homeless population, and he instantly chastised himself, blaming his attitude on the disappointment he felt that she hadn’t seen anything after all. He bent to retrieve the flyer he’d dropped and was taping it to the back of a mailbox when a thought started to niggle at the back of his mind.
It was the green truck. Even if the lady was a bit off her rocker, it didn’t mean that she hadn’t seen something. And he was sure he’d heard something else about a green truck recently, but he couldn’t quite place where. As he walked the rest of his route, he absently thrust the poster under people’s noses and forgot to say thank you, all the while racking his brain for the reference he was missing. He walked until dusk started to fall and then he made his way back to his apartment. Once inside, he dumped his satchel among the empty beer bottles on his counter, cracked open a fresh one, and sat at his desk.
A green truck. He rifled idly through the tip-line transcripts, taking slow swigs from the bottle until it struck him. The tips from Atlanta. He sat up straight and started flipping pages faster, scanning each page until he found it. A green truck. A man just outside of Atlanta had reported a young boy on a sidewalk picked up by a green truck, though the boy didn’t seem to know the driver. Excited again, he started from the beginning of the transcripts and gripped a highlighter in his teeth as he went page by page, trying to see if there was anything else about a green truck.
After two hours, he had no other occurrences, his back was sore, and he realized he was hungry for the first time since he had started his new job. He called the local pizza place, the only number on speed dial, and ordered a medium sausage and black olive. He got up to stretch, walking around his kitchen sipping his beer while he waited for the pizza. As soon as it arrived, he sat back down at his desk to wade through more of the tips. There were over four hundred pages of transcripts, mostly garbage, people looking for attention. He hardly noticed as he dripped pizza sauce on page 270, the smear of tomato and grease blending nicely into a brown soy sauce stain.
He read until he could hardly see the page, and it wasn’t until he sat back when he reached the end of the transcript that dawn was actually breaking. He had found three specific instances of people talking about a green truck with a young boy, though they were in different areas—the one outside of Atlanta, one by the zoo, and the last about halfway between Atlanta and Savannah. None of the boys’ descriptions sounded like Benny, but eyewitnesses were unreliable, everyone knew that. Especially if you watched enough crime drama, like Ben had before his son disappeared. Afterwards, he just didn’t have the stomach. But here was a lead, a solid lead, and he smiled.
Since it was so early, Ben decided to catch a few hours sleep before calling Detective O’Connor, the man in charge of his son’s case, and letting him know what he had found.
“Detective, please, I know you—”
“Ben. Stop. We’ve been through this more times than is healthy. You really need to stop; leave the investigation to us. We’re the ones trained in it. Though, admittedly, it’s been a couple weeks since your last proposed lead.” The detective sounded tired, strained. He sighed, then asked, “But, whatever. This is a great way to start my Sunday. What color truck did you say?”
“Green. Three times.” Ben waited, hoping that this time—this time—his information might actually convince the detective to do something. He had lost track of the number of times he had called the man, insistent that he had found something new in the morass of paper on his wall.
A sigh came down the line. “Did you count how many times other vehicles appeared in the slush?”
“No, but there was someone in Atlanta, a woman, she said—”
The detective didn’t wait to hear anymore. “According to the analysis
It was the green truck. Even if the lady was a bit off her rocker, it didn’t mean that she hadn’t seen something. And he was sure he’d heard something else about a green truck recently, but he couldn’t quite place where. As he walked the rest of his route, he absently thrust the poster under people’s noses and forgot to say thank you, all the while racking his brain for the reference he was missing. He walked until dusk started to fall and then he made his way back to his apartment. Once inside, he dumped his satchel among the empty beer bottles on his counter, cracked open a fresh one, and sat at his desk.
A green truck. He rifled idly through the tip-line transcripts, taking slow swigs from the bottle until it struck him. The tips from Atlanta. He sat up straight and started flipping pages faster, scanning each page until he found it. A green truck. A man just outside of Atlanta had reported a young boy on a sidewalk picked up by a green truck, though the boy didn’t seem to know the driver. Excited again, he started from the beginning of the transcripts and gripped a highlighter in his teeth as he went page by page, trying to see if there was anything else about a green truck.
After two hours, he had no other occurrences, his back was sore, and he realized he was hungry for the first time since he had started his new job. He called the local pizza place, the only number on speed dial, and ordered a medium sausage and black olive. He got up to stretch, walking around his kitchen sipping his beer while he waited for the pizza. As soon as it arrived, he sat back down at his desk to wade through more of the tips. There were over four hundred pages of transcripts, mostly garbage, people looking for attention. He hardly noticed as he dripped pizza sauce on page 270, the smear of tomato and grease blending nicely into a brown soy sauce stain.
He read until he could hardly see the page, and it wasn’t until he sat back when he reached the end of the transcript that dawn was actually breaking. He had found three specific instances of people talking about a green truck with a young boy, though they were in different areas—the one outside of Atlanta, one by the zoo, and the last about halfway between Atlanta and Savannah. None of the boys’ descriptions sounded like Benny, but eyewitnesses were unreliable, everyone knew that. Especially if you watched enough crime drama, like Ben had before his son disappeared. Afterwards, he just didn’t have the stomach. But here was a lead, a solid lead, and he smiled.
Since it was so early, Ben decided to catch a few hours sleep before calling Detective O’Connor, the man in charge of his son’s case, and letting him know what he had found.
“Detective, please, I know you—”
“Ben. Stop. We’ve been through this more times than is healthy. You really need to stop; leave the investigation to us. We’re the ones trained in it. Though, admittedly, it’s been a couple weeks since your last proposed lead.” The detective sounded tired, strained. He sighed, then asked, “But, whatever. This is a great way to start my Sunday. What color truck did you say?”
“Green. Three times.” Ben waited, hoping that this time—this time—his information might actually convince the detective to do something. He had lost track of the number of times he had called the man, insistent that he had found something new in the morass of paper on his wall.
A sigh came down the line. “Did you count how many times other vehicles appeared in the slush?”
“No, but there was someone in Atlanta, a woman, she said—”
The detective didn’t wait to hear anymore. “According to the analysis
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