KILLING A PERSON is said not to be easy. From my first classes in FBI I remember that murder is an interaction between the criminal and his victim. When you come from a family like mine, contact with death becomes as common as fruit or computer screensfruits in a smoothie.
If there's one thing that has fascinated me since I was a child, it's crime movies. My father, a Navy captain, retired last year; my mother, a former war reporter for the New York Times, has covered massacres in Kosovo, Sri Lanka and Chechnya, although she now makes do with a job as a contributor to the Daily Mail.
They still live in Washington, very close to my uncle John, a deputy county sheriff.
As for me, as soon as I turned eighteen I entered university to take International Studies, a mix of politics, law, humanities and languages, which has surely made me an even shrewder Heather Parsons than I used to be. When I left Jack, out of sheer mismatch of characters, I was preparing to join the FBI in Quantico, Virginia. There, I became a dog trainer and met my roommate, Duke. By the way, he's a Dutch Shepherd. He was seized by the squad from a criminal group that was organizing dog fights, so he seemed to be the perfect candidate for adoption.
I am amused by the number of times I have been compared to actress Hillary Swank on account of my athletic physique and stern face. I became a Violent Crime Special Agent because I'm a hardened masochist, according to my senior partner, Frank Stone. He told me this with a halo of shyness, which he'd carried with him from childhood until he joined, against all odds, a police force. Thanks to his friendliness and the occasional jokes with which he would palliate his usual composure, I found the endless assaults, robberies and rapes more bearable when I arrived in Minnesota. These were only a small part of my former job, but I soon found that in my new position they took on greater proportions.
It was the summer of 2010, and the ice on the lakes had melted. Humid heat started to replace tornadoes and constant warnings about frosts on the streets. Around nine o'clock in the morning, Peter, the supervisor, showed up at the office. He had a military bearing, topped by a glorious bald head and a small grey goatee.
"Go to Saint Paul, right now."
"What is it, boss?" Frank asked impatiently.
"A five-year-old black girl is missing. The mother's about to have a stroke. They have a teenage son. Her husband is not at home. Call her and tell her you'll be right there."
I noticed he looked down. I hid a shared smile from Frank, with whom I often discussed the reputation of black officers like him on the force.
"Did they send a picture?" I interjected.
"No, that's fucking sensitive information. Ask her as soon as you get there."
Peter could seem adamant, especially if I showed him my disagreement, but in the end, he was more like an old grouch.
As I walked out of the building, I was immensely grateful for the adrenaline rush, which made up for the tedious hours of work. The typical day is not as exciting as in the movies, as bureaucracy takes up much of your time.
The two wards on either side from ours corresponded to courthouses, so everything was constructed with a view to making a demanding purpose look easy: to find out the source of the evil, the motives, or lack thereof, for taking a life.
We took Interstate 35E to Laurel Avenue. I remember we were blocked by an asshole in a Hummer SUV, one of those who think he's allowed to take over the entire road, but we obviously didn't give a shit. As Frank drove, I dialled the number of Ruth, the mother, who had written it down on a piece of paper.
"It's not giving a signal. It's turned off."
"Keep insisting. We won't be there long," Frank replied with an arched eyebrow.
The line was still dead. We parked next to the flat, a first-floor at number 325 that couldn't have been in a more modest area. The blocks of apartments were low. They were made of exposed brick and formed a maze surrounded by quaking poplars and gardens separated by a grid of sidewalks in the shape of a cross.
At the back of one of the squares of that board we saw several open windows. To enter, it was necessary to go past a triangular booth presided over by a grey column. The doorman, a tall thin man with an unfriendly face, opened the door and stood watching us without asking where we were going. We walked down the narrow corridor. The letters were not visible, so I retraced my steps.
"Excuse me, which one is A?"
"The one at the back," answered the man with the sour face.
"Okay, thanks."
I pressed the doorbell, which was badly in need of repair, and waited ten seconds until I heard the door creak. A woman peeked over the threshold. She looked haggard, as if she'd just gotten up. Her wavy hair fell slightly over her red-dotted nightgown. I noticed the two dimples in her cheeks.
"Ruth Ferguson?"
"Yes, come in."
She was so light-hearted that an inexperienced analyst might have doubted whether she was truly distressed, but at the academy I'd learned not to prejudge. The sudden impact of such a misfortune was a communication shock for many people.
"The one at the back," answered the man with the sour face.
"What time did it happen?" I said as I pulled out my phone to find the recorder application.
"At eight o'clock, when I called!" whimpered Ruth, this time with urgent desperation.
"When did you last see her?"
"Last night, at ten o'clock. She always goes to bed early... Good God! Find her!"
"Show us her room," Frank prompted.
We crossed the living room, where I noticed no pictures of the girl. An ashtray full to the top, next to two plates with grease drying on them, probably leftover food from the night before. A young blonde-haired man with big blue eyes and very pale skin was waiting hunched over in the middle of the hallway.
"I'm Inspector Frank Stone and this is my partner Heather Parsons," my instructor introduced himself. The boy stood up straight, pulled his body away from the wall and tried to exaggerate an incipient adult voice.
"I'm Liam."
"Were you awake when Lucy disappeared?" I asked.
"I was up earlier, about ten to eight," Ruth interrupted. "I woke him up. We haven't notified the school yet. I've been looking all over the neighbourhood! Please do something!"
I assured them that our troops were aware.
"Where is the girl's father?"
"You mean Ed, he's my partner. He'll be here as soon as he finishes an assignment. Lucy's father and I parted ways. He didn't say if he was going to Pennsylvania or.... "Ruth continued.
"Go ahead, Mom, say it! Say I'm adopted! Ed took me in," Liam stepped forward, tears hanging beneath his mask of rebellion, rage burning in his eyes.
"Liam..., don't be angry," his mother murmured, but the boy was already moving toward his room, where he sat on the bed. Ruth walked over, patted him lightly on the back, left the door ajar, and came back toward us. She made an apologetic gesture and brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. "Here," she pointed nervously.
Everything fit within normality. A room with walls, floor and curtains oscillating between light pink and violet. A small bed on top of whose unmade blanket, decorated with stars, were piled several cushions in the shape of a cloud, a raindrop and a sun. Shelves with small baby dolls, unicorns, moons, a rainbow and the letters of her name: Lucy.
"Did you close the window properly?" I asked. The woman was silent for a few seconds.
"Yes, it was closed. I don't understand!"
Her hands trembled slightly.
"And the door?"
"If you mean the bedroom door, we always leave a crack, never wide open. She wants the light on all night. She has night terrors."
Ruth merely replied to our questions, fighting her state of panic. I stuck to the previously agreed script.
"What kind?" Frank asked.
"I don't know, she screams, sweats, wakes up or starts walking around the house. She sleepwalks."
"Do you think she might have gone off in one of those episodes?"
"Eh..., no, I don't think so, maybe... She usually doesn't go past the entrance. Yesterday I told her a story, as usual, and after that I didn't hear her again," Ruth replied hurriedly.
"Usually? Has she ever escaped before?" I suggested. She wrinkled her brow as if she felt like she was on the ropes.
"Fuck no! Listen, what I need you to do is to look for her."
"There are already different patrols on it, ma'am. What about Ed?" Frank asked. I thought the coldness he was adopting wasn't very convenient, but I let him go on.
"He's fixing a truck, he'll be right back."
"How long will it take?"
"He'll be here in two hours."
"Where can we find him?"
"At the Truck Centre by Lake Emo. Ask for Edmund Jackson."
The lady did not bring anything else, and time was against us. We had a few hours to rule out her, her partner's and Liam's involvement. If that happened, more complex theories would come into play.
"Do you know of any neighbours who might have taken her?" I inquired.
"I don't think so," he whimpered. His tremulous voice began to stick in my throat and stomach.
"Anyone dangerous in the area?"
Liam stood up, calmer now. He approached with growing interest.
"No, but sometimes you see groups of kids."
"Any candidates?" I insisted.
The young man frowned before answering.
"No idea. We looked outside, you know. I walked around the block twice. The ones who live in the urbanization... No, we don't talk that much. My mother went to see the woman on the second floor. That one couldn't help her. " He scratched his temple trying to find something to add. The predominant emotion was guilt.
"What about next door?"
"No one lives in flat B," Ruth said.
"Describe Lucy to me. Show me a picture."
Ruth dug into the drawers and handed it to me. Slender silhouette and big dark eyes. Half black and half white, two dreadlocks on each side. One of the central teeth pulled out. The shape of the face with the dimples was very similar to Ruth's. I checked the time on my cell phone, handed her a card and added:
"Call us as soon as you remember any more details, no matter how trivial."
She nodded and burst into tears. I went over and hugged her, assuring her that we would do our best. Liam, on the other hand, shunned all contact with me. We hurried to the parking lot and, as Frank rounded Maiden Lane on his way to St. Paul's Cathedral, I began to ask him:
"Do you think they're telling the truth?"
"Lack of parenting skills, neglectful treatment, intergenerational conflict, but I don't think it's her. "
"Fuck, Frank, so much technical stuff."
He slowed down at Shelby Avenue, contacted the central police station and made sure backup was coming along with dogs to follow the trail of the girl before we went back to question the neighbours. On the way to the dealership, I played my favourite Sex Pistols song from the passenger seat and started humming it. I used to do that kind of crazy thing when I needed to get my energy up so as to take care of a complicated matter.
"You're nuts," he said, and we both burst out laughing.
