The Devil's Closet Page 2

  “Ms. Brewer, if you’re worried about us looking at you for child endangerment for something as minor as leaving your son in the car when you ran into your house, please don’t worry. I’ve left my four-year-old in the car for a few minutes to run inside my own house before. It’s really nothing to stress over as long as he’s secure in his car seat and you have the car keys. Now, let me ask again, how long were you inside the house?”

  She put her hands on her face and let out a deep breath.

  “When I came in, I grabbed his book bag and started for the door, but the phone rang. It was my mother asking me to schedule something, so I had to look at my calendar, coordinate with her, and pencil it in. It was five minutes tops. I swear.”

  It was the following answer that presented the first hope of the day. I asked if she parked in the driveway. She said she was in a hurry and had merely parked along the curb in front of the house before running inside. The direction her car was facing would have given her son a clear view of the Parkers’ front yard.

  “Where’s your son now?”

  “He’s taking a nap. I just laid him down when the other detective left,” she said apprehensively, the frown lines deepening in her face.

  “Please, bring him down here. I need to talk to him.”

  Melissa initially looked like she wanted to argue, but apparently decided against it.

  I was good at interviewing children. My years spent investigating juvenile sex crimes required me to interview hundreds of them. If Melissa’s son, Austin, saw anything today while he was waiting in the car, I would find out what. Hearing the cries of a small child, I sympathized with Melissa for a brief moment, knowing what a horror it is to wake a four-year-old in the middle of a nap, an act that would leave the child crying and whining for the rest of the day.

  Coop was right. Austin Brewer was adorable, with brown hair and large brown eyes, which he was rubbing furiously. His round, chubby face was scrunched up, and his fists were clenched, not happy that his dreams of teddy bears, candy, and puppies were interrupted. Melissa set Austin down in front of me, and I bent over so I could be at his eye level.

  “Hi, Austin. My name is CeeCee, and I’m a police officer. I’m sorry I had to wake you up from your nap. You were pretty tired, weren’t you?”

  He nodded slightly, while grabbing on to Melissa’s pant leg. I took my badge off my waistband and offered it to him.

  “Here’s my badge. Do you want to hold it?”

  Austin stayed in the safety zone of his mother’s legs for a few minutes before reaching out and taking the badge. He broke out into a smile while he looked at it.

  “Now, Austin, I have a very important job for you, and, if you’re okay with it, I’ll pin my badge on your shirt and make you an honorary police officer. What you’ll have to do is go into the other room with me and help us catch a bad guy. Would you like that?”

  “What’s oniwary?” he asked.

  “Hon-or-ary. It means you would be a very special little policeman.”

  “Okay!” He nodded furiously.

  He was thrilled. He threw my badge back at me, puffed out his chest, and pulled his shirt out, wanting his badge. After I pinned the badge on Austin’s shirt, I made him hold up his hand while I swore him in as the youngest police officer in history.

  With Melissa’s permission, Austin and I headed into the family room and sat on the floor in front of his toy police cars and fire trucks. I began asking Austin all the familiar questions to make him comfortable with me: “What’s your favorite television show? What’s your favorite toy?” These were a few. I noticed a pack of crayons on a play picnic table near us, which I grabbed for my next series of questions. I held up each crayon and asked Austin to tell me the colors. Then I let him color on a blank piece of paper nearby. After that, I asked him to count to the highest number he could, which was twelve. Then I felt confident to start asking Austin about the disappearance of Hanna Parker.

  “Austin, do you remember when Mommy forgot your book bag today before preschool?”

  “Yup—she was drivin’ fast!”

  “When Mommy went inside to get your book bag and left you in the car, do you remember seeing anyone outside?”

  “Jus’ Hanna.”

  My heart began to beat a little faster as I crawled closer to Austin and took his right hand.

  “Austin, do you remember what Hanna was doing when you saw her?”

  “She was playin’ with the mailman,” he said, pulling his hand from mine and picking up a red crayon to color a picture of a fire truck.

  The mailman? At first I was shocked until I realized what Austin was saying.

  “Austin, do you mean he had a uniform on?”

  “Yup, the mailman.”

  I grabbed the dark blue, light blue, and gray crayons from the pack and held them up.

  “Do any of these crayons look like the color of the mailman’s uniform?”

  He looked up from his impending masterpiece, irritated that I had interrupted his creative streak. He quickly grabbed the light blue crayon from my hand and shoved it forward.

  “What did you see Hanna do with the mailman?”

  “She got into his car and they drived away.”

  That was it. Calmly, but with an extreme sense of urgency, I went through the crayons with Austin to find out the man’s race, hair color, and the color of his car. Using Austin’s play cars, I learned the man was driving a brown full-sized van. Satisfied that there wasn’t anything more to get from Austin, I got up to leave, taking my badge back and replacing it with a junior deputy sticker badge. That made his day.

  As I grabbed Coop on my way out the door, Captain Kincaid was in the front yard walking toward us. No matter how much she irritated me, I had to admit Naomi Kincaid was a striking presence: tall and blonde, her hair always in an elegant chignon or bun, her blue eyes sparkling. She might look severe sometimes in her classic matching slacks and shirts, but she managed to make an impact as a beautiful woman who looked like she meant business.

  “I was just looking for you two. Corrine Parker said you guys came to Melissa’s house. Did you find anything?”

  “We’ve got a description of the suspect and need to get it out on the air immediately. He’ll be a white male wearing a light blue uniform, maybe even coveralls from a local factory. He’s got dark brown hair, tall, and drives a full-sized brown van. That’s all I’ve got. This is unquestionably a stranger abduction.”

  “Damn it!” she said. “We’re almost at two hours.”

  Kincaid started walking quickly, almost jogging, to her unmarked SUV to give the dispatcher and other listening officers the description of the suspect and his vehicle.

  I was filling Coop in on my interview with Austin Brewer when Kincaid came back.

  “They’re getting it out. The juvenile detectives and uniformed officers have the sex-offender listings and are knocking on doors right now. But I don’t anticipate this guy went home.”

  “I doubt it. Let’s contact all the uniform shops and dry cleaners to see which businesses or factories wear a light blue, coverall kind of uniform.”

  “I’m on it,” Coop said, heading toward his car.

  “We also need to ask Mrs. Parker and her neighbors if anyone has had any plumbing, electrical, contracting, or landscaping work done. Maybe someone will recognize the van. The suspect has been watching Hanna and knew exactly when to take her,” I suggested.

  “Do you suppose he saw Austin Brewer?” Kincaid asked.

  “I don’t know, but just to be on the safe side, we need to have Melissa Brewer keep a tight leash on him. At least until we know more.”

  “Consider it done. By the way, as if you didn’t know, you’re the lead investigator on this case.”

  “I kind of assumed that. Right now, I need to figure out where to go from here.” Kincaid was already walking back to the Brewer house.

  There were rumblings coming from news helicopters making their way to the area. Some
thing as serious as an abducted child was one of the few times I welcomed the local media. Although our department had its own helicopter in the air searching for Hanna, the news helicopters were extra eyes. The more help the better.

  I walked to my car and called the dispatchers to ask them to find any reports of stolen brown vans in the last six months within the county. The dispatcher I spoke with was less than pleased. They already had enough going on with putting out the Amber Alert and monitoring all radio traffic. My request would take an enormous amount of time. Their resistance was anticipated, and I quickly thanked the dispatcher before hanging up.

  I called my husband, Eric, and told him I was going to be late. He had already assumed this by watching the news. Eric is a uniformed officer with the department and usually works on the night shift. Currently, he’s training a new officer on the afternoon shift, but today was his day off.

  “How late do you think you’ll be, hon?”

  “No idea. Where are my two beautiful girls?”

  “They’re next door at Chloe’s playing ‘run from the bad guy.’ They saw the news.”

  “Fabulous. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

  Over the next five to six hours I walked miles. Nothing else could be done until I got all the necessary information back. I assisted the uniforms, other detectives, and civilians, all out searching for Hanna. We looked in drainpipes, under fallen trees, in the woods, in the trees themselves, under parked cars, porches, garbage cans, Dumpsters, and everywhere else we could think of. By the time I got home, it was very late and I was exhausted. Kincaid gave me a maximum four-hour break to rest, during which she would take over. Cases like this don’t stop. Not one person stops until the child is found.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day was spent going over the list of sex offenders with the other detectives in the office. We were targeting anyone whose former victims were girls between the ages of four and eight. Since we had over four hundred registered sex offenders in our county, this was not a quick task. Now that the rest of the country had the story, our parking lot was filling up with news vans, campers, reporters, cameramen, satellites, and the like. A lot of these people knew my name since my near-death shooting last year had made national news. At the time, I’d been deemed a hero for uncovering one of the largest drug operations ever, at a place referred to as Murder Mountain. This latest case couldn’t have been more different, and we were under serious pressure, which didn’t help. Dr. Nathan Parker was adding to that pressure by standing in front of the media. He was informing them that he didn’t think we were doing enough, or were competent enough, to find his daughter.Sheriff L. Richard Stephens and Chief Paul Raines, numbers one and two of the department, came into my office later that afternoon for a briefing. Naomi Kincaid was in tow. The sheriff was clearly under great stress, but his face never showed anything other than kindness, as did his voice. A pleasant-looking man in his fifties with thinning brown hair and a growing middle, the sheriff rarely showed concern. It was unsettling to see him so upset.

  “What have we got, CeeCee?”

  “Nothing. Zilch. Right now I’m just waiting for dispatch to get through the list of stolen cars to see if there were any vans matching the suspect’s.”

  “There’s nothing else we can do right now?” the chief chimed in, as frustrated as the rest of us.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “We’ve got over one hundred uniforms and civilians searching through every sex offender’s house in the county, and neighboring counties are doing the same. The Parkers’ phone logs have come back, and there’s nothing suspicious or helpful on those either. The kidnapper isn’t stupid. It seems he’s had this planned and taken every possibility into account.”

  “CeeCee,” the sheriff began, “you’re the one who knows how these sickos think. Can you come up with anything?”

  “Not really. I don’t know enough at this point. If it is a sex offender, which would be an easy assumption, most of them believe they’re stronger and smarter than the cops. They get off on knowing we don’t have a clue as to who they are, and that’s an important part of their fantasy. But what I’m counting on is the grand finale of the whole fantasy. They want to actually sit across from a detective and tell him or her how smart he thinks he is and how much he got away with. Some of them want to get caught just for that reason—to tell the cops how smart he is. It may be one hell of a long shot, but hopefully, this animal thinks like that.”

  “But you’re not sure,” Kincaid added.

  “Chances are very slim that’s the case. There’s never a guarantee with anything. Naomi, you know that.”

  Everyone remained silent. The sheriff leaned forward as he let out a deep breath. He began to speak when I noticed Coop standing in my doorway. Everyone else followed my gaze to see Coop, who looked like he’d come down with the flu; his face was a light shade of green. I was a little concerned. Coop does not usually look unsettled.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He put his hand on the door frame, as if he needed it to maintain his balance.

  “We found Hanna Parker.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He whistled quietly while he washed the floor in preparation for his new visitor. Vigorously, he wiped away the memory of the last one. It was only fair; he had done the same for her and the one before her. Only the best for his special guests: this was their temple, a tribute to them, and it needed to shine. He wanted to make them feel welcome. He wanted them to feel as one, a string of brightly lit lights, each attached to the other, lights that would shine for eternity.…

  My stomach churned. I didn’t need to be a law-enforcement genius to know that Hanna Parker was dead. Coop’s face said it all. The sheriff was first to regain composure.

  “Where did they find her?”“An Amish family located her in their field, up in the northern part of the county. The crime lab and the coroner are already on their way, so we’d better get going.”

  “Do her parents or the media know yet?” I asked Coop.

  “Not yet. Captain Norris and the department chaplain are on the way to tell the Parkers. As for the media, it’s just a matter of time.”

  “And they’re sure it’s her?” Captain Kincaid asked, one of her more brilliant questions.

  “I can’t think of any other blonde five-year-olds wearing a pink Sesame Street T-shirt that would turn up dead in an Amish cornfield, can you?”

  “Just asking,” she said, a little embarrassed.

  Well deserved, if you asked me. She was one of the few people who could be counted on to come up with the most dim-witted questions.

  “Let’s get going,” the chief said, already heading toward the door.

  “Damn it all to hell,” the sheriff mumbled, expressing everyone’s sentiments quite accurately.

  I gathered my bag and notebooks before following the others. I wanted nothing more than to get into my car and drive straight home. I can’t bear seeing a dead child, especially one that’s been murdered. People weren’t meant to see things like that—it wasn’t in the grand plan. It doesn’t matter who you are, a civilian or a cop, looking down on the body of a dead child ruins you mentally for years, if not for life. One can understand and accept the often fragile psychological stability of a police officer who has seen many such cases. Like I have. It’s worse when the victims, like Hanna Parker, are female and close to the age of my two daughters. My youngest, Isabelle, is four years old. Selina, my oldest, is ten. Times like this, I need to flip the off switch in my head in order to do my job.

  When I pulled into the driveway of the Amish farmhouse, the family was standing on the front porch. I would start with them, but first I needed to get a long-distance view of the body and crime scene. The rear of the house looked out over the cornfield. About two football fields away stood a group of people and several white vans. I guess it was a good thing the field had been recently harvested, or it could’ve been a while before she was found. Of course, there was
also the awful thought of the combine cropping through the field and over Hanna Parker.

  Notebook in hand, I went back to the Amish family to get a more detailed statement.

  I introduced myself to Eli Zimmerman and asked him to tell me what happened. He began speaking in a thick German accent, one I could relate to since my husband is from Germany. Eric spent only his first year there, and you’d never know it by talking to him. His parents, on the other hand, sound like they’re straight from the old country. Even after all these years, I have a hard time understanding their English. My mother’s parents were from Germany, so I learned a few words growing up. Mainly obscenities from my grandfather.

  Eli said they had been at another farm helping to build a barn since early that morning and had gotten home only about an hour and a half ago. It was while walking out to his barn that he saw something in the field and he went to investigate. When he discovered the body, he ran back to his house and had his son bicycle to the nearest Mennonite farm to call the police.

  “I tell him, Geh jepzt! Mach schnell!”

  Even with my very limited German vocabulary I knew that meant Go now! Hurry! Eli said he could see it was a body from ten feet away and didn’t want to get any closer. It was dark when they had left in the morning, so he didn’t know if the body was out there at that point or not. He answered “no” to the customary questions about any suspicious cars, people, and the like.

  After my conversation with the Zimmermans, I was walking back to my car to confirm their account at the Mennonite farm when Coop yelled from the side of the house.

  “CeeCee, get over here and look at this.”

  “It’s really not necessary, Coop. You don’t need me out there,” I said, opening my car door. Coop promptly shut it before I had the chance to jump in.

  “Yes, we do. I can’t explain it, it’s…” He paused. “It’s grotesque. I’ve never seen anything like it, and you might be able to give a little insight. I know you don’t like dead kids. None of us do, but whoever did this is sick, very sick, and he needs to be caught. Please, CeeCee?”