~ Matters Of Faith ~

by

Robert James Allison

The voice was high pitched, and it pierced his mind, like a thin knife thrust out of the receiver and into his brain. “Honey!! Come home! Right now... come home!”

Stunned, he could only stammer barely coherent questions. “Liz? Is that you? Calm down Liz, what is it?” He was attempting to stay calm and have a calming effect on his wife. It wasn’t working, on either score.

“It... it’s... it’s... o… our b… b… baby! She’s gone!” she screamed, as her voice did the impossible and became even more shrill.

His heart sank, and a hard, tight knot formed in his stomach as not only the pitch, but also the meaning of the words themselves struck him. His throat tightened until he was sure he would pass out from lack of oxygen, and his chest felt as though a sledgehammer had struck it. Something had happened to his little girl, his only child; he must know what and he must know it now. He gave up trying to be calm as he growled into the phone, “Gone! What are you talking about! Make sense!”

“I... I took a nap on the couch. Pamela was in the playpen. When I woke up she was gone!” his wife sobbed, the shrillness giving way now to a new sound, the sound of despair.

With a continual nervous jerk, his right knee banged repeatedly against the inside of his desk as he tried desperately to focus his mind. His head was swimming, or the room was, he couldn’t tell which. He tried to speed up his mind in order to catch up with reality, but he couldn’t. Too much data was being input at one time to process and make sense out of any one thing. This was a new feeling for him; he was never out of control. He glanced around the office at the elaborate furnishings and books that lined the walls in an attempt to focus on something, anything, and hopefully stop his mind from reeling. Finally he rasped out, more from reflex than thought, “Did you look all around the house? Outside and inside?”

“Yes, of course. She’s gone, just gone.” The voice had now completely lost its shrillness, replaced by a lower, calmer tone, but despairing.

“Call the police. Did you call the police?” He was thinking again, not well, but thinking, totally unaware that his leg was still thumping loudly against the inside of the desk.

Liz hesitated, for what seemed an eternity, and when he was about to angrily repeat the question a quiet, subdued response came with a sob. “N… n… no... I called you.”

He was business-like now. The shock was over and action was taking its place, though the continued thumping from his right knee was evidence that he was far from in control. “Okay. Hang up and I’ll call! I’ll be home as soon as I can get there. You keep looking around. Get the neighbors to help. I’m hanging up now. Did you hear me, Liz? Liz!” he finished with a bone-shattering growl. It had the desired effect.

“Yes, okay, I will,” she responded, a little more rational now, he thought, but the voice was clearly heavy with despair.

~ * ~

The cherry red Corvette roared around and between the cars on Main Street, and the driver had the sudden realization that this was probably the first time he had ever really needed the power, speed, and maneuverability of this car. That was about all he realized though; his mind was still numb, and he felt overloaded with grief, data and responsibility. He was barely cognizant of the four stop signs he “blew” and the two stoplights he rolled slowly through against the red. That type of data wasn’t relevant to his thoughts right now. He simply blocked it out in favor of focusing on his wife and daughter.

Turning onto the street at the end of which his huge two-story brick home stood, he accelerated rapidly and with a squealing of tires straightened out the Corvette. In seconds he was screeching to a halt in front of his house. The first thing he noted was that police cars were all over the neighborhood. He had a fleeting thought that every cop in town must be parked on his street, but it was immediately crowded out by thoughts of his daughter’s whereabouts.

Although he wasn’t fully aware of the fact, every one of his neighbors were present, too, and they were gathered in his front and side yards in little knots, talking in hushed whispers, with grief-stricken looks on their faces. He was aware of the police presence, though, and it was natural that he should go to the first officer he could find to obtain whatever information was available.

The nearest policeman was talking with one of the neighbors, while making rapid notes on a pad of paper. He stopped and looked up from his pad of paper when a man rushed up and nervously asked, “Any news?” The policeman seemed to be caught unawares; it was a full minute before he answered, then he stated more than asked, “You’re the girl’s father?”

“Yes, yes,” the man responded, in a very irritated tone and asked again, “Any news?”

The policeman was all business now and tonelessly said, “The detectives want to talk to you in the kitchen.”

“Any news!” he now screamed; calmness was gone, and rational thought was lost for the moment, hysteria was very near.

The policeman stepped back, quite obviously evaluating the man; apparently deciding he was no immediate threat to his person, responded with only a semblance of emotion, “No, not really, no. This way, sir, if you please. Follow me.”

He did as instructed, lifelessly following the policeman through the familiar entryway, living room and down a short hallway into the kitchen. Two men in rather rumpled suits sat at the table in quiet conversation, each reviewing a note pad.

“Excuse me, detectives. This is the girl’s father. You said you wanted to talk with him as soon as he arrived,” the policeman said, and the detectives looked, up in unison, with interest.

One of the detectives stood up and pulled out a spare chair, saying, “I’m Detective Langford. Have a seat, sir. We have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

Still in a bit of a daze, he responded, “I don’t mind, but can you tell me the status of my daughter? And where is my wife?”

Once seated, he felt he should have been comforted to sit at the table, in familiar territory, where he had often basked in the warmth of the sun and his wife’s smile. Yet he did not. He was a stranger in a foreign land. It didn’t make sense to him that he should feel this way, in such a familiar and safe place, but he did.

“We’ve talked to your wife already. A couple of times, in fact. We need some information from you,” the other detective said, in a matter of fact tone. He was bald-headed, with his tie pulled down and askew, and barely looked up from his wrinkled and coffee-stained yellow pad of paper.

“Sure, anything to help,” he answered sincerely.

The bald-headed detective looked up from his notes with impassioned eyes and began, “Good. Now was your wife accustomed to taking an afternoon nap?”

Puzzled by the question, but wanting to do all he could, he responded quickly, “I guess, I’m not sure. She never really said much about it. I was always at work.”

“Okay. How about the doors being locked? Did she say anything to you about that?”

“No, why would she? What do you mean?” The territory was becoming more foreign all the time.

The detective shot out in short clipped phrases, “The doors were locked when the officers arrived. She said she didn’t always lock the doors during her nap. She said she had looked all over the house and in the neighborhood, yet she was inside with the doors locked when the first officer arrived.

“The first officer got here very quickly, and we don’t see how she looked around the whole neighborhood and inside the house, between the time he received the call and arrived on the scene. We checked the time.” As he spoke, he had been checking off items on his yellow pad and when finished he circled something at the bottom and looked blandly across the table to await a response.

After a moment it came. “She looked around first. Then she called me and I called the police.” The response was even and cautiously delivered.

“Oh, okay,” the bald-headed detective said and continued, “Why wouldn’t she call us first?”

Perplexed now, he let the words roll off his tongue. “I don’t know. Did you ask her?”

“Yes, she said she didn’t think about it,” the detective said, in a strange tone that wasn’t quite sarcastic, but not quite genuine either.

The response was immediate and forceful. “Sounds logical. She was very upset when I talked to her.”

The detective never batted and eye and shot back, “Maybe, but she was ice cold when the officer arrived and when we talked to her.” Before a response could be made the detective continued harshly, “Has your wife ever been hospitalized, or treated for any mental disorder?”

Bells went off in his head and the import of the questioning struck him like a bolt of lightning. He looked from the bald-headed detective to the younger one, who had asked nothing, but sat impassively, listening. The foreign territory was now enemy territory and he shot out a hot response. “What’s this all about? Is this going to help find my daughter?”

The detective was unmoved by the emotion and went back to his even tone. “We think so, yes. From what we’ve concluded, after talking with the neighbors, your wife and the arriving officer’s findings, we don’t think your wife’s story quite stands up to scrutiny.”

“What!” He was incredulous now, almost speechless.

The bald detective was still as calm as an oyster, almost irritatingly so, and continued, “It isn’t the first time we’ve run across this type of thing. The fact is that there are no signs of forced entry. Your wife says she locked the doors and yet the girl is missing. Missing from a playpen positioned not two feet from where your wife says she was sleeping. She was under no medication and just taking an afternoon nap. The air conditioning was on, so no windows were open and there should have been no outside noise to conceal a forced entry.”

The bald-headed detective continued, in sharp, clipped phrases, “There are no signs of an intruder at all. No signs of a struggle and none of the girl’s toys are missing. The neighbor to the north reported that, this morning, the windows were open and the air conditioner was off, which allowed her to hear noises from inside. Noises like yelling and a small child whimpering and crying. Noises like slaps and thuds. That same neighbor was out doing yard work all day and never saw anyone near your house.

“We think your wife got carried away disciplining the child, or the like, and caused real injury. Then, realizing what she had done, she concocted this story. We don’t have a clue as to the whereabouts of the body yet, but we’ll keep looking. It’ll turn up. It always does,” the detective ended with finality and an air of superiority. The younger detective now nodded and grunted his assent.

This wasn’t an interrogation meant to find his daughter, this was meant to find someone to be charged with something, anything. The man was speechless now. Rarely had he ever been at a loss for words, but he was now. In a moment he gathered his thoughts and said, “I think my wife won’t be talking to you again without a lawyer present, nor will I.”

“Sure, but you aren’t a suspect, sir,” the younger detective, who had pulled the chair out for him, said, venturing into the conversation, if that’s what it had been, for the first time since the man had sat down.

“Yet,” the man responded, sarcastically looking harshly at both detectives, as his teeth clenched and he closed his mouth for the last time.