Under the frame was a bronze banner which read: 1st Prize Awarded to Carmen Muniz. There was a small plaque alongside the portrait with a black & white photograph of Carmen. The plaque was titled: Follow Your Dreams.
Jack took a seat on a small two-sided white bench in the middle of the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off the painting, off the image of Rebecca. He was shaken to his core, but excited at the same time. He felt privy to something extraordinary that most would dismiss as ridiculous fantasy. But here was more firsthand proof. His head spun with theories, attempts to inject some rationality into what he had experienced over the last few days. He now fully comprehended Leonard’s trepidations; this is why Leonard made him walk in his shoes first. It wasn’t something he could describe — he had to see it for himself. It’s very hard to dismiss something when you’ve seen it with your own eyes. But had Leonard gotten this far? No, he hadn’t dug this deep.
Rebecca’s clues had solved Carmen’s disappearance and her story had opened his eyes to new possibilities about life. But was this exercise solely for his benefit? He bit down, grinding his teeth, angry and frustrated at himself. Jack hadn’t been able to piece together the clues he’d been given and somehow solve the greater mystery. Something is missing! A clue he’d overlooked, an interpretation he’d gotten wrong. The answer was there, right in front of him, staring him in the face. Dammit, Jack, think!
Jack sat for a long while, feeling worthless. He’d begged for a chance to solve this case, to make good on his promise — and he’d been granted that opportunity in the most amazing of circumstances. He was getting closer, he could feel it. But his detective’s acumen wasn’t up to the task. He was blowing it.
He wanted to call Leonard, discuss it, get his thoughts, tell him maybe he would get a chance to re-write theology after all. But that conversation was miles long, and Jack didn’t have the time. He had a murder investigation to solve, a killer to catch.
His cell phone rang, he let it buzz a few times. He was going to let it go to voicemail — But what if it’s Laura? The guilt was still fresh from the other day.
“Hello?”
“Jack, it’s Harrington. Get back to the station, quick.”
“What’s going on?”
“We got him.”
CHAPTER 47
Laura paced in the kitchen, holding the phone to one ear and her other hand to her forehead. Her hair hadn’t seen a shower in days. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ted.”
She listened to the answer.
“What about Val, can’t she fill in?” Laura tensely twisted the cord with her fingers. “Well, I have a situation here, I just can’t make it right now.”
She looked out the window at a potted plant wilting in the cold, dry winter air. She had meant to bring it inside. It was all but dead now. Just another thing that had taken a back seat on her priorities list. Can’t even care for a potted plant. What am I doing in charge of a human being?
“Fine, do what you have to. I’m sure I can get another job in a grocery, it’s not like it’s a fucking career. Yeah, fuck you too.” She hung up and peeked over her shoulder, hoping Rebecca was not in earshot. Not that she hadn’t heard her utter that phrase to her father a thousand times during their divorce.
Laura hung up the phone. She sighed weakly into her hands; no strength left, even for outbursts of frustration. She lit a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling angrily, falling deeper into depression.
She picked up the phone again and dialed, inputting the last known number of her nomadic ex-husband. The operator came on to tell her that the number was no longer in service.
She moved through the living room to the back door. She looked out into the yard, thinking Rebecca was on the swing, but the creaking metronome she’d heard was a persistent wind blowing it back and forth.
She headed upstairs to check on her. She entered her bedroom — empty — the grilled cheese sandwich and glass of milk she’d made her for lunch was still sitting on the table by her easel, untouched. “Rebecca?”
She checked every room upstairs. “Rebecca?” Her voice grew nervous.
She raced back downstairs and spun in place, not sure where to look next. She turned and went through the side door into the garage. The garage door was open, the cold blast of the outdoor air chilled her skin.
She saw Rebecca’s bicycle was missing.
CHAPTER 48
Harrington briefed Jack as they walked through the precinct hallway towards the interrogation area. There was an electricity in the air, Jack could feel his hands trembling with adrenaline.
“Name’s Teresa Mason, 26, she managed to give a description before she passed out,” Harrington said.
“Mason? Doesn’t sound like his M.O.”
“HP cornered the bastard on the interstate, she gave a pretty solid ID to a neighbor who called it in. I think we got him, Jack.”
“How is she?”
“Critical condition, suffered massive trauma to the head. Put up a good fight; they’re not sure if she’ll make it.”
They entered the holding area adjacent to the interrogation room. Jennifer stood near the two-way glass, watching the suspect. He sat alone in a chair, light shining on him overhead, the rest of the room dim.
Jack stepped up to the glass, peering in. Can it be this easy? My incompetence so immense that you had to hand deliver him to my doorstep?
“Who is he?” Jack asked. Jennifer read from a printout:
“Edward Bishop, 42, plumber, has a prior record of sexual assault of a minor, served four years. Spent time at Northville Psychiatric Hospital on four separate occasions, self admitted.”
Bishop sat slouched in his chair. He was boyish looking; wiry brown eyes so dark they were almost black. A thin, pointed nose. Scratches on his cheek. He looked disinterested. “He also works part time for Baxter Mills Inc. They contract out bonded cleaning services to offices, municipalities, schools. They’re under contract to several universities in this area.”
Jennifer handed the report to Jack.
“Someone should talk to Baxter about their employee vetting process. They search the vehicle?”
“We found a black duffel bag in his van,” Harrington said, “gloves, rope, knives, and wire, along with these.” Harrington placed a few professional looking laminated ID cards on a table, all different occupations, all had Bishop’s photo. “We also found several stolen laptops.”
“Forensics is running a trace on the vehicle for blood samples,” Jennifer said.
“What about his residence?”
“They’re tossing it as we speak,” Harrington said.
Jack shot an anxious look towards Harrington. Harrington shook his head. “They didn’t find anyone.”
“How long has he been here?”
“I called you as soon as they brought him in, wanted you to be the first to speak to him.” Jack turned to look in again at Bishop. He’d seen him before. His picture, his prior arrest. He was one of hundreds of potential suspects he had studied during the investigation.
Jack walked out and around to the interrogation room entrance, taking a moment to compose himself. He slowly turned the handle and entered.
Bishop stared at the floor as Jack approached. Harrington entered behind Jack and closed the door.
Jack bypassed his usual tactic of pushing the table across the room, leaving the suspect exposed. He had so many questions, he didn’t want to start out confrontational. There was too much work to be processed between them. He took the seat across from Bishop. Harrington stood behind Bishop, his arms folded.