Missing Persons

30

I thought she was maybe fifteen years old, but she swore she was seventeen. I didn’t have to ask her age; she was apparently accustomed to protesting that she was older than she looked, and before I’d known her for a full minute she’d insisted she was seventeen, really. Her name was Jenifer Donald. The Jenifer was leavened with only one n, she’d pointed out-the result not of a spelling failure, but rather, I was guessing, of a momentary lapse in judgment by young parents who were intent on making sure their daughter went through life with a distinctive name.

Jenifer was from Clemson, South Carolina, and was in Boulder visiting her grandparents, who lived on the northern edge of Boulder’s original downtown near the intersection of Eighteenth and Pine. “They’re so cute. They really are,” she said, referring to her grandparents. “Some of my friends’ parents are as old as my grandparents. But my grandparents are just so cute.”

“Clemson? That’s where the college is?” I asked.

“The university,” she corrected. It was clear that the distinction was important to her. “It’s where I want to go. I’m hoping for a scholarship, for band. I’m a drummer. I have a good chance, I think. My PSATs were better than I expected. Much better. I take the SATs next month-I hope, I hope, I hope I do well. My parents and my grandparents want me to look at CU, too. I told them I would. That’s why I’m here.” She rolled her eyes. As if anyone would choose the University of Colorado over Clemson.

I found myself warmed by the unfamiliar melody of her lilting voice and loving the openness with which she’d greeted me at the front door of the brick two-story home. Jenifer’s pretty face was as welcoming as her manner. Her blond hair fell in a straight shot well past her shoulders. “What kind of doctor are y’all?” she asked. Her question wasn’t at all suspicious, merely friendly.

When she’d opened the front door, I’d introduced myself as “Dr. Gregory,” hoping the appellation would grant me some advantage with the kid who’d responded to the doorbell. I was already regretting having done it; I couldn’t very well tell her I was a clinical psychologist without leaving her with the implication that Bob had a reason to be seeing one.

“So Bob’s not here?” I asked, changing the subject.

“The guy upstairs in back? That’s Bob? Grandpa calls him ‘the tenant.’ Don’t think so.” Jenifer said “the tenant” in a deep, gravelly voice, mimicking, I guessed, her grandfather’s delivery. “I haven’t actually seen him this visit. I just got in to Boulder today-it’s so cold here, how do you stand it? My grandparents have an appointment somewhere. Pill-ottos, pill-ah-tees. Those machines? We don’t do that much of it in South Carolina.”

She laughed; and her laugh made me smile. She really thought her grandparents were cute and that Boulder was exotic. “Yes, those machines,” I said.

She smiled back and shook her head. “Would you like to come in and wait for him? I’ll fix you something.”

“Thank you,” I said, stepping past her into the house. “You’re a drummer? Marching band?”

“And orchestra,” she said.

A short hallway led to the back of the house. Through a kitchen window I could see the curtained rooms above the garage. “That’s Bob’s?” I asked.

Jenifer said, “You bet.”

“Where are the stairs?”

“Other side, on the alley.”

A pile of mail was visible in a basket on the back porch.

Jenifer saw me looking. “See that? I’m sure your friend Bob would have picked up his mail if he was home.” She lowered her voice to a whisper before she added, “He sure gets a lot of catalogs.”

“I’m sure you’re right. He must not be home.”

“Hey, I’m a pretty good cook. Y’all like grilled cheese? I make a mean Swiss on rye.”

Jenifer managed to make “Swiss on rye” sound almost as alien as blowfish.

I said, “I’m actually kind of worried about him. He and I were going to get together earlier today but he didn’t show up, which isn’t like him.”

“Are you thinking maybe he’s sick?” Her voice blossomed with concern.

I shrugged my shoulders. Bob could indeed be ill; it would explain a lot. I asked, “Is it okay for me to go knock, you think?”

She hopped past me and bounded out the door and across the back porch. “I don’t see why not. Knocking never hurt anybody, did it?”

She lifted the rubber-banded stack of mail from the basket, led me around to the alley, ran up the stairs, and knocked on Bob’s door. Two sharp raps. She cooed, “Knock, knock,” for good measure.

While we were giving Bob much too much time to make his way to the door, Jenifer seemed to be examining my face. She finally scrunched up her nose a little bit and asked, “You really are worried, aren’t you?”

I said, “Yes, I am.”

“That’s so sweet. Wait here.” In one fluid motion she jumped down the stairs, and disappeared around the corner. She returned seconds later with a fistful of keys, popped back up the stairs, unlocked the lock, turned the knob, and threw open the door.

“Go have a quick look,” she said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’ll just toss this mail in here so nobody-”

Jenifer took a half step into Bob’s apartment and immediately screamed, hitting a note that-despite a volume that would have made a siren engineer envious-was so high in pitch that it almost disappeared into the range undetectable by human ears.

I hurdled up the steps three at a time, “What-”