biggest targets of sexual abuse.
“Did they ever solve her father’s murder?” Alan asks.
Callie flips back through pages in the file. “No.”
“And?” I ask. “Did the evaluator take that up?”
“Oh yes. It was a big concern for him.” She flips pages, one and then another. “He spent quite a bit of time on it.”
“What was his conclusion?”
“He concluded that her father’s death had driven her to become a police officer but that he was satisfied it wasn’t an obsession. The usual blah de blah about how the police force, as a group, had become her father figure. The matriarchy—Mom—had betrayed her, so she identified with a largely patriarchal group like law enforcement.”
“I see some truth to that,” James says.
“She was driven,” I say, “but not obsessive. Driven to what?”
James considers the question. “Competence, for one,” he answers. “Competence, as a law-enforcement officer, would be very important. She empathizes with the victims, so shoddy work would be anathema to her.”
“Her sense of injustice would be highly developed,” I say, picking up the thread, “the little guy getting the short end of the stick. Really, if you think about it, she’d have to be obsessive to some degree. Not about her father’s murder, maybe, but any case she was on would get her full attention. Unsolveds would weigh on her. She’d be the kind of cop who takes case files home with her.”
“All of which bears out in her personnel history,” Callie says. “She was in patrol for the required four years and did very well. Numerous commendations, almost all of them unsolicited and from citizens. The only complaints from that time are from other cops.”
“Detectives, right?” Alan asks.
Callie looks up at him, surprised. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“I know the kind of cop she was. See, patrol is usually first on the scene, but they’re not investigative. It’s their job to contain things and turn it over to the relevant detective squad. Patrol does all the grunt work, but they’re not generally a part of the investigation.” He shrugs. “You get a cop like Hollister, she’s a pit bull. Gets her teeth in and can’t let go. She feels like the detectives aren’t giving a case the attention it needs, she bugs them about it. Maybe she goes out and does interviews she wasn’t asked to do or digs up some new evidence. Some cops appreciate that. It’s all about the solve, the victim, so no problem.” He grimaces in distaste. “But you get the few assholes that are caste-oriented. It’s about territory and status, and they don’t appreciate someone in patrol doing more than what they’re supposed to, regardless of results.” He smiles. “They usually go on to become police commissioners.”
“What happened after the four years in patrol?” I ask.
“She was promoted to detective. She started in juvenile crimes and was there for almost two years. She went from there to vice.”
“Mom to whore,” Alan says. “Nice to know some things haven’t changed since I was in the LAPD.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“She got put into juvenile crimes because she was a woman. They figure women will relate to the kids better because women are mommies, so forth. Then she was put into vice, which can be a great unit to build a jacket with, but I can guarantee you she didn’t start on the plum side. They stuck in her some thigh-high boots and a miniskirt, and she was out there catching johns.”
“True,” Callie confirms, “but our pit bull didn’t let that stop her. She forged relationships with other prostitutes over a year period. She parlayed that into a medium-size bust of a human-trafficking ring. People took note, and somehow she ended up in homicide.”
“Burns,” Alan says.
“The detective?” I ask.
He nods. “He was her hook into homicide. She had the chops, of course, but that’s almost never enough. You need someone watching out for you too. Putting in the good word. I’d bet money that for her, that was Burns.”
“Be that as it may,” Callie continues, “homicide is where Heather really hit her stride. She had a very good solve rate.” She raises her eyebrows in appreciation. “Very good. She was promoted to second grade on merit within six years.” She looks up from the file. “Just before she went missing.”
“How old is she?” I ask, wondering why I hadn’t asked this question before.
Callie consults the file. “She’s a hair past forty-four.”
“If she’s been gone for eight years,” James notes, “she was abducted when she was thirty-six. Her sons were two, meaning she waited until she was thirty-four to have them.”
“Not so old,” I say.
“No,” he allows, “but it keeps with the profile of career coming first. She waited until she’d been in homicide for almost four years. Until her position was secure.”
“Tell me about her marriage,” I say.
Callie goes back to the file. “Douglas Hollister. Systems administrator for a nationwide Internet service provider. One year older than Heather. They met when she was twenty-six and she was still in uniform. His car had been stolen; she was the reporting officer. They were married two years later.”
“Was he looked at in the initial investigation?” James asks. “He should have been.”
In all crimes against persons, you investigate family first. Sad but true.
Callie puts down Heather’s personnel file and picks up one of five large folders.
“Those all case files?” Alan asks. “Yes,” Callie replies.
He whistles. “They pulled out the stops.”
Callie opens the file and leafs through it. Finds something and stops. “The investigating officer was …” She stops, surprised. “My, my. The investigating officer was none other than Detective Daryl Burns.” She continues reading. “Yes, it appears he zeroed in on the husband. The husband even filed a complaint at one point.”
“Why?” Alan asks. “Besides the obvious reasons?”
“There was trouble on the home front, apparently. During the initial interview, Hollister had said that all was well and lovely in the marriage. That was a lie. Burns found that Hollister had been consulting with a divorce attorney and that Heather had hired a private investigator.”
“The investigator turn up anything?” Alan asks.
Callie pulls a letter-size manila envelope from the file and opens it. She removes the contents and lays them on her desk. We all crowd around. It’s a stack of photographs, 8?10 black-and-whites, five in total. They show a man entering a hotel room with a woman. As they enter, he’s wearing a tie and a furtive look. As they exit, he’s laughing with the woman, and the tie is stuffed in his side jacket pocket.
“Douglas Hollister, I presume,” Callie murmurs.
I pick up one of the photos showing him from the front and study it. He’s a handsome enough man, in an unremarkable way. Short hair, suit fits well enough to tell me he goes to the gym. He has a pleasant, easy smile. It’s the kind of smile that women like, because it belongs on a solid, trustworthy man.
The woman is attractive as well, though not breathtaking. I’d guess she’s about the same age as Douglas Hollister, with a little weight around the middle and a hairstyle that’s five years too old. She’s looking up at him as he laughs.
“She adores him,” I say. I show the picture to James. He nods.
“This was a love thing, not a fling,” Callie says, after her own observation. “She’s not a young hottie-body. Definitely housewife, not coed.”
I flip the photo over and see a date stamp there. “When was Heather abducted?”
“April twentieth,” Callie replies.
“One month after these photos were taken,” I say. “I can see why Burns was suspicious.”
I walk back over to the whiteboard and write on it:
“Let’s get back to the husband. I want to hear about the abduction.”
