Captured by S.J. Harper Page B

“Yes, sir. My partner and I had just wrapped up a call when this one came in. We were only a couple blocks away. It’s a small house. We were able to clear it before back up even arrived. We’ve kept everyone else out, just like you asked.”
    The porte cochere that extends from the entrance to the end of the drive looks out of place, an architectural touch more fit for a mansion than this modest middle-class structure. When we reach the edge, Torrance pauses for a beat, shoves his hands in his pockets, glances at the entrance with its cheery welcome wreath. “Looks like at least one kid was held captive in there.”
    He pulls a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wipes his brow. He’s young, probably not long on the job. The strain of a major case shows on his face.
    Despite the heat, I feel a chill run down my spine. I follow his line of sight. We’ve found the place. The place where three children were kept, where two were probably murdered.
    Only there is nothing to distinguish it from millions of other homes in thousands of other cities. Nothing to mark the horror that went on inside such innocuous walls.
    That’s what makes it so frightening.
    We leave Torrance outside. Zack and I don gloves before entering. The living room is bright and sunny with polished wood floors and light yellow walls. It’s tastefully furnished, with an overstuffed sofa and a couple reclining chairs. The mantle over the fireplace is laden with framed family photos. There’s one of Stuart and Stephanie, dancing on their wedding day. Another of Stephanie holding an infant, shot outside so they are bathed in natural light. In both shots, the woman looks relaxed and carefree. She smiles into the camera, her expression calm, composed, as if every wish she dared make had come true.
    “Look at this one.” Zack holds a third photo out to me.
    It’s a studio shot. Based on the Easter motif, I’d guess it was taken about this time last year. Stephanie is kneeling in the grass, a boy in her lap. Stuart is crouched down alongside of them, holding a bunny. There are chicks and brightly colored eggs in the foreground.
    But the face in this photograph is not their son’s. The face belongs to Cooper Anderson. Cut out from what appears to be a recent photo and pasted over that of the Masons’ dead son. I can see there are other faces layered underneath Cooper’s, but I’ll let forensics peel them away. I already know whose faces they’ll be.
    Zack is moving into the next room. I follow him to what turns out to be the kitchen.
    The amount of white is overwhelming. White appliances, white tile floors, white walls, white cabinets. Everything appears neat and orderly. The round dining table is set for two. There’s a pot on the stove, filled with water and sliced potatoes. The oven was left on. I crack it open, smoke rushes out. There’s a forgotten roast inside, burnt to a crisp.
    “Let’s check the other rooms,” says Zack.
    There are only three others.
    The bathroom is like the kitchen: white walls, white tile, white towels. There are three toothbrushes in the holder. One belongs to a child. I’m betting the DNA will match Cooper Anderson’s. We move on to the first bedroom.
    The bedspread and drapes here are floral chintz, the walls a light blue. One nightstand contains two prescription bottles. The first is labeled fluoxetine, the second olanzapine. Both prescribed by a Dr. Benjamin Friedman. I hold them out for Zack to see.
    “These are the generics for Prozac and Zyprexa,” I say. “They’re overdue for refill.”
    “I know Prozac is for depression. I’m not familiar with the other one.” Zack jots down Friedman’s phone number and places the bottle back on the nightstand.
    “Zyprexa is an anti-psychotic,” I explain. “If Friedman is her therapist, he wasn’t doing her much good. Let’s hit the last room and then give Dr. Friedman a call.”
    Zack nods. Lips pursed together, he lets me lead the way down the short hall