

“Sure,” Kate said. She looked at Vail.

“You won’t need me, Chief. I’m a civilian. If something happened, my being there would just give some defense attorney a little more smoke to blind a jury with. Besides, somebody should stay here and keep checking on the tips in case this guy doesn’t work out.”

Kate turned to the chief. “Tim, I’m coming with you. I’ll be there in a minute.” Once Mallon left, she said, “I seem to remember something about you always keeping the best lead for yourself. That’s not what this is, is it?”

“Like the chief said before, we’re talking about a child’s life.”

“Sorry.” She took out her car keys. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Ah … breakfast.”

“Please go get something. Those tips won’t miss you for fifteen minutes. And I really do appreciate this, Steve,” she said. “Hopefully, this won’t take long. Hopefully, this is our guy.”

When Vail got back to the detective’s desk, there were four new tip sheets. He checked the e-mails and was surprised to see that the department had already received eleven messages with photos attached. The lists of runners for both races had also been forwarded. He opened the first set of pictures; they were all of the adult race. He scanned the faces, looking for the Walton boy. There was a subtle difference in quality between the phone pictures and those taken with cameras. As long as they didn’t have to be blown up to provide detail, it really didn’t matter.

Because of the cold weather, most of the runners were bundled up, especially the children. The kids’ race seemed more crowded, with all those parents waiting at the finish line. Vail went through them three times, trying to spot Joey Walton. According to the runners’ list, the sandy-haired seven-year-old was number 034. There were a couple of possibilities that looked like him physically, but the numbers pinned to their chests indicated otherwise.

An angry knot of frustration turned in Vail’s stomach, and he started to regret not going with Kate. The fugitive pedophile sounded like a decent lead. If it wasn’t him, Frank Dillon had certainly picked an odd time to stop reporting to his parole officer and disappear. By staying behind, Vail knew he was trying to make something happen, create some insightful discovery. Apparently he did miss the chase, but at the moment it seemed little more than useless self-indulgence. Or maybe he just wanted to impress Kate.

He started to get up to refill his coffee when the e-mail tone sounded again. There were three new messages, which had eight additional photographs attached. He took his time and looked through them twice. Then, realizing that he had no idea what he was looking for, he got to his feet and waved at the monitor in disgust. He was trying to look at the case from too many angles, a sure way to not find anything.

Outside the department’s front door, he stood without a coat, trying to use the cold to redirect his thoughts. He stayed there until he could feel the bite of the wind, letting the discomfort distract him from his failing approach to the investigation.

Then one of the latest photos flashed through his mind. But the image did not last long enough for him to figure out why it had risen out of his subconscious. He hurried back to the desk and pulled the picture up on the screen. After studying every little detail, he still couldn’t see anything. He closed his eyes and then slammed his fist on the desk.

The image was that of a boy, about eleven years old, breaking the tape at the children’s race. There were a number of adults standing on the sidelines looking back up the course, trying to find their children in the onrushing pack. It was crowded, and people were walking in all directions. Vail could see how easy it would be to lure a seven-year-old away without anyone’s noticing. By the race numbers pinned to their chests, Vail could see that some of the adults had competed in the 5K run, while the rest were apparently just observers. Then he saw what he had missed.

One of the adult runners seemed to be looking at the camera as if he were measuring its danger. His arm was in front of his number so it couldn’t be read. Vail couldn’t tell if he was blocking it intentionally. But what he’d initially missed was that there was a smaller square of paper attached to the lower left corner of the man’s race number. It had been safety-pinned on so it could be collected at the end of the 3.1-mile race to document finish place and time. Unfortunately, because of the angle, Vail couldn’t make it out either. The man was dark-complected and burly, not a runner’s build. Most people who would run in the cold air of New Year’s Eve were probably not novices. That the number tag was still there suggested he had not run the adult race. His registering could have been a ruse calculated to get him close to the children without seeming suspicious.

The e-mail tone sounded again, and Vail glanced at the monitor. It was from the race officials. Attached were all of their photos. Still lost in thought, Vail ignored it, trying to find a way to determine if the individual in the photo was involved in the boy’s disappearance. Then it hit him. The photo was taken the moment the race’s winner was crossing the finish line. Logically, the official pictures would cover that moment and then beyond.

Quickly, he opened the e-mail and began studying the images. The first twenty or so were of the adult race. He looked for that same individual, thinking the man might have initially been in that area. Vail couldn’t find him. Then the chronologically sequenced photos started documenting the beginning of the children’s run. Vail carefully searched each of them. He knew what the man was wearing and was hoping for a clear shot of his number, which he could match to the runners’ list. There was another one of the young man winning, but Vail’s suspect was not in it.

A half-dozen photographs later, there was one of a man in the distance who appeared to be the right size and with the same clothing as in the earlier photo. He had his back to the camera and stood next to a van. Vail couldn’t tell whether he was stopped there or walking by. The van’s plate was visible, but it was too distant to make out.

Vail found the computer’s Photoshop program and opened it, pulling up the picture. Because the image had been taken with a quality camera, the pixel density was high and allowed him to blow up the license plate to where it could be read. He made a note of it and then centered the photo on the individual. In the space between the man’s legs, unseen before, was what looked like the leg of a child wearing red pants. Vail called the dispatcher and had her run the van’s plate.

While he waited, he shuffled through the growing stack of pages on the desk until he found the BOLO that had been sent out originally. Joey Walton was last seen wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and red sweatpants. The dispatcher came back on the line and advised that the plate came back to a George Hillstrand with a Herndon, Virginia, address.

Vail found Hillstrand’s name on the adult race roster and then checked him in the Reston PD computer. Four years earlier, he had evidently worked in Reston, because the department had gotten a call about him from the Maryland State Police, who were conducting an investigation of a child who had disappeared in Colesville, Maryland. They had called to see if Reston had had any previous contact with Hillstrand. They hadn’t.

The seven-year-old, Edward Stanton, had disappeared during a party at one of those pizza-and-game places that specialized in letting the kids run all over while the parents drank pitcher beer and doled out tokens to keep them busy. Hillstrand’s name had somehow come up in their investigation, but no specifics were listed.