it?”
“Respectful. Sandra was very young when we married. If she needed to work some things out, I could give her space for that.”
“Mighty understanding of you.”
He didn’t say anything.
Then D.D. got it: “Did you make her sign a prenup? Some kind of clause, if she cheated on you, then you wouldn’t owe her anything in the divorce?”
“There’s no prenup.”
“Really? No prenup? With all that money sitting in the bank?”
“The money came from an inheritance. I never expected to have it, ergo I can’t mind too much if I lose it.”
“Oh please, two million dollars-”
“Four. You need to run better reports.”
“Four million dollars-”
“Yet we live on twenty-five hundred a month. Sergeant, you’re not asking the right question yet.”
“And what would that be?”
“Even if I had motive to harm my wife, why would I harm Mr. Smith?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you ever read about Ted Bundy? He murdered and mutilated over thirty women, yet he wouldn’t steal an uninsured car because he thought it was cruel. Now, a husband who murders his wife rather than settle for a divorce is clearly psychopathic. His needs come first. His wife is little more than an animated object. She interferes with his needs. He feels justified in disposing of her.”
D.D. didn’t say anything. She was still trying to figure out if she’d just heard a confession.
“But the cat, Sergeant. Mr. Smith. Even if I had objectified my wife to a point where I decided I would be better off without her, what had the cat ever done to me? Maybe I could justify taking my daughter’s mother from her. But harming my daughter’s pet, that would be just plain cruel.”
“Then what happened to your wife, Mr. Jones?”
“I have no idea.”
“Has she ever disappeared before?”
“Never.”
“Has she ever not shown up for something, without bothering to call?”
“Sandra is very conscientious. Ask the middle school where she works. She says what she’s going to do, she does what she says.”
“Does she have a history of going to bars, drinking heavily, doing drugs? By your own admission, she’s still very young.”
“No. We don’t drink. We don’t do drugs.”
“She sleepwalk, use any prescription medication?”
“No.”
“Hang out socially?”
“We lead a very quiet life, Sergeant. Our first priority is our daughter.”
“In other words, you’re just regular, everyday folks.”
“Regular as clockwork.”
“Who happen to live in a house with reinforced windows and steel doors?”
“We live in an urban environment. Home security is nothing to be taken lightly.”
“Didn’t realize Southie was that rough.”
“Didn’t realize the police had issues with citizens who favor locks.”
D.D. decided to declare that interaction a draw. She paused again, trying to find her bearings in a conversation that should be taking place in person and not by phone.
“When you first arrived home, Mr. Jones, were the doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Anything out of the ordinary catch your eye? In the kitchen, hallway, entryway, anything at all as you entered your house?”
“I didn’t notice a thing.”
“When you first realized your wife was not home, Mr. Jones, what did you do?”
“I called her cell. Which turned out to be in her purse on the kitchen counter.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I walked outside, to see if she had stepped out back for something, was maybe stargazing. I don’t know. She wasn’t inside, so I checked outside.”
“Then what?”
“Then I checked her car.”
“And then?”
“Then… what?”
“What you described takes about three minutes. According to the first responders, you didn’t dial nine-one-one for another three hours. Who did you call, Mr. Jones? What did you do?”
“I called no one. I did nothing.”
“For three hours?”
“I waited, Sergeant. I sat on the sofa and I waited for my world to right itself again. Then, when that didn’t magically happen, I called the police.”
“I don’t believe you,” D.D. said flatly.
“I know. But maybe that also proves my innocence. Wouldn’t a guilty man manufacture a better alibi?”
She sighed heavily. “So what do you think happened to your wife, Mr. Jones?”
She heard him pause now, also considering.
He said finally, “Well, there is a registered sex offender who lives down the street.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
On October 22, 1989, a boy named Jacob Wetterling was kidnapped by a masked man at gunpoint, and never seen again. Now, in 1989, I was only three years old, so you can trust me when I say I didn’t do it. But thanks to the abduction of Jacob Wetterling nearly twenty years ago, my adult life was changed forever. Because Jacob’s parents formed the Jacob Wetterling Institute, which got the Jacob Wetterling Crimes Against Children and Sexually Violent Offender Registration Act signed into law in 1994; basically, Jacob’s parents helped create the very first sex offender database.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m an animal, right? That’s the conventional wisdom these days. Sex offenders are monsters. We should not only be denied all contact with children, but we should be ostracized, banned, and otherwise forced to live in squalid conditions under a Florida bridge. Look at what happened to Megan Kanka, kidnapped from her own bedroom by the sex offender living right next door. Or Jessica Lunsford, snatched from her unlocked home by the sex offender living with his sister in the trailer just across the street.
What can I tell you? According to my parole officer, there are nearly six hundred thousand registered sex offenders in the United States. A few of them are bound to behave badly. And when they do, we all get punished, even a guy like me.
I get up, I go to work, I attend my meetings, I keep my nose clean. I’m a regular success story. Yet, here it is, five P.M., I’m wrapping up at work, but mostly I’m waiting to get arrested by the police.
By five-fifteen, when half a dozen squad cars still haven’t careened down the streets with lights flashing, I give it up and begin the walk home. I retrace the day in my mind, trying to control my growing anxiety. After spotting the canvassing officers this morning, I did the sensible thing and went to work. After all, the police will find me soon enough, and when they do, how I’ve spent the hours since Mrs. Jones went missing is going to be a key topic of discussion. As it stands, I was half an hour late from lunch, given my talk with Mr. Jones. This anomaly will stand out, but nothing I can do about it now. I had to talk to the guy. After all, my only hope is that they arrest him
