“There was a guard at the front entrance when I drove in. How would Bobby have gotten past him?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t think Bobby’s here. We’ve looked everywhere.”
Gordon looked about fifty. Age counted for something when you were a cop. If Gordon’s gut was telling him that Bobby Monroe wasn’t here, he was probably right.
“I want to speak with the kids in his class,” I said.
“Follow me. What’s with the pooch?”
“He helps me find things.”
“Good. We could use some help.”
Gordon led me down a hallway to a classroom doorway. We passed a number of rooms filled with kids that were in lockdown mode. Until Bobby Monroe’s whereabouts were determined, none of the children in Lakewood were going anywhere. Gordon put his hand on the doorknob and glanced at me.
“Be careful what you say to the substitute teacher. She’s a nervous wreck, and I don’t want to send her over the edge.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ms. Rosewater.”
We entered the classroom. Ms. Rosewater stood at the blackboard, a plump, pale, bespectacled young woman with her hair tied in a bun. About thirty kids sat at their desks, facing her. Seeing my dog, they stood up in their chairs and started chattering loudly.
“Class, be quiet,” she said.
Her voice sounded ready to crack. I introduced myself.
“I’d like to speak to the children,” I said.
“By all means,” she replied.
I faced the kids and made Buster lie on the floor. My dog was a brown, pure-bred Australian Shepherd with a docked tail-not a common breed. The kids stared at him like he was some exotic animal in the zoo.
“Good morning. My name is Jack Carpenter, and this is my dog Buster. We’re going to help the police find your missing classmate. Before we do that, I need to ask you some questions. Who was the last person to see Bobby Monroe?”
A little girl in pigtails sitting in the front row raised her hand.
“What’s your name?”
“Missy.”
“Tell me what happened, Missy.”
“We were going to gym. Miss Rosewater had us line up by the door. Bobby was right behind me. We went into the hall, and I asked Bobby if he was feeling okay. He didn’t say nothing. I turned around, and he was gone.”
“Did he run back into the classroom? Or down the hall?”
“I don’t know where he went.”
“Why did you ask Bobby if he was okay?”
“He was banging his desk and making really weird noises. I thought maybe he had a bellyache.”
I glanced at Ms. Rosewater. “Which desk is Bobby’s?”
The substitute teacher led me to an empty desk in the room’s center. Over the back of the chair hung a blue knapsack, which I opened and quickly searched. A crumbled candy wrapper caught my eye. It was for a bag of peanut M amp;Ms, and had Harrison Ford’s photo splashed across the wrapper promoting the new Indiana Jones movie. Walking to the front of the room, I held the wrapper in the air.
“Does everyone know what this is?” I asked.
The children nodded as one.
“Good. Which one of you gave this bag of candy to Bobby?”
Their faces turned expressionless. I scanned the room, and settled on a little boy with curly blond hair who wasn’t making eye contact with me. His desk was adjacent to Bobby’s, and I decided he was the culprit. I didn’t like traumatizing kids, but I had to get to the truth. Crossing the room, I knelt down in front of his desk.
“What’s your name?”
“Stuart,” he said, staring at his desk.
“Look at me, Stuart.”
Stuart lifted his eyes, which were moist and met my gaze.
“Did you give this bag of candy to Bobby?”
Stuart hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
“Didn’t your regular teacher tell you not to do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why did you?”
“Bobby saw the candy in my lunch bag, and got all excited. He said that if I gave him the candy, he’d recite all the lines from the latest Indiana Jones movie during lunch.”
“Can Bobby do that?”
“Bobby knows all the lines from the Indiana Jones movies and from Star Wars and a bunch of TV shows. He’s super smart.”
It was not uncommon for autistic children to have amazing memories, and I could see Bobby pressuring Stuart to give him the M amp;Ms.
“Did you see Bobby eat the candy?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Stuart whispered.
“Is that when Bobby started acting strange?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry if I made Bobby sick. I didn’t mean to.”
In order for autistic children to mainstream, their parents often removed sugar and dairy products from their diets, which helped calm them down. Stuart’s bag of M amp;Ms had hit Bobby’s nervous system like a bomb, and Bobby had gone on sensory overload and decided to run. Grabbing Bobby’s knapsack from his desk, I walked to the front of the classroom where Buster lay on the floor. I placed the knapsack in front of my dog’s face, and let him get a good whiff. Buster rose from the floor and walked to the back of the classroom. I was right behind him.
Buster stuck his face against one of the windows that faced the playground. The latch was unlocked, and I pushed the window open. The opening didn’t look large enough for a child to climb through, but I knew from past experience that autistic children were capable of just about anything when they were on tilt. I turned to face Officer Gordon.
“How big is the school property?”
“Twenty acres,” Gordon replied.
“What does it back up on to?”
“Mostly woods.”
“I’m going outside to look around. I’d suggest you round up the teachers and maintenance men who are searching for Bobby, and do the same.”
I headed for the door. Scaling a fence was not difficult for most young boys, and Bobby could have gone just about anywhere. Our chances of finding him grew slimmer by the minute. A thought flashed through my mind, and I turned back to Gordon.
“Do the woods have any freestanding water?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s a large pond.”
“Is it visible from the school grounds?”
“In some spots, yes.”
My shoulder banged the door as I raced from the classroom.
CHAPTER 3
Aater has a magical effect on autistic children. It calls to them like a siren’s song. I found this out the hard way when an autistic little boy who’d disappeared from his home was found on the bottom of his next-door
