Pitiless: An Isaac Black Missing Persons Investigation

By John Charles Berry

In the thrilling second installment of the Isaac Black Missing Persons Investigations, Black finds himself confronted with the possibility that a sex ring is forcing teen girls into the trade.

Isaac Black is a detective driven as much by his own inner demons as by his personal mission to restore the missing to their loved ones. Black lives in a world of in-betweens: a drunk who doesn’t drink, half African-American and half Caucasian, a former Homicide detective now in Missing Persons. Detectives who’ve worked with him the longest find that they can walk all the way around Isaac Black, but they can rarely get inside.

This novel is an unflinching exploration into the darker side of humanity, but with a halo of light as an unyielding detective remains true to his instincts and a young woman fights like hell to keep her dignity.

Find out why readers say:
“Isaac Black is a soul tortured detective who really cares.”
“Don’t we all have a little Isaac Black in our souls? His struggles reflect our own”
John Charles Berry’s books are “hard to put down,” “riveting read!” and “must read”

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Charles Berry
• Release date: Nov 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781945330216

John Charles Berry

John Charles Berry has spent more than 20 years as an executive in the High Tech and Banking industries. During that time he has also published articles, speeches, and fiction in Newsweek, The Financial Times, The Harvard Business Review, Vital Speeches of the Day, and After Hours. He earned a Ph.D. in English. He resides in Charlotte, NC, with his beloved wife and children.

Book preview

It was one of those days haloed with possibility. Bright, crisp air that was so fresh it seemed to snap in your mouth like an apple. Even though it was October, it had been an unseasonably mild fall in Charlotte, and everyone seemed to be outside—jogging, dog-walking, going to Freedom Park. Isaac and Carly had enjoyed a long stroll in the park, taking in the sun glittering on the lake before heading to their favorite café up at the Metropolitan. They were at a table on the sidewalk, enjoying a brief lunch and already making plans for a movie and dinner later that night. Isaac sat back in his chair, smiling, and took in a deep breath.

What is it? his wife asked with a smile.

Ain’t nothing wrong, Carly. It’s just a nice day. We need more of these, you know? He took another breath and allowed his shoulders to sag, mocking huge relief and flashed a smile of his own.

As he looked at her, Carly’s face suddenly shimmered as if she wore a translucent mask of pearl. Her body seemed to hover above her seat momentarily and Isaac Black narrowed his eyes, staring hard at her. He was confused as to why she was floating there above her seat, but at the same time it wasn’t a completely foreign notion to him. He seemed to recall seeing her do this before somewhere in the back of his mind. He glanced around to see if the other patrons of the café noticed his wife hovering in the air.

Suddenly, his mobile phone rang out from his blue jeans and that seemed to break the spell. As he pulled his phone from his pocket, his wife was once again seated normally in her chair and drinking from her water glass. She gave him a look as if to say ‘this was too good to be true.’

Black listened and said a few words into the phone, pulled out a pen and wrote something down on the napkin in front of him, ruining the cloth, and then returned the phone to his jeans pocket. The next few minutes appeared to Black’s mind as if he was watching another couple who were sitting on the other side of frosted glass. He could make out the shapes of his and Carly’s bodies, watch their gestures, and hear the conversation, but only indistinctly. Still, somehow he knew what he was saying: that there had been a body found with a single gunshot wound, that he was next up on the list, and he needed to head to the murder scene. Carly took a breath, but didn’t complain. The regret on her face was clear to Black. She realized that if she was going to take in dinner and a movie, she’d be doing it alone or with one of her girlfriends.

Then, and this part was still pretty muddled for him, Carly surprised him by saying she’d like to ride along with him to the scene of the murder. Black shook his head. Suddenly he was back on the right side of the frosted glass, back in his own seat looking straight at his wife. His eyes were narrowed again, confused and unclear. In all the years they’d been married and in all the times he’d been called to a scene, she’d never asked if she could ride along with him.

He cocked his head, questioning her motive, and squinted his eyes.

What? Or did he mean to say ‘why?’

Let me go along with you, Isaac. This has been such a nice day. I know you have to go, but just let me go along with you. It’ll extend our time together. She reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand with her fingernails. Something she did because it sent chills up the back of his neck. Black smirked at her in response.

Baby, I don’t know how long I’ll be in there. It could be an hour—or three. I just don’t know. Besides, you know it’s not safe—not to mention against department policy. Come on, he said as he signed the credit card receipt, let me drop you by the house and I’ll head out. He stood up from the table and noticed she was still sitting.

OK, OK, if I’m not riding along, then let me drop you off. I won’t stay if you don’t want me to, Carly said, pushing another angle.

Black looked down at her sitting there at the table, her arms crossed, trying to negotiate. His heart swelled up in love and tenderness, but he also felt this pinpoint of pain in the middle of his chest. What was that about? Then it slowly widened. A tangible pinprick of foreboding emanated out from his chest and filled his belly and then his limbs, engulfing his entire body. As Black watched himself standing and his wife sitting, the image of his wife flashed and was replaced momentarily by a bloodied body slumped over the table. Black breathed sharply and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear the image from his mind.

What the hell was going on?

So it’s settled then? Carly said as she rose up from the chair and walked on ahead of him, out of the small gate that separated the café’s seating area from the public sidewalk.

Black simply walked along behind her, mute as a lamb to its slaughter. The drive to the murder scene sparkled and danced in his mind like the bright sun on the lake at Freedom Park. He wasn’t sure how long it took to get there or what they said in the drive over. This was the part that was fuzziest. It was also the time that he so desperately wanted to recall. Was it because it was the most unclear in his memory? Or was it because it was the last few moments he had with her? He just wanted to know. He just wanted to know what they said even if it was to discuss the weather. It’s often those mundane moments of life, simply sitting in a car and talking about nothing and everything all at the same time, that carry the most weight in the retrospective of our lives. But that drive remained a blur to him, playing like a scene in a movie where one moment they’re talking about their destination and the next finding themselves there. Black did, however, perfectly recall the house and the crime scene. He and Carly were now in one of the more questionable areas of west Charlotte. It was a dense urban zone with apartments and duplexes built very close together. They were parked in front of a smallish house: a two-bedroom-one-bathroom layout that didn’t quite make 1,500 square feet. The outside was vinyl siding, a dingy blasé beige. Black could tell the house had been more robust in years prior, but aging had faded its color, not neglect. The front had the most impeccable garden with nice fall colors that stood out brightly next to the small yard that was a deep carpet of green, like the emerald of Oz. That bright garden and green grass were a riot of colors compared to the faded houses that surrounded it.

Black exited the car and said goodbye to Carly, reminding her of her promise to leave immediately, to which he received a fond eye-roll in return. He turned from the car and strode into the house, fastening his badge prominently on his belt and switching into homicide detective mode.

The inside of the house was as equally impeccable as the front. Not just clean but antiseptic, so organized and tidy that it seemed the life had been sucked right out of the place. The uniforms safeguarding the crime scene captured his signature on the control log and then directed him to the body. He made his way up a set of stairs and down the hallway to the master bedroom. The carpet was an off-white, as perfectly clean and free of stains as the rest of the place, even though it was clearly years old. The one unkempt thing in the entire house was the bed. It was unmade with the bedcover in a heap on the corner and the naked body of a man on his back draped across it with his arms and legs hanging off the edge of the mattress, his legs splayed for the whole world to see his junk. There was a single gunshot wound to his chest. The bedding underneath the body was a crimson halo of death. His blue eyes were dull and lifeless, fixed on the ceiling above him, as if he saw an answer to the question plaguing his mind as he bled out.

While Black had been taking all of this in, apparently Carly was still in the car outside. She was supposed to have come around the car, gotten behind the wheel and left right away. Instead, the keys sat in the ignition, the temporary Police light still perched on the dash, though it was no longer flashing, and she was pecking at her telephone, finishing a text message. Suddenly the door flew open—at least this is how Black always imagined it.

It’s not like he actually knew for sure, though, did he? This was all the part of the story that he’d invented, recreated, based on his endless reading and re-reading of the case file and the way he’d tormented himself all those weeks and months while he emptied glass upon glass of bourbon into his open mouth.

I’m leaving. I’m leav– She began to say to him defensively. But of course her words would have been cut off mid-sentence as soon as she looked up and realized that it wasn’t Black getting into the car. Some damned kid from the ‘hood, just trying to jack a car that he noticed on the road. He probably didn’t even know she was in it when he jumped in.

At this point, Carly would be telling the stranger to get out, that this was a cop car, her husband was a cop, that he’s just right there in that house so you better get out while you can. And where was the cop who should have been outside watching the house to protect the crime scene? Turns out that he’d stepped inside to use the john, or so the report read. God only knows for sure. Black certainly didn’t. Still didn’t. She’d be slapping at the kid, now, until he back-handed her and told her to shut up. Maybe even he pulled a gun on her. Then he started the car up and drove away. Carly would be really scared now, pushing her body as far from him as she could and screaming at him to stop and let her out. Black would picture it so easily, the kid gesturing at her with the gun, telling her to jump out while the car’s moving if she wanted out so badly. All the while he’s going faster and skidding around corners, trying to get out of the neighborhood and onto a main road where he can really pick up the speed.

Let’s light her up, he laughed, turning on the flashing light and giving Carly another whack to keep control of the situation. Black knew this part without a doubt; he had seen the bruise patterns himself just hours later. All the while the kid laughed, as he drove, screeching the tires, and carrying his Carly away.

Or so it goes in his own account of what happened. In reality it was broad daylight, but in his mind the red taillights of the car fade off into the darkness like two menacing eyes.

Then the storyline jumps like an old videocassette tape that’s been poorly spliced. The images shake and jumble and he’s no longer inspecting the murder scene, leaning over the man’s body, listening to his partner make obscene comments about the dead man’s genitals, but rather he’s staring at the empty cabin of his car. The passenger’s side door is sitting open and Black has the distinct feeling of fear in his chest because his wife ought to be sitting there.

The car is on the side of the road. The entire cabin of Black’s car has been wiped clean of any prints. It’s dusty and still.

The image jumps again. The trunk of the car swims into Black’s vision. The lid is covered in dirt except on the edge where it, too, has been wiped clean.

No handprints.

No fingerprints.

And then, he hears it. It always happens this way: there are no hands before him. No key is inserted into the lock. He simply hears that hollow clunk as the lock to the trunk has been disengaged. As that low, hollow sound drops in his head, his heart falls into his stomach. A rushing, furious white noise fills his ears and his body erupts in a sweat. His breath is heavy in his lungs like the weight of moisture in the air before a hurricane.

The trunk lid slowly rises open before his eyes. It takes an impossibly long time for the lid to come up and then it sits there yawning open. And inside, he knows what’s there—or who’s there—before he allows his eyes to drift down: Carly, beaten, bloodied, bruised, and so very, very dead.

Black sat up in bed, calling out, Carly!

His tee shirt was soaked through and his fists clenched the sheets around him into crumpled balls. His breath came in bursts and his eyes were wide open and darting around the room, searching for the open trunk with the dead body of his wife.

Carly, he whispered. He took a deep breath and forced his hands open. The sheets were wrinkled and damp from his grip. He took another deep breath. He hoped it’d be a cleansing breath. Carly, he whispered again and then swung his feet out from under the bed covers and placed them on the floor. He bent over and rested his elbows on the tops of his thighs and then ran his hands over his head, allowing the fuzzy feeling of the close-cropped hair to relax him.

Black clenched his eyes shut, but no tears came. He took deep breaths but no calming sensation settled over his mind and his heart. It made sense. Without needing to look at his clock, he knew the day. Today’s five years.

Five years ago today she’d been taken. Taken away from him and from this world. Taken away from his crime scene, where she shouldn’t have been in the first place. Five years and he still thought about her every day. He was told that he grieved too hard and too deep, though he never understood how that was possible.

Five years.

Carly, Black said again quietly as he stood up from the bed and stretched. I miss you, baby, he said as he picked up her picture that was perched on the stand next to his bed and stroked the glass over her face. He put her back in her place and slowly walked, half stumbling, into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were glassy and red, his face drawn.

Holy shit, you look awful, he told himself, then sighed, turning from the mirror and muttered. I’ve got to get a life.

October

1. A Day in the Life

Isaac Black walked down the hallway until he arrived at the door of Apartment 418. Samantha Stockwell, junior detective in the Missing Persons Unit, was with him. They’d gotten a call about a white male in his mid-20s, by the name of Thomas Edgington, who’d gone missing. Black and Stockwell were there, making the routine health and welfare visit, one of the first things their unit did upon receiving a report of a missing person in order to establish if the person was actually missing and to ensure there was no evidence of foul play at their place of residence. Stockwell, who had received the assignment, was lead and brought Black as backup. MPU had found that partners working in tandem reduced liability in lawsuits as well as ensured the safety of the detectives. The building manager trailed behind them and stood silently as Stockwell knocked on the door and called out.

Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police, please open the door.

Silence.

Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police! Open up!

Still silence.

Okay, sir, please unlock the door and remain in the hallway while we look around, Black said to the building manager.

Stockwell and Black slowly walked into the apartment, announcing their presence. They kept their right hands on the butts of their holstered pistols and quickly looked in all of the rooms, making sure there was no one in the house.

Clear! Black called out to Stockwell.

Black, I think you need to see this, Stockwell said. I’m in the bedroom. Black could hear that her voice was tight so he hustled down the short hallway and into the bedroom. Stockwell was standing at the foot of the bed and looking into an open closet. She had her revolver out and pointed at the floor. Her long forefinger pressed against the side of the barrel, poised to use the weapon if needed. Black came around beside her and saw what she was staring at.

A man, probably their missing person by the looks of his age and general description, was inside the closet. He was hunched down against the wall, squatting over his feet with his knees pulled up in front of him. He had his arms wrapped around his legs with his chin resting on his knees. He had shaggy blonde hair that was unkempt and hung down, partially covering his eyes. He had a man-boy beard, the kind that was sparse and partially grown in, but it was the best he could do. Black knew it was the bane of young blonde men that they rarely could grow a full beard, but never understood why they grew them out any way. Stranger than the man’s position in the closet was the fact that the guy was stark naked. Black couldn’t remember ever finding someone in this kind of position. He broke into a grin and shook his head.

There’s something you don’t see every day, he said to Stockwell. Did you check to see if he’s alive?

Sir, this Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police. Please stand up, Stockwell barked down at the squatting man. Black looked over at her, not sure why she was yelling at the guy instead of pushing on him. Samantha Stockwell was a good-sized woman; about five feet, eight inches tall and around 140 pounds. She wasn’t heavy and she wasn’t skinny. Stockwell’s angular face was framed by shoulder-length black hair that already had streaks of gray coming in. Her nose was pointed, her chin a bit too sharp, and her ears seemed to slant upward and away from her jawline, resulting in a severe appearance. Black had found her to be a hard-nosed cop on a case, but funny as hell outside of the office. Most people were surprised to learn that she was the mother of three children at home, ranging in ages from two to eight.

Thus the gray hair, Black thought.

The guy in the closet didn’t move or open his eyes in response to Stockwell. Black looked intently at the guy, but he was hugging his knees so tightly that his thighs were pressed against his chest so it was impossible to tell if he was breathing or not.

Have you checked for a pulse? He asked her.

Not yet, she said, looking down at the squatter.

Well, what are you waiting for? Black asked, giving her an impatient look. You worried he’s going to bite you? Or just haven’t seen a naked man in a while?

I have three kids at home, Black. I think it’s pretty obvious at this point that I’ve seen my share of male nudity, though this guy has nothing to be ashamed of she arched her eyebrow at him. She looked down at the guy and took a breath to yell at him one more time and then changed her mind.

Oh, all right, Stockwell said. She holstered her revolver and leaned down. As she placed her index and middle fingers on the side of his neck to feel for a pulse, the guy’s eyes popped open. Before Stockwell could react, he bared his teeth and gnashed at her hand. His eyes were shot through with blood and his teeth were yellowed and caked with plaque.

Holy shit! Stockwell called out. She pulled back from the guy’s bared teeth so hard and so fast she lost her balance and fell into the dresser behind them. Black pulled his revolver, held it in both hands, and pointed the barrel at the guy. Then, just as quickly as he gnashed his teeth, the man closed his eyes and went still and quiet once again.

Sir, get the hell up! Black yelled. "Sir, are you Thomas Edgington? Get up right now!"

The guy continued to squat and hug his knees in supreme silence. His eyes remained closed. Stockwell had gotten up and had her revolver back out of its holster. The two detectives stood there with weapons drawn and looked from each other to the man in the closet and back to each other, shaking their heads incredulously.

Black smirked at Stockwell, and mustered a "That had to hurt. You okay?"

Shut up, Black. That dude scared the hell out of me. Black looked away from her to keep from laughing outright.

Sir, get up! NOW! Black bellowed down. No response. They guy didn’t even flinch. Black raised his right foot and pushed against the guy’s shoulder. Blood-shot eyes popped open beneath the shaggy blonde hair and the man bared his teeth, but he toppled over inside the closet. Still in the squatting position, hugging his knees, even though he toppled over onto his side, the man once again closed his eyes and remained still and silent.

Nice view, Stockwell commented, cocking her head towards the bare ass of the man in the closet. Alright, Black, you’ve got seniority, Stockwell said. What the hell do we do now?

Are all your cases like this, Detective? Black asked her for comic relief, shaking his head. I wonder if he’s been hunched over so long his body’s seized up.

Black holstered his weapon and leaned into the closet, grabbed the man by the ankles, and dragged him out. The man opened his eyes again as soon as Black grabbed him. He hissed and gnashed his bare teeth at the air as he slid along the floor, but his legs didn’t unfold at all.

There’s your answer, Stockwell, Black said. Call an ambulance. We’re not gonna carry him down the stairs ourselves. Make sure they understand that he’s a biter and they might need some kind of restraint for his face. They can take him in and get him unfrozen before taking him to the psych ward for observation or evaluation.

While Stockwell walked into the living room and called for an ambulance, Black stayed with their frozen man to make sure he didn’t suddenly try to bolt from the apartment. He also grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dropped it over his backside, because he was getting a bit too good of a view of this joker. He couldn’t resist and gave Ralph Long a phone call. Ralph was one of the other detectives in MPU. He was actually the longest-serving officer on the entire Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department and had recently announced his retirement. Black gave Ralph the quick highlights of their encounter and he about peed his pants recounting how far Stockwell jumped when the guy suddenly came to life and tried to bite her.

She actually fell into the dresser! He said, wiping at the tears in his eyes.

That’s gotta hurt, Long laughed.

Hey, gotta go, Black said as Stockwell came into the room.

Who was that? Stockwell asked suspiciously.

That was Ralph, Black said straight-faced. I was just checking in with him.

You jerk! You totally called me out! Stockwell stood in the doorway to the bedroom with her hands on her hips and her arms akimbo.

Hey, Samantha, that shit might work with your kids. But don’t try to pull that stuff on me. You’re junior. You gotta take it like it comes. What did dispatch say?

The ambulance should be here in 15 to 20 minutes. I’ll go tell the building manager what’s going on and see if he can identify him as Edgington, she mumbled.

As she walked out of the room, Black called after her, "Yo, Detective, it should be interesting when we get back to LEC!"

Screw you! Stockwell called back. LEC was Law Enforcement Central. Six stories of bright white limestone, it was the main building that housed the core departments of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department in the heart of uptown Charlotte. The locals called downtown Uptown because the city sits on a ridge and the early settlers would say ‘I’m going up to town,’ and then it became ‘uptown’ for short.

After Black got back to LEC, and all of the ribbing of Samantha Stockwell for freaking out over the frozen man was over, he pulled up his email to find he’d received the digital video file he’d requested from a local surveillance company for another of his cases. The file covered 12 hours of the previous Friday afternoon and evening at a Shell gas station combined with a 7-11 convenience store. A teen girl by the name of Lucinda Stanford had been reported as missing that past Saturday morning and then had shown up at her own home on Sunday evening. She had just strolled into the house like she was getting home from school rather than reappearing after going missing for 36 hours.

Black had caught the case and spent much of Saturday talking with the family, trying to trace her cell phone, and interviewing her friends. Of course, he hadn’t found out she had walked into her home until he reached back out to the mother on Monday evening to give her an update. Lucinda’s family had failed to phone into LEC and report her safe return. Unfortunately, this wasn’t as unusual as you’d like to think. People don’t feel the need to follow-up if a call-for-help turns out to be a false alarm. Maybe it’s embarrassment; maybe it’s human nature; or maybe it’s just plain rudeness. Black had to get over his agitation and drove over to the apartment the past Monday evening to interview Lucinda.

As they sat around the kitchen table, Lucinda’s mother was cleaning the dishes and the pots and pans from their dinner. Lucinda sat sullen and quiet across the table from Black. She had been very tight-lipped with her mother about where she’d been, but as soon as Black arrived at the house, her story of disappearance soon became a story of kidnapping. Lucinda told Black that she’d walked to a Shell station off of Freedom Drive for a snack and soda on her way home from school. When pressed for details, she gave him the cross street where the Shell was located. Black had written it down and then he asked her the time she was there. She told him about 3:15.

And this is where the guy grabbed you? He asked quietly.

Yeah, Lucinda said, looking at her hands in her lap.

What kind of car was it? Black asked, raising his eyebrows a bit. Already he could tell the girl’s story was a crock of shit. And it wasn’t even that warm. He figured that she’d skipped school and had either spent the weekend getting high with friends or with her boyfriend at his place. It was clear that once she arrived back home, Lucinda was totally freaked that her mother had called the Police. So in order to cover herself, she’d decided that it was best to declare that she’d been abducted but had gotten away. The problem for Black was that her report of abduction geared up an entirely new set of machinery from the Police to locate her abductor. Black would be damned if he was going to go through all of that just so she could avoid getting her ass whipped for partying or sleeping around all weekend.

It was a black car, she mumbled.

Girl, you better sit up and talk so this man can hear you! Her mother barked at her and slapped her up the back of the head.

Mamma! Leave me alone. I been through a lot this weekend!

Black held back on the smile. He’d been through this before. He calmly continued his line of questioning, getting her to walk him through her abduction.

Do you know what kind of car it was? Was it a Ford or a Nissan?

She shook her head.

Speak up! Her mother yelled.

No. I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout cars.

Okay. Did it have two doors or four doors? She looked at him blankly. When he grabbed you, did he make you get in the front seat or the backseat?

Backseat, she said more loudly.

And was there a door for the back seat or did he have to flip the front seat forward for you to get into the back? Black clarified.

No. There was a door for the back.

Then it’s a four-door car! her mother snapped at her, shaking her head in exasperation.

Black’s approach worked perfectly. His calm demeanor coaxed Lucinda into providing specific details on where she was, when she was there, what the car looked like, and what her abductor looked like. Her first mistake was saying that she’d been taken from a gas station. All gas stations have surveillance cameras these days. Her second mistake was to provide a specific time that she was there.

Black had left and quickly gotten in touch with the surveillance company, with whom he’d worked before, and had them email him a copy of the video file for the twelve hours around when she claimed she was taken from the gas station. After explaining to the owner of the station what was going on, they did this as a favor so he didn’t have to get a warrant.

The details of the car and the man would help him to nail down not only that she hadn’t been there, but that no car matching the description she provided had been there during that window of time. Black fast-forwarded on triple speed to 30 minutes before the time that Lucinda said she’d been taken. He slowed it down to double speed and watched the tape through a few times for the hour before and after she said she was there. Then he watched the entire 12 hours through twice at double speed.

No Lucinda, ever. No black four-door in the two-hour window around her supposed abduction.

He shook his head and called the mother and told her to bring Lucinda into the station. Immediately. He had an update on her case.

Black settled into the chair on other side of the table from Lucinda and her mother in one of the MPU interview rooms. He’d left them in the room alone for fifteen minutes to allow the gravity of the surroundings to sink in. The first time a person has to go to the police station typically creates a bit of awe and intimidation, regardless of how bad-ass you think you are. He smiled and looked from mother to daughter. Black knew the mother thought this whole thing was a made-up story on her daughter’s part.

Lucinda, I wanted you to come out to the station because I’ve got some important updates on your abduction. How are you feeling?

Okay, I guess, Lucinda murmured as she looked away.

Good, good. Now, Black flipped out his little spiral notebook and thumbed to the appropriate page, you said that you were at the Shell station off of Freedom Drive. The one at Sullivan Street, right? He pointed to his notebook and looked up at her. She was clearly not sure if that’s what she’d said to him before.

Yes, she said, a bit uncertainly.

And the guy grabbed you and forced you into the backseat of a black four-door car, make and model unknown, around 3:15? He raised his eyebrows and kept pointing at his notebook.

Um. I guess.

You guess?

Yeah. That’s right.

You’re sure? ‘Cause abduction is a felony crime and I take that very seriously. I’m gonna hunt down and find the guy, Lucinda. I’m gonna focus on this case and ignore other cases until I get the guy who took you. You understand that?

There was silence in the room. Lucinda was fidgeting with her fingers in her lap and looking down, avoiding eye contact with Black. Her mother remained quiet. Black figured that she sensed he was about come down on her daughter. She probably wanted him to from the dynamics of their relationship back at the apartment last Monday.

Okay, so here’s the thing, Lucinda, Black said after a minute of silence and he slid over his laptop and opened it up so it faced her. It revealed a still of the gas station with a prominent time stamp. "The gas station that you told me you were abducted from has a great surveillance system. I was excited because that makes my job easier, right? So I looked at and studied the file from twelve hours before you said you were there to twelve hours after you said you were taken. And guess what?"

No response.

Black let the silence build in the room. Lucinda was still fidgeting with her hands in her lap, looking down.

Lucinda? Her mom said. Still nothing. Girl, you better start talkin’! Her mother yelled, smacking her shoulder with an open hand.

Mamma, stop hittin’ me! Lucinda exclaimed, looking at her mother.

"Lucinda, there’s not only no video of you being taken from this gas station, there’s no indication that you were even there on Friday. Now I’m gonna give you a one-time offer. Filing a false Police Report is a serious crime and wastes a lot of valuable resources. I’ve spent some time on your case already, but if I go all-out on this abduction thing and I find out that you were off having fun with friends or a boyfriend, and made this whole abduction angle up to avoid gettin’ in trouble with your mom, then I won’t have a choice. I’ll have to arrest