shaking and keep putting the wrong key in the wrong lock. Once Iâm inside my apartment, I lean back against my locked and dead-Âbolted door.
Although I usually shower in the mornings, I head to the bathroom, locking the door behind me before stripping down. I stand under the hot water with my eyes closed. I canât stop soaping myself, over and over, then I lean against the shower wall, letting the hot water beat down. Finally, I slump to the bottom of the shower and let the water drip down on my face. I cover my eyes with my hands and sit there until the skin on my fingers turns white and wrinkly.
Now I know. I know the face of evil. I know the kind of person who hurts small children. I now know that it was just as horrific as Iâve always imagined. I canât, I donât want to, think about Caterina. I canât let my thoughts go there, or Iâm going to collapse in a heap and not get up again.
Before I crawl into bed, I double-Âcheck the locks on my door and make sure there are no gaps in the curtains. I get in bed, but then hop back out, flipping on the bathroom light and closing the door so a crack of light escapes into the room.
When I finally do drift off, I donât sleep well. I wake periodically from murky nightmares. All I remember about them is Caterinaâs image superimposed on Jasmineâs face. In the morning, the first thing I do is grab the morning papers. I skip my regular café au lait and drink straight espresso.
Nobody has the Jack Dean Johnson interview except me.
I âM P RETTY MUCH a rock star in the newsroom when I arrive this morning. The editors are ecstatic about my scoop. Other reporters give me high fives as I walk to my desk. The publisher actually sends me a rare e-Âmail:
âGreat job on the Rosarito kidnap interview. Itâs that kind of good old-Âfashioned reporting that makes the Bay Herald essential reading.â
Despite all of this, I have a hard time mustering any enthusiasm. The fact is, Jasmine has now been missing for one week. The chances of her being found alive are slim.
âGet back up to the jail and see what else the big mouth wants to tell you,â Kellogg tells me when I check in with him.
âIâm sure heâs lawyered up by now, but Iâll give it a shot.â
This time when I arrive at the jail, there are news trucks parked everywhere, and it seems like every reporter in northern California is trying to nab an interview. When I get to the front of the line, I submit my interview request. After a few minutes, Iâm told my visit is approved for tomorrow night. An entire twenty-Âfour hours away.
When I find out that I donât have to talk to Johnson today, the tension I didnât even realize was there whooshes out of my body. I have a reprieve. I tilt my head up to the sun, feeling the warmth of its rays on my skin as I walk to my car. I put my key in the ignition and roll down all four windows. Soon, Iâm flying down the highway with my hair blowing in the wind and U2âs âBeautiful Dayâ blasting from my speakers.
A FEW HOURS later, Iâm home, planted in front of my TV with the remote control, flipping from station to station to see if anyone got an interview with Johnson. Nobody did.
For some reason, heâs only agreeing to speak to me. A smile spreads across my face when the TV reporters actually have to use the name of our paper and refer to my interview during their newscasts.
Covering Jasmine Bakerâs disappearance and meeting a man who kidnaps children is making me think of Caterina more than I have in years. Usually, I push back thoughts of her because it hurts too much.
Tonight, I think about the folder in my desk at work. Maybe itâs time to do my own digging into Caterinaâs kidnapping. My mind knows this is a rational, logical thing to do, but thinking of what this would do to my mother makes my stomach ache. I turn off the TV and curl
Although I usually shower in the mornings, I head to the bathroom, locking the door behind me before stripping down. I stand under the hot water with my eyes closed. I canât stop soaping myself, over and over, then I lean against the shower wall, letting the hot water beat down. Finally, I slump to the bottom of the shower and let the water drip down on my face. I cover my eyes with my hands and sit there until the skin on my fingers turns white and wrinkly.
Now I know. I know the face of evil. I know the kind of person who hurts small children. I now know that it was just as horrific as Iâve always imagined. I canât, I donât want to, think about Caterina. I canât let my thoughts go there, or Iâm going to collapse in a heap and not get up again.
Before I crawl into bed, I double-Âcheck the locks on my door and make sure there are no gaps in the curtains. I get in bed, but then hop back out, flipping on the bathroom light and closing the door so a crack of light escapes into the room.
When I finally do drift off, I donât sleep well. I wake periodically from murky nightmares. All I remember about them is Caterinaâs image superimposed on Jasmineâs face. In the morning, the first thing I do is grab the morning papers. I skip my regular café au lait and drink straight espresso.
Nobody has the Jack Dean Johnson interview except me.
I âM P RETTY MUCH a rock star in the newsroom when I arrive this morning. The editors are ecstatic about my scoop. Other reporters give me high fives as I walk to my desk. The publisher actually sends me a rare e-Âmail:
âGreat job on the Rosarito kidnap interview. Itâs that kind of good old-Âfashioned reporting that makes the Bay Herald essential reading.â
Despite all of this, I have a hard time mustering any enthusiasm. The fact is, Jasmine has now been missing for one week. The chances of her being found alive are slim.
âGet back up to the jail and see what else the big mouth wants to tell you,â Kellogg tells me when I check in with him.
âIâm sure heâs lawyered up by now, but Iâll give it a shot.â
This time when I arrive at the jail, there are news trucks parked everywhere, and it seems like every reporter in northern California is trying to nab an interview. When I get to the front of the line, I submit my interview request. After a few minutes, Iâm told my visit is approved for tomorrow night. An entire twenty-Âfour hours away.
When I find out that I donât have to talk to Johnson today, the tension I didnât even realize was there whooshes out of my body. I have a reprieve. I tilt my head up to the sun, feeling the warmth of its rays on my skin as I walk to my car. I put my key in the ignition and roll down all four windows. Soon, Iâm flying down the highway with my hair blowing in the wind and U2âs âBeautiful Dayâ blasting from my speakers.
A FEW HOURS later, Iâm home, planted in front of my TV with the remote control, flipping from station to station to see if anyone got an interview with Johnson. Nobody did.
For some reason, heâs only agreeing to speak to me. A smile spreads across my face when the TV reporters actually have to use the name of our paper and refer to my interview during their newscasts.
Covering Jasmine Bakerâs disappearance and meeting a man who kidnaps children is making me think of Caterina more than I have in years. Usually, I push back thoughts of her because it hurts too much.
Tonight, I think about the folder in my desk at work. Maybe itâs time to do my own digging into Caterinaâs kidnapping. My mind knows this is a rational, logical thing to do, but thinking of what this would do to my mother makes my stomach ache. I turn off the TV and curl
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