Eight
Buffalo, New York, Ripplewood Creek
Greg thanked the women of Jenn’s book club then observed other volunteers, heading out to canvass.
Kat and Vince joined teams moving east, covering the north and south sides of Ripple Valley Boulevard.
At that moment the sky thudded and everyone looked up as a red helicopter passed overhead.
“That’s the chopper from Erie County Sheriff’s Office,” Doug Tucker said.
Watching it, Greg’s gut roiled with hope and fear at the increasing magnitude of the response.
Then he went with the teams retracing Jenn’s drive from Liz Miller’s house. They started on Appleleaf Road, moving into Auden Glen. He was paired with Sue Kelston, who had a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt and wore a fluorescent vest, ballcap, and an expression of determination.
“I’ve been with the watch for five years,” she said. “Been involved in all kinds of searches. Our last one was a Silver Alert.”
“Silver Alert?”
“A ninety-year-old woman with dementia had wandered from her nursing home in Noble Haven. We found her.”
“Alive?”
Kelston looked at Greg.
“Yes. Somehow she’d made her way to the cemetery where her husband was buried,” Kelston said. “We’ll find your wife, trust me.”
The helicopter made another pass before Greg’s phone rang. It was state trooper Rob Menza.
“Sir, I’m following up to advise you that alerts have been issued, searches with community groups are underway, and we’ve put out a public appeal for help. The Erie County Sheriff’s Office has dispatched its helicopter to search the area traveled by your wife.”
“Thank you. Have you received any new information?”
“A few calls have come in.”
“Someone saw Jenn?”
“It’s premature to confirm anything.”
“What do the callers say?”
Menza hesitated.
“I want to know,” Greg said.
“Some claim to have spotted your wife in Walmart. Others say they saw her car downtown.”
“You’re jumping on those tips, right?”
“Sir, they lack details or specifics. But yes, we’re assessing and following up every lead, I assure you.”
Greg absorbed the information without speaking as the helicopter circled for another pass and his call ended.
They continued going house-to-house, placing flyers in mailboxes, wedging them in doors, or tucking them under windshield wipers because most people weren’t home. For those who were, Kelston took the lead.
“We need your help to find a missing mom,” Kelston always started. It usually got a resident’s attention and removed suspicion that they were peddlers. Then, showing them the flyer, she’d tell them what happened, asking if they recalled anything that might help.
Most people said they’d noticed nothing, or were asleep, or not home. Then Kelston would tap her pen to a paragraph on the flyer Greg had missed, one asking if the resident had a home security recording system. If they did, would they agree to share any footage with police?
That was good, Greg thought, but he couldn’t stop feeling that time was slipping away.
Moving between houses, Kelston would tape flyers to lampposts, or staple them to trees. Teams across the street were doing the same. They’d canvassed about two blocks when Kelston’s walkie-talkie crackled with transmissions.
“Nothing at the gas station, or the corner store. The store was the only all-night business,” a voice said.
“What about their cameras?” Doug Tucker’s voice came across the air.
“We’ve got to go through corporate channels for them to release.”
“I figured,” Tucker said. “We’ll pass that to police, but I’m sure they’re on it.”
Absorbing the setback, and taking in what suddenly seemed futile—walking through the neighborhood sticking paper on trees—Greg battled the anger rising within him.
My God, Jenn’s missing. I should rush to the store, the gas station, to every business she could’ve passed and demand they help us with their cameras. My wife’s missing and every minute that ticks by could make a difference—
“Mr. Griffin? Greg Griffin?”
Greg turned.
“Yes?”
A woman in her twenties had stepped from a small car with call letters and a logo. “WJBV News Pulse Radio.”
Approaching him, she was carrying a microphone.
“I’m Brandi Chang, with WJBV.” She gave Greg her card. “Could I have a moment, for a brief interview about your search for your wife?”
Before Greg answered, another car came to a halt across the street. A tall bearded man got out and trotted to them.
“Dylan Pepper, with the Bulletin, the online community paper. You’re Greg Griffin?”
“Yes.”
“They told us at the tent where to find you,” Pepper said.
“Would you talk to us?” Chang said.
Looking at the two reporters, Greg remembered the state trooper telling him how media coverage can help a case.
“Yes,” Greg said.
Chang moved her microphone closer and Pepper began recording a video with his phone.
“Have you heard anything from your wife since you reported her missing?” Chang asked.
“No.”
“When and where was she last seen?” Pepper asked.
“About ten thirty last night. She was leaving her book club meeting on Oak Shade Drive.”
“And you live in Trailside Grove?” Pepper said.
“Yes, we do.”
“So it’s a short drive?” Chang said.
“About three miles, maybe ten minutes.”
They paused as the helicopter made another pass.
“What do you think happened?” Chang asked.
Looking around at nothing, Greg swallowed.
“I don’t know. A breakdown, a carjacking. I don’t know. But we’re asking anyone with information to contact police.”
“What are police telling you?” Pepper asked.
“They’re investigating and the community has come out to help.”