Читать книгу Missing: The Oregon City Girls - Rick Watson - Страница 17
ОглавлениеApril 7, 2002, is a cloudy, cool Saturday. Linda has given herself a little time off to clear her mind and think through what she’s learned so far about the girls’ disappearance. Early afternoon finds Linda fiddling with several hanging plants that dangle from the front porch of her home. She yanks a few weeds and squirts some water, then looks up to see a bright red BMW Z-3 roadster pull into the front driveway, its top down and her husband Philip at the wheel. She is shocked and shouts, “No, no, you didn’t, you didn’t!”
Philip turns the engine off and motions for Linda to come closer. “I told you I was going to do it, and I did it. Don’t worry, I can handle the payments.”
After he climbs out Linda steps back a bit and casts glances around the vehicle. “Good grief! Your image just got the million dollar makeover!” She turns her attention to her tired car parked nearby. “And I’m still stuck with that frumpy green machine.”
Philip laughs. “If you be nice to me, I might let you drive mine once or twice a month.”
Their attention is diverted when a Dodge minivan full of vacant child car seats pulls up next to the sports car. White lettering on the door reads, “Maria’s Custom Child Care.” Philip’s daughter, Maria, sticks her head out the driver’s window and tosses a comment to her dad and Linda. “So you really went and bought it, huh, Dad?” She gets out of her car and slips into the driver’s seat of the Beamer. “Can I borrow it tonight, Daddyo?”
Philip opens the door and gently assists her exit. “Nobody is getting their mitts on this car until I have her broken in.”
The front door to the house swings open, releasing Linda and Philip’s energetic kids who swoop over to the red BMW grunting remarks of approval. Philip beams with pride. “You guys were the only ones that really knew I was getting her for sure.”
The boys laugh. Linda runs her hand along the smooth surface of the fenders. “I hardly ever see you as it is, but hell! You’ll never want to be home now that you’ve got this baby.”
“That baby’s already got a name,” Philip smiles proudly. “Marilyn.”
“Huh?”
“Marilyn. I’m naming her Marilyn, and she’s always going to be my special girl, uh, well, next to my beautiful wife, that is.”
Linda and Philip’s sons donate a few more comments about how much they love the new car before dashing back into the house to resume a PlayStation contest. Suddenly, Maria’s expression changes and she pulls a folded letter from her purse and hands it to her stepmother. “Linda, I almost forgot in the excitement over the car why I came over. I think you and Dad should take a look at this. It’s a letter that Lori got from a dog handler, Harry Oakes. He also sent a copy of this letter to the cops. It’s about Ashley.”
After studying it for a few moments Linda licks her bottom lip. “Harry Oakes, Harry Oakes, you know I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
Philip approaches and reads parts of the letter over Linda’s shoulder. “Ward Weaver,” he says. “Oakes’s search dog is supposed to have sniffed something suspicious under a concrete slab in Weaver’s backyard. Do you think it’s true?”
Maria scowls. “Don’t you think the police ought to investigate?”
Linda ponders before folding the letter up. She attempts to hand it back to Maria who shakes her head. “No, no, you keep it; Lori thinks maybe he’s a crackpot, but I thought you’d want to check it out anyway. Do you suppose the police have checked the slab by now? I mean, Oakes was there March 15. That’s three weeks ago.”
Linda gently grasps Maria’s left hand. “Let’s see what, if anything, this all means. The FBI has had dozens of dogs going over that ground after Ashley and Miranda’s disappearances. For all we know, Lori’s instincts may be right on the money.”
“You’re right Linda. But Lori told me this guy was in touch with her several times before he even came out with the dog.”
“Maybe so, but give me a few days to run some checks on him before we make any noise about concrete slabs, okay?”
Maria pulls her hand free and embraces her dad briefly. “You guys are just great.”
Philip smiles. “Linda has been working her buns off and I think she’s making some progress. Just hang on, okay?”
“Sure. Oh, I’ve got to tell you about another funny thing that happened. I don’t know if it will help, but let me tell you about Irene.”
Linda is curious. “Irene?”
“Yeah, she’s Tony’s sister’s best friend. You know, the sister who lives next door to us. Well anyway, Irene has always been a sort of psychic. She can tell the future, read palms, tarot cards…and Tony’s sister says she’s very gifted.”
Linda’s eyes narrow. “I’m not a fan of psychics, but we’ll take clues even from otherworldly sources.”
“Well, Irene tried to see if she could get any vibes about where Ashley might be, and you can’t believe what happened. She went out to the school bus stop, spent over half an hour meditating while burning some special candles and she says she got a powerful vision. She is sure she can pinpoint a location.”
Philip shakes his head. “Look Maria, this whole case is crazy enough without going in that direction.”
“Okay but at least let me tell you what she said.”
Linda nods, “Fair enough. What’s her theory?”
“Fourteen miles. She said the answer is exactly fourteen miles from the bus stop. So all we’ve got to do is get in the car, drive to Newell Creek Apartments and drive fourteen miles. We watch the odometer, and when it shows fourteen miles, we stop and see what we can find.”
Linda laughs. “I was with you for a minute, but fourteen miles in which direction, Maria? East? West? South? Which side of the Willamette? I don’t think this can possibly help the situation. Maybe we ought to politely ignore this Irene and her candles.” Linda pauses. “But…well, maybe I’ll check her theory.” She sighs, “That shows you how frustrated I am.”
“Well, I better get going, Suzie’s watching her brother for me and I promised I’d be back by four. Oh Dad, one more thing before I take off. Could you help me organize a video of Ashley with whatever video clips we can round up? You know we took a lot of home videos when we used to go camping on the boat. And Lori never had a video camera of her own, but I remember you used to loan her that old VHS a lot of times, so she has some stuff, and I think you probably do too, don’t you?”
Philip nods, his face serious. “I’d be honored to help you put together something. When can you have the footage all rounded up?”
“I’ll do it as quick as I can, but give me a week.”
“Call me when you’re ready and we’ll burn the midnight oil in the editing room together.”
Maria gets into her van and begins backing out when Linda approaches the open driver’s window to interject a final comment. “Don’t worry, Maria. I will look into this Harry Oakes and his dog as soon as possible.”
Maria waves and drives off.
Two days later, April 9, Linda is cruising by the Newell Creek school bus stop in her car, checking out where Ashley and Miranda were headed preceding their disappearances. Linda drives very slowly. She presses a button that zeroes the vehicle’s trip odometer, then accelerates rapidly and directs the sedan southward along Beavercreek Road into late afternoon traffic.
Meanwhile, Philip is in his studio office carefully attaching spine labels to a stack of VHS videotapes. Linda’s office phone rings and he quickly picks up. “Linda O’Neal Investigations.”
Oliver Jamison is on the line. “Can I speak to Linda, please? It’s very important.”
“I’m sorry, Ollie, she went to Molalla. But you should be able to get her on her cell phone.”
Oliver becomes alarmed. “Molalla? Hell! I’ve got some crucial information for her about the Virginia guy. If she calls in, have her call me.”
At that same moment, having traveled several miles to the outskirts of Molalla, Linda pulls into a long driveway. She parks as close to the front of the house as possible and then stares at the trip odometer in disbelief. It shows almost the exact mileage that Irene, the psychic, had trumpeted: fourteen point one miles. A shudder creeps into her shoulders. “I’ll be damned.”
After hesitating for a few moments, Linda lays her cell phone on the passenger seat and picks up a clipboard and a handful of freshly minted real estate business cards with her name on them. Getting out of the car, she cranes her neck in search of the Ford with the Virginia plate, but doesn’t spot it. She glances around at the thick, surrounding woods before she looks up to notice foreboding clouds which seem to become darker the longer she stares at them. As the rain starts, she takes a deep breath and begins a determined journey toward the long front porch. Inside her car, her cell phone rings several times, but Linda cannot hear it. She continues at a deliberate pace while visually sweeping all directions, eager to discover something, anything that might prove useful. A tattered curtain in a narrow side window triggers her focus when she notices some errant movement. Linda stares for a few moments and is convinced she sees the outline of a very slender female with long, gray hair peering out.
Linda steps up onto the porch, losing her footing as her heel slides sideways on very slick moss which seems to cover the entire surface. She wonders how the occupants can possibly get in and out of the place. Struggling to the massive oak door anyway, she knocks without hesitation. No one comes. She knocks a second time and soon sees the same, thin elderly woman, this time staring from behind a different window. A short while later, the door opens slightly, a long fingered hand gripping the edge. Linda’s nose is instantly assaulted by an overwhelming combination of disgusting odors, the most dominant of which she identifies as cat litter boxes. A pungent stream reels through the eight-inch crack but is cut off abruptly when a middle aged male slides through the same crack onto the porch and tightly shuts the big door behind him. He clings to the tarnished brass knob to keep from sliding further and gruffly barks, “What do you want?”
Linda studies this strange sight and wonders if he could truly be the Virginia man. His lanky body is clothed in threadbare gray slacks with a plaid wool shirt, collapsed at the elbows. His incredibly long arms dangle ape-like at his side and he refuses to provide Linda with direct eye contact. Finally she makes her inquiry. “Are you by chance Mr. Fairchild, uh, Mr. Paul Fairchild?”
The man speaks in barely a whisper as he continues to stare at the floor. “Nope.”
“Well, my name is O’Neal, sir, and I work for a developer who’s very interested in your property here.”
The man does not respond.
“We are prepared to come up with a very good offer. Here’s my card.”
The man refuses to accept the card and grunts.
“Anyway, would you mind if I walked around a bit, maybe take some notes?”
Carefully, the man turns the big brass handle and pushes the door open. “Not interested. Get off this land and don’t come back,” he mutters before slipping back into the house and slamming the door loudly behind him.
Linda is positive she can feel several pairs of eyes scrutinizing her every move as she carefully makes her way off the porch. She gets back into her car and backs it up to turn around. She keeps one eye on the rearview mirror as her sedan slowly crawls along the gravel driveway. Within seconds she makes out a pair of figures. She smacks the dashboard with her right palm. “Damn!” Linda assumes they are jotting down her license number.
She has no time to contemplate this problem. She needs to get on with her investigation. When Philip helped her with the video surveillance they had found a perfect angle from the Baptist church just a few blocks away. Its rear section was dominated by acres of baseball fields. A dilapidated fence behind the backstop served as the official boundary separating church property from Fairchild’s woods. She smiles slyly before parking behind a backstop. Now she has a clear view of the ancient house. Linda pulls her binoculars from the glove compartment, scrunches down in the front seat and begins surveillance. It’s time to see what she has stirred up.
Within an hour full nightfall has arrived. Bright headlights appear from the church entrance, the focus of the beams illuminating the green car. A Chevrolet Impala pulls right behind her car. Its lone male occupant, Oliver Jamison, rarely ever ventures into the real world. Leaving the Chevy’s engine running and lights on high beam, he stumbles out, grabs his cane, hobbles over to Linda’s car and gasps. It is empty. His heart pounds and he strains to see any sign of his boss and friend. A curious rustling noise twenty feet into the thick woods captures his attention. He retrieves his flashlight and approaches the fence, shining it back and forth. He can make out a movement. He stares a bit then hears a shout.
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” Linda O’Neal emerges a moment later. She carries her folding port-a-potty, its gleaming white seat reflecting brightly from the Impala headlights. She strains for a view of the intruder and recognizes a bulky human form with a brush-like gray goatee. “Ollie, is that you?” A few more steps and his identity is confirmed. “It is you. For Pete’s sake, shut those headlights off. There’s no use letting the world know we’re here.”
Ollie obediently ambles back to the Impala and cuts the lights as Linda approaches the car, still clutching the port-a-potty. She opens the trunk and unceremoniously deposits it atop a pile of file sacks. She shakes her head and approaches Jamison, who is leaning on his cane and sweating profusely. “What are you up to? How did you find me, or more to the point, why?”
“I just got some hot info on Paul Fairchild, and I know how you are when you get your teeth into something. You haven’t confronted him yet, have you?”
She shakes her head. “Well I came out here to, but apparently he wasn’t home so I figured I’d rock their boat a little bit.”
“I hope you didn’t sink it.”
“What’s up, Ollie?”
“Paul Fairchild is a dead end. He absolutely could not have had anything to do with the Oregon City girls. I tried to get you on your cell, but…I was worried so I figured I’d better fire up my car and find you.”
Linda sighs, “Another dead end. There seems to be one after another. And I was beginning to feel I’ve undervalued psychic visions since this place is fourteen miles from the bus stop!”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
Oliver pulls some papers from his inside jacket pocket and shines his flashlight onto them. Linda pores over the text while Oliver reads on: “On January 9, Paul Fairchild was sitting in a jail cell in Escanaba, Michigan ten days into a thirty day misdemeanor sentence for drunk-driving. He was released January 22 and take a look here…” He shuffles to another page and points to a specific paragraph. “When he was released, he packed up his stuff and decided to come back to Oregon. Here’s a list of his debit card gas purchases. January 30, he was in Wisconsin. By February 23 he was lingering around the St. Paul area. See? Two weeks at a motel. But most importantly, on March 8, the day Miranda went missing, Fairchild was in Wyoming and most likely didn’t even arrive in Molalla until at least a few days later.”
Linda is exasperated. “Well, we’ve got to move on to the next suspect. And I mean right away, before another girl disappears.”
During the long drive home, Linda’s head pounds with frustration. She berates herself for having been duped into such a complete red herring episode, which has so deftly siphoned valuable time and energy away from her finding a real solution. She mumbles, “I’m really no closer to finding what happened to Ashley and Miranda than the hapless FBI task force.” But she resolves not to give up and keep investigating until she finds the person who has stolen the girls.
By the time Linda directs her car into the front driveway, she has calmed down and with spirits renewing, goes to her cluttered desk and begins to re-examine the piles of documents. Somewhere there is an answer. Somebody took those girls. But who? Where is the evidence? Philip brings her a sandwich and drink a few hours later while she sits, staring at her computer screen, scrolling through pages and pages of documents. The hour moves toward midnight. Philip quietly enters the room and squeezes her tired shoulders with a firm grip. “Hey Sweetie, don’t you think you ought to give it up for today? It’s bed time.”
“Okay.” Wearily she rises, but before following him, she grabs a file folder. It is stuffed with court records about Ashley’s biological father. Once in bed, while her husband is engrossed in watching that evening’s TV episode of Politically Incorrect, Linda props herself in front of several pillows and carefully studies photocopies detailing the step-by-step legal entanglements that had entwined the life of Ashley Pond’s biological father. She grimaces as she absorbs one sordid detail after another. She continues her perusal, anxious to discover exactly how so many atrocious allegations against the man could have evaporated. She is so repulsed by what she finds that she shouts a comment that startles Philip. “Hey, take it easy,” he whispers.
“What kind of ‘sexual history’ can an eleven-year-old have?” Linda exclaims.
Finally, her husband convinces her to turn out the light so they can go to sleep. A restless Linda tosses all night.
The next day Linda decides she needs a new direction since Roettger’s case seems steeped in what she believes is misplaced exoneration. Perhaps, she thinks, her intern Allison’s analytical abilities will provide fresh insights. After equipping her intern with the complete case documents, she instructs Ally to study them intensely. “In four hours we’ll meet for lunch, and I’m going to pick your brain. See if you can identify the faults in the case for me.”
At the lunch meeting, Linda says, “Allison, as you know, ninety percent of my work is for defense attorneys. Our mission is to dig up every available fact, then dissect them—turn them over seeking the inconsistencies. If we are good, we’ll get a handle on how to proceed. It’s a critical part of a detective’s job description, and it takes enormous patience because most of the time it turns out to be a dead end. So here’s what I have in mind. Right now you’re up to speed on everything anyone could know about the case. Show me what you’ve got, and I’ll try to knock it down. Let’s see how you do?”
Allison looks for enlightenment. “So District Attorney Linda O’Neal, I’m working through a cumbersome case that perhaps you may be able to give me some direction on.”
Linda polishes the spotted spoon with a napkin and replies. “Sure. How can I help you?”
“Let’s go over our leads one by one.”
For an hour they go back and forth. Finally, they discuss Ashley’s allegations against her biological father. He was allowed to plead out when it was brought up by the man’s attorney that the girl had made similar false allegations against other men.
Linda frowns and wrings her hands. “Ashley was asked about this person,” she hesitates. “She did not deny having made allegations of attempted rape against him. And it was at that moment when they realized the Roettger case was dead meat. In retrospect, they were lucky to get him to plead out to anything. If her dad’s lawyer would have pushed a bit harder, chances are there wouldn’t have been any conviction at all. At least now they’ve got her father registered as a sex offender and he can’t have contact with any kids, even his own children. So in a way it’s a moral victory.”
Momentary outrage grips young Allison and she blurts, “Moral victory? Ashley has been gone four months, and Miranda for two. And there are no solid clues that seem to lead anywhere. God knows what happened or who was responsible. This whole thing is a nightmare! For all we know, it could be Roettger and the courts just let him go. Moral victory…legal injustice!” The girl fumes. A few moments of awkward silence ensue, and then she retreats. “I’m sorry, really.” She pauses. “After all who am I? Just your humble intern. But it pisses me off. Now before I eat, please, can you at least tell me who the man was who was so influential?”
“Sure. A neighbor, the father of one of Ashley’s friends.”
Allison cringes as she anticipates what’s coming next.
“Ward Weaver. It seems Ashley told wicked tales about him to several people and when it finally got back to him, he was furious and did everything he could to put the stories to rest.”
“Nevertheless, he admitted to the police that she had made the allegations?”
“Of course. And he was very credible. She, unfortunately, began to appear more and more unreliable. Weaver claimed that she had even recanted her original complaints about her father, and he said he was prepared to testify in court to that effect.”
“Did they investigate those allegations? To verify if they had any validity?”
“They have very specific policies they must follow when third hand abuse is uncovered. They did what they were supposed to do. They called the Department of Human Services and reported the allegations to them.”1
“Did they follow up?”
Linda shrugs. “Allison, I think you just might make an investigator after all. Your questions were incisive and underscored weaknesses. And I guess that’s the whole point of everything today. Now it’s our turn. What weaknesses do you see in her father’s lawyer’s position, if you were going to attack that one?”
“Ward Weaver.”
Linda smiles. “Exactly what I’ve been thinking.”
