The Murder Artist

CHAPTER 8

We sit in the kitchen. “So there’s no news…” she starts, and then her voice fades out.

“I’ll call Shoffler – the detective. I told him we’d check in after we got back from the airport.” I head for the phone. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

But Shoffler is in conference. I leave a message, then make Liz some tea. She sits like a rag doll, slumped and loose-limbed. I wonder if I should get her to a doctor.

“Did you call your parents?” she asks in a listless voice.

“They’re on their way.”

“My mom sort of… broke down,” Liz says. “She’s in the hospital.”

“Oh, Liz…”

“She’s all right, just – you know, she’s sedated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I begged my dad to stay with her, but he’s coming. I couldn’t stop him.” She draws a sharp intake of breath.

She stirs the sugar into her tea for so long, I finally put my hand over hers.

“Oh,” she says, without inflection.

Despite the crowd outside, it’s so quiet I can hear the white noise of the appliances: the hum of the refrigerator, the whine of the air conditioner. It feels almost as if we’re hiding.

She rests her elbows on the table, holds her face in her hands.

“We’ll find them,” I hear myself say. She draws a deep, jittery breath, lifts her face up toward me.

“We will,” I tell her, my voice fervent. “Liz, we’ll find them.”

She searches my face, but whatever she sees doesn’t reassure her. Her face compresses into a red knot of torment. She lowers her head to the table, rests it on her crossed arms, and begins to sob. Inconsolable.

Liz is in the shower when the call comes from Claire Carosella.

“I’m returning your call,” the efficient voice says. “I’m with the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I think my colleague mentioned…”

“Right. She did mention that you’d call.”

“At the Center,” she begins, “we realize parents don’t know what to do when this sort of thing happens, so… someone like me usually calls to offer advice.”

“Right,” I say, not knowing where this woman is going. Advice?

“First things first,” she says. “The media. I’m sure they’re already camped on your doorstep.”

“Yes.”

“Well, they’ll drive you crazy,” she says, “but really, they’re your biggest ally. As soon as possible, you and your wife should go on the air and plead for the children’s return.”

“My wife – she’s really…”

“I’m sure she’s a mess. Believe me, I know…” A pause. “But you’ve absolutely got to do it. It humanizes you as victims, both to the viewing public and to the abductor. Lots of these guys watch, you know. Sometimes, they even get involved in the search for the victim.”

“Polly Klaas,” I say, mentioning the name of a girl abducted from her bedroom in California and later found murdered. A man prominent in the effort to find the little girl, a guy who’d printed and distributed thousands of circulars and was appointed by the girl’s grateful father to run a foundation dedicated to the search for her, had turned out to be a registered sex offender with a history involving young girls.

“Well, yes,” Claire Carosella says, “that’s one example, but-”

“It wasn’t him,” I interrupt, remembering the details. “It turned out to be a different guy.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Yeah.”

My homework. In a couple of hours online, I’ve already learned more about abducted children than I ever want to know. Including the somber fact that most of them – more than half – are dead within three hours of their disappearance.

“Isn’t there a chance these guys get off on the media coverage? The grieving parents, all that?”

A sigh. “Yes. That’s one of the negatives.” Another weary sigh. “But on balance, Alex, going on the air is way more plus than minus. Believe me, the tips, the calls to the hotline, volunteers, you name it – all these things get a big bounce after parental pleas.”

“Hunh.”

“The thing is, it can really help the investigation. And these guys – sometimes they just can’t resist calling in. In which case they might say something that gives the police a lead. It’s like pyromaniacs coming to watch the fire. They want to be a part of it.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “We’ll do it.”

“And just, you know… speak from the heart. Don’t try to write out a speech and read it. It’s better if you… if you just do it. The more emotional, the better.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Some parents choose to do it in a studio, but that means granting an exclusive – that’s up to you. It can be somewhat less intimidating, and the lighting will be better… but… naturally it irritates the other reporters.”

“Hunh.”

“And it can come across as too… composed. I think just outside the house works best. Incidentally, do mention them by name – that’s important. ‘Kevin and Sean.’ Not ‘my sons’ or ‘my children.’”

“Right. Okay.”

Her final advice is unsettling. “I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention this,” she says, and then hesitates.

“Yes?”

“Some families hire public relations advisers,” she tells me. “It’s become quite common with victims groups, you know… the various disease associations, relatives of airline crash victims, that kind of thing. It’s kind of segued over from that sector.”

“You mean…”

“I know it sounds strange, but I’m told it can be a huge plus to have someone to interface with the media, and I am talking about a professional firm, Alex, not a friend. They can also help to maximize your exposure. I mean if the case drags on – they can help keep it in the news.”

“I don’t think…”

“Look, as I said, I’m only mentioning it because it’s something to consider. It’s how the Smart family kept Elizabeth’s case front and center for so long. Even when everybody thought she was dead. Anyway, if you decide to go that way, I can give you a list of firms.”

I thank her, but when I hang up, I feel as if I’ve stepped through a looking glass. My children are missing and they want me to do stand-ups and get a PR rep?

Shoffler calls to tell us that there’s no news from the search parties, but that the switchboard is swamped with volunteers. The plan is to broaden the search.

“Great,” I say, “that’s great.” If my voice lacks enthusiasm, it’s because when I try to remember an instance of one of these big efforts actually locating the target of the search, I can’t think of a single one.

“We’re canvassing people who work at the festival, looking for anyone who saw your boys yesterday. So far, we’re not getting very far.”

“Oh?” This from Liz on the extension in the family room. “That’s strange. Everybody notices the boys.”

It’s true. Identical twins hold a universal fascination. Now that they can tell time, the boys sometimes bet on how long they can be out in public before someone asks the inevitable question: “Are you twins?” Sean went through a stretch last year when he liked to answer no. He thought his deadpan denial hugely amusing, but it irritated people. We were all glad when he got tired of the game.

“Probably just haven’t talked to the right folks yet,” Shoffler says. “Anyway, there is something we’ve learned.” He hesitates just long enough to unnerve me. I feel it in my chest, a little whir of anxiety.

“What?” Liz demands, with a note of panic in her voice. “What is it?”

“We ran the fair employees through a bunch of databases,” Shoffler says. “Computer kicked out one thing of interest – although right off I want to tell you I don’t think this is going anywhere.”

“What?” Liz says in a tight little voice.

“There’s this fella runs a little shop – does face-painting, sells candles and magic wands, that kind of thing. Computer turned up a pedophile conviction.”

“Who?” I demand. “What’s his name?”

“Whoa,” Shoffler says. “Just because he has a prior doesn’t mean the guy’s culpable here. We’re checking out his account of his time and whereabouts, and so far it’s holding up solid.”

“Is he in custody?” Liz asks. “Does he know where the boys are? Can we talk to him?”

“We’ll know for sure about him real soon,” Shoffler says, “but like I said, Mrs. Callahan, I don’t think he’s involved. I just didn’t want the press to spring this on you. Wanted to make you aware.”

I know from the snuffling sound that Liz is crying again.

“I’ll be by sometime today,” Shoffler tells us.

“Jesus,” Liz’s father says as he plunges through the front door. “They’re like a pack of vultures. Where’s my daughter?”

She comes through the door from the kitchen, gives a little cry, and then he takes her clumsily into his arms, patting at her shoulder. “Liz,” he says, “it’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

After a minute, they separate and he extends his hand to me. “Alex,” he says. “Hell of a thing.”

“Thanks for coming, Jack.” It’s an effort to address my father-in-law by his first name. What comes naturally is “Mr. Taggart,” a form of address that the man himself, with his parade-ground posture and stiff manners, might prefer. Jack is a high-school principal. He’s conditioned to expect deference from anyone younger than he is.

It is Liz who either mistrusts or fails to grasp her father’s profound sense of formality, Liz who insists on the tokens of chummy intimacy. On their own, the boys would call Jack “Grandfather” and greet him with handshakes, but when Kevin and Sean were toddlers, Liz decreed that they should call him “Poppy.” She insists on this, and also mandates hugs and kisses. To please her, everyone complies – but only when she’s present. She looks on now, frowning, as her father and husband engage in something that – were it not so brief – might be called an embrace.

“Marguerite – this thing was just too much for her,” my father-in-law says, stepping out of our statutory hug. He shakes his head, disappointment with his wife clear on his strong features. “High-strung,” he mutters, “but” – he claps his hands together – “she’ll be fine.”

Marguerite Taggart is a sweet and warm woman, the yin to Jack’s yang. Now she’s under sedation in the MidCoast Medical Center in Rockland, Maine.

Liz may have wanted her dad to stay with her mother, but I can see that she’s buoyed by Jack’s presence. Jack Taggart is one of those supremely self-confident men who believes he can do anything. This clearly includes finding his grandchildren. He truly believes that once events have been placed in his capable hands, he can promise a positive outcome. It’s irrational to put faith in Jack’s can-do attitude, but Liz is not alone in finding comfort in his presence. I feel it, too.

My own parents are scheduled to arrive about an hour after Jack. I’d pick them up at the airport, but Shoffler and the search unit are due to come by and I don’t want to leave Liz here to deal with them. On the other hand, although Jack blew through the crowd with no problems, my folks lack his imperious presence. They’ll be swallowed alive.

When Dad calls from baggage claim, I suggest he tell the cab to come the back way. All these old blocks in Cleveland Park have service alleys that run parallel to the streets. “I’ll unlock the gate.”

“Okeydoke,” my dad says. “Hey, I see the bags. We’ll be there in a jiffy.”

The plan doesn’t work. My parents’ arrival is heralded by a stampede from the front of the house to the end of the block and then down the alley and into our backyard. From inside we can hear the pounding feet, the ruckus of shouted questions. Jack and I rush out the back door, finding my mother – whose manners do not permit hanging up on a telemarketer – engulfed by reporters and microphones. A blonde with a predatory smile has seized Mom by the arm and wields her huge microphone like a weapon. With a deer-in-the-headlights expression, Mom’s doing her best to answer questions. A few feet from the gate, Dad, grim-faced and tight-lipped, is trying to get through the crowd with his suitcases.

“Any word on the boys’ welfare?”

“Were the boys upset over their parents’ separation?”

“What about the suspect?”

“Was it a contentious separation?”

Once they spot me, the crowd of reporters abandons my parents and converges, circling in fast and instinctively cutting off exit routes, like a pack of dogs. The four of us barely avoid being trapped, blocked from reentering the house.

“Good Lord,” my mother says once we’re inside, letting out a weird little giggle. Her eyes are slightly out of focus, and when we hug each other, I realize she’s out of it, so zonked on Xanax she feels boneless in my arms. Dad gives me a buck-up abrazo, but looks terrible. “We’ll find them,” he says firmly, but his voice is tinny and unsubstantial.

“We will,” I say. “We will find them.” Listening to myself, my voice forced but full of conviction, I realize I’m falling into a weird form of magical thinking. If only I can get the right tone and – like Jack – speak with unassailable assurance, what I say will come true.

Late that afternoon, we stand just outside the front door, elevated a few steps above the jostling crowd of reporters and cameramen. There’s a forest of microphones, a sea of cameras. The hubbub of human voices rises and falls, supplemented by the mechanized chatter of the cameras. The lights flicker in their own crazed rhythm.

Liz stands next to me, flinching from the noise and dazzle. “I’m Alex Callahan,” I begin. I plead with whoever has taken Kevin and Sean to return them, I plead with the public to be our eyes and ears, to call the hotline with any information.

I realize too late that I should have insisted Liz do most of the talking. Even to me my voice sounds polished and composed – my on-camera voice. I try to project my honest civilian desperation, but it doesn’t work. I’m left with a feeling that I know quite well. It’s hard to predict on-camera interviews, who will come off, and who doesn’t work. Today, I fit into the second category. I’m left with the perception of having given a performance, and not a particularly good one.

Liz makes up for it. She can hardly manage a sentence without breaking down in the middle of it, but she goes on anyway, a forced march of bravery so moving I spot the glitter of tears in the eyes of some of the female reporters. At the end, she speaks directly to the boys. “Kevin? Sean? If you’re watching… hang in there, guys. We love you. Daddy and I… we just love you… so much. And we’re going to find you! Wherever you are. I promise! We’ll come and find you. You just… hang on.”

That’s it, she’s wrecked, she can’t go on. She turns hard into me, ramming her face into my chest, crossing her arms over the top of her head as if she’s expecting a physical blow. She sags against me, and I realize after a moment that I’m actually holding her up. Reporters continue to shout questions and the cameras continue their disorienting barrage of light as I half drag my wife back in through the door to our home.

It doesn’t feel like much of a sanctuary.

Fortunately Liz is asleep when the two K-9 officers arrive at the door. Their task is to pick up an assortment of Kevin and Sean’s dirty clothes, including the sheets from the boys’ beds. Duchess – who wears an intricate leather harness – sits at her handlers’ feet, breathing heavily while they divide the clothing into two plastic bags.

“Why are you doing that?” Jack asks, indicating the two bags. “Is one bag supposed to be Kevin’s stuff and the other one Sean’s? Because I think you got things mixed up.”

“Not exactly,” the policewoman replies.

“Well?” Jack demands.

She strokes Duchess. “There’s another dog,” she says, almost in a whisper. “Corky. Another handler works him.”

“Come again?” Jack says. “Could you speak up, young lady?”

Her eyes drift over to her partner and he takes over. “Duchess here is a tracking dog, pure and simple,” he explains. “Goes by scent. I imagine you’ve seen bloodhounds in the movies?”

Jack nods.

“But there’s another type of canine, sir, that’s deployed in these situations, specially trained to detect… well, their expertise is to detect… remains, sir. They can even locate remains in ponds and streams – you know, underwater. It’s amazing.” He looks at the floor.

Jack’s eyes snap shut, and for a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to break down. “My God,” he says, and looks at me. “Not a word to Lizzie about this.”

“Cadaver dogs,” the policewoman whispers. “That’s what they call them.”