Читать книгу Missing: The Oregon City Girls - Rick Watson - Страница 13
ОглавлениеOregon City was the first incorporated city west of the Mississippi River. Established in 1829, by Dr. John McLoughlin, as a lumber mill near Willamette Falls, it was later designated as Oregon’s territorial capital and was known as the end of the Oregon Trail. Now it is a working class suburb of Portland.
Under gray skies on the outside steps of the Oregon City Municipal Building, Police Detective Gary Harris and Chief of Police, Gordon Huiras, surrounded by a cadre of uniformed officers, are holding a press conference about Ashley Pond.1 While several TV cameras record the moment, Detective Harris explains to the assembled reporters that they have changed their minds in the missing child case. Whereas they had been leaning toward a runaway theory, they now consider Ashley missing and in danger, because: First, she did not take clothes or money with her. Second, she has been missing more than a week. And third, she has failed to make any contact with her friends or family members.2
A crime reporter asks Detective Harris, “Is there any truth to a circulating rumor that many local residents and members of the family have provided you with some tips about possible suspects?”
Harris nods. “We looked at those reports and lots of people mentioned in those reports have already been talked to. Nothing indicates that they had anything to do with the disappearance.”
A female TV reporter next asks, “If you’re now entertaining a theory of foul play, do you currently have any suspects?”
“We are looking closely at adults who know the girl to determine whether they had anything to do with her disappearance. There are four to six adults that have our attention.”
The reporter begins writing on her note pad. “Can you give us some names?”
Harris shakes his head solemnly. “You know I can’t do that. These are only persons of interest at the moment and their privacy must be respected.”
Another reporter shouts his query. “Have you been able to search the entire apartment complex for Ashley?”
“We did get into the primary places we wanted to get into, along with the area around the complex. We have also searched Lori Pond’s apartment. Ms. Pond consented to the search and nothing was found that can be linked to her daughter’s disappearance.”
A female reporter gets her turn. “How about computers that Ashley might have used? Anything there?”
“The Pond family computer is currently being examined by a forensics computer expert. Her email correspondence is being carefully evaluated at this time.”
The crime reporter interrupts with a follow-up. “What about chatrooms? Any chance Ashley may have met someone online and had a rendezvous?”
“As of now we are still awaiting a conclusive report on that.” Detective Harris then indicates his boss. “I’d like to introduce our Chief of Police, Gordon Huiras, who has a brief statement.”
Huiras, a stocky man in his early forties whose graying hair is destined to become even grayer as this case indelibly marks his life states, “Because of the shifting nature of our evolving hypothesis in this case, today we’ve asked the FBI to join with us to expand our search for Ashley Pond. Coordinating the resources from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Department, the Oregon City Police and the Oregon State Police, the FBI will centralize all aspects of the investigation. It’s the very best way to maintain maximum efficiency. They will coordinate all leads. Time is of the essence here. With their assistance we are launching a new, more intensified search beginning immediately. Every location will be reexamined with fresh eyes seeking more subtle clues. That’s the agenda for now.” Huiras hesitates a moment. Then, after glancing at his fellow officers standing soldier-like, he offers a final comment. “Of course we will strive to always keep the media fully informed as developments arise, but that’s where we are at this moment, exactly ten days since the girl went missing. Thank you very much.”
Later that afternoon, dog handler Marty Neiman of Search-One-K-9 Detection, his dog Klause and a Clackamas County Sheriff’s Deputy are scouring the area surrounding the Newell Creek Apartments.3 The dog sniffs garage doors and then the edge of the wooded area leading to the apartment complex. His nose sweeps across the damp ground rhythmically, but detects no new scents. Next, the group leads Klause up the hill where they encounter the sight of Ward Weaver’s half-acre yard, its overgrown lawn and seedy tool shed beckoning for their attention. After the deputy confers with the dog handler, the men saunter onto the Weaver property, Klause wagging his tail. The deputy approaches the front door and knocks.
Seconds later, Weaver swings it open and when he notices Klause, calls out a friendly greeting. “Here boy! Come here. That’s a good dog.” Klause enjoys the attention and licks Weaver’s face. He grins. “What a neat animal. Is there something I can help you guys with?”
Marty pulls the leash to separate Klause from Weaver. The deputy removes his gloves. “Good afternoon, sir. We are conducting a search for the missing girl, Ashley Pond. We would like your permission to search the property with a dog.”
“What’s his name?”
“Name?”
“Your search dog, what do you call him?”
Marty smiles and interjects, “Klause, and it won’t take very long, because he’s very quick.”
Weaver chuckles. “A quick sniffer, huh? Sure, go ahead guys. Have old Klause sniff away all you want, but only outside. I don’t want any dogs in my house. Now I’ve got to get back inside. I’m helping my daughter with her math homework.” He quickly but gently closes the door.
The men conduct their search, but find nothing outside the house. The old storage shed reveals tattered boxes of assorted junk enmeshed in sticky cobwebs, but no discernable clues about the missing child. Marty and the deputy follow Klause on a new journey as he leads them down Beavercreek Road toward a store, but the trail goes cold.
Days tick by without a sighting. The morning of January 23, Detective Viola Valenzuela-Garcia is handing out over 1300 flyers to commuters. She is standing in the middle of Beavercreek Road during the morning drive, holding a huge life-sized poster of Ashley Pond.4 Stopping cars, she stares the driver and passengers in the eyes until they roll down the window and take a flyer. All the while she is silently pleading for help in solving the case which is slowly eroding her soul. The thought of her own twelve-year-old child is never far from her mind. The rain is incessant as each of the cars’ tires throws sheets of slimy road water in her direction.
At the same moment, fifty feet away, Portland’s Channel Two reporter, Anna Song, is holding a microphone, standing near the spot where the local school bus will soon be retrieving the Newell Creek group of Gardiner Middle School students. Song’s cameraman has her image in close, with a dozen youngsters clustered in the background chatting noisily. With tape still rolling, Song approaches the group who react with giggles and awe. She holds her mike out. “Pardon me, do any of you want to talk about Ashley Pond on TV? Come on, here’s your chance.”
A five-foot-four slender girl with lovely tied-back blonde-streaked hair steps up and offers her comments. “It’s really hard to believe that happened to one of your friends or something. It’s just really different and really sad.”
Song becomes intrigued and follows up. “Were you pretty close to Ashley? Was she a close friend of yours?”
“We were friends.”
“Did she ever talk about problems at home?”
“Yes. I knew her like from the third or second grade. And yeah, she did.”
“What do you think actually happened that morning?”
“Wednesday?”
“That one morning when she basically disappeared. Did she talk about running away?”
“Yeah, she told my little sister about a week before she did it; she told her she was thinking of running away.”
Song pauses a moment and asks a final question of the talkative student. “What do you think happened that morning?”
The teen giggles nervously. “I have no idea what happened. Really, I have no idea what happened. I just know she disappeared. Ran away or got kidnapped or something. But she’s been gone for so long, it seems like she got kidnapped or something.”
The young TV reporter looks searchingly at her. “Can I have your name?”
“Sure. Miranda, Miranda Gaddis.”5
On schedule the yellow, belching colossus rolls up behind the students and within sixty seconds all have boarded. They crowd around the windows watching Song wave to them as the bus lurches its way down Beavercreek Road, soon disappearing from view. Song is buoyant. “I think we’ve got some good stuff here, Wally,” she says to her cameraman as he disassembles his gear.
More days pass without a sign of Ashley. On February 5, Philip is away shooting a corporate video. Linda O’Neal is sitting at her dining room table that doubles as a communications hub for her home office. The table is littered with boxes of files, a computer, a fax machine and a thirteen-inch TV. Linda is typing up a routine case report. Her phone rings and she picks up. “Linda O’Neal Investigations. Can I help you?”
A twittering female voice nervously inquires, “Is this Linda O’Neal?”
“Yes.”
“Do people hire you to investigate things?”
Linda laughs. “That’s right. My job is to get to the bottom of the issue and provide a coherent report. Are you in need of an investigator?”
The caller hesitates and then hastily explains. “This is a bit hard to accept, but hear me out and then let me know if you might be of assistance. My husband, Rob, is a psychic.”
Linda rolls her eyes and glances at her watch. “Oh really? And who are you?”
“My name is Pamela, and what I’m about to tell you is gospel. We’re from California. Do you remember the Polly Klaas kidnapping murder?”
Linda feels a strange tingle at the back of her neck. “Yes. Her dad, Mark Klaas, started the missing child non-profit group.”
“Well, Rob and I were on the search team of volunteers looking for her and Rob helped find Polly. He got a vision. He heard Polly and led the police to where she was in a shallow grave by a freeway. And now he has information about another missing girl. He can hear her, too. He really feels strongly that he can help, but the Oregon police are much more difficult than the ones in California. Because it’s from a psychic, they won’t even return our calls. So we need help, and Rob thinks a private investigator is the way to go.”
“And what missing girl would that be?”
“Ashley Pond.”
Linda is so stunned she drops her phone.
“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m still here. How did you get my number?”
“To be honest it was totally random, but when your husband’s a psychic, perhaps nothing is totally random.” She laughs. “He just opened up the yellow pages, ran his finger across and stopped and said, ‘This one.’ It was you.”
“What do you want an investigator to do for you?”
“Well, Rob has been drawn to a particular house in Molalla and somehow he’s made a connection from Ashley’s bus stop, where she disappeared, to this creepy old house. Rob got such a strong reading there. We want the place fully investigated. Rob is convinced that the answer to Ashley’s disappearance will be found in this strange house. It’s surrounded on all sides by twenty or thirty acres of thick woods. So we want to hire you to, well, first investigate it, then, if you find anything, get the police to follow through. Maybe they’ll listen to you. They laugh at us.”
“Okay. I think I can help you, but I need a couple of days to check you out. Give me a phone number.” Linda writes on a nearby pad. “Yes. Okay Pamela, I will call you back. Yes. Thanks.”
Later that day, Linda sits behind the customer counter in her husband’s video studio. She is minding the store for him while he is on a video shoot. She is carefully adding figures from a bank deposit with an electronic calculator when Philip enters, burdened with several large equipment cases slung over both shoulders. He greets her warmly. “Did Mrs. Porter pick up the duplicate DVDs of her daughter’s wedding?”
Linda rises and begins to assist him with untangling the straps and overlapping bags. “She did, and she is such a sweetheart. She wanted me to tell you how excited they all were at the showing. They especially loved the reception stuff. She said you got an extreme close-up of her dad crying like a baby during his toast. It broke them all up.”
“Yeah, that’s always been my motto, ‘give ‘em more than they ask for.’” He begins to dismantle his main camera. “How’s your day going? Did that scumbag Juan ever plead out on that assault?”
“Hell, he wants a trial. And he’s going to go down big time. I can’t verify one of his so-called witnesses. That case is a mess.” She hesitates nervously. “Philip, I had the strangest phone call today about Ashley.”
“Ashley? I thought you said you were stalled on ideas. Maria told me you told her to keep checking her friends. You still believe she ran away, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to believe after this call. It was from a psychic, or at least her husband is. She swears he helped find Polly Klaas with his instincts. But it’s so bizarre she would call me out of the clear blue about Ashley.”
“They have a connection to Ashley?”
“They can’t get the cops to listen to their theories and they thought a licensed detective could serve as a go-between. Their connection is…I’m not sure. And they called me totally at random. They were just looking through the phone book and chose my name. Isn’t that the weirdest thing?”
Philip finishes with the camera and gingerly slips the parts into its case. He snaps the locks shut, approaches Linda and embraces her. “Sweetie,” he whispers tenderly, “in my opinion, getting involved with psychics would only undermine your credibility. I mean, come on! Psychics?”
“But I’m telling you, they called me. Out of fifty or a hundred detectives in the yellow pages, they called me. It gives me goose bumps. And let’s face it, I’ve got nothing whatsoever to go on in this case. Neither have the police. It’s been over three weeks, and there are no substantive clues. Would it hurt to check out what the psychic has to say, at least?”
Linda can’t get the psychic’s comments out of her mind. More time passes and there is no news. As crazy as it seems, she feels a visit to the Oregon City school bus stop to explore the psychic’s tip is warranted. So, at eleven the following Saturday morning, Linda drives along Beavercreek Road before making the left turn leading to the vast Newell Creek complex that stands below the canyon’s ridge. Linda notices a wide bus stop right at the turn and makes a U-turn, lurching her car to an abrupt halt right where the bus would stop. After turning the engine off, she sits and absorbs…what? She’s not sure of what to expect, yet this is the very spot from which the child had vanished. There must be some clue. She spends the next several minutes examining the surroundings: the busy street with cars whizzing by, the winding road that leads to the apartment complex, the small house across the way. The gray apartments down the road from a forested gully. Where children used to play there are only forgotten toys and lonely bikes. In her rearview mirror she notices a pair of teenaged girls, one model-tall and blonde, one petite and brunette, strolling up the hill from the apartments. When they get close she hails them, “How’s it going girls?”
They both smile and standing several feet away, give her eye contact. The taller one says, “Fine.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Is where I’m parked the spot where the school bus to Gardiner Middle School stops?”
“It sure is. That’s our bus. We both go to Gardiner.”
“Is that right? You don’t happen to know the little girl that disappeared do you, Ashley Pond?”
The blonde girl with a blue backpack and neon green shirt says, “Yeah. We knew her. But why do you want to know?”
“I’m a detective and I’ve been asked to find her.”
The bubbly blonde takes a few steps and leans into the driver’s window. Linda notices she’s chewing gum and wearing floral perfume. “Wow, you’re a detective, huh? I’m afraid somebody snatched her. What do you think?”
“Maybe the same thing.”
“She’s my friend. We’re in seventh grade and on the same dance team together. We were supposed to do a competition soon.” The girl looks at Linda seriously and says quietly, “Instead, I’m going to do a new routine I designed myself—for her.”
“You don’t think she’s coming back.”
“She’s been gone now for weeks. She either ran away or was kidnapped, what else could it be?”
“This is the bus stop where your friend was heading the morning she went missing, right?”
The girl nods.
“Where do you think she would have gone from the bus stop?”
The girl shrugs and gestures widely with her right arm until her hand sweeps toward the lone house across the sidewalk.
Linda frowns sympathetically, “I’m sorry your friend is missing. I’m doing my best to find her.”
“Well, she’s got to be somewhere, but nobody knows where, not even the police.”
The short brunette approaches the other teen and complains, “Come on, let’s get to the store.”
“Go ahead,” Linda says, “it was nice talking to you.”
The pair of teens wave to Linda and resume their journey. Linda shouts a final question that causes them to stop and turn. “What’s your name? For my detective notes, who are you?”
The tall, talkative one smiles. “Miranda Gaddis.”
