H
I tapped my pencil against the desk. Wherever Danny
Linwood was during those years, there was another person he'd called 'brother.' I was sure of it. Of course, there was a chance his mind had simply been damaged from the absence, but something in Shelly's voice and the lack of cooperation from the HCPD told me if I asked more questions, I'd find very unhappy answers. Which meant they had to be asked.
I decided to take a stab at something, then work from there.
I performed a LexisNexis search for child abductions within the past ten years, then narrowed the search to cases where the child returned alive. Sadly, there were over one thousand reported cases of child abductions in the United
States during that span, and less than fifty of those thousand children had been found alive. The others had either been found dead, or never found at all.
I searched through the results looking for any simi-94
Jason Pinter larities, specifically cases, like Danny Linwood's, where the abducted was returned to his or her home with no memory of their time gone.
I was surprised when one hit came back. Seven years ago, an eight-year-old girl named Michelle Oliveira disappeared outside of Meriden, Connecticut, following a playdate at a neighbor's house. The Oliveiras lived just four houses down the block from their friends, a family of four named the
Lowes, which explained why she was unsupervised upon her return home. The investigation turned up nothing but a tassel from Michelle's hair that had been caught on a nearby branch. After a month the search was called off. Two years later Michelle Oliveira was declared deceased.
And three years after that, Michelle Oliveira appeared in her parents' front yard in Meriden, in perfect health with the exception of some vitamin deficiencies. According to a newspaper report, Michelle had no recollection of the intervening years.
The police had conducted numerous interviews with
Michelle, her parents and younger brother, as well as with the Lowe family. The records had been sealed off due to the victim's young age. The abductor or abductors were never found. And Michelle went on with her life.
While Michelle clearly wasn't a 'brother,' it did make me wonder. Meriden was just a few hours from Hobbs
County, and more important, it set a precedent for this kind of unexplained absence and subsequent reappearance.
I needed to see those records. Fortunately I knew someone who could help. Time to add another lunch to my growing tab.
Curt Sheffield picked up, but it took major convincing to get him to not hang up on me.
'Ain't no way I'm going to even touch a child abduction case, bro. Not to mention that it's in a different state, and I'd have to explain why I'm asking those kind of questions. If I tell them it's to sate some reporter's curiosity, I might as well tell them I deal crack while downloading underage porn. I'll get booted faster than you can say
'Starsky minus Hutch.''
'So how could I get hold of those records if not through the police?' I asked, praying Curt's reach extended beyond that of his precinct.
'Only other firms who have access to those kinds of documents are the legal aid societies. They keep a database of all child-related abuse cases. I'm guessing this falls under their jurisdiction.'
'Even if there was no evidence of actual abuse?'
'Just 'cause there ain't no scars on the outside don't mean they're not on the inside.'
'That's deep, Curt. You write poetry, too?'
'Yeah, I'll Robert Frost your ass if you try to squeeze anything else out of me. Good luck, sorry I couldn't help more.'
'Yeah, thanks for nothing.'
'When can I collect on that tab?'
'I'll have my people call your people.'
'Yeah, whatever. Later, Parker.'
I had to get more information on Michelle Oliveira's abduction, but I wasn't going to be able to go through the police department. I sat there in silence, thinking about what Curt had said. The legal aid society.
I knew one person who worked at the legal aid society.
But calling her would touch nerves much closer to my heart than Daniel Linwood.
I opened my desk drawer. I could almost sense it down there. It had been months since I'd spoken to her. But rarely a day passed when I didn't feel that ache, that gnawing in my gut that seemed to only get worse over time.
Six months ago I'd made a choice. I decided I had to give her up. I told myself at the time it was the right thing to do. A man had to put his love before himself. And since
Amanda had nearly been killed twice because of me, in my mind there was no other option.
So I said goodbye to Amanda. I hadn't been truly happy in months. It didn't take a great reporter to figure out the two were directly correlated. But I still couldn't be with her.
There had been times over the past few months where
I had wanted to call, where I'd gone so far as to pick up the phone and dial everything but the last number on her cell phone, nearly crying when I hung up before pushing the final key. Nights where the booze loosened up my inhibitions, and only that last vestige of clarity prevented me from calling. Like that terrible night six months ago, today there was only one choice to make.
Amanda worked for the New York Legal Aid Society.
She would have access to Michelle Oliveira's records. She could help the investigation. She could provide answers.
She could also throw it back in my face.
And I would deserve it.
Maybe this was the opening I needed, I wanted. A way to tell myself it wasn't about her, even though deep down
I couldn't even fool myself. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe fate was a cruel son of a bitch.
Before I had a chance to think again, I picked up the phone and dialed.
Amanda picked up on the first ring.
'Hey,' I said. 'It's me.'
10
The girl woke up with a slight headache. Her first thought was that she'd fallen, maybe hit her head on the sidewalk or bumped into the same tree she'd rammed her bike into the other day. But she didn't remember putting on a helmet, didn't remember actually falling. And she only rode her bike when her mommy was watching. And right away she felt the terror that she was alone.
She stood up warily. Her breathing was harsh, and she felt hot tears rush to her eyes. She reached out for her bed, the couch, some familiar sign. But she found nothing. She grew desperate and called out. There was no answer.
The room was pitch-black. Had her mommy just put her to bed, accidentally left the Bratz night-light unplugged?
No, there was a smell in the room, something different, something rotted. She didn't belong there. Yet when she cried, nobody came.
The girl smelled something that reminded her of her dad's breath after he came home on Sunday evenings.
Mommy said he was watching the football games at the bar with his friends. His breath had that sweet smell,
