badges.
He moves back and motions us inside. We follow him through a short hallway and into a parlor to the right. The room is meticulously clean—polished wooden floors gleaming, two well-worn but comfortable looking sofas arranged around an oak coffee table. Over the fireplace, a photograph of Andy and his parents—taken for a Christmas card, I’ll bet. And in the corner, a box of toys.
My gaze rests on the toy box a fraction of a second too long. Mrs. Boroson has just joined us and she notices.
“Those are Andy’s,” she says. “I can’t quite bring myself to get rid of them yet.”
A pleasant-looking twenty something with sad eyes and blonde hair drawn back at the nape of her neck, she’s dressed in pressed jeans and a white long-sleeved blouse. Tiny gold studs and a plain wedding band complete the simple ensemble. In other circumstances, I would call her pretty, but grief and despair have stripped away her vitality and, I suspect, her hope.
Mrs. Boroson claims one of the sofas, her husband takes his place beside her and motions to the other. “Please, have a seat.”
Mr. Boronson is dressed in a blue jumpsuit and sturdy work boots. I recall reading in one of the reports that he works at the Charleston International Airport as a baggage handler. Boroson reaches for his wife’s hand, and then leans toward us. His gaze is direct, his eyes shadowed by sadness. He’s handsome with the same sandy blond hair as his son. I can’t help but think Andy would have grown into an attractive man.
“Thank you for taking time to meet with us,” Zack says.
Mr. Boroson waves him off. “Do you have any news?”
“I wish we did,” I reply. “You’ve heard that another little boy has gone missing?”
They nod in unison.
“I know I shouldn’t be following the story. I’m not sleeping again. But I haven’t been able to help myself. It’s the same person, isn’t it?” asks Mrs. Boroson.
“We suspect so, yes.”
“We’re going back over the details of Andy’s disappearance,” Zack says. “In hopes something new will come to light. Agent Monroe and I would like you to go over the report with us. Would you mind doing that?”
“Not at all.” The light in Andy’s mother’s eyes shines a bit more brightly. “Anything to help you catch this monster. Right, honey?”
Mr. Boroson gives her a half-shrug before looking away. Reluctance emanates from his slumped shoulders. I can hardly blame him. We’re about to pull a Band-Aid off a fresh scab.
Zack takes his silence as acquiescence and continues.
“We know he was taken from the day care center, and we’re going there next. We want to review that morning and the days leading up to it with you.”
He pauses and checks his notes, giving the Borosons time to compose themselves. Then he dives in, “Both of you drove together that morning to day care to drop Andy off.”
He pauses, looks up.
“That’s right,” says Mr. Boroson.
“After that, you took your wife to her job in town before heading for the airport,” Zack adds. “We want you to think back. Do either of you remember anything strange that happened that morning or in the days leading up to it? Perhaps someone in the neighborhood that didn’t belong here. Maybe a workman or a delivery man. A strange car.”
“I wish there was, but no.” The answer from Mr. Boroson comes too quickly.
I jump in, keeping my tone sympathetic. “I know you’ve been asked this before and that the answer was no. I realize we’re asking you to access memories that will undoubtedly be painful. But what we need is for you to really think back. Don’t just repeat the answer you think is right. We need you to go back to that day, to the days prior. Was there anything out of place? Maybe someone in the neighborhood or hanging around the day care center who didn’t belong. Did anything at all seem out of the ordinary?”
I can see how intensely the Borosons want to give us something. I can also see the
He moves back and motions us inside. We follow him through a short hallway and into a parlor to the right. The room is meticulously clean—polished wooden floors gleaming, two well-worn but comfortable looking sofas arranged around an oak coffee table. Over the fireplace, a photograph of Andy and his parents—taken for a Christmas card, I’ll bet. And in the corner, a box of toys.
My gaze rests on the toy box a fraction of a second too long. Mrs. Boroson has just joined us and she notices.
“Those are Andy’s,” she says. “I can’t quite bring myself to get rid of them yet.”
A pleasant-looking twenty something with sad eyes and blonde hair drawn back at the nape of her neck, she’s dressed in pressed jeans and a white long-sleeved blouse. Tiny gold studs and a plain wedding band complete the simple ensemble. In other circumstances, I would call her pretty, but grief and despair have stripped away her vitality and, I suspect, her hope.
Mrs. Boroson claims one of the sofas, her husband takes his place beside her and motions to the other. “Please, have a seat.”
Mr. Boronson is dressed in a blue jumpsuit and sturdy work boots. I recall reading in one of the reports that he works at the Charleston International Airport as a baggage handler. Boroson reaches for his wife’s hand, and then leans toward us. His gaze is direct, his eyes shadowed by sadness. He’s handsome with the same sandy blond hair as his son. I can’t help but think Andy would have grown into an attractive man.
“Thank you for taking time to meet with us,” Zack says.
Mr. Boroson waves him off. “Do you have any news?”
“I wish we did,” I reply. “You’ve heard that another little boy has gone missing?”
They nod in unison.
“I know I shouldn’t be following the story. I’m not sleeping again. But I haven’t been able to help myself. It’s the same person, isn’t it?” asks Mrs. Boroson.
“We suspect so, yes.”
“We’re going back over the details of Andy’s disappearance,” Zack says. “In hopes something new will come to light. Agent Monroe and I would like you to go over the report with us. Would you mind doing that?”
“Not at all.” The light in Andy’s mother’s eyes shines a bit more brightly. “Anything to help you catch this monster. Right, honey?”
Mr. Boroson gives her a half-shrug before looking away. Reluctance emanates from his slumped shoulders. I can hardly blame him. We’re about to pull a Band-Aid off a fresh scab.
Zack takes his silence as acquiescence and continues.
“We know he was taken from the day care center, and we’re going there next. We want to review that morning and the days leading up to it with you.”
He pauses and checks his notes, giving the Borosons time to compose themselves. Then he dives in, “Both of you drove together that morning to day care to drop Andy off.”
He pauses, looks up.
“That’s right,” says Mr. Boroson.
“After that, you took your wife to her job in town before heading for the airport,” Zack adds. “We want you to think back. Do either of you remember anything strange that happened that morning or in the days leading up to it? Perhaps someone in the neighborhood that didn’t belong here. Maybe a workman or a delivery man. A strange car.”
“I wish there was, but no.” The answer from Mr. Boroson comes too quickly.
I jump in, keeping my tone sympathetic. “I know you’ve been asked this before and that the answer was no. I realize we’re asking you to access memories that will undoubtedly be painful. But what we need is for you to really think back. Don’t just repeat the answer you think is right. We need you to go back to that day, to the days prior. Was there anything out of place? Maybe someone in the neighborhood or hanging around the day care center who didn’t belong. Did anything at all seem out of the ordinary?”
I can see how intensely the Borosons want to give us something. I can also see the
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