News”. The associated headline says “Suspect Identified in the Cooper Anderson Abduction Case”.
“Give us a minute to see what they have.” He cranks up the volume and clicks on the play button.
An attractive blonde with Barbie doll features stands in front of the Anderson home, microphone in hand. “This is Roberta Arnold reporting live with breaking news for WCSC. I’m currently outside the very home from which Cooper Anderson was taken just over seventy-two hours ago. Live5News has learned that the FBI now has a suspect in the abduction of the four-year-old son of our beloved WCSC Meterologist, Brett Anderson. It’s this man.” A copy of the sketch that had been faxed to us from Brett Anderson’s office an hour ago flashes on the screen. “A confidential source close to the case says the man, a United States Postal Worker, has been named a person of interest. If you know him or see him, we encourage you to call our tip line immediately.” The number for the Live5News, not the FBI official tip line flashes on screen.
“Son of a bitch,” growls Zack.
The reporter continues, “Stay tuned to Live5 for more breaking news on the Anderson case. We will update you as soon as more details become available.”
“Who had access to that sketch?” I ask.
Taft is ready with an answer. “No one. Biller and I have the original. Could someone at the school have intercepted the copy I faxed to Zack?”
“Negative,” he says. “I was standing at the machine and pulled it off myself.”
Anderson’s voice roars out again. “Goddam, Beverly! The fax and my laptop are both company property. Faxes that go out or come in are converted into electronic files and stored. She must have someone scouring my documents.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s more than that. The reporter knew the suspect works for the postal service. Beverly must have overheard our conversation in Anderson’s office. Could she have planted a listening device?”
“We’ll do a sweep,” promises Taft. “But I’m afraid the horse is out of the barn. Biller says there are two patrol cars in the immediate vicinity of the Mason’s home. I say we have them go in. The first mention of this was probably fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago now.”
“Send them in,” I say. “Tell them it’s likely a crime scene.”
Zack’s eyes meet mine and something passes between us. Shared emotions—fear, hope, relief, regret.
“Breathe,” tell him.
I’ve been at this a hell of a lot longer than him. Longer than anyone alive. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s never easy.
“The police are at the residence,” says Taft.
I sit back down, lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. Seconds tick by. They turn into minutes. Silence stretches out before us. My stomach roils with anticipation. The faces of Andy Boroson and Mikey Nicolson are indelible on my mind. Not the smiling, happy faces their parents undoubtedly remember. The crime scene photos of their lifeless bodies, eyes wide open, faces frozen in horror. I feel a hand on my shoulder, a light squeeze.
“Are they in?” asks Zack.
“Affirmative.” There’s a long pause then, “There is evidence of a child having been there, but the house is empty.”
I’m on my feet. “We’re on our way. Get a BOLO out on both Mason and the wife. When you find Mason, arrest him.”
By the time we get to the Mason’s eleven-hundred-square-foot house in Summerville the police have secured the scene. The single-story homes on Tabby Creek Circle are close together, fronted by long driveways and green lawns. It’s late enough that the Mason’s neighbors are home from work, early enough that the sun has yet to set. The street is lined with curious onlookers. I imagine the press won’t be far behind.
Zack and I duck under the crime scene tape. The officer who was first on scene greets us. “Agents Armstrong and Monroe?”
“You must be Torrance,” Zack says.
We follow him toward the house.
“Give us a minute to see what they have.” He cranks up the volume and clicks on the play button.
An attractive blonde with Barbie doll features stands in front of the Anderson home, microphone in hand. “This is Roberta Arnold reporting live with breaking news for WCSC. I’m currently outside the very home from which Cooper Anderson was taken just over seventy-two hours ago. Live5News has learned that the FBI now has a suspect in the abduction of the four-year-old son of our beloved WCSC Meterologist, Brett Anderson. It’s this man.” A copy of the sketch that had been faxed to us from Brett Anderson’s office an hour ago flashes on the screen. “A confidential source close to the case says the man, a United States Postal Worker, has been named a person of interest. If you know him or see him, we encourage you to call our tip line immediately.” The number for the Live5News, not the FBI official tip line flashes on screen.
“Son of a bitch,” growls Zack.
The reporter continues, “Stay tuned to Live5 for more breaking news on the Anderson case. We will update you as soon as more details become available.”
“Who had access to that sketch?” I ask.
Taft is ready with an answer. “No one. Biller and I have the original. Could someone at the school have intercepted the copy I faxed to Zack?”
“Negative,” he says. “I was standing at the machine and pulled it off myself.”
Anderson’s voice roars out again. “Goddam, Beverly! The fax and my laptop are both company property. Faxes that go out or come in are converted into electronic files and stored. She must have someone scouring my documents.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s more than that. The reporter knew the suspect works for the postal service. Beverly must have overheard our conversation in Anderson’s office. Could she have planted a listening device?”
“We’ll do a sweep,” promises Taft. “But I’m afraid the horse is out of the barn. Biller says there are two patrol cars in the immediate vicinity of the Mason’s home. I say we have them go in. The first mention of this was probably fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago now.”
“Send them in,” I say. “Tell them it’s likely a crime scene.”
Zack’s eyes meet mine and something passes between us. Shared emotions—fear, hope, relief, regret.
“Breathe,” tell him.
I’ve been at this a hell of a lot longer than him. Longer than anyone alive. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It’s never easy.
“The police are at the residence,” says Taft.
I sit back down, lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. Seconds tick by. They turn into minutes. Silence stretches out before us. My stomach roils with anticipation. The faces of Andy Boroson and Mikey Nicolson are indelible on my mind. Not the smiling, happy faces their parents undoubtedly remember. The crime scene photos of their lifeless bodies, eyes wide open, faces frozen in horror. I feel a hand on my shoulder, a light squeeze.
“Are they in?” asks Zack.
“Affirmative.” There’s a long pause then, “There is evidence of a child having been there, but the house is empty.”
I’m on my feet. “We’re on our way. Get a BOLO out on both Mason and the wife. When you find Mason, arrest him.”
By the time we get to the Mason’s eleven-hundred-square-foot house in Summerville the police have secured the scene. The single-story homes on Tabby Creek Circle are close together, fronted by long driveways and green lawns. It’s late enough that the Mason’s neighbors are home from work, early enough that the sun has yet to set. The street is lined with curious onlookers. I imagine the press won’t be far behind.
Zack and I duck under the crime scene tape. The officer who was first on scene greets us. “Agents Armstrong and Monroe?”
“You must be Torrance,” Zack says.
We follow him toward the house.
Similar Books
