Gone (17 page)

“Peggy Ann, if we do make contact with Dougie,” Kimberly asked abruptly, “can you think of anything we can say to him, anything or anyone that might get his attention? Does he have a favorite toy or an invisible friend? Maybe a memento from his mother?”

Peggy Ann gave her a sad smile. “What do you think he used to start the fire in the Donaldsons’ garage? He gathered together all his personal possessions—his clothes, his toys, his pictures of his mom—and he set them aflame. Every last item. There’s not even a portrait of his own mother left.”

Kimberly honestly didn’t know what to say.

Peggy Ann smiled forlornly. “I hope for his own sake Dougie has a matchbook tonight.”

“Why?”

“Have you checked the thermostat? It’s dropping into the low forties. And if he’s already cold and wet . . .”

The rest didn’t need to be said. “We’re doing everything we can,” Kimberly reiterated.

Peggy Ann wasn’t fooled. “And yet when it comes to Dougie Jones, all that we can do is never nearly enough.”

26

Tuesday, 9:01 p.m. PST

K
INCAID KICKED OFF THE TASK
force debriefing by having Shelly Atkins go first. It was a subtle but effective dig at the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department, as Shelly had already admitted she had nothing to report.

“We’ll go round the table,” Kincaid announced at promptly nine p.m. “Catch everyone up on where we’re at with our individual efforts. Then we’ll discuss protocol for tomorrow’s exchange. Shelly, what do you have?”

Shelly, sitting across the table from Kincaid, blinked in surprise. She stared at Detective Spector, sitting to Kincaid’s right, then at the hostage negotiator, Candi Rodriguez, sitting on Kincaid’s left. Finally, she sighed, knowing an ambush when she saw one, and got on with it.

Kimberly walked into the conference room just as Shelly stood to make her report. Quickly, she slid into the chair Quincy had saved between him and Mac, using her hand to wipe the rain from her face. Only one other seat remained empty, for OSP Detective Alane Grove. Apparently, Kincaid wasn’t in the mood to wait for even his own people. He made a motion with his hand, and Shelly started talking.

As discreetly as she could, Kimberly nudged her father’s elbow and sketched a quick update on the yellow legal pad in front of him. She wrote:
Luke Hayes = no. Lucas Bensen’s son???

Quincy stared at that notation for a long time.

“So, as per the last meeting,” Shelly was saying roughly, “the sheriff’s department has had two primary tasks. One, we’ve been checking local offenders’ alibis, as well as rattling some cages. Two, we’ve been involved in the search for seven-year-old Douglas Jones. As for our first mission, we drew up a list of twenty-seven ‘people of interest.’ As of this time, we have personally visited twelve of these individuals. Eight have been definitely ruled out as having alibis. Three we have moved to the ‘unlikely’ category. One remains a ‘person of interest,’ as well as the other fifteen, whom we hope to visit shortly.

“Now, during one of these visits, the individual in question volunteered a list of names he thought might be willing to kidnap a woman for ransom. Several of these names were already on our list. But three more emerged that I have added to the ‘people of interest’ column, bringing that total to nineteen local males.”

She glanced over the table at Kincaid, cleared her throat. “I’ll be honest. Given the late hour, and all of the other responsibilities my people have, it is doubtful we can clear nineteen names by ten a.m. tomorrow. We’ll keep at it until midnight, then I’m going to start sending my officers home in five-hour shifts, so that everyone can grab at least a little shut-eye by morning. What names we don’t have cleared—I’m guessing it’ll be a good dozen—I’ll flesh out into mini-profiles for Ms. Candi. Yes, I’ll use bullet points.”

Shelly gave the hostage negotiator a droll look. Candi responded with a sickeningly sweet smile of her own.

“Now, in regard to Dougie. I got three deputies coordinating efforts with the local search-and-rescue team, as well as the fire department, and about two dozen volunteers. They’ll keep at it for another few hours, but the woods around the Carpenter residence have been pretty thoroughly searched. Either Dougie is hiding and doesn’t want to be found, or the boy is gone, kidnapped as we suspect.”

“Have you spoken to the foster parents?” Kincaid asked.

“I haven’t, but one of my deputies has.”

“And?”

Shelly shrugged. “And what? Stanley Carpenter personally thinks Dougie has run away—according to him, Dougie remains a hellion, willing to do anything to avoid taking responsibility for his actions. ’Course, last we knew, Dougie was alleging that Stanley’s abusive. The person in charge of sorting all that out is Rainie Conner, who is our first kidnap victim and can’t exactly be reached for comment. Do I think Stanley’s telling the truth? Hell if I know. Do I think Dougie has been kidnapped or willfully ran away? Hell if I know. I only slept four hours out of the past forty. I’m just happy I’m standing up straight.”

Kincaid blinked his eyes. “Fair enough,” the sergeant said. “Did you go inside the home?”

“No, Deputy Mitchell paid the visit. The Carpenters are cooperating. Stanley’s alibis—working all day, football practice at night—both checked out. Laura spent the day home alone, so it’s a bit harder to account for her time. They allowed Deputy Mitchell to walk through the house and tour the kid’s room. It’s pretty bare, just a mattress and a sheet. The window is nailed shut and the door locks from the outside, which made Mitchell uncomfortable. But again, according to Stanley, Dougie has a history of breaking out of foster homes and committing arson, which is consistent with what we’ve heard.”

“I’d like to send the crime lab there, see what they might be able to turn up.”

Shelly shrugged. “We can try it. I think Mitchell would tell you there’s just not much to search in Dougie’s room. No desk, no books, no dresser, no toy chest. In his cursory inspection, he couldn’t even discover a trash can. I don’t know. Maybe turning a kid’s room into a jail cell is the only way. Now see, this is why I stick to horses.”

“Did Deputy Mitchell speak with Laura Carpenter?” Kimberly spoke up.

Shelly turned toward her. “She was present when he entered the home, but it sounded like Stanley did most of the talking.”

“And did this strike Deputy Mitchell as odd?”

“You’re asking does Stanley rule the household with an iron fist?”

“I met Laura Carpenter earlier today. I was . . . concerned by her seeming lack of interest or involvement with her foster child.”

Shelly considered it. “Mitchell didn’t say anything, but I could follow up with him.”

“Do you have a deputy you consider an expert in domestic abuse cases? Or maybe an officer you consider better at speaking with battered women?”

“I do.”

“I would send that person for the follow-up visit, see if he or she could get Laura alone. Stanley is never going to tell you anything. But maybe, if we reached out to Laura . . .”

Shelly was nodding. “That makes sense. Consider it done.”

Kincaid cleared his throat, and ruffled the papers in front of him. It was his meeting, after all. “So, Kimberly. Sounds like you’ve had a busy evening. Anything you’d care to share with the task force?”

“I simply did some follow-up on Dougie Jones,” Kimberly said casually. She had no intention of mentioning her visit to Luke Hayes, nor, she knew, would her father want her to. “I paid a visit to his social worker, Peggy Ann Boyd, who was actually Dougie’s neighbor when he was born. According to her, Dougie’s always been very precocious, but at least for the first four years of his life, he was very well loved. Unfortunately, his mother was killed in a hit-and-run accident. When no family claimed him, he became a ward of the state, and his adventures with his various foster parents began. She insists that deep down inside, he’s still a good kid. He’s very angry right now, however, and in her own words, he needs that rage more than he needs to be loved.”

“In other words, nothing we didn’t already know.”

“I asked if there was any good way to reach out to Dougie. A special memento he might hold dear, a stuffed animal, blanket, whatever. According to her, he destroyed all of his personal possessions during the first fire he set in his foster parents’ garage, including each and every photograph of his mom.”

“Ah jeez,” Shelly murmured from her end of the table, while the other officers shifted uncomfortably.

“I think Dougie still loves his mother very much,” Kimberly said softly. “I think if someone exploited that information the right way, they could manipulate even a tough, suspicious boy like him. Say, lure him closer to their vehicle, or even convince him to go for a ride.”

“Meaning, you’re thinking he has been kidnapped,” Kincaid stated bluntly.

“Before, even with the ransom note and the beetle . . . Maybe Dougie is only seven years old, but by all accounts he’s quick, strong, and deeply distrustful of strangers, not the kind of boy who’s going to go without a fight. So how did our guy grab this kid without anyone noticing? In the beginning, that thought troubled me. But now . . . I can see how it might be done.”

“Do you think Dougie is a second kidnap victim,” Kincaid asked steadily, “or have you considered that he might be an accomplice?”

“Seven is a bit young to be considered an accomplice.”

“You know what I mean.”

Kimberly hesitated. She did know what he meant and it wasn’t a pleasant thought, but one that bore considering. “It’s possible Dougie’s aiding whoever took Rainie,” she said, after a moment. “He’s angry, isolated, young. Clearly, that would make him a target for coercion.”

“I’d like us all to keep our minds open when it comes to Dougie Jones,” Kincaid said briskly. “There are two pieces of this puzzle that continue to trouble me. One, that Dougie Jones seemed to know Rainie was missing before anyone else did. Now maybe it was purely coincidence, maybe he asked if she was missing because he wanted her to disappear. As Sheriff Atkins so eloquently put it, who the hell really knows when it comes to kids. However, that brings me to the second point: It appears more and more that Rainie was a targeted victim. Furthermore, that whoever took her knew a great deal about her and her life. Now, according to Mr. Quincy, Rainie was a private person with a very small inner circle. So who could have learned so much about her without getting on her radar screen? I’m beginning to wonder if these two pieces don’t fit together. Someone knew all about Rainie, because Dougie Jones told him. And Dougie Jones knew Rainie had disappeared because . . .”

“He helped set her up,” Quincy filled in quietly.

Kincaid nodded. “At this stage, it’s just a theory, of course, but one we can’t rule out. Hence my desire to search Dougie’s room.”

“Not his room,” Kimberly said abruptly, eyes narrowing. “In Dougie’s world, that house is clearly controlled by Stanley, it’s enemy domain. The outdoors, in the woods, that’s where Dougie feels most comfortable. If he wanted a place to stash his treasures—say, a special rock, or his beetle collection, or who knows, notes from a new ‘friend’—that’s where they would be. In a tin can stuck in a tree or buried under a boulder. You know, someplace secretive, but accessible to a seven-year-old.”

“More quality time outdoors,” Shelly deadpanned.

“Maybe your deputies, as long as they’re there, searching the grounds . . .” Kincaid suggested.

“Getting soaked to the bone.” Shelly rolled her eyes. “I’ll get to work on the warrant. Chances are something like that isn’t going to be lying around in plain sight.”

She sighed, made a note on the pad in front of her, and the debriefing moved on.

Detective Ron Spector from the OSP had an update from the two primary examiners who’d arrived from the Portland Crime Lab—which, interestingly enough, was located in Clackamas.

“It’s good news, bad news,” Spector reported. “Car is in the process of being towed to the lab to be worked overnight. At the scene, they did a cursory exam of the interior with high-intensity lights. In the good-news department, no sign of blood, plus they discovered an imprint of a shoe tread pattern on the brake pedal, as well as a variety of fiber, trace, etc. So they anticipate plenty of evidence to process—whether any of it is helpful remains to be seen. Bad news is—this rain is killing us. Nothing is conclusive until the car dries out, but the scientists aren’t optimistic about recovering anything from the exterior of the vehicle. Needless to say, recovering trace evidence from around the vehicle is also considered hopeless.

“Latent Prints also plans on spending more quality time with the vehicle tonight. In the interest of speed, they printed the rearview mirror, interior door handle, and gearshift, which are the most likely places to get results. The mirror yielded a full thumbprint. They’re running a comparison of it now against the victim and her family.” The detective glanced at Quincy, cleared his throat, then continued.

“The first note has already arrived at the lab. It’s taking a quick spin through Latent Prints and DNA, before QD—Questioned Documents—does their thing. Bad news here is that DNA in particular is going to take some time, plus we happen to have a big load in-house at the moment. We’re looking at weeks, if not months, for the finished report, not tomorrow at ten a.m.”

Spector glanced at Kincaid. The lead detective shrugged. It wasn’t even worth arguing this was a high-priority case. They were all high-priority cases.

“Finally, the victim’s gun has also been printed and sent to the lab. One of the primary examiners, Beth, is already on her way back. She’ll test it for trace evidence tonight, then get it to Ballistics. They have a report they’re going to need you to fill out”—Spector nodded toward Quincy—“about your wife’s gun habits. Does she always clean it after firing, etc., etc.? It’ll help them determine if the gun had been fired recently.”

“She does always clean it,” Quincy answered. “And it hasn’t been fired recently. We would’ve been able to tell from the smell.”

Spector shrugged. The lab needed to do what it needed to do, and it was not the detective’s place to argue. “In conclusion, there’s plenty to process. Unfortunately, a great deal of it is periphery evidence. The primary crime scene—the roadside where the victim was most likely abducted—has been destroyed by the elements. And sure, we can send the scientists to the woods where Dougie Jones lives, but I think they’ll tell you the same thing. Trace evidence simply can’t survive these conditions. It’s a fact of life.”

Kincaid nodded glumly, the detective’s report not telling any of them anything they didn’t already know. In a case such as this one, with no suspect and a thirteen-hour window before the next contact, it was assumed that any evidence report would arrive too late to be of use to them. Instead, the information would be leveraged later, by a DA building a case to go to trial. What remained to be determined by Kincaid and the task force was what kind of trial it would be: one for kidnapping, or one for murder?

Kincaid cleared his throat, turning toward Mac for an update on procuring the ransom money, when the conference room door burst open. Alane Grove pushed into the room, still shaking out her umbrella and looking positively wired.