glancing backward, seeing Eisen still standing where she’d left him, looking her way, perplexed, until the door clicked shut.
Christine returned to her office, picked up her purse and car keys, and took the elevator down to the parking garage en route to her athletic club and the calming waters of the pool. The other lanes would be quiet now. Only the drone of her own flutter kick would fill her ears and her rhythmic taking in of a lungful of air with each spiraling pull of her strong arms.
“Crosshaven Sheriff’s Department.” Mary Carter, the police dispatch operator, spoke in a calm voice. A natural at police work, Mary had been on the force for ten years. She wore a wide bullet belt and a leather gun holster that chafed every time she rocked forward in her chair, which was frequently, as she rarely left the sheriff’s office on street duty.
“Your daughter’s late coming home, Karen? I understand. Julie’s fourteen, right? And she has frizzy blonde hair.” The dispatcher typed the entries onto a missing persons screen, reading a list of questions off the computer monitor to Karen Heath, the missing girl’s mother. Mary’s police-issue black polymer eyeglasses were designed to take abuse in the field. Mary mainly needed them for reading crime thrillers. The most active duty they saw was slipping off her desk when she wiped the bridge of her nose with a Wet-Nap towelette. She loved the lemony scent of the foil-wrapped wipes, which usually made an appearance right after she’d polished off two glazed crullers from Libby’s Kitchen.
“Where’d you say Julie was earlier?” Mary typed in
Daisy Rhinelander, 6 Old Shed Road, phone number 426-9807
.
“Has she any notable identifying features or disfigurements?”
Small scar on right elbow from falling out of tree
, Mary recorded, after winnowing out that information from a response that included Karen’s frustration with the pace of the phone call and her complaint that Mary stop delaying and call Sheriff McFaron immediately.
The dispatcher patiently stayed on the line. “I’m sorry, Karen, I didn’t get that.” She adjusted her headset. “How long has Julie been missing? Several hours, I see. You’ve checked with Mrs. Rhinelander twice. Your daughter left there at approximately three p.m.”
Mary knew that unless exigent circumstances existed, a missing person report usually couldn’t be filed with the state policenetwork until twenty-four hours had passed, but she had Karen stay on the line while she contacted the sheriff by radio.
“Sheriff, Mary here. Over.”
“What’s doing?” Sheriff Joe McFaron said into the mike, stretching the coil its full length out the window of his 1996 Ford Bronco truck—the model four-wheeler that he favored. At that moment he was standing next to a culvert at the Beecham farm several miles south of town, eyeing Mr. Beecham, pale and sitting on the ground next to his tractor. The farmer appeared to have suffered a mild heart attack. McFaron was waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
“I’ve got Karen Heath on the line. She’s pretty worried, wants you to send out a missing child APB. Her girl’s been gone three, maybe four hours, she says. Evidently, there’s no sign of her whereabouts. Over.”
The sheriff shoved back the brim of his trooper-style hat and rubbed a palm across his brow. He knew Karen Heath could be a bundle of nerves. Even in high school, he’d never forgotten how she’d fainted when Henry Small, a lineman on his high school varsity team, had gotten his leg caught between two tackling players. The hollow crunching sound of Small’s leg bone had dropped Karen Heath straightaway on the sidelines.
“Put through a radio call to the Staties,” he said. “I should be back to the office within the hour. Did you say it was Julie or Maddy Heath missing?”
“Julie.”
“If she turns up, you’ll have to call the state boys back quick or they’ll have a conniption over my jumping the
Christine returned to her office, picked up her purse and car keys, and took the elevator down to the parking garage en route to her athletic club and the calming waters of the pool. The other lanes would be quiet now. Only the drone of her own flutter kick would fill her ears and her rhythmic taking in of a lungful of air with each spiraling pull of her strong arms.
“Crosshaven Sheriff’s Department.” Mary Carter, the police dispatch operator, spoke in a calm voice. A natural at police work, Mary had been on the force for ten years. She wore a wide bullet belt and a leather gun holster that chafed every time she rocked forward in her chair, which was frequently, as she rarely left the sheriff’s office on street duty.
“Your daughter’s late coming home, Karen? I understand. Julie’s fourteen, right? And she has frizzy blonde hair.” The dispatcher typed the entries onto a missing persons screen, reading a list of questions off the computer monitor to Karen Heath, the missing girl’s mother. Mary’s police-issue black polymer eyeglasses were designed to take abuse in the field. Mary mainly needed them for reading crime thrillers. The most active duty they saw was slipping off her desk when she wiped the bridge of her nose with a Wet-Nap towelette. She loved the lemony scent of the foil-wrapped wipes, which usually made an appearance right after she’d polished off two glazed crullers from Libby’s Kitchen.
“Where’d you say Julie was earlier?” Mary typed in
Daisy Rhinelander, 6 Old Shed Road, phone number 426-9807
.
“Has she any notable identifying features or disfigurements?”
Small scar on right elbow from falling out of tree
, Mary recorded, after winnowing out that information from a response that included Karen’s frustration with the pace of the phone call and her complaint that Mary stop delaying and call Sheriff McFaron immediately.
The dispatcher patiently stayed on the line. “I’m sorry, Karen, I didn’t get that.” She adjusted her headset. “How long has Julie been missing? Several hours, I see. You’ve checked with Mrs. Rhinelander twice. Your daughter left there at approximately three p.m.”
Mary knew that unless exigent circumstances existed, a missing person report usually couldn’t be filed with the state policenetwork until twenty-four hours had passed, but she had Karen stay on the line while she contacted the sheriff by radio.
“Sheriff, Mary here. Over.”
“What’s doing?” Sheriff Joe McFaron said into the mike, stretching the coil its full length out the window of his 1996 Ford Bronco truck—the model four-wheeler that he favored. At that moment he was standing next to a culvert at the Beecham farm several miles south of town, eyeing Mr. Beecham, pale and sitting on the ground next to his tractor. The farmer appeared to have suffered a mild heart attack. McFaron was waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
“I’ve got Karen Heath on the line. She’s pretty worried, wants you to send out a missing child APB. Her girl’s been gone three, maybe four hours, she says. Evidently, there’s no sign of her whereabouts. Over.”
The sheriff shoved back the brim of his trooper-style hat and rubbed a palm across his brow. He knew Karen Heath could be a bundle of nerves. Even in high school, he’d never forgotten how she’d fainted when Henry Small, a lineman on his high school varsity team, had gotten his leg caught between two tackling players. The hollow crunching sound of Small’s leg bone had dropped Karen Heath straightaway on the sidelines.
“Put through a radio call to the Staties,” he said. “I should be back to the office within the hour. Did you say it was Julie or Maddy Heath missing?”
“Julie.”
“If she turns up, you’ll have to call the state boys back quick or they’ll have a conniption over my jumping the
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