The Groomer, page 11
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both. I can’t say because we’re not a hundred percent sure yet. I won’t say because it’s against our guidelines. We don’t want a case of vigilante justice on our hands. We don’t want his name spreading through the news. If he’s not involved, we’d be putting him in danger and we’d be assassinating his character.”
Holly asked, “If he is involved, we might just be saving our daughter.”
Booth responded, “Like I said, the feds are looking into him right now. They have a list of suspects. I’m feeling optimistic.”
Breaking his silence, Rodney said, “Well, I think that’s great. We can keep searching on our own, right? Y’all can handle the–”
“Should I offer more money?” Holly interrupted, ignoring her father.
Booth shrugged and repeated, “Money?”
“We–We’re doing the reward thing, remember? You said this might be a human trafficking situation, right? You said my baby is still alive, right?”
Booth nodded and said, “That’s what I’ve been told.”
Holly’s lips twitched as she smiled. She said, “Human traffickers do it for money. So, if I offer fifty thousand or… or a hundred thousand, I can buy Grace from them.”
The men looked at each other. The truth was bleak and depressing. Human traffickers abducted people and sold them for money, used them for labor, or dissected them for their organs—which they then sold for money. That was true. But some human traffickers kidnapped people to produce pornography and snuff films. And that sect of traffickers was especially fond of children.
Booth suspected Holly knew that very well, but she was in denial. He wasn’t willing to extinguish her spark of hope.
He said, “I’m sure we’ll find her safe and sound. If it helps you sleep better at night, feel free to increase your reward. But do not attempt to contact anyone without us. We’ll let you take the lead on this little bounty program of yours, but we can’t let you do it alone. I’ll assign someone to help you out. I’ll also reach out to some of my sources to help you get the word out. Does that sound good to you?”
Holly said, “Sure, sure. I’ll start, um… I’ll start organizing some more money. Maybe we can do a GoFundMe or something like that. I can print some fliers, too. And, um… We can do some milk carton stuff. Do they still do that?” She stood up and glanced around. She muttered, “Pen, paper, phone… Yeah, we can offer more. I just need to call some people. Where’s my phone? Oh God, what if someone called?”
She went into the living room. Rodney nodded at the men, then he followed his daughter. He yammered about the good news, trying to get her to forget about the cancelled search parties.
Booth asked, “So, you got anything for me?”
“Like what?” Andrew responded, a cold look in his eyes.
“Questions. Information. Anything.”
Vigilante justice—Booth’s words echoed through Andrew’s head. His hand trembled, causing the coffee in his mug to ripple. He breathed deeply through his nose. He wanted to ask for information, but he didn’t want to arouse any suspicion.
He asked, “So, you… you think she’s alive?”
“I do.”
“Then that’s all I needed to hear. Thank you for visiting, detective.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. McCarthy,” Booth said as he stood up.
He gestured with his mug—what should I do with this?
Andrew said, “Leave it. It’s fine.”
“Thank you,” Booth said. He stopped at the archway. He looked back at Andrew and said, “Mr. McCarthy, I should warn you about taking matters into your own hands. That’s not something you want to do. If I find out you’re interfering with our investigation, especially when we’re this close to breaking new ground, I won’t hesitate to have you arrested. Understood?”
Without glancing back at him, Andrew asked, “Do you need me to walk you out?”
Booth sighed in disappointment. He said his goodbyes to the rest of the family, then he was escorted out of the house by Holly. Andrew sat in the kitchen and stared at his coffee. Holly walked in and out while talking on the phone. Annette took Max into the backyard to play. Rodney came in for another cup of coffee. He tried to start some small talk, but he didn’t get a response.
Andrew just sat there for an hour. He thought about his other ‘options.’ He was determined to find his missing daughter—by any means necessary.
Chapter Thirteen
The Usual Suspects
Andrew trudged through the living room where the McCarthys gathered with the Bakers and another couple, the Garcias. Fliers with Grace’s picture—in color—covered the coffee table as well as receipts and letters and a stack of printer paper. Their eyes were glued to the television, waiting for Channel 9 News to play an interview with Holly. She managed to raise an additional fifteen-thousand dollars from her friends, family, and complete strangers on the internet.
The interview started. The headline read: $50,000 reward for information on missing Pinecreek child, Grace McCarthy.
The audience in the living room cheered as they listened to Holly’s emotional speech. They hoped to keep her motivated with their optimism. Matthew and Rodney called out to Andrew, but Andrew just shook his head and kept moving. He went upstairs. He could hear Max and his friends in his bedroom. He didn’t bother checking up on them.
Andrew entered the master bedroom and locked the door behind him. He sat at a desk in the corner of the room. He cracked his knuckles over his laptop’s keyboard.
He muttered, “I can do this. I don’t need a badge to investigate. Private investigators investigate every day. I mean, maybe I need a license, but who’s going to check? I’m not on official business. It’s just research, right? Yeah, just research.” He spoke as if he were trying to convince himself to move forward. He said, “So… where should I start?”
He stared at the screen, his web browser open to Google. His eyes widened a bit as an idea popped into his head. He opened a private window on his web browser. He thought: that should stop them from tracking me, right? Well, it should buy me some time at least, shouldn’t it? He guessed a warrant and a call to his internet service provider would expose his misdoings, but at least he wasn’t handing all of his information to the authorities on a silver platter.
He opened a notebook and grabbed a pen. He wasn’t going to save anything on his hard drive. He started writing a list of potential suspects.
He whispered, “Human traffickers… maybe a cartel… No, no, that’s crazy. Cartels don’t kidnap Americans… do they?”
He searched for any news about Americans kidnapped by Mexican drug cartels. He found articles reporting the kidnappings of Americans in Mexico, but he couldn’t find anything about Americans being kidnapped on American soil. He crossed ‘cartels’ off his list. Underneath it, he wrote: Chinese organ traffickers? He searched it on the internet. Again, he didn’t find any news about organ traffickers kidnapping Americans on American soil.
“It’s obvious,” he muttered. “It’s always the usual suspects.”
He wrote: convicted sex offenders. He visited the California Megan’s Law website, which provided information on registered sex offenders. He was met with a disclaimer. It warned him of the legal limits on disclosures, potential errors and exclusions, mistaken identities, and the possible legal consequences of using the website’s information to commit a crime or harass an offender.
He ignored it.
He used his zip code to search for convicted sex offenders in the area. He found ninety-seven offenders. There were a dozen transient sex offenders in his city, too. He disregarded the homeless offenders since he didn’t believe they were capable of kidnapping and hiding a child for over a week. He set his sights on violent repeat offenders—specifically, those who targeted minors.
As he scribbled some notes, he read a criminal’s profile aloud: “Edgar Chance… Thirty-nine years old… Five-foot-four… 119 pounds… Lewd or lascivious acts with a child fourteen or fifteen years of age and offender ten or more years older than the victim… Annoyed or molested a child under eighteen years of age…” He wrote down his last known address. He underlined his name and muttered, “You’re bad, but you’re not the worst.”
He searched through the offenders, jotting down their names, offenses, and addresses. After a few searches, the website asked him to complete another CAPTCHA. I can’t search too many people or they’ll be on to me, he thought. He focused on the area around Plaza Elementary School. He went through five more profiles.
“Lewd or lascivious acts… lewd or lascivious acts… oral copulation by force or fear… rape by force or fear… lewd or lascivious acts,” he read their offenses aloud.
He looked over his notes. His writing was sloppy, the jottings of a madman, but every word looked like a piece to a puzzle to him. He read it, then re-read it, and then read it a third time. He saw a connection. He circled a name: Diego Cavazos. Diego was a forty-seven-year-old man convicted of rape by force or fear and lewd or lascivious acts with a minor. He had a history of violent crimes involving children.
Andrew tapped the notepad and said, “You’ve hurt kids. You’re a repeat offender. You can’t stop, can you? You took Grace, didn’t you? You monster… You fucking monster, I’m coming for you.”
He changed his clothes. He wanted to look casual and forgettable—inconspicuous. He wanted to appear strong, but he didn’t want to intimidate anyone. He wore a gray button-up shirt with a burgundy tie, black slacks, and dress shoes. He wrestled with the idea of wearing gloves. It was chilly outside, but it wasn’t cold enough to warrant gloves. He wasn’t making a fashion statement, either.
I need something to hide my fingerprints, he thought. I should try to hide my hair, too, right? A baseball cap? It won’t match, but it’s something.
He put on the gloves and tossed on a baseball cap. He looked like a father hiding his palmoplantar hyperhidrosis under a pair of gloves while rushing to his son’s baseball game after work to catch the last inning. It wasn’t as inconspicuous as he had hoped, but he didn’t look like himself, either. If someone spotted him and described him to the police, he assumed no one would suspect him.
He grabbed his backpack and went to the door. He poked his head out and peeked down the hall to his left and right. The coast was clear. He crept downstairs. The guests in the living room were busy, chatting about the reward and Grace, so no one noticed him. He went down another hall and found himself in the garage.
For the first time in his life, his workbench looked like an armory. He didn’t see home improvement tools used for fixing broken things anymore. He saw weapons of destruction used to break deviant men.
As he ran his eyes over the tools, he whispered, “A gun would make this easier, but guns are easy to track. I don’t need one now. I can’t use one. Improvise, Andrew. This is for your daughter.”
He grabbed a slotted screwdriver and he gazed at it, like an artist marveling at his magnum opus. What can I do with this?–he thought. He threw it into the bag before his mind could run wild. He didn’t want to be dissuaded by thoughts of extreme violence. He didn’t really have a plan after all. He only knew he was going to hurt someone.
He filled a bag with a claw hammer, a wrench, a tape measure, and a small bottle of motor oil. He went to a locker in the corner. He took out a hand cultivator, a pair of titanium shears, a box cutter, and some rolls of duct tape. He rushed to the minivan, then he stopped. He took a step back and looked at the workbench again. He stared at a hacksaw on the wall above the table.
He thought: what can I do with that? I can scare him with it. Yeah, if I can pull it off, I can make him talk without touching him. And if I have to use it, if he knows something and I HAVE to use it... I can cut him. I can...
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door hinges squealing behind him. He found his son standing in the doorway.
“Dad,” Max said.
Andrew looked away from him. He couldn’t face his son knowing he was planning on hurting someone to find Grace.
“What is it?” Andrew asked.
“Mom is... she’s looking for you.”
“Yeah? Um... What does she want?”
“We’re gonna make a video. She said it’s for the news. Like, to ask for more help and to... to find... to find...”
Max couldn’t say his sister’s name. He sniffled and trembled. A vein stuck out of his forehead. Say something, idiot!–he yelled at himself in his head.
Andrew said, “I’m busy, Max. Ask me again tomorrow or the next day. I have to go now.”
“Whe–Where?”
“I’m going to look for your sister.”
“Can I… Can I come?”
Andrew glanced over his shoulder, but he still avoided eye contact with his son. He started to shudder, too. He couldn’t find his daughter and he couldn’t help his son. He felt like the worst father on earth.
He said, “You can’t.”
Tears sprinkling out of his eyes and voice cracking, Max asked, “Because you hate me?”
“No… No, Max, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. Please don’t talk like that. Don’t… Don’t blame yourself for any of this. I love you, buddy.”
“Then why… why… why aren’t you looking at me?”
Andrew grunted and coughed as his throat tightened. He looked away and breathed shakily. He heard the tools clinking in his bag. For Grace, he told himself.
He said, “Be a big boy for me and take care of your mother while I’m gone. She needs you, buddy. I love you.”
“I–I love you, too,” Max stuttered.
Andrew climbed into the minivan. He threw his bag on the passenger seat, then he reversed out of the garage. Max watched his father leave while contemplating the sincerity behind his words. He wiped the tears off his face and headed back into the house.
Chapter Fourteen
For Grace
The sun set behind the two-story apartment building, which resembled a roadside motel, setting the sky ablaze with reds and oranges and purples. Some children ran around in the parking lot, lost in their world of make-belief, while a few teenagers loitered at the corner near the building. A driver honked at the kids, eager to get home after a long day’s work.
Diego Cavazos got off a bus down the street, a plastic bag with an oyster pail, a fortune cookie, and a bottle of Coke in his left hand. His wrinkled face, peppered with a few days’ worth of stubble, drooped down. He was always frowning—always depressed. His navy coveralls were loose over his lanky figure. He ran his fingers through his thinning, graying hair, then he trudged down the sidewalk.
“It’s you,” Andrew said as he watched him from his van from across the street. “Yes, yeah, it’s you. I remember your picture, you fucking pervert. You’re Diego Cavazos. You’re a fucking rapist, walking around like you own the place. Don’t you dare touch any of those kids. I’ll kill you right in that parking lot if you do. I’ll really do it, man. Don’t test me.”
He leaned forward to get a better view of him. Diego lumbered into the parking lot. He ignored the kids—and they avoided him. He waved at an older woman on the first floor. She stood near her open front door, phone to her ear. She was gossiping with an old friend while watching the kids. The woman just gave him a nod—hey. She watched him with a set of cautious eyes for a few seconds, then she continued her call.
Diego’s neighbors knew about his past because he was required to tell them about his crimes when he first moved in. He wasn’t forgiven for his crimes, but many of his neighbors learned to accept him. It had been fifteen years since he was released from prison, and he hadn’t recidivated since then. They were cautious around him, but they weren’t going to surround his apartment with pitchforks or throw molotov cocktails through his window.
Diego went up the stairs. He entered the first apartment—201. He had a neighbor to his right and a neighbor below him. The woman on the phone stood in front of the apartment below Diego’s. She liked to gossip, but she didn’t seem like the nosy, intrusive type. She wasn’t going to bang on his door if she heard a loud noise. She was friendly, it was part of her nature, but she really didn’t want anything to do with him. Diego’s next-door neighbor wasn’t home, either. In fact, the apartment looked vacant.
Andrew said, “Okay, okay. I can’t let anyone see me. I have to wait until the kids go inside. I’ll go out there as soon as they go inside. I will do it. I will… I will…”
He kept saying it, hoping it would build up his courage. In the span of forty-five minutes, the oranges were replaced by the reds, then the reds by the purples, and then the sky was pitch-black. The stars weren’t visible, just a waxing crescent moon—a white slit on a black canvas. Only the lampposts illuminated the street. One of the crosswalks down the street was completely obscured by the darkness.
Andrew sat motionless, eyes glued to the bag on the passenger seat. He questioned his intentions, his goal, and his morals. One questioned dominated his mind: how far can you go, Andrew? He once shoved someone in college, but he never caused bodily harm to anyone and he never tried to kill anyone before. He wasn’t a violent man.
“Your daughter needs you,” he said. “You’re supposed to protect her from the bad guys. He is one of those bad guys. He’s a rapist, a child molester, a monster. You have to do this.”
He grabbed his bag and climbed out of the car. He jogged across the street. From the parking lot, he could hear loud Spanish music and children screaming with excitement from the apartment below Diego’s. The noise calmed his nerves. He made his way upstairs. He stopped in front of the door. He adjusted his cap, then he drew a deep breath.
He pressed the doorbell. He heard the muffled ringing in the apartment from outside. A set of footsteps followed. Sweat seeped past his cap’s sweatband, rolling down to his eyebrows. He felt lightheaded and nauseous. He held his breath without realizing it. He counted the passing seconds, but he lost count after three.
