Oblation: A Spine-Tingling Crime Thriller set in Small-Town California, page 9
Tarpley finally spoke. “I could use a drink.”
Opening one eye fully, Oakes looked across his desk. “This is an elementary school. I can get you a screwdriver minus the vodka or a white Russian minus the Russian. Which one would you prefer?”
Tarpley refused the offer with a sly smile and shook her head. “Thanks, I’ll pass.”
“Is it true that the first forty-eight hours are the most important part of an investigation? And that if a crime isn’t solved in that time, the chance of solving the crime goes down dramatically?” Oakes asked as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the ink blotter of the desk.
Sighing, Tarpley admitted, “Generally speaking, yes. The odds get worse with time and distance.” Then, wanting to fill the silence that followed her statement, she went on. “Think of it this way. We’re approaching five o’clock. The children have been missing since approximately eight o’clock. That’s nine hours. How far could you drive in nine hours?”
“At least five hundred miles,” Gary answered, doing some quick calculations in his head.
“That’s five hundred miles in any direction from this school. Geographically, finding those children quickly becomes almost impossible by this time. Now, most of the time, people do not travel that far, but I think you see the point.”
“You don’t sound very optimistic?”
“No, actually I am.”
“Why?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“I think the kids are close. We just need a break. That’s why I am focusing our efforts here in the county.”
Oakes looked at the sheriff, but her face gave nothing away. “Okay, so tell me. Why do you think the kids are close?”
“First of all,” Tarpley began, “we set up roadblocks at the state lines fairly quickly, so the children have most likely not been taken out of the state, or even the county for that matter.”
Oakes nodded his head. “Okay, I understand that.”
“Second, and this is really the most disturbing aspect of this abduction and is not something I even like to admit, but most likely, the children were taken by someone local.”
Sitting up straighter in his chair, Oakes stared across at the sheriff. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why would they do that, and what makes you believe that it is someone local?”
“Why, I don’t know, but I am ninety percent certain it is someone local.”
“How?”
“Think about it. Whoever took the children had to know their background. You don’t just steal a random bus and hope you get a white kid, a Hispanic boy, an Asian and black girl, and a Middle Eastern boy. Add to that the mix of religions and the fact that four of the five were the oldest or an only child, and it has to be someone with an intimate understanding of the community and the students particularly.”
Gary’s eyes went wide. “I don’t like your use of the term ‘understanding of these students particularly.’ That makes it sound like it is someone in the school.”
“I’m afraid that is where we need to start,” she said. “Or at least within the school system. How else would they know what students are on a particular bus?”
Gary Oakes took a deep breath. He could not believe what he was hearing, but he also could not refute the sheriff’s logic. It makes sense. “What do we do?”
“Well, first of all, I’m sure Agent Raimer has most likely reached the same conclusion. I’m surprised he hasn’t already requested to see your personnel files. But since, as far as I know, he hasn’t officially asked, let me be the first.” Then, looking at Gary Oakes squarely in the eyes, Sheriff Tarpley said, “Officially, may I see your personnel files?”
Taken somewhat aback by the officialness of the request, Principal Oakes stammered, “Sure, they’re in the cabinet in Vice-Principal Prebish’s office. She handles personnel issues, and while the union would probably object, I think the situation warrants a special exemption.”
Pushing the chair back away from the desk, he stood up and led the sheriff to the office next to his. Karen Prebish always surprised Principal Oakes. While he consciously worked at and struggled to keep some semblance of order in his own office, hers was immaculate. The order and organization of the room reminded him of a museum where none of the articles on a dresser or a desk had been moved or touched in years.
He led the sheriff over to a four-drawer metal filing cabinet in the corner and opened the second drawer. “These are our copies of the personnel records for everyone who works in this building. They are purged every five years, and that information is then sent to the school board, where it is digitized. So, if you want anything beyond five years ago, you’ll have to go down there. These files do still contain copies of each person’s original application, though.”
“This will be fine.” Then, looking at the principal still standing beside her, Tarpley said, “I’m afraid I’m going to want to look at these alone. It’s just easier for me to stay focused. I can better get into a rhythm and hopefully identify anything that might be an outlier.”
Oakes nodded. “Okay, I’ll just be in my office. Let me know if you need anything else.” He started to close the door but thought better of it and left it open.
Sheriff Tarpley had already picked up the first folder and did not notice the principal’s hesitation. “Sarah Adams, third-grade teacher,” she read on the front of the folder. Okay, alphabetical order. She closed the drawer, placed the folder on top of the filing cabinet, and started flipping through the pages. She was not sure what she was looking for, but she wanted to get a sense of each person. She examined the application and the resume first, then read through the evaluations and anything else that might provide a snapshot of Sarah Adams. After about five minutes, she shut the folder and closed her eyes. She had begun using this method in high school but had perfected it over the years. With her eyes closed, she mentally went through what she had just read, trying to remember as much as possible. Somehow, Tarpley was able to file this information away in a particular section of her brain from where she could later retrieve it. Exactly how it worked, she did not know, but it did. She was always amazed when some random bit of information that she had previously stored somewhere inside her gray matter made its way to the surface, enabling her to pull together divergent information into a coherent and sensible pattern.
Opening her eyes, she replaced Sarah Adams’ file back into its spot at the front of the cabinet drawer and picked up the next folder. “Martha Adrianowicz, secretary.” She examined the last name again and mouthed the pronunciation, “Adrian-o-witch.” She laughed at her attempt to pronounce the name and especially the last syllable. I’ve been paying too much attention to the news spin on this story.
Looking at the other folders in the drawer, she thought, This is going to take most of the night. I’m gonna need to sit down at some point. For the moment, she was comfortable and turned her attention back to the file on Martha. She set it on top of the file cabinet and began to read.
Principal Oakes had been sitting at his desk for about forty minutes attempting to focus on any task other than the missing students when Sheriff Tarpley yelled from the office next door, “Come on, let’s go. They think they found the van, and the students are starting to wake up.”
Gary jumped from his seat and reached the glass door of the main office before the sheriff. “Where?” he asked, looking back at Tarpley as she came through the front counter’s swinging gate.
“In Vya.”
“Where?”
“Vya, it’s about twenty miles inside Nevada.”
“Nevada?! I thought the borders were closed or at least being monitored?”
“I guess they beat us to the state line.” As they exited the school’s doors, Sheriff Tarpley continued speaking. “I want you at the hospital as the students start to wake up. Remember, you’re a familiar face. The students are going to be confused; the parents are going to be emotional, and the CBI will be professional but most likely cold and distant. The students need a friendly, non-emotionally invested face.”
Climbing into the passenger seat of the sheriff’s Tahoe, Gary Oakes had déjà vu when he felt the surge of the big engine as Tarpley raced out of the parking lot with lights flashing and the siren blaring.
“How do they know it’s the right van?”
“I asked the same question. They said they found a juice container in the back, and the van had been reported stolen two days ago from Carson City.”
“Since you didn’t say anything about kids, I assume the students aren’t in the van,” Oakes said, not even trying to hide his disappointment.
“Yeah, no students.” As they raced down the main street of the city with its restaurants and clothing shops, she looked over at Principal Oakes. “But it’s a lead.”
“Do you still think the person might be local?”
“Yes and no,” she said as her eyes focused again on the street lined with parked cars. “Now they’ve crossed state lines, but the information had to come from somewhere. The good news is that because they crossed into Nevada, the FBI guys can be a whole lot more involved. It’s officially a federal crime now that it has crossed state lines.”
As they passed through town, Gary Oakes caught glimpses of the darkening hills between the houses. The setting sun shone against a blue- and orange-tinted sky that blended into the shadows of the ground and made it difficult to tell where the sky ended, and the earth began. Please, God, protect my children.
Tarpley turned off the siren and the police light about two blocks before the hospital, commenting on not wanting to alert the press to anything. “They’ll find out about the van soon enough.”
The sheriff pulled into the parking lot of the small, one-story hospital. The parking lot, which was usually half empty, was filled with cars. Gary counted at least five news vans relegated to an area of the parking lot closest to the street. He realized that this vantage point allowed for family privacy but also gave the media a good shot of the hospital and its sign.
The sheriff pulled to a smooth stop under the front awning of the hospital that belied Tarpley’s anxious desire to get to the sight of the van. He started to get out but felt her hand on his elbow. “Remember, you need to be the comforting, reassuring calm for these kids. They won’t know it, but they have the information we need. We just have to get them to tell us what they know, so be present to them and listen. Deputy Keith Evans, from earlier today, will be with you the whole time, so don’t worry.”
Principal Oakes was not worried until he heard, “Don’t worry.” Now he realized how important a responsibility he had. If I miss something, we may never find these kids.
As if the sheriff read his mind, she responded to his thoughts. “Just be the principal. Just like you were with Michael Guerro. You’ll do fine.” She patted his shoulder like he was leaving the dugout to pinch hit in the bottom of the ninth with the team down by one run and down to its final out.
Principal Oakes opened the Tahoe’s large door just as Deputy Evans walked out of the hospital doors with a nervous yet professional smile on his face. Tarpley pulled the Tahoe away from the curb before Oakes could even get the door closed. He heard the sheriff’s siren come on just as he and Evans walked into the hospital. God, now I really need your help, he prayed.
SIXTEEN
The quilt in the back bedroom burnt just like Chief Santos had hoped. The tattered and torn natural fibers caught quickly when the fire canister was placed on the floor beside the bed. Robert Santos could hear the gasps and excited exclamations through the intercoms installed in each of their oxygen masks as the bed was transformed from a place of comfort to an inferno in a matter of seconds. “All right, you guys, calm down and listen up. This is an open channel, so there are a lot of people on it. Let’s keep the chatter to a minimum and only to what is necessary.”
The conversations came to an abrupt halt. “So, we have a fire that has started in this back bedroom. Started by, let’s say, someone smoking in bed. As you can see, anyone who might have been sleeping in the bed is either dead or badly burnt.”
He stepped further into the center of the room, and some of the firefighters who had been huddling at the door followed him in. Others hung back at the threshold, leaning into the room, which quickly filled with smoke, looking like they were ready to make a run for it. Tom Gallagher stood behind Santos, ready with a fire extinguisher in case the fire took an unexpected turn as Santos continued talking. “As impressive as the bed may be, look at the flames behind the headboard. See how they are climbing, almost rolling up the wallpaper toward the ceiling? Remember, fire needs fuel and oxygen.” Santos could feel his breathing getting heavier because of the heat, and he knew he did not have much more time in this room. “The walls are plaster, so the plaster won’t burn, but the wall studs are wood. The flames have already found their way into the wall and are making their way through the wall cavity into the attic.”
Expecting the ceiling to collapse any second, the younger members of the team instinctively looked up at the ceiling. Isabella Santiago, holding a small camera recording everything, pointed it at the ceiling as well.
“All right, everybody into the front bedroom,” Santos ordered.
Like a well-trained group of soldiers, the six firefighters proceeded single file into the front bedroom. Santos was the last to leave the back bedroom, so he was also the last to enter the front. The firefighters all gathered inside the room, forming a semicircle around the bed with the polyester blanket. Since the smoke was just starting to seep into the front room, it was like moving from midnight to twilight. The flashlights and headlamps of the firefighters illuminated wisps of smoke that crawled into the room along the ceiling through the open door. It is only a matter of time before this room fills with smoke as well, Santos thought.
“Okay, everyone, take a look,” he said, pointing at the ceiling. Each of them looked up, and Isabella pointed the camera at the ceiling as well. “As you can see, there is now smoke seeping through the ceiling slats. Anyone want to tell me what that means?”
Tom spoke up, and the chief could hear the fear in his voice. “The attic is on fire.”
“Exactly. Usually, that means we get the hell out of here. Once the fire is in the attic, the house is essentially lost. But for us, that means that we are going to move this tour on a little more quickly.” The urgency of the message was not lost on the four men and one woman who were with him inside the house, but the message was also intended for the crews outside the house.
Stepping further into the bedroom to clear the path to the door for his five companions, he said, “Everyone into the living room for the last room of this tour.” As the last of the firefighters left the room, Santos looked back at the ceiling, where tongues of fire licked their way through the cracks in the wooden ceiling.
Upon entering the living room, he took a quick inventory of the faces of the younger members of his team. Each face visible behind the oxygen masks showed concern, but there was also fascination and trust. Don’t let these kids down.
Looking at the ceiling, Santos did not see any smoke or flames, so he knew he had a bit of time. As he pointed up toward the ceiling, each team member’s head tilted upward as well, and came to the same conclusion. He saw their bodies relax just a little, and over the intercom, he heard their breathing start to slow. All eyes looked around the room, taking in the furnishings. “Okay, so does anyone want to tell me how this room is going to burn?” It was a strange question, but he needed them to think and make an evaluation.
It was the youngest and newest member of the team, Aaron, who spoke up first. “We know the fire is in the attic. It will come through the ceiling. More than likely, as the ceiling burns, embers will begin to fall.” Grabbing hold of the drapes, he continued as he visualized the flame spread. “The rag rug, and these drapes, will be the first to go. Once they start, the rest of the room will follow. Except for the TV,” he said, gesturing toward it, “that thing is plastic. It’s just gonna melt.”
Santos smiled at the kid’s insight and enthusiasm. It was at that moment, however, he noticed something unexpected. Smoke was coming through the seams of the floorboards of the living room and around the sides of the ever-darkening OSB plywood. Forcing his voice to relax, he said, “Okay, folks, look down. You’ll notice smoke coming through the cracks between the floorboards. You may not be able to see it clearly, but the floorboards are starting to darken because of the heat. For the moment, the OSB board is resisting the flame spread, but it is also showing effects from the heat.”
Tom interrupted him, nervously pointing the nozzle of the extinguisher at the floor. “The floorboards of the crawlspace are on fire, but we can’t see it because they are burning on the underside and not on the top side.”
“You all know what that means, right?” Santos asked.
Each member of the team looked at him and then at each other, not knowing what to say.
“The fire outsmarted us. As we were looking up, it outflanked us and is coming at us from below. That means we get the hell out of here.” The rookies continued staring at the floor. “Now,” Santos yelled, losing his calm demeanor, “everybody out of the house through the kitchen.”
Isabella was closest to the kitchen and started running toward the back door with the others close behind. Chief Santos was the last person to leave the living room. He really wanted to evaluate the flame spread and how it worked its way around the room, but the old dry floor of the living room quickly gave in to the fire, and flames shot up through the seams. He wanted to know why the flooring had burnt so quickly. Nothing he had seen in or under the house during his examinations indicated that the floor should catch and burn so quickly.
He was just about to leave when he caught a glimpse of something between the collapsing slats of the wood flooring. Something that reminded him of the back bedroom. There was a blanket under the flooring. The blanket was the reason for the rapid flame spread in the crawlspace. But he had checked out the crawlspace himself when they had decided to burn the house. There were no blankets in the crawlspace at that time.
