Secondhand Sacrifice

I usually leave work at around six, after all the traffic north of Little Rock has dissipated. If anyone is going to need my help, it would usually be before five, anyway, so I am playing it safe. I grabbed my hat, walked out the door, and locked it. Just as I did that, the phone in my office rang. I started to get my keys out to go back in, but I realized that it could probably wait until tomorrow. Besides, I would have missed the call.

When I entered my office the following morning I noticed that I had a message waiting on the machine. That is normal, often someone asking if I could help with something petty. I had to brace myself for what I heard. A fearful voice trembled, saying that her daughter, Sheena, has disappeared. I held my breath and felt my heart stop for a second, remembering the dreadful ordeal dealing with a kidnapping on a personal level.

Although I became a private investigator to help others with what
I have had to deal with, my mind still freezes, going back to when my own daughter disappeared, never to return. At the time, I was a heavy equipment operator, working for the Highway Department. Katelyn, 12 at the time, never came home on her way home from school. We lived within a mile of her junior high so she thought it best to walk. The police were never able to find the person responsible. I know she didn't just run away because she was a very happy girl. She had many friends, whom she adored, and her life at home wasn't bad, despite her parents being divorced and not speaking.

I called the number the woman left on my machine to find out more details. Coincidentally, I had nothing more on my plate. I would have spent my day reading, otherwise. Breanna Fitzpatrick spoke with more composure, though just as fearful, explaining every detail that I would need, including when Sheena was supposed to arrive home, why she would not run away, what she was wearing, and who she hung out with. I only had to ask if there was anything unusual going on with her social life recently. At first, Mrs. Fitzpatrick said that there wasn't, and then, Shane, her husband mentioned that he overheard Sheena talking to one of her friends on the phone about a couple of guys they ran into at the mall.

Sheena was a sophomore in high school and hardly old enough to know how older guys manipulate younger girls. That was just the hint that I needed. Since I began private investigation six years ago, I found three missing teenagers, two of which ran away. All returned safe. My daughter disappeared seven years ago and I have not been able to forget about it for a single day since then. I learned in college that humans don't have instincts the way other animals do and that we can only trust our five senses when determining an outcome but when I hear something that strikes a chord within me, I know that I am onto something. What Mr. Fitzpatrick told me did just that.

I spent another two and a half hours finding out the specifics and went to my office. They had already spoken with the police, making the report. The detectives for the police department asked everything I had, but made less reassurance about making a recovery than I had. The Fitzpatricks knew that I would be a wise investment in the recovery of their daughter because of my reputation and because of what I, unfortunately, have dealt with. Aside from that, to them, their daughter's safe return was worth more than any price I quoted them. With cases like that, I feel bad charging my clients, but I guaranteed them that I would do all that I can to bring Sheena back, safely.

The next two days I spent talking with Sheena's parents and friends, penning down the details of who might know something critical to Sheena's disappearance. Her parents told me, and her friends confirmed that she had a boyfriend with whom she broke up just over two weeks ago. The two weren't together long but it was worth looking into. I got his number from one of Sheena's friends and tried to call but I got no answer. It was late, anyway. I resigned to trying again the next day. When I called and told this young man, Jesse, that I was looking for his ex-girlfriend, he seemed calm but still worried, not for him, but for Sheena's safety. He was upfront and told me that the two of them had problems but there seemed no sign of malice from either.

"There is something that bothered me," he admitted. "She met this one dude soon after we broke up and was always talking about him with her friends at school."

"Did she mention anything about going out with him? Meeting him anywhere?"

"Not that I know of. It sounded like she didn't even know much about him. But that still didn't make me feel better. I asked her who he is and she got defensive," he added. I thanked him for his time and hung up. Right before, however, he wanted me to know he hopes I bring her back safe.

I found out, through her closest friends, where this mystery guy, by the name of Marc, worked. They met him at a popular clothing store, frequented by teenagers. The best I could get was a description of the man. He appeared young, except that he had a noticeable dead arm. Her friend, Megan interjected that, although handsome, he seemed too eager when she and Sheena met him.

I went to the store and, right away, I could recognize the guy that Sheena and her friends had met recently. When I asked if he could spare a minute to talk, he said that he could not, obviously a lie because he had plenty of time to talk to a couple teenage girls just a couple minutes prior to my approach. He did look like he could pass for a teen, with a boyish face. His right arm hung limp, but no different from his left, in size.

I introduced myself. "My name's Liam Bennett. Just curious, what do you do in your spare time since you're out of school, just working?"

"I go out with my friends on the weekend," Marc declared. He never even confirmed that he was out of school. Marc lacked the competence, in my mind, to catch a trick question but used such simple logic in luring a young girl out of town with him. I didn't have the proof but I was determined to obtain it.

"I'm sure you do. Who do you hang out with, your old classmates?"
I asked, playing the ignorant, older man game.

"Actually, everyone I went to school with has just about moved away or got new friends since then."

"So, you resort to hanging out with high schoolers?"

He hesitated. "I don't keep track of how old my friends are.
Some are teens, so what?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven," he replied.

I thought about that awhile. "You can't find other friends that are your age?"

"Hey, if a teenage chick talks to me, I'm not gonna turn her away cause she's younger than me," he blasted. "What does it matter, anyway?"

I thought about grabbing him and strangling him right there but that would take away any advantage I had in the first place. I thought about getting on his good side for a second, just to obtain an objective stance. Then I came across an epiphany.

"Do you ever hang out with a guy named Eric? He always knows where there's something fun as long as cops don't get involved"

"Yeah, every once in a while. How do you know him," he asked.

I knew Eric Baxter from a previous investigation. He was a troubled juvenile that always got into trouble. He was key in my last investigation pinning down a car thief. "He said to tell you, 'hope you get back into shape from that football injury'."

Marc just gave me a blank, confused stare before he uttered, "yeah, ok. I will."

Marc just shuffled off, looking like he gave away the Holy Grail. He may as well have, since he only knows the tip of the iceberg. I figured I would go to the studio apartment to pay a visit to Eric, for real this time.

On my way out, I called the Fitzpatricks. Shane answered. I told him that I was making progress. He seemed calm and certain that I would make gains. I asked to speak to his wife, Breanna. She did not seem so composed. When I reassured her of my promise to do all that I can, she settled down. I pulled into Eric's apartment, the same way I remember it a year ago when I questioned him about his role in stealing cars. When he answered the door, he made it known that he was staying out of trouble.

"I believe you. I just need to find out some things about a friend of yours," I said. "Marc Bradley said you've been into no good lately."

"That piece of shit," he exclaimed. Of course, it was not true, but only I knew.

"Actually, that's not why I'm here. I want to know something about him. Remember my girl, Katelyn," I asked.

"Yeah. I mean, my little sister went to school with her. That's too bad."

"Thank you. I need your help," I began. "You just have to trust me. Your supposed friend, Marc, helped the cops get you in trouble last year. The thing is, he's been doing a whole lot worse than you have, but I can't prove it. Why does he not move his right arm?"

"You won't believe me when I say it's a football injury."

"Not a chance," I replied.

"Didn't think so. Truth is, Marc likes to go for the younger girls. Well, one time a few years ago, while trying to pressure this chick to let him do what he wanted with her, she slammed his arm in the passenger car door while trying to get out. I think that he didn't go to the doctor to treat it because he felt so guilty and knew he'd slip up. He hasn't really spoken about it since then and asked me to keep quiet."

I was in a trance, taken in by everything he was saying. I heard all the same before, except for the specifics as to who was involved. "Was it my daughter?" I ask, anxious for any revelations.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Bennett. He spent much of his time going after jailbait."

"Thank you, Eric," I answered. I proceeded to leave, not knowing how to seal the deal. I was sure that I had the person I have secretly wanted to punish for years right under my nose. The only problem was figuring out how to apply the right pressure and still abide by the rules of justice. I decided to go to where he worked, half expecting him not to be there. A girl about Sheena's age told me where to find him.

"He's been spending a lot of time lately hanging out by the river.
He lives just a couple blocks down the road from Broadway. I think he's got another girlfriend," she extrapolated.

"How do you know," I inquired.

"Well, when he spends less time at the mall or football games it is usually because he's tied up with someone else."

Tied up is one way of describing things. Unfortunately, Marc wasn't the one tied up. Up to this point, the police made no progress at all in the disappearance. I drove three miles to the Arkansas River, on the North Little Rock side, where I saw a SUV with two younger people sitting outside. I walked over to Marc and snatched the beer from his hands. He approached me and tried to take it back. I refused and looked him straight in the eye.

"What are you going to do, try to force it from me?"

"Stop acting crazy, man. Just give me back my beer," he insisted, agitated. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

I looked at the girl with him and, sure enough, she looked just like Sheena. The girl was scared and appeared to have a dark blue ring around her neck, as if he'd strangled her. I started to walk toward her, getting a closer look. She would not give me eye contact. Marc probably physically intimidated her and made her obey him.

"Sheena, is that you," I asked. She started to look toward me, and then quickly turned back forward. Directing my attention back to Marc, I demanded, "I really don't think she's here by choice. How long are you going to keep her around before you kill her? Is that why you're here at the river? Let me ask you something else, how long did you keep my daughter, Katelyn around before you disposed of her?" I was livid.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Bullshit. Sheena, get up! I'm taking you to the hospital and calling your parents," I announced.

As I walked toward her, Marc hit me from behind with what felt like a large stick. When I turned, he stumbled. From this point on, I noticed that things would not be the same. Impulsively, I took a swing. After I hit him, he rushed me. We started rolling on the ground, not realizing how close to the bank we were. I got up before he did but he was not content to end things right there. As angry as I was, I wanted to hurt him but I knew the implications of physical conflict. He tugged at my shirt with his left arm, causing me to falter. I leaned toward him, with both of us falling a dozen feet into the river. With disregard for our safety, I clung to him trying to prevent him from getting out first. He clung to me, as well, probably out of fear, knowing that he would be less likely to be able to get out. We drifted deeper as we struggled. I felt most fearful when I realized that I could not bring my daughter back.

At this point, I had no fear. This lowlife took her from me. Minutes passed and we both fought to keep the other down. Even with one able arm, he would not let me above water. He kicked, as did I. He started to loosen his grip. As I realized this, I continued to hold him under to ensure that he could not get up. Without realizing it, I started to loosen, as well. I noticed that his eyes were beginning to close, but I focused less on him, as I was feeling fainter. He slipped from my grip and we both started drifting in the cold, dark water, and suddenly came darkness.

"Sir, please wake up. Please! Please! I want to thank you. I need to. Wake up," cried a female's voice.

Sobbing was all I heard, muffled, accompanied by some tingling and pain. Whiteness overcame me as I became numb again. Sounds became less audible and I began to relax. No longer could I feel the warm grip around my left hand. I heard more sobbing and a subdued siren in the distance. The wind began to drown out all noise as I stared at the quarter moon in the sky. Silence followed. My eyes shut.

© 2006 Christian Shireman