The young detective on the news had looked unfriendly. Eyes dark and clouded, slightly narrowed even, nearly a scowl on his face as he'd talked about the new Missing Persons Unit the Minot Police Department was implementing. If Cheryl hadn't known any better (and she really wasn't sure if she did), she'd have assumed he hated this job, hated being put in charge of this, maybe even hated being a police officer, but she had other things on her mind. She knew a missing person.
She stared fascinated at the broadcast--most likely a fluff piece to fill in news time--and hung on every word the cranky-looking detective said. Toward the end of the press conference he took a moment to hold up a printout with several faces of children on it, turning it in a half-circle so the entire crowd could get a view, and briefly rattled off their names, stats, and dates of disappearance; judging by how quickly he did this, and the way a few other officials fidgeted behind him, she took it that this part of the conference hadn't been planned. He left the microphone without taking any questions even though a few reporters called some out, and another police officer had to step in instead. Cheryl almost missed the first detective's name as it vanished from the screen, and had just enough time to jot it down on a nearby piece of paper. KRISTEVA. She had no idea how that was pronounced, but surely he would be the only Kristeva on the force.
He certainly hadn't looked happy to be on the news. But the last-minute insertion of the missing children flyer* struck a chord for her, and she looked up the address of the police station in the phone book, because it had been so long since she'd last been there. Obviously, everyone else investigating her uncle's case had lost interest long ago.
Maybe fresh blood would be more willing to look into the matter, even if that fresh blood didn't seem particularly thrilled about the job.
Cheryl got the address but decided to wait a week or so to visit the station, just in case the cranky-looking detective needed a breathing period after the press conference. She'd dealt with the police department long enough to understand how irritating press conferences could be--the inevitable influx of calls and reports and visits such things always entailed, even if none of the people reporting anything had much of importance to say. Some small part of her hoped this was in fact why the detective with the odd name had looked so displeased, and that he in fact had no problems with his job. She didn't know for sure if he was actually new or not, though she'd never heard his name before, and even though her last visit had been a long time back, she was familiar with most of the names on the force.
A week and a half later she arrived at the station and approached the front desk, where the sergeant manning it asked what he could do for her. "I'm looking to speak with Det. Kristevva--" she said the name a bit slowly, still uncertain of the pronunciation as she'd missed that part of the broadcast "--about a cold missing persons case."
She didn't recognize the desk sergeant, and so hoped he wouldn't get exasperated and throw her out; just to be safe, she didn't mention the name of the missing person. He didn't seem particularly interested, anyway, and gestured her into the main room. As she thanked and passed him she wondered how many other people he'd had to wave in just to speak with Det. Kristeva following the broadcast. The station didn't seem any busier than usual, based on what she remembered, so hopefully any influx of useless reports was over by now. She glanced around and didn't see the cranky detective; fortunately, another one (whom she also didn't recognize--had everyone and everything changed here since her last visit?) asked what she was looking for, and led her to a hall at the back, with the mere explanation, "File room," before turning and heading back to her desk. The second door directly on the left was emblazoned with the words "FILE ROOM #1" and was partly open. Cheryl peered within to see a long wooden table with file cabinets to both sides, and more cabinets and shelves beyond those, though the room itself wasn't that large; a file box sat on the table and someone was leaning over it, riffling through the folders and occasionally swiping dust away. She recognized the cranky-looking detective--he was scowling down at the dusty files as he dug through them--but he didn't seem to notice her.
"Det. Kristevva...?" she called softly, hoping not to startle him.
"Kristeeva," he corrected her before looking up, then did so, and blinked as if confused to actually find somebody there. "Can I help you?"
Cheryl paused briefly before slipping inside the door, trying not to fiddle too much with the folder she herself was carrying. "My name's Cheryl Singer...I was wondering if you could give me some information on a cold missing persons case."
Here was where she expected to finally meet with resistance--surely he'd gotten a lot of such requests since the broadcast, and must be tired of them by now--or at least with a swarm of questions--why was she looking for information?--what made her think she was qualified to be informed about anything?--but all that he did was pause himself, as if vaguely perplexed by the request (had anyone stopped in to talk with him after the broadcast, after all?), then put the lid back on the box and shove it to the end of the table. He turned and dusted his hands off as he approached, and she stepped aside as he exited the room. "This way," he said, heading back for the main room, and she followed.
He led her to a somewhat messy desk and pulled the chair away from the desk opposite it (a desk that looked to be empty--apparently he had no partner), gesturing for her to sit. Cheryl did so as he sat in his own chair and pulled a computer monitor and keyboard closer, pressing a button on the CPU*. The computer creaked and ground to life. "This might take a minute...still getting used to the software," he said, typing in his name and password when the login screen finally appeared, then navigating through several more screens, tapping his fingers on the desk each time one of them lagged a little.
Cheryl made herself not fidget. "Are you new here...?" she took the chance to ask, even though she realized it might sound insulting. So far, although he still had that cranky look on his face, he didn't seem nearly as threatening as the news broadcast had made him seem.
"Just transferred from the Sheriff's Department." That eased her worries a little bit; at least he wasn't entirely green, then. He logged in to another program. "I'm assuming you saw the press conference."
"Oh." Cheryl felt her ears grow warm. "Yes...that's only part of the reason why I'm here...but I heard you have a new Missing Persons Unit..."
"Actually, that would be me. Just me." He raised his arms a little as if to encompass the entire office, then resumed typing. He must have noticed Cheryl's dumbfounded look first, however, as he explained. "The MPU's been created to help deal with the backlog of missing persons cases the department hasn't had the time to deal with yet, instead of assigning such cases to anyone in the department. Until now they had no one to assign specifically to the unit. Thus the press conference."
"You mean...you're the only one? They put you here?"
"No other openings available." He finally turned away from the monitor, fingers still hovering over the keys. "Name and birthdate of the missing person?"
Cheryl ducked her head and opened the folder, even though she didn't need to, she knew its contents by heart. She felt rather stupid looking the detective in the eye now, knowing that he was handling the backlog all by himself and hadn't even chosen this position; and here she was, just adding to the workload. He hadn't made any sort of complaint, though, and it would be an even bigger waste of his time to just leave now, so she swallowed the guilt she felt and said, "Wesley...Wesley Singer. Born *** **, 19**."
"Related?"
"My uncle."
"Wes-ley Sing-er," he murmured as he typed it in; she'd briefly wondered if he would recognize the name, but apparently he didn't. She frowned a little, finding this strange. "Date last seen?"
"*** **, 198*," Cheryl said, not having to look at the notes.
He typed this in as well, then clicked the mouse a few times, scrolling through the screens. Then frowned a little. Typed something else, scrolled through another screen, and stopped to read something. Leaned toward the monitor with his chin on his hand and frowned even more. Cheryl felt a tiny surge of panic, that maybe the file had disappeared, maybe her uncle wasn't even listed anymore, maybe that was why there'd never been any developments in his case over the years.
"Wesley Todd Singer," Kristeva said after a moment.
Cheryl let out a breath, the panic dissipating. "Yes," she said, nodding. "That's him." She sat in silence for another moment or so as he clicked a few more times and continued reading, his expression growing darker by the minute. "Is there some sort of problem...?" she finally asked, unable to stand it anymore.
"Hm...no," he said, not bothering to look at her. Whatever was on the screen had his full attention. He sat up and typed something. "Just finding it a little weird that a case involving a missing cop was allowed to go cold."
Cheryl's heart thumped in her throat. That was exactly what she'd been wondering all those years--why it had never been taken seriously, why nobody had ever seemed too invested in looking into it, why it had been allowed to just slip into oblivion without another word. She'd been starting to worry that the fact that this detective had no idea who her uncle was would be a bad thing--his very name had been allowed to be forgotten?--but right now, it was starting to look like a good thing. The lack of attention paid to the case seemed to be niggling at him as much as it was at her.
He hit enter and paused to read. "Last update to the case was *** 19**," he said, and she felt her heart plummet--that long ago?--what had they been doing all the time since then? "That date hold any significance for you?" he asked, turning to look at her again.
Cheryl gave a small nod. "That...that was when my aunt legally divorced him. She didn't believe he was coming back."
More scrolling. "According to the file, he got involved with some woman while working undercover, and was believed to have run off with her."
"That's not true," Cheryl blurted out, so abruptly that the detective flinched a little and blinked at her. She forced herself to take a breath and let it out. "I'm...I'm sorry. But there's no way that's true."
"But he definitely was working undercover at the time," Kristeva said, pressing a finger against the screen.
"I know. He was. I don't know the details...of course...but he didn't run off. He wouldn't have run off." When he did nothing but continue looking at her, she sensed she was expected to explain, so she sighed and went on. "I'm...look. I'm not denying he...might've gotten too involved in things. I remember he and my aunt arguing a lot around that time. About a woman. So, yeah, that part is probably true. He wasn't perfect. He got too into his work all the time. But you see, that's just it." She leaned forward now, speaking earnestly. "He and my aunt, they didn't get along that well toward the end...but he always cared about me. He even said that part of why he was doing what he was doing, why he would put himself in danger like that, was because of me. Like I said, I don't know the details, he couldn't go into it, but he told me something once, something about this kid he wanted to help, this little boy--I guess it had something to do with whatever case he was working on, maybe somebody was hurting this little boy. I don't know. But he even showed me a picture. I can't ever forget that picture...the look in that boy's eyes. And Fox--Uncle Wes--Fox is what I liked to call him sometimes, it was like a nickname we had for him--the way he talked about that boy...well...it was almost like he cared more about him than about either of us. I envied that boy, sometimes." A pause. "I know that sounds horrible, and it sounds like I'm contradicting myself, but really, I'm not. He really, really wanted to help that kid. And I know that makes it sound like he would've dumped us at the first opportunity, but really, he wouldn't. I know I'm one of the reasons he was working so hard to help that kid, because he didn't ever want whatever was going on to happen to anyone else. And even if he would have dumped us, he never, never would've bailed out on his job. Not while that kid still needed him, at least."
A long pause. She couldn't tell if her words had gotten through, or if she just sounded like a crazy woman. The detective stared at her for another moment, then looked at the screen, tapping his fingers on the mouse. Well...he wasn't calling her a crazy woman, yet, so perhaps that meant something.
"This kid he said he was helping," he said at last, drawing her attention. "He ever tell you anything about him? Name, age, why he needed to be helped...?"
Cheryl shook her head. "I wish I had something more to give you...but he wouldn't talk much. I guess because it was an undercover thing? I always thought he'd told me too much as it was, that's how I know he cared about this case."
"You said he showed you a photo?"
"Yes--he did. Just once. I think maybe he took it himself, since it wasn't posed or anything."
"You can describe what the kid looked like?"
"Oh...not that well...I'm sorry." Cheryl's heart sank again. "It was black and white. I couldn't even tell you his hair color or anything. All I can say is, he had these big pale eyes, and they just stared right through you...I've never seen eyes like that...if I saw them again, I'd know them. I'm sorry I don't have anything else."
"Do you know what became of the photo?"
Cheryl blinked. "I'm...I'm not sure. It might still be at home, when I think of it." Her face brightened a little. "He never took much with him when he left the house. Most of his stuff, he left behind when he disappeared. And Aunt Brenda never threw it out, she just stowed it in the attic out of sight. I don't know for sure, but it could be there."
"Well...if you think there's the slightest chance it's still in your possession, you should try finding it. I'm not saying it'll be helpful at all, but anything is better than nothing."
Cheryl nodded, a bit quickly; the mere fact that he seemed to be taking her seriously meant more than him possibly figuring out what had happened to her uncle, at the moment. "Okay...I'll look for it. Oh." She looked down at her folder, then held it toward him; he took it and flipped through it. "These...these are the notes I kept on what I knew of the case. I...I realize it's probably nothing you don't already have in your records, but...well, just in case. Is there anything else I can do that you think might help at all--?"
"Not really," he said, and the noncommittal* tone of his voice dampened her spirits a bit. He seemed to realize this and shut the folder. "I'll be honest with you...a case this cold, there's usually a good reason why. Some cases just don't have the evidence needed. Sometimes there just isn't any case--I know you feel positive your uncle never would've bailed out on the job, but the only person who knows what was going on in his mind was him, and sometimes we don't know people as well as we think."
"I know...it's just...please, at least give him the benefit of the doubt? Because nobody else seemed to. I thought, I don't know, that police were supposed to stick by their own. But you say the last time his file was updated was in 19**. And nobody's been looking into it, I know, because I used to come here every year to ask for information, and they just never had any, and then a few years back they just told me to stop bothering because the case was closed. It's like they just wanted him to have run off. If they looked into it and, I don't know, found him living in Mexico or something, then I could accept that; but why would they never even look?"
Something about this seemed to strike a chord for the detective, and he looked at the computer monitor, frowning again. "'Closed' is the word they used?" he asked. "You're sure that's exactly what they told you?"
Cheryl furrowed her brow a little but nodded. "Yes...that's why I found it so strange. I mean, how could they close the case without any new information, right?" She paused. "So...it's not closed, then? You think they just told me that to get me to quit bothering...?"
"I can't say why they told you anything, just that according to the file, the case was never closed. Who knows...maybe they made a mistake." He clicked something and the page showing on the monitor disappeared. He swiveled his chair and held the folder back toward her; Cheryl took it with a small frown of confusion. "I'm sure we already have everything in this file. So keep it for now. But if you find that photo, or anything else he might've been keeping track of on the job, please bring it in. If the kid is a missing person maybe we can track him down and figure out what happened to your uncle."
Cheryl let out a breath. "All...all right. I will. And you, you're going to look into this, yes...? Even though they say it's closed?"
"I think somebody just got things mixed up. Happens with cold cases all the time. You saw the file room, we have tons of info that hasn't even been entered into the online database yet. Anything I can't find on the computer I'll try locating in there. The photo though, that sounds like it could be unique, so it might be more helpful than anything we have here."
"All right." Cheryl stood and held out her hand; Kristeva stared at it for a second before taking it. "I'll look for the photo as soon as I get home. I'm almost positive it'll be in the attic. And thank you, so much, for taking this seriously. I honestly appreciate it."
He shook her hand and nodded but seemed unable to think of anything else to say, so she stepped around him and headed for the exit. She did glance back at him on her way out, and saw that he had rolled up his sleeves and was typing something on the computer again; she paused briefly on noticing that he had a tattoo on his left forearm, what looked like a stylized animal head of some sort, like a bat-eared dog or coyote. She hadn't known police officers were allowed to have tattoos, and realized perhaps he'd been right when he said sometimes you didn't know people as well as you thought you did; she had no idea if her uncle had had any of his own. She turned back to the exit and left the station, trying to recall the layout of the attic in her head so she could figure out where to search first.
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