Chapter 1

 

24 Hours 17 Minutes

 

Wednesday 10:39 a.m.

 

Like most interrogation rooms, this one is small, furnished with only a simple wooden desk and three somewhat padded chairs. A computer screen stares at me as I sit at the desk. It’s hard to imagine how many others have been in this room doing the same thing I’m doing—searching for one particular face in an ocean of thousands.

With the push of a button, a photo flips past, then another, until the faces become a blur, a sea of images on a screen. So far this morning, I’ve viewed several hundred photos, and none resemble the kidnapper or victim.

Did I even see the man’s face as clearly as I thought? Even though we were within inches of each other, am I sure what he looked like? Is it possible that I misinterpreted what was happening? I know he put a cloth over the woman's nose and mouth and dumped her crumpled body into the trunk of the old blue car.

So, how does anyone misunderstand something like that? I laugh and dismiss the idea. Yes, I know what he looks like. I remember every dimple, every pimple, and every hair on his face. I’ll never forget what he looks like, perhaps never.

Weary, I slide the chair back and stand. I’m exhausted from spending hours scanning faces. My body is sore from sitting so long, and I’m disgusted with the tediousness of my task. I’m tired of looking at mugshots of thieves, murderers, and other criminals. It’s a waste of time. I want to do something—something that will help find her! But what?

Thankfully, the sketch artist, Holly Sampler, captured the kidnapper’s primary characteristics—his curly, dirty-blonde hair, scraggly beard, thin lips, and the small mole on his left cheek, with speed and accuracy. However, his eyes posed a problem. And no matter what shape we tried, something was off about them, so we never achieved the desired result.

Ms. Sampler compiled the sketch of the woman with little input from me. She drew the victim’s long, smooth, chestnut-colored hair and sculpted facial features in a single attempt. I hope my description is accurate. I had a hard time seeing the woman when she was lying unconscious or, God forbid, dead in the trunk.

Still, it’s difficult to describe one person, much less two. I only saw them for a few minutes in a tense situation. Sadly, nothing more can come from a second meeting with Ms. Sampler, but that’s what I’m supposed to do this afternoon. I roll my eyes at the mere thought of discussing facial details again.

As I move around the desk, I can’t suppress my yawn. After sitting so long, I stretch my arms and jiggle them to get the blood flowing. As I walk past the large window next to the door, I spot Detective Tomas Benson coming down the hall. He looks much more rested and less strained than when I met him at the hospital yesterday. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, and his face looks refreshed, no longer drawn and tired.

I didn’t make a perfect first impression on him, either. At least today, I’m not lying on a hospital bed getting stitches in my head. And I’m not soaking wet from falling in a puddle of icy water, blood oozing down my head, and moaning in pain. That wasn’t my finest moment. At least he’ll see me cleaned up and dry in a fresh setting today. As I straighten my top, I move away from the window and wait to see if he comes in.

The detective cracks the door just wide enough to poke his head around. His lips curl to one side in a half smile as he greets me.

With several fine creases etched into the corners of his gentle light brown eyes, I’d guess the detective is in his late forties to mid-fifties. He stands about five-eleven to six feet tall and towers over my petite frame. He’s a handsome man with a kind of magnetic appeal. The transition of his short, well-trimmed, dark mustache into his gray-flecked beard softens his facial features. His collar-length, salt-and-pepper hair lies in soft waves, giving him a younger, more stylish look than most men his age.

The black Patagonia winter jacket he’s wearing is a perfect fit over his simple brown knit henley, defining his athletic build. I can see myself being attracted to him—if he were a little younger. I blush at the idea and grin.

“Morning, Miss Preston. You’ve been at it for quite a while. After this long, I bet you need a break. Why don’t we get some fresh air.”

Before I can object, Detective Benson picks up my dark blue wool coat from the back of the chair, guides my arms through the sleeves, and then leads me from the room.

Using his hand on my back to direct me, the detective leads me through the narrow corridor past several detectives who nod. He continues to the central area of the police station where most officers work. Directing my attention to specific officers, Detective Benson calls them by name and tells me about their areas of expertise. Now and then, some officers stop what they’re doing, raise their heads, and acknowledge us as we walk past.

At one point, I spot the two officers who came to the hospital yesterday, the pricks who all but mocked me. They nod at Detective Benson, Cheshire cat smiles plastered on their faces. The detective tips his head in response, his eyes unblinking, his jaw rigid.

After we pass, the detective mumbles to himself, “Pricks.”

I look up at him and smile, thankful he’s the one working on this case.

As we walk through the central area, I feel self-conscious, like everyone is looking at me, so I avoid eye contact with most of the officers. I can’t help but wonder if they presume I’m leading them down a blind alley the way the first two I spoke with yesterday did. But no matter what they think, I can’t let my speculation about their thoughts intimidate me.

So, I hold my head high and plop my warm, fur-lined bucket hat atop my honey-brown hair. I wrap my burgundy wool scarf around my neck and tuck the ends inside my coat as we near the exit. My feet scurry, working to keep pace with the detective’s long stride.

“There’s a cafe down the block, on the corner. It’s a nice little place to sit and relax for a bit. It’s just a short walk if you’re up to it,” he suggests. He pulls a wool scally cap from an inside pocket and places it on his head before we step onto the snow-shoveled sidewalk.

The detective’s accent is apparent but not overpowering, and I can’t help but grin. Although I’ve lived in Boston for almost three years, I’m still intrigued by an authentic Bostonian dialect.

Detective Benson was the first officer to accept what I said to be true yesterday. He sat down with me and listened to my account of the kidnapping. He doesn’t seem to see me as some strange, neurotic person making up a wild story for attention.

Even though I’ve just met him, Detective Benson appears to be an excellent detective. He’s been helpful and kind. I feel comfortable—safe—when I’m around him. Despite being direct and assertive, he doesn’t come across as intimidating.

The first officers I spoke with yesterday, Detective Brandy and Detective Gallion, are the detectives I spotted at the station house. They suggested I got the gash on my head from an accidental slip on the icy pavement—accidental, meaning I was in a hurry and ignorant of the weather hazards. When I told them a man kidnapping a woman shoved me backward, they shook their heads and grinned at each other. They treated me like some hysterical woman with a giant imagination.

All cocky and condescending, those officers were so full of themselves. What made them assume I imagined the whole thing while I was unconscious? Both tried to conceal their giggles, but their rudeness was apparent. The detectives said a woman my size, in her right mind, wouldn’t try to stop a big man from abducting someone. They made it plain they didn’t buy my story, and having to make out a police report annoyed them even more. They even made me sound deranged in the written document. No wonder people don’t report crimes. Who wants to deal with assholes like them?

When I recall the kidnapping, I realize how dangerous my actions were. Confronting that guy wasn’t the most brilliant move I’ve ever made, that’s for sure. But I've always been the one to defend the underdog, even when I was a kid. I can’t count the number of times in grammar school I got my butt kicked by bullies when I tried to stop them from picking on other kids. Despite being small, like the ones they bullied, I didn’t just stand by and watch.

And again yesterday, I tried to help‌ the underdog—the woman. Since no one was around but me, I had to help. My only regret is not getting the tag number, but I couldn’t do that lying unconscious on the ground. If I had thought about it, I could have gotten it before I rushed in the way I did. When I saw the man behind the woman, his hand over her mouth and her struggling to get it off, my reactions kicked in. I didn’t think about what might be the best thing to do. I had no time to think, only act. It all happened so fast!

Detective Benson said I was lucky the man didn’t take me too, that he just slung me to the ground instead of pushing me into the trunk. As I swipe my hand across the back of my head and touch the line of stitches through the bandage, a twinge of pain shoots through my scalp. It seems the detective was right. I was lucky that my only injuries were a small gash and a sore head. If the man had thrown me in with that woman, I’d be wherever she is, if not dead.

Even now, the fear I saw on the woman’s face haunts me. I sense her fate lies in my hands, my finding the one person I’ve spent hours searching for. The one image I can’t erase from my mind.

The kidnapper’s face.