Stranger in Town

CHAPTER 3





“Savannah Tate—of course,” I said.

He perked up.

“You’ve heard the story then?”

“Everyone has,” I said.

Savannah’s abduction took place at a preschool in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, six months earlier. Once the media got a good whiff of what had happened, things spun out of control. Finger-pointing and blame spread in all directions, most of it resting on the shoulders of the daycare itself. No one working that day understood how they had managed to lose a child—from an enclosed play area, no less. Even more bizarre was the fact that Savannah hadn’t been outside alone. She had been playing with another child who was the same age, leading to even more speculation. People wondered why they weren’t both taken, why one had been chosen over the other.

The daycare employees were interviewed on WNN, Wyoming’s nightly news, each one tearing up on camera, but an unsympathetic public didn’t care. A toddler was missing because of the daycare’s mistake. It might have been an honest one, but it didn’t stop parents from pulling their children out of A Place to Grow Child Care Center until no children remained. Soon after, the child-care center was forced to close. A rumor circulated about a twenty percent decrease in daycare attendance across the nation. Mothers from every walk of life clutched their children a little closer that week, opting to find what they felt were more “suitable” arrangements. Many turned to in-home child care, thinking their children were much better off in the comfort of their own homes.

Two weeks after Savannah was kidnapped a new website sprung to life called All Kids Safe. It was a place where parents could hand-pick quality nannies in their area. All employees had to undergo a background check and adhere to a code of ethics. The idea of children getting personal care made parents feel safe, making All Kids Safe a huge hit.

“I hope you understand now why I wanted to wait until I could speak to you in person,” Mr. Tate said. “My wife doesn’t even get out of bed anymore. She’s tired of…well—everything. The media coverage, the constant interviews by the police, the ladies on the street bringing casseroles over every night. She can’t take it anymore, and neither can I.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

“Seems like they’ve done more harm than good. We’ve been given the same statistics so many times now, I can quote them for you.”

When I failed to respond in a timely manner, he backed up his statement.

“Every forty seconds a child is reported missing or abducted,” he said, “eighty-two percent by family members, many taken within a quarter mile of the child’s home. Seventy-four percent of children who are murdered are dead within three hours of their abduction.”

I stayed quiet. He kept going.

“Why do they tell us this stuff? Do they really think it makes us feel better to hear it? I’m aware of the statistics.”

“I believe they’re just trying to be realistic. The last thing they want is to give you some sort of false hope. It may seem harsh, but it isn’t. They just want you to know the truth.”

“I’m not some delusional parent asking you to look for his daughter when there’s a good chance she’s dead,” he said. “She’s still alive—I know it.”

I thought about how many times I’d watched parents on TV say the same thing. Admitting a loved one was gone wasn’t easy. But now wasn’t the time to explain everything police officers and detectives went through as a team when something of this magnitude happened. He wasn’t healthy enough to hear it yet, let alone understand.

I removed a pad of paper and did what I do best.

“Is there a specific person working with you—a detective maybe—someone who keeps in touch more than the others?”

He nodded.

“There’s a detective. Name’s Walter McCoy.”

I jotted it down.

“McCoy makes a lot of promises, but there’s no delivery,” he said. “McCoy says he’ll keep looking even if it takes the rest of his life, but if you ask me, he’s headed toward retirement. Why would he stay committed? It’s not like his daughter was taken.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t see it the same way.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You have no idea how many cops have ‘the one.’”

“What one?”

“The one they never solve,” I said. “It’s something they carry with them their entire life. It’s not some itch they can scratch to make them feel better. It’s always there, in the back of their minds. Even when they sleep, they have nightmares. It doesn’t ever go away.”

“McCoy never tells me what he’s been up to, how much time he’s spending on my daughter’s case, nothing. What am I supposed to think?”

“Maybe there are facts about the case that haven’t been revealed to you yet,” I said. “When the time is right, they’ll fill you in. I know it’s hard right now, but you have to be patient. I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”

“I’m done being patient,” he said. “I’ve been interviewed so many damn times, it seems like my wife and I are their only suspects. They waste time talking to us when they should be finding our daughter.”

“Cases like this add a lot of pressure for everyone involved,” I said. “The public often pushes police, demanding answers, and when they don’t come—well—you can see how stressful it can be, right?”

He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t know—I don’t trust them. And now there’s this new guy in town.”

“A cop?” I said.

He shrugged. “Not sure. McCoy just said he brought him in to work on the case, so it didn’t get ‘cold.’”

“Do you have a name?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

“I’m surprised this new person hasn’t met with you yet,” I said.

“He tried.”

“And you refused?”

“Why would I want to start working with someone else at this point?”

You’d think he’d be willing to work with anyone if it led to finding his daughter.

“You could at least give him a chance.”

He swished his hands through the air like he thought I was crazy. “He’s just another person working for them. I want someone working for me.” He aimed a thumb at himself.

I felt like I was missing something important, something he hadn’t said yet. It didn’t sit well with me.

“Is there anything you haven’t told the police?” I said. “Because if there is, I can’t take your case unless I know about it.”

Noah leaned back in his chair, placing one of his hands on his forehead like he’d just been stricken with a massive migraine. “Before I answer, I need to know one thing: Do you believe there’s a chance my daughter is still alive?”

Statistics weren’t in his daughter’s favor, but numbers had never meant much to me. “I believe you think she is, and that’s enough for me.”

Noah closed his eyes and smiled. “Good. I want to show you something.”