sitting in front of me, there were three green truck tips, four white sedan tips, and ten all popular panel van tips. We’ve checked this out.”
Ben thought he remembered those tips. But this one had seemed real. He’d spoken to someone who had actually seen the truck. “Really? You’ve tracked down these people and asked them what they saw?”
“We can’t track down every anonymous tip, Ben, you know this. We’ve been over it.”
Ben’s hand clenched convulsively around the phone, but he tried to keep his voice level. He was not going to be dismissed again. “You should try. How many hours are you putting into this, anyway? One, two a month now? I’m still putting in forty-five or more each week. How can you justify telling me you can’t track this stuff down when you’re not spending the time to even keep up with the tip line?” Despite his best efforts, Ben was breathing heavily, the anger showing through in his voice. There was a moment of silence on the line.
“I’m going to forgive you that one, Mr. Grant. I have forty cases on my desk right now. Your son’s included. But we’ve hit a dead end. There is no new information coming in to attend to. I go over it as often as I can find the time, to try and find a new thread, but there is nothing there.”
“Don’t say that! There has to be something there, you can’t just give up—” Ben’s voice broke and he struggled not to let his exhaustion and fresh despair overwhelm him.
Silence again.
“Look, there’s someone I think can help you. If you’ve got a pen, I’ll give you her number.”
“Is she a private eye? A missing person’s consultant? I’m not sure I can afford that right now, maybe if I saved a bit.” Ben shuffled papers on his desk to unearth his legal pad and pulled a pen out of the “#1 Dad” mug on the corner of his desk.
“She’s…not. Ben, she’s a counselor, and I think with the amount of time you spend obsessing over this—”
Ben slammed down the phone. He lowered his head onto his crossed arms and stayed there, taking deep breaths to calm the tide of anger that flooded him. He wasn’t like his wife, the suicidal mess. He didn’t need some shrink telling him he couldn’t look for his son, or worse yet, telling him time after time that what he did made no difference. After a few moments, he hauled himself out of the chair and fell into bed, only to rise four hours later and start over on the tip line transcripts, this time listing on a legal pad all the references to specific vehicles or objects and where they were located.
The next morning, Ben mumbled a greeting to Judy and made his way back to the warehouse. He dropped into his seat, threw his sunglasses onto the desk, and briskly rubbed his face, trying to force himself awake. He had fallen asleep at his desk late last night and had slept poorly for it. A mug of coffee appeared on the desk in front of him, held by a slim hand with something green under the fingernails.
“Judy said you looked like you could use some. Careful though, Byron brews it like his very life depends on the amount of caffeine he can squeeze out of the beans.” Sylvia perched on the end of his desk, gesturing with the cup. “Come on, it’ll do you good.”
“I don’t know. Should I accept something from someone with green gunk under their fingernails?” Ben was striving for a light-hearted tone as he reached out and cupped the lukewarm mug in his hands. But judging by the look on her face, he didn’t quite succeed.
Frowning at her nails, she started picking at them. “It’s paint. It’s hard as hell sometimes to get oil paints out from under your nails without dipping your hands in turpentine. Then they smell.” She made a face and gave up on the stains. “So, looks like you had quite the weekend. Care to spill the juicy gossip?”
Ben took a cautious sip of the coffee, swallowing a couple times to try and rid himself of the acrid aftertaste and set it gently on
Ben thought he remembered those tips. But this one had seemed real. He’d spoken to someone who had actually seen the truck. “Really? You’ve tracked down these people and asked them what they saw?”
“We can’t track down every anonymous tip, Ben, you know this. We’ve been over it.”
Ben’s hand clenched convulsively around the phone, but he tried to keep his voice level. He was not going to be dismissed again. “You should try. How many hours are you putting into this, anyway? One, two a month now? I’m still putting in forty-five or more each week. How can you justify telling me you can’t track this stuff down when you’re not spending the time to even keep up with the tip line?” Despite his best efforts, Ben was breathing heavily, the anger showing through in his voice. There was a moment of silence on the line.
“I’m going to forgive you that one, Mr. Grant. I have forty cases on my desk right now. Your son’s included. But we’ve hit a dead end. There is no new information coming in to attend to. I go over it as often as I can find the time, to try and find a new thread, but there is nothing there.”
“Don’t say that! There has to be something there, you can’t just give up—” Ben’s voice broke and he struggled not to let his exhaustion and fresh despair overwhelm him.
Silence again.
“Look, there’s someone I think can help you. If you’ve got a pen, I’ll give you her number.”
“Is she a private eye? A missing person’s consultant? I’m not sure I can afford that right now, maybe if I saved a bit.” Ben shuffled papers on his desk to unearth his legal pad and pulled a pen out of the “#1 Dad” mug on the corner of his desk.
“She’s…not. Ben, she’s a counselor, and I think with the amount of time you spend obsessing over this—”
Ben slammed down the phone. He lowered his head onto his crossed arms and stayed there, taking deep breaths to calm the tide of anger that flooded him. He wasn’t like his wife, the suicidal mess. He didn’t need some shrink telling him he couldn’t look for his son, or worse yet, telling him time after time that what he did made no difference. After a few moments, he hauled himself out of the chair and fell into bed, only to rise four hours later and start over on the tip line transcripts, this time listing on a legal pad all the references to specific vehicles or objects and where they were located.
The next morning, Ben mumbled a greeting to Judy and made his way back to the warehouse. He dropped into his seat, threw his sunglasses onto the desk, and briskly rubbed his face, trying to force himself awake. He had fallen asleep at his desk late last night and had slept poorly for it. A mug of coffee appeared on the desk in front of him, held by a slim hand with something green under the fingernails.
“Judy said you looked like you could use some. Careful though, Byron brews it like his very life depends on the amount of caffeine he can squeeze out of the beans.” Sylvia perched on the end of his desk, gesturing with the cup. “Come on, it’ll do you good.”
“I don’t know. Should I accept something from someone with green gunk under their fingernails?” Ben was striving for a light-hearted tone as he reached out and cupped the lukewarm mug in his hands. But judging by the look on her face, he didn’t quite succeed.
Frowning at her nails, she started picking at them. “It’s paint. It’s hard as hell sometimes to get oil paints out from under your nails without dipping your hands in turpentine. Then they smell.” She made a face and gave up on the stains. “So, looks like you had quite the weekend. Care to spill the juicy gossip?”
Ben took a cautious sip of the coffee, swallowing a couple times to try and rid himself of the acrid aftertaste and set it gently on
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