Novel Treatments / Behind the Picture Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Twenty minutes away from the accident, in a sprawling subdivision, Lieutenant Matthew Dix sat in his unmarked police cruiser, his feet dangling out the driver’s side door, one hand clutching a clipboard, the other gripping his radio receiver. His laptop was plugged into the police dispatch program, and he watched the words scrawl across the screen, as the dispatcher’s dispassionate voice echoed the words. “Multiple vehicle accident on 285 at exit 4B. All available units report for traffic control.”

He shook his head in silent sympathy for the officers handling that mess, but he had his own worries; he had been at this scene for about forty-five minutes. A call had come in from the woman who lived in the expansive brick two story that his car was now parked across from. She had walked to her mailbox to pick up her mail when she saw the body of the girl lying sprawled across the bottom of her driveway. She thought that the girl had fallen and rushed over to help her up. A quick shake and one look at her lifeless face though had sent the woman screaming up to the house where the maid called 911.

The homicide team was now on the scene, marking off the driveway. He could see Carol Simmons crouched down on her haunches taking photographs of the body from different angles. The flash from the camera blipped through the windshield of the cruiser; it was just starting to get dark and Dix wanted the area combed quickly.

The sight had sickened him. As a homicide detective, he had never gotten used to seeing dead people. This girl, though, made him angry. When he saw this girl, her body sprawled face-down on the pavement, her face turned sideways, her eyes innocently closed, he thought of Stephanie. His daughter was ten, maybe a little older than this girl, but different in looks. This girl was like a cupie doll, blond curls and fair skin with a rosebud pucker that gave her the look of an angel in sleep. Dix couldn’t see her eyes through the closed lids but imagined that they would be blue. In contrast, Stephanie, he mused, was just like his ex-wife, dark haired with pale skin and dark brown freckles gracing her cheek. He imagined this little girl playing dolls like Stephanie, giggling, sitting cross-legged in her bedroom. Yet here she was, dumped out like yesterday’s trash on the curb. A vile taste had risen up in his throat as he had pulled on his too-small rubber gloves to examine the scene.

Carol Simmons had walked over when he first arrived. He needed to interview the homeowner, but he had wanted to find out what he was dealing with. Carol was CID’s forensic expert and she provided a crucial link between homicide, the county medical examiner’s office, and the D.A.’s office. Her serious plain face was a welcome sight.

“We’re still working on the site. Come this way.”

She had handed him some paper elastic shoe covers to place over his loafers and had maneuvered Dix up the driveway to the back of the girl’s turned head, pointing at spots as she dictated.

“Unidentified girl. From what the lady says, she doesn’t know who she is. The girl looks to be about nine or ten. Tiny thing, huh.”

Dix had nodded, taking in the position of the body. He had winced at the pink t-shirt with the short cap sleeves. It had to be forty degrees out and he wondered if the girl had been wearing a coat. She was wearing a blue jean mini-skirt that was pulled tight across her legs, but it was the condition of her striped wool tights that made Dix’s throat tighten. Even with the skirt pulled down, he could see that the tights had been ripped apart at the waist, splitting down the right leg. He could guess by the shreds that the crotch had been ripped. This was not just a murder. The bile had risen in his throat.

Carol had noticed him staring. “Yeah, I think it’s what you’re thinking.” She had motioned with her finger up the leg. “There are some blood stains and what could be semen on the inside of her leg. As far as cause, looks to be strangulation, judging by the bruises on the sides of the neck here.” Carol had been gesturing but not touching. “I am guessing the body was dumped here, but not long after death. See the position of the body. No rigor mortis had set in yet when the body hit the pavement. Also, no scratches on the face, so there wasn’t a struggle on the pavement.”

“Hmm. So she hasn’t been here that long then, has she?”

“Probably not more than an hour since no one else reported the body.”

“O.K.,” he had sighed. “Thanks Carol. I’m going to go talk to the homeowner.”

He had interviewed the woman who owned the house who had very little to give regarding hard information. After much speculation about all the “what if’s,” she had finally gotten around to telling him that she knew nothing about the girl and had not seen or heard anything. As far as she knew, the girl was not a kid from the neighborhood. Dix had radioed into headquarters but no MP’s or Amber alerts had been reported; that was when he heard the news about the man on 285.

“Christ,” thought Dix, “what is this guy, the Terminator?” He chuckled. “Either that, or the Energizer bunny.”

The description of the mystery man’s car immediately alerted Dix. One of the neighbors down the street who had been walking his dog, had pushed through the throng of curiosity seekers and immediately seized on Dix, who was still interviewing the house owner. He had reported that he had seen a red Dodge Neon driving through the neighborhood. He had taken notice, he said, because the man was driving erratically. “That SOB almost ran over me and Boots here,” the man had said, pointing to a slobbering boxer. Somehow the name for the dog had seemed grossly inappropriate for such a massive, hulking dog, and Dix had guessed that if the red Neon had hit Boots, the car would have seen more of the damage.

Dix radioed into the officer who was handling the 285 scene. He was a younger guy who Dix knew vaguely; there were so many new guys in and off the Metro Atlanta force that he could never keep track of them and had stopped doing it some years before.

“I want to know what you find out about this guy,” Dix barked into the receiver. “I don’t want the Neon moved yet. I am sending one of my guys over there right now.”

“Look, we’ve already done a preliminary sweep of the vehicle,” the officer said. We didn’t find much. The car is not registered here in the state. The plates on the back came back stolen.” He paused, probably waiting for an “atta-boy” from Dix, which never came.

“Shit!” Dix groaned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Contamination was all he could think of. What had been lost? Fingerprints? Hair? “Where is the car now?”

“It’s still here. We’re waiting on the wrecker. The suspect actually wrecked two cars – the Neon and an SUV that he hijacked from a bystander. So what’s the interest?”

Dix could detect the hostility in the younger guy’s voice. He had been there once – young, overworked, stupid. He had little tolerance for fuck-ups though, but he realized that he would need to work with this guy. He couldn’t be two places at once.

“I think the guy might have been in the area. I’m down here in Foxmoor. There’s a body of an unidentified young girl found on someone’s driveway. A neighbor I.D.’d a red Neon as being in the area about the time. Your guy might be the assailant.”

Dix knew he would get a full report from the county coroner, but he could already guess at what the report would say. No guy, unless he was Superman, could get up twice after being hit by a car without being hopped up on something. The real question for Dix was not the man’s behavior at the scene of his death, but that man’s relationship to his own Jane Doe lying dead in the driveway. Who was this girl? Dix knew it would not be long before he found out. Pretty little girls like her do not go missing without someone missing them.

His cell phone rang and he cut the officer on the radio off to answer it. The call was from a former partner of his, John Keever, who after a back injury, was now chained to a desk at CID- Homicide, Dix’s division office at metro. “I’ve got an ID on your Jane Doe.” The information came across as more of a challenge from Keever to make him guess what was next.

“So?” Dix waited.

“Do you remember that guy we were talking about at lunch the other day?”

Dix remembered seeing the front page of the business section of The Atlanta Journal and Constitution that the guys had passed between them as they waited at the lunch counter. He had briefly glanced over the article outlining the dangers of computer viruses – a danger made obsolete by the latest and greatest security devices manufactured by the Atlanta-based company Beta Security. There had been a large black and white photo of a man in a suit, the CEO of Beta Security.

“Yeah, and…”

“Well, I bet your Jane Doe is his daughter Amanda. Amanda Gordon, daughter of Clifford Gordon, big-shot. Evidently the girl went missing this morning sometime. The nanny thought she was at school and didn’t know she was missing until she got a call from the school’s attendance clerk. The description matches up. A call was just placed and an officer is on the way. I guess you didn’t hear it. Well anyhow, she’s your girl, I would bet you money.”
“Thanks.” Dix numbly popped the cell phone closed. “Amanda Gordon, huh.” He watched as the girl’s body, now encased in a black bag was loaded carefully into the waiting ambulance. He could barely see now, it was so dark. He fingered the clipboard. He had a long way to go on this one.

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