Jackal, page 7
“But there’s an ‘r’ in it.” His eyes peer over his glasses at my name again. Maybe it’s a poor attempt at a joke? I’m too tired to laugh. All I can do is shuffle over to him.
At the end of a long hall, through a series of unmarked doors and past rows of filing cabinets, I arrive at a desk. This is not this man’s desk, I can tell by how he orbits around it, only dipping in where he’s allowed. And by the fact that he’s not the one sitting at it. Instead, there is a man heavy with muscle despite his years. He moves economically and in a way that makes me realize how much energy I’m wasting by slouching. I don’t straighten up. He rubs his eyes and adjusts his tie. His crumpled suit reveals that he was there. He was at the wedding. I find a nameplate on the desk: Sydney Oswald.
“Doug?” Oswald doesn’t look up to address the man who led me here. Doug twitters around him like a gnat. Somehow both invisible and annoyingly present. This is a strange symbiotic relationship. Or a work relationship.
Doug holds an electronic pad in front of my face.
“Yes?” I ask. He’s going to have to explain that before I touch it.
Oswald points to my hands. “Left, then right.”
They want my fingerprints. I don’t move, but I’m curious. “No ink?”
“It’s all digital now.” Doug gives me a forced smile, trying to make things easy. It’s nice that someone is responding to the tension in the room.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re supposed to tell me why.” My thoughts build as I voice them. “You’re also supposed to tell me where my prints are going, and if I’m being considered in the investigation—”
Oswald cuts me off. “We need your prints so I can rule them out when we process the scene—”
“I thought this was a search. Why are you calling it a ‘scene’?”
That makes him take his eyes off his paperwork and look at me. “You don’t want to cooperate?” He doesn’t need to raise an eyebrow in accusation, it’s clear by the tone in his voice.
“Of course I do. I just want to know what I’m cooperating in.”
He sets down his paperwork. With his attention comes a familiar hostility. My cooperation isn’t just expected, it is required.
“We’re searching for the girl,” Doug cuts in. “We need to make sure we cover all our bases, just in case. Now, your fingerprints are going into the computer. If you don’t want to give them to us now, that’s fine. But—”
“You were holding evidence.” Oswald glares at me. “We’ll be getting your prints one way or another.”
“What my colleague here means is, if we find anything out in the woods, we’ll be tracking you down to get them anyway.” Doug extends the pad to me again. He smiles. Punctuated by a gray line across the front of his teeth, even that kind gesture looks sad. What a perfect good-cop/bad-cop duo. Like a put-upon service worker, Doug makes me want to cooperate just to relieve him. Like a poor manager, Oswald makes me want to dig my heels in at every step. Neither of these men are officers. Nothing about Doug is threatening. He’s childlike. Everything he says has a genuine directness to it. He’s probably gotten his ass kicked more than a few times because of this. Hence the smiles. Someone must have told him those helped. Meanwhile, Oswald doesn’t need to lift a finger to terrify me.
I extend my left hand to Doug. Carefully, he rolls my digits on the pad one at a time. Oswald inserts his presence between us, watching Doug’s work. Three prints are closely observed like this until Doug says, “I got it.” I recognize the lift in his voice. Somewhere underneath his pleasant front, Doug hates being micromanaged.
“I called you back in on your first day of vacation, I want to make sure you have your head in the game,” Oswald replies, unmoving.
“I am sharp as a tack,” Doug says. “I swear.”
Satisfied, Oswald retrieves something from the back of the room. He doesn’t turn on the light. He’s comfortable moving in the dark. Beyond him, the space expands, but it’s too dim to tell how far it goes. My eyes strain to make out shapes in the black. When I’m reminded of the last time I sought shapes in the darkness—of the woods—I focus back on the men in front of me. I don’t need to find any more horror this evening.
“Can I have your right hand, please?” Doug scans my face like he knows me. I look back with a mirrored curiosity. I fold my right hand under my arm.
“Have they found Caroline yet?”
“No,” Doug replies.
“Do they think I…took her? Or…” I don’t finish a sentence that could implicate myself in something I’m not guilty of.
“Is there something you want to tell us?” Oswald’s voice rumbles from the darkness.
“Is there anything I should know?” I’m already regretting volunteering my prints.
“You found a piece of Caroline’s dress.” Oswald makes no effort to hide his frustration. “Her blood was on your hands. The more you cooperate, the better you look.”
He is right; it doesn’t look good for me. But I have nothing to hide. I offer my other hand to Doug. Before he takes it, the men share a glance. Doug rolls my fingers. There’s a lot more tension in his arm this time. I want my hand back. Oswald makes a production of collecting the documents he was working on.
“Nowak, you good to finish up these prints?”
Doug nods. I watch Oswald as he grabs more forms. Papers.
“Blood type?” Doug asks.
“A positive,” I say. Doug takes notes. He puts a swab in my face.
“What the hell is that?”
“There’s blood at the scene,” Doug explains. “If any of your DNA is there too, we want to rule it out.”
I open my mouth.
He swabs. “You’re about thirty, right?”
Once the rough cotton is out of my gums, I look back at him and catch him clocking every telltale sign of age on my face. “I’m thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two and”—he refers to my ring finger—“still not married?” There’s that genuine directness again.
“Yeah, I’m one of those awful women who has the audacity to wait for a decent man.”
“Well, there must be someone.”
“Oh, Doug.” I sigh. “I’d love to live in your world.” I am not recounting my dating life to this stranger. “Am I free to go?”
“I’m sorry. My mouth gets ahead of my mind sometimes.”
“A word of advice. Don’t ask a bridesmaid why she isn’t married.”
“That explains the dress!” He is genuinely delighted. I’ve solved the riddle of my appearance for him. I can’t tell if I should be offended or concerned.
“Can I go?”
“Yeah—no,” he stumbles, putting the pad away, and races over to the computer. “Just, wh—where are you from?”
“Here. Born and raised.” My patience is starting to wear. “You know, there are Black people in Johnstown too, Doug.”
“Oh, I know that. Johnstown is fourteen percent African American.”
Oswald makes sure I don’t have a smart response. “Nowak, don’t talk her ear off, get her prints and pack it up. We need to prep for the debrief.” He walks out of the room.
“What was that about?” I need Doug to know that I’m not a fool. Or at least I don’t think I am.
“I, umm. I study town history. Historical population trends. Migrant communities. Who lives here and why. That kinda stuff.”
I’m honestly surprised. “Ever heard the term ‘brain drain’?”
“Human capital flight,” Doug replies.
“Exactly.” I rub my eyes. “Do you know where they took Melissa and Garrett?”
Doug nods. “If they’re with the detectives, they’re back the way you came. The receptionist can point you to the waiting room.”
Before I leave I ask, “You going back on vacation?”
“Not anymore. This is all hands on deck.” He starts to lead me out the door.
I don’t move. “Give me your card.”
“I’m not a detective. If you have any information—”
“You took my fingerprints and my DNA. I get a card.”
That makes Doug stumble. “Uh—I’m not the medical examiner. I just run tests—”
“And if something goes wrong with my tests or prints, I don’t want you to hide behind that guy.” I try to match the intensity of his stare, but I can’t. Ever since he called me back, he has been watching me. I hold my hand out.
He grabs a card from Oswald’s desk. “Honestly, this is who you want to follow up with. I’m staying as far away from this as possible.”
“I thought everyone was working on it?”
“I, um…cases involving kids are tough for me. Anything with kids can be.” For a moment Doug gets a melancholy look, rife with vulnerability. He recovers. I wasn’t supposed to see that.
“Sorry to hear that.” I mean it, but keep my hand out.
Doug grabs a pen. He writes his number on the back of Oswald’s card. He hands it to me and I tuck it into my phone case.
EIGHT
After being released by reception multiple times and after they assure me they will tell Mel to call me, I leave the precinct. I send a few follow-up texts, just in case, but I don’t get a reply. I’m not expecting one. I have no other choice but to go home.
When my mom arrives at the station, her hair is done, but she is still in her pajamas, robe, and slippers. Marie had decided long ago she would never leave the house in her headscarf. Today is no exception. According to her, it’s “ghetto.” I think a woman in a headscarf isn’t to be messed with. A Black woman with her head wrapped clearly didn’t plan on leaving the house, but there she is. Best get out of her way.
In the car, I lean against the passenger-side door. The early morning air smells sharp and clean. The sun rises. We drive home in silence. The motion of the car threatens to rock me to sleep as we make our way back up the mountain. By the time we arrive home, the sun is up.
“Mom, I—”
“Shh-shh.” She helps me out of the car.
In the warmth of the kitchen, she holds my hands under her nose and grimaces. “Your skin is going to crack from what they washed it with.” Too tired to fight her, I let my mother guide me to sit on a stool.
“Do you want hot chocolate?” she asks. My appetite is soured by the idea of sweetness now. It’s somewhere between too early and too late.
“No, thank you.” My stomach gurgles.
“You look cold.”
“It’s already seventy-five degrees outside.”
“But inside?” she asks. “It will help.”
Before I can reply, she retrieves a ball of raw cocoa. She boils some evaporated milk on the stove and grates the cocoa into it. She stirs in all the spices. Cinnamon. Anise. And a pinch of something I’ve never asked about. Whatever it is, it warms you right down to your core. She strains the mixture into two mugs and we sit in the kitchen. The overhead fan whirls and I blow on my hot chocolate to cool it down.
“How are you, cherie?” she asks.
I sip the cocoa. The steam from the mug makes me sweat. With the first swallow, the cocoa warms me. With the second, the world feels soft. She was right. I was cold inside.
“Tired,” I confess.
“I know,” she says between sips. Then, “On my first rotation in the ER here, I lost a child.”
My mother never talks about her patients. Even in retirement.
“They…died?”
“I—I do not know,” my mother confesses. She takes a breath to steady herself. “This child, he comes in all by himself. Will not speak to anyone. Sick as I have ever seen.” She takes another sip and so do I. “Fever. Chills. Productive cough. The attending is asking him his medical history and all that. The boy could not be more than eight or nine. He does not know any of that. I ask to sit with him alone. I take his temperature. I take notes. Slowly, when he sees that I want to help, to listen, he starts to tell me his symptoms. I go to tell the social worker the diagnosis—a respiratory infection. When I came back, he was gone. Missing.” My mother finishes her cocoa. “I thought I told one of the nurses to watch him—or the attending would come back. I still think about that boy and wonder if he got the help he needed. The way he watched me…if he survived, he will do something healing. I know it.” My perfect mother admitted to making a mistake. A big one. Looks like I’m not the only one who has changed during our time apart. I finish my cocoa. I don’t have to reach for her, my mom knows I need a hug. Because she’s not forcing it on me, the embrace gives me some comfort.
“I want them to find Caroline,” I say.
“They will.” Though she hasn’t done it in years, my mother gets me ready for bed.
Up in my room, she unzips my dress, wraps my hair, and gets me into clean pajamas. She wipes away my blurred makeup, puts Vaseline on my dry hands, and runs her fingers over my cracked cuticles. Instead of interrogating me about them, she puts my hands together with hers and prays.
“Bondye, mèsi pou pwoteje pitit mwen an.” The rhythm of the words washes over me with familiarity. They bring me ease even though I have long forgotten what they mean. “Mèsi paske ou kenbe li an sekirite.” She puts me in my bed. “Mèsi pou retounen pitit mwen an.” She kisses me on the forehead. When she pulls away I notice tears in the corners of her eyes. I want to reach out to comfort her, but by the time the impulse comes, my mother has tucked me in.
I used to speak Creole with her at home. When I went to school, my classmates were far less understanding of my “broken” French. In the first grade, right when I’d mastered being at school, it was cold, so I asked someone to turn up the chalè and the entire class laughed. They called me “valet” all day. I stopped speaking Creole at school from then on. Then I stopped speaking it at home. Then in my dreams. For years I corrected myself in my mind, commanding myself to speak English. The funny thing is, after that, I spent five years learning French. I was always careful to only speak French at school and never to bring it home. I didn’t correct my French in my dreams. I don’t remember most of my dreams from early childhood. They were too boring.
Daylight streaks my room. I reach out to close the blinds behind my bed. Straining a hand through the intricate cast-iron headboard, I search for the dowel. I grasp it and I twist it till the blinds shut. As I do, I see a car sitting in front of my house. It’s positioned purposefully, right past the end of my driveway. I crack the blinds open again to get a better look at it but, in the time it took me to have the thought, the car starts to pull away. Quickly. Decisively. As if the driver saw the movement from my window. I search my memory for the car, to see if it’s a neighbor’s, but nothing comes to me. I crane my neck to get more details, but the vehicle is long gone.
NINE
Caroline’s First Day Missing
“I don’t know!” Melissa shouts at the female officer. It is too early for shouting. It is also too early to ask a mother how much her child knows about outdoor survival. Outside what was once Melissa’s wedding venue, the police and the fire department have set up camp. A handful of officers work in teams to sweep the woods. Firefighters lean against their truck, waiting to be rallied. The tension between the two factions is palpable but familiar. While the officer continues to question Melissa about Caroline, I clutch Mel’s hand, subtly telling her to back off. Mel, unaccustomed to this side of the police, misses my signals entirely.
“Why the hell would— She’s not a Boy Scout or anything. I already told you, the last time I saw her, she was in her dress from the wedding.”
“Could she have taken any food with her?” The officer holds a professional facade and braces herself for Melissa’s rage. The patience she is extending to Mel wouldn’t be extended to me. Never mind. Fuck subtlety. Give ’em hell, Mel.
“I told you. I don’t know!” Melissa’s voice carries in the field and draws a few stares, but the authorities continue to busy themselves. “Where are the dogs? Don’t you all have dogs for this?”
“You don’t want us to call in the dogs. Trust me,” the officer says a little too casually.
“Don’t tell me what I do or do not want. I want you to do everything to get my child back. Now!” Melissa gets in the officer’s face. “I want dogs and helicopters and sweeps and radar and whatever the fuck else you have. I want it all and I want it now!” Angry tears stream down worn paths in Melissa’s makeup, a strange facsimile of the night before. Her hair is piled in a hurried bun. Her jeans are muddy and torn. “If you won’t do anything, let me go back out there.” She tries to push past the officer, the officer does her best to get Mel back to the barn. I help her. Mel’s been called off the searches because of her clear exhaustion. If she passes out like this in the trees, they’ll have another emergency on their hands.
“You could use some water,” I offer. “Maybe a coffee, right? Let’s get coffee and then you can go back out there, okay?” I get her away from the officer.
Melissa looks dead tired. “…A quick minute.”
In the barn, I’m greeted by a deconstructed moment in time. The remains of Mel’s wedding reception sag and sour. Tables are stacked in one corner, there’s a pile of tablecloths in the center of the barn floor, and the wilted roses that line the stage smell sharp. It’s all rotten. In the gravity of the events of the evening prior, none of the guests took the floral arrangements home. Mel grips a walkie-talkie in her hands. It occasionally crackles with messages, updates. I take it and turn down the hum of radio chatter. We’ve all quickly realized how unreliable cellphones are this far into the mountains.
We retrieve our coffees and Mel walks back out to the edge of the barn. She stands and scans the trees, willing Caroline to stumble out of them. She can’t take a break. Every sip, no matter how scalding, is counted. The moment she finishes, she is getting back out there. I know she hasn’t eaten yet. And I can tell by the grimace she makes, that first sip of coffee is turning her stomach.
