I halt four feet back. For a moment, I’m tempted to close the gap. The instinct catches me off guard and I flush a little. It’s my own fault. It’s been a long time now since I’ve allowed myself human contact. And just because I choose to be alone doesn’t mean I never feel lonely.
“Her backpack was here.” My statement comes out tentative. I swallow, continue in a more assertive tone. “Fourth bush in. You can still see a slight hollow worn into the ground, plus some of the lower branches of the azalea are broken.”
Clearly, my comment surprises him. The exact location of Angelique’s recovered pack wasn’t in the papers, proving I’m capable of learning some things all by myself. I continue quickly, without giving him a chance to demand I walk away, or lecture me on letting the professionals do their jobs:
“The front of the school is covered by at least six cameras between the academy’s security system and businesses across the street. The other sides are slightly less monitored, but traffic cams still capture each corner, plus again, more establishments across the way. As perimeters go, the academy is well supervised.
“Until we get to here.” I gesture to the area where we are standing. “No businesses across the street. No traffic cams midblock, no school surveillance.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just narrows his eyes at me. Meaning I probably do have it right, further pissing him off.
“There’s a side door halfway down this stretch of the school, an emergency egress, which I’m guessing is locked externally as a matter of protocol. It forces the students to enter through the front doors, where they’re subject to metal detectors and spot searches. Meaning there’s either not a single weapon or ounce of drugs in this one high school, or . . .” I shrug.
Detective Lotham rolls his eyes. There’s no institution in the world that’s contraband free and we both know it. Administrations implement controls and almost nearly as fast, the inmates figure out how to circumvent the system.
I warm to my subject: “Looks to me like the students stash their guns, knives, narcotics under the bushes here, probably first thing in the morning, then wait for a break between classes. Then it’s easy enough to prop open the side egress, scurry out, and recover the illicit goods with none the wiser. Meaning plenty of students know about this spot. Including Angelique.”
“There’s a second bolt-hole twenty yards down,” Detective Lotham drawls, probably just to prove I don’t know it all.
I shrug. Here, twenty yards from here—it doesn’t matter. Angelique’s backpack was left in a strategic location known by the students, not the administration. Meaning someone knew what they were doing. Meaning that someone might very well have been Angelique, stashing her personal belongings where she figured they’d be safe. Before she . . . ?
That’s the part I don’t know yet. The part nobody knows yet.
I ignore Detective Lotham and his relentless glower, turning in a small circle to sort out the rest in my mind. “Angelique had changed her clothes,” I murmur. “The clothes she wore to school were in her pack, along with her cell phone. Meaning once she’d exited the front doors of the school, she came around the side of the building here to stash her school bag. Except, she had to change clothes somewhere in between . . .”
I look across the street, then up ahead to the corner, where there’s a larger concentration of small businesses. I’m still trying to picture it in my head. “If Angelique had entered a store to change, she would’ve been caught on camera, and that would’ve been her last known location. Instead, the school is ground zero. So she must’ve walked around the block, school clothes on, backpack in hand, and then . . .”
My voice trails off. I glance at the detective. I think I know what happened. He doesn’t confirm it in so many words, but his gaze flickers to the side door.
“She went back inside the school,” I fill in. “Someone had propped open that egress. She rounded the building, ducked in this side entrance, changed, then exited back out. How long was she back in the school?”
Detective Lotham doesn’t answer, then I realize he can’t. This is the blind spot, of course. No way to see, to know exactly what had happened here.
But I’m starting to connect some dots. Not just what Angelique probably did, but what a cop might think of it.
Fifteen-year-old girl fails to return home. Several hours later, aunt reaches out to the community liaison officer. He comes over, asks a few questions. A teenager late for dinner . . . difficult to sound the alarm.
But protocol would’ve dictated a call to the local field office, reporting the situation. At which point a detective would’ve been called out. Maybe even Detective Lotham. He would’ve taken a statement from Guerline and Emmanuel. Maybe Guerline had already activated her niece’s Find My Phone app, maybe the police pinged it. But that would bring the cops here, to a last known location with no sign of violence but plenty of evidence of local usage. A well-known student bolt-hole.
Brief canvass of businesses, maybe even an initial review of available security footage, enough to show that Angelique had exited the front door of the school, then walked in the opposite direction of her bus stop on her own volition. With no sign of violence but plenty of evidence of planning, which was bound to skew police perspective of her disappearance.
And on a Friday night to boot. Not just a night notorious for parties and teen mischief, but the end of a detective’s normally scheduled workweek. A situation where a teen has only been missing for a matter of hours and probably of her own will would hardly win OT approval.
So the detective went home, leaving a few uniforms to continue canvassing neighbors, review security videos. Saturday. Sunday. Till Monday morning, when the detective returned to his job to learn the teenage girl remained missing and the trail was now forty-eight hours cold.
Then it became serious. Pity for the BPD. Pity for Angelique and her family.
“You’re going to tell me to leave,” I say shortly. “To mind my own business.”
“Yep.”
“It won’t work.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I have permission from the family. I also have the right to ask questions.”
“Sounds like you have this all planned out.”
“Not my first outing.”
“So I’ve also heard.”
“Did you call the names I gave Officer O’Shaughnessy?”
“I decided to check you out for myself. Then hear what others had to say.”
“Good attitude for a detective.”
“Not my first outing either.”
“So?”