The Perfect Contractor in Russian Hill

By Rosanna Brand

When ten-year-old Mollie Trisk disappears on her way
home from school, it shakes up the small town of
Petaluma, California.
When she turns up deceased a week later in San Francisco’s
Russian Hill it becomes a case for the
SFPD to solve.
After two more girls are abducted with the same signature,
Captain Daniel Fritz has a serial kidnapper case to solve.
Eerily, he notices a connection to the recent abductions
and his fiancée Cassandra’s new job as the first woman
hired by a road construction company in
Sonoma and Marin.
The Perfect Contractor in Russian Hill, which takes
place from 1977 to 1979, is the final novel in a trilogy. This
gripping psychological thriller is sure keep you guessing
till the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546256021

Rosanna Brand

ROSANNA BRAND, the daughter of a Navy Veteran and homemaker, was born in San Francisco and raised in Marin County. She began a traditional career as a stenographer then shifted to the male-dominated career of civil engineering in road design, surveying, inspection, and ultimately construction, paving the way for future women in civil engineering in the 1970’s. She gave up her hardhat to be a stay-at-home mom and is now a proud grandmother of a grandson and hopefully more down the road. She divides her time between a historical town below the Sierras and Marin County. She is currently working on a present-day novel about a serial arsonist in Northern California. It is entitled, Ghost Mountain. Readers may contact her at: [e-mail].

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© 2018 Rosanna Brand. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  06/11/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5603-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5601-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-5602-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018909666

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

PART I

The Abduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

PART II

The Arrest

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

About The Author

Dedicated to:

In loving memory of Grandma Anna—

a strong woman, great role model,

and mother of seven.

Special thanks to:

Christina Nemec, Editor

Jeff Brand, Graphic Art

Cover photo:

Rosanna Brand

One day a mother went to a prison

to see an erring but precious son.

She told the warden how much she loved him;

it did not matter what he had done.

She brought no silver, no pomp or style,

just the sweetest gift, a mother’s smile.

By

James B. Coats

The Sweetest Gift, 1946

Prisoner in Disguise, 1975

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PROLOGUE

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Sebastopol, 1977

T HE BILLOWY, DARK SAN Francisco Bay fog could be mistaken for rainclouds this morning; or as the locals call it thick as pea soup. It had rolled in from Bodega Bay and engulfed the quaint town of Sebastopol known for its Gravenstein apples. Cassandra could see her breath ghosting in front of her. She wished she’d worn work gloves to her new assignment as her digits felt like little popsicles as she puffed into her cupped hands intermittently while operating the Caterpillar 815.

Sebastopol was inland about five miles from Bodega Bay—location of the legendary Hitchcock movie The Birds. With her and Dan’s affinity for Hitchcock movies, she couldn’t help but reminisce about a scene from the classic movie as she operated the mammoth soil compactor around and ‘round the dirt lot.

The scene was of Tippi Hedren sitting on a bench outside of a one-room schoolhouse with her back to the monkey bars covered with hundreds of crows lying in wait of their next attack. Tippi, playing Melanie Daniels, was just sitting there smoking, oblivious to the flocks of crows amassing behind her, waiting for school to let out. Was Hitchcock trying to imply that her smoking was the cause of the rebellion of the local birds? Cassandra wondered. After all, smoke was polluting the air not to mention people’s lungs. Could it have been Hitchcock’s subtle way to reflect what society was feeling about the tobacco industry? Or was it the fact that Melanie had brought two caged lovebirds into Bodega Bay and the bird species were getting sick of being caged up just for the pleasure of humans. Either justification had Cassandra wondering for years the meaning of the fictional, yet macabre, bird attacks.

Just the thought of the movie and the town of Bodega Bay gave a sudden ominous trill up Cassandra’s spine momentarily. Sometimes the dang morning fog would put her in an ill-omened mood as if she half expected a stranger to jump out of the haze at any moment. Relax. There’s nothing to be fearful of out here. No amassing birds, no monkey bars, no stranger in the fog—just you and a dirt lot that needs compacting. Keep working girl. But where’d my foreman run off to? It’s creepy as all hell out here all alone.

She was thundering around the dirt lot like a woman on a gargantuan elephant, the last of the Proboscidea’s. The Caterpillar 815 was as high and as large as an elephant but three times its weight in metal. She had gotten the hang of it now.

Around one of her turns, she spotted a dubious white cargo van parked off in the corner of the lot. Her heart clutched at first as she hadn’t seen it beforehand so she let up on the gas petal. Curiously, it resembled the van she saw take off in Russian Hill at the crime scene. A sense of foreboding enveloped her. Her stomach tightened into a hard ball of apprehension. Then she noticed the back windows of the van were all fogged up from condensation exposing a small hand imprint. There were also some letters. She slowed the compactor to a snail’s pace to take a better look. It spelled out HELP backwards, obviously written from the inside. Holy crap! This could be a missing girl’s cry for help! Calm down. Fear invaded her body and mind. Her mouth suddenly felt dry as sand. Your imagination is running amuck again. Settle it the heck down.

Cassandra cried aloud, Is this the Russian Hill Strangler’s van? Is he working in Sonoma County and dumping his victims in San Francisco? Who drives this van? Is it my new foreman’s van? Why did he have a huge bandage over his eye? Is the Strangler and my new foreman one and the same? Should I call Dan? Her sixth sense was on overdrive.

There was no payphone nearby and no one was around, so she shut down the dirt-crushing monster then scrambled down from the cab to investigate. She slinked over to the questionable van, legs quivering. She tried to peek through the back windows but they were too cloudy except for the imprint. She walked around to the side. Windowless. She peeked in the passenger window and saw a lunch pail and a roll of blueprints on the seat. Normal stuff. No red flags. Her heart was thumping out of her ribcage, as she feared her new foreman would return at any moment. She was sure to be chewed out in construction crew slang no holds barred if he suspected her worming around his van. He’d driven off with a laborer in a company pickup probably to another jobsite. But when would he return? she asked herself as she wrung her now clammy hands in frustration.

She tried the front doors. Locked. She ran to the back and tried that door. Locked. She called out and banged on the door, Hey, is anyone in there? No answer. But whoever it was could be silenced with the unsub’s signature duct tape. Or could be strangled already! Or the writing could be from a previous victim. Or could just be as innocent as his kid playing in his van.

Suddenly she heard a faint, yet muffled, whimper from inside. More like a whine. She now knew for sure she needed to do something. Think! For gods sakes, help the little victim. Suddenly she spotted the red company truck returning. Holy Toledo! I’m screwed! She sprinted back to the massive compactor and flung herself aboard, turning it on, and revving the engine to life. She began to roll forward vibrating in her cab, her thick blonde tresses flowing in the air, like nothing was the matter. It went around and ‘round while she ignored the two men who exited the pickup. The bandaged one was walking in her direction with a pretty frisky trot. He walked assertively up to her equipment and shouted, Do you have a problem, construction girl?

His words stopped her machine dead in its pocked trail.

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PART I

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The Abduction

Several Months Earlier

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CHAPTER ONE

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Lucas Valley

I T WAS TO BE her first day at her new job. Her dream job at Colatti Brothers Construction as Journeyman Operating Engineer Grade Setter. It was a mouthful, for sure, but was her new official title. Cassandra Nelson stayed up all night fretting over this morning. She was new to the company, new to the position, and their first and only woman hire. The possibilities for folly were infinite she figured as she dressed in her construction clothes in front of her mirror. She also worried about her fiancé, Captain Daniel Charles Fritz in Homicide at the San Francisco Police Department. He’d been called into the city to investigate a crime scene in Russian Hill yesterday afternoon. He didn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning. The missing Petaluma girl that had been national news for over a week, had sadly been discovered in his jurisdiction in San Francisco. How she ended up that far from home would be the burning question. And she was a mere ten years old.

Last evening swarms of reporters had converged on the crime scene, and Dan and his squad had to deal with a boatload of fear-filled questions. The missing girl’s identity was easily attained by her clothing and face, but cause of death wasn’t as discernable and would have to be determined by the coroner. Is it the Petaluma girl? Who would’ve done this? How’d she die? Do we have a killer on the loose? Are our children safe to walk to and from school? All these questions and more were torpedoed at them but Dan remained tight-lipped except for one comment.

We’ll let you know after the M.E.’s report, he spoke in the mic held by the reporter from Channel 2. He hated the press with a passion and wasn’t about to change his mind at this gruesome crime scene, especially since they hadn’t even notified her grief-stricken parents yet. The audacity of these bottom feeders, Dan thought as he left the crime scene.

"This is Terri Matsuyama from Channel 2 Late Night News outside the scene of a brutal discovery of an unidentified body of a little girl. It may be the missing Petaluma girl, but we’ll have to wait for confirmation from the police. That’s all for now. Back to you, Tom."

Despite this horrifying discovery that Dan had shared with her, Cassandra had to focus on her first day of work. Although she had an eagerness for helping Dan solve his murder cases in the past, she didn’t like being branded as the girl who killed the Nob Hill Killer and, more recently, the girl who captured the Wedding Band Killer. But she was. She was getting a reputation for catching serial killers all due to her premonitions which usually come in the form of raised hairs on her arms and neck together with her heart pacing at an increased staccato. Sometimes even having foreshadowing dreams, visions, or her dreaded sleepwalking episodes.

She entered the kitchen. Dan was up already reading the morning paper with his coffee mug in hand. The headlines read:

PETALUMA GIRL FOUND

in Russian Hill Park

Well that about sums up my evening last night. How the press got wind of her identification, I don’t know. I just hope the girl’s parents were notified first. How are you feeling this morning Cass, for your first day at the new job? he asked as he folded up the newspaper and took a sip of his java.

Let’s face it. I’m a nervous wreck. I don’t think I slept a wink last night. I tossed and turned and now I have stupid butterflies in my stomach. I’ve never been a construction worker before. I’ve been an inspector and a surveyor, but never a construction worker, admitted Cassandra. She took a bite of her toasted English muffin and butter dribbled out of the nooks and crannies onto her sweatshirt. Great. They’re going to think I’m a drooling slob. I don’t have time to wash this! she fretted.

Relax. You’ll be great. Let me squirt a little prewash on it. They better not treat you like that, or I’ll put the heat on them, he teased her as he quickly snagged some prewash solution from under the sink, knocking over the box of Salvo laundry tablets.

Thanks, Dad, she said sarcastically. I’ve been working with mostly men for years now. Working with a crew of men shouldn’t change anything. Right? she asked trying to convince herself as she assembled her lunch pail with her Diet Fresca soda, bologna and cheese sandwich, and an apple.

Yeah, right, he said sardonically. I like your outfit," he teased. She wore white Levi’s, a tank top, and sweatshirt.

Yes, it’s an attractive fashion statement. Vogue should be calling any day now, she joshed as she posed with her hands on her hips accentuating her tool belt which contained a stake hammer, folding rule, hand level, and measuring tape. What do you think about the girl that was found? Any suspects? she queried hesitantly.

Some psycho pedophile, most likely, strangled her. Imagine abducting a girl in Petaluma and dumping her a week later forty miles away in Russian Hill. Where’d he hole up for a week? Does he live in Petaluma or San Francisco? I’m going to have to form another task force today to come up with a profile of this sicko. And pray that he’s not another serial. I mean between the escaped Ted Bundy, the elusive Zodiac and Unabomber, the recent Doodler together with our past catches, we don’t need another one. Wish me luck, too, honey, he sweetly requested to get the subject off coldblooded serial killers.

If anyone can figure it out, you will Dan, she buttered. He gave her a nice kiss before she left the house swinging her lunch pail all the while trying to calm down those darn butterflies in her stomach.

She arrived at the construction project at seven a.m. sharp. The site was an excavated dirt parcel off the 101 Highway in Lucas Valley. From first sight, she saw an array of heavy equipment all working in harmony from the dozer, to the earth mover, the back hoe, the belly dump, the scraper, the motor grader, the compactor, and lastly to the water wagon. It was like a concerto of construction equipment. The job foreman (the conductor) noticed her arrival, as she was the only girl, and waved her over to her first location on the jobsite: Caterpillar 130G Motor Grader.

After meeting the motor grader operator, Cassandra listened and watched as the foreman demonstrated to her what she was to be performing: the three R’s—reading, reducing, and relaying survey notes on wooden stakes in the ground to the operator so he may cut (or fill) the roadway according to the State Division of Highway’s construction plans. She also was given a roll of plans which she had no problem reading as she used to draft them for the County. She unrolled them in the back of her Toyota SR5 pickup in the enclosed camper shell for easy reading and accessibility. She came very prepared, much to her foreman’s surprise. Miss Nelson. You wanna give it a try? asked Vinni, the medium height, middle-aged, brown-haired foreman. But first, please wear this vest and hardhat—part of our OSHA requirements.

Of course, she answered with trepidation. She slipped on the orange vest over her sweatshirt and strapped the hardhat on her head. She then snatched the white wooden folding rule from her tool belt but, alas, in her tenseness; she accidentally opened it so fast and improperly that it split in half, sending splinters of wood flying into the air. She was mortified! She knew how to open it correctly; but in her frantic effort to prove herself, she had blown it. It was to be twisted open much like a Rubik’s Cube not pulled apart like a fan. Oh no! I’m so sorry. I’m embarrassed! she yammered as she held the remnants of her precious instrument in each hand.

Vinni looked shocked at first but then spoke. A person who never made a mistake, never tried anything new, he said to disarm her angst while stifling a laugh.

That’s a good saying. Is it yours? she asked curiously as she was the collector of good sayings.

No. Einstein’s. She was grateful for his response. There’s plenty more where this came from, he ribbed as he handed her another folding rule.

She opened it successfully the second time and began to view through her hand level the numbers on the construction stake. After reducing the readings in her head, she relayed the information by construction sign language to the motor grader operator who was getting impatient. Probably even secretly enjoying the new girl’s mishap. Each finger was sign language for a tenth of a foot. He revved up his Caterpillar 130G Motor Grader and off he went cutting the road two tenths of a foot with dust and gas fumes circling his giant machine. Cassandra kept ahead of him walking backwards, ready to give him his next reading from the notes on the stakes which were about thirty feet apart. This is easy, she thought. I can do this all day. She donned her tennis visor under her hardhat to keep the sun off her face; but by the day’s end, she was as red as the proverbial pincer-clawed crustacean.

Dan was at the county morgue with his new partner Officer Bob Beckstead to examine Molly Trisk’s body and personal effects. Was she molested? Dan reluctantly asked the coroner.

No sign of that.

What does this mean exactly, then? Dan loathed to inquire.

May be just an abduction and murder, the coroner answered routinely.

"Oh, so just? What about skin samples under her nails?" Dan queried to see if she fought him off at least.

No skin samples. Perp may have drugged her so she wouldn’t put up a fight.

Semen anywhere? he dreaded to ask.

A few droplets on her dress.

Sick bastard!

No hairs found. The guy was clean shaven and short-haired most likely. She was unclean, dehydrated, and eventually succumbed to affixation from strangulation. Her pretty face with sandy blonde hair would be imprinted on Dan and Bob’s brains for some time.

What’re we dealing with here? A guy who abducts a young girl, for what purpose for a whole week? He just hung out with her? And where was she killed? Bob, we need to interview her parents tomorrow to see if we can get a lead on where she was abducted, the perp’s M.O., and if there were any witnesses to the abduction. From what I deduced from the Petaluma PD, they haven’t a clue. But now that she was found in our jurisdiction, we need to solve this crime.

I feel a little queasy, Bob admitted as he grabbed his stomach.

Okay, I’ll wait for you in the hallway. Dan had been there before. The first time seeing a murder victim, child or no child, often turns one’s stomach. He felt for Bob as he ran to the nearest restroom.

Colatti Brothers was constructing new on and off ramps at the Lucas Valley exit to the 101 Highway. Heavy construction equipment could be seen hustling and bustling in all directions moving soil here, there, and everywhere it seemed. Soil was the name of the game—at least at this stage of the project. It was being scraped, hauled, dumped, spread, measured, compacted, sprayed, then measured again. Cassandra’s job as grade setter was the measurer. Next stage would be pouring asphalt and concrete. But that would be later in the week. Hours flowed like fast moving water in a stream; no time for distractions or lollygagging.

Vinni told her she picked the work up fast; they’d see her tomorrow— same time, same place. She happily drove off in her brother’s pickup truck whilst listening to The Righteous Brothers on his cassette player, You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling…now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoa.oh.oh.oh. She couldn’t wait to get home and give Dan the rundown: she had passed her first day on the construction site as the first woman they had ever hired despite breaking her folding rule in half and looking like a fool. She was being tested, that was for sure; but she had passed. One small step for woman, one giant leap for womankind, she mused to herself.

Once home to their recently purchased condo in Tiburon’s Strawberry Cove, she took the free time to indulge in her habitual hot soaking bath and poured a glass of chilled wine. She submerged into the oval tub placing a glass of wine on its rim. Ahhh, she said aloud as her aching sunburned muscles made contact with the soothing hot liquid. She relived her first day on the job and recalled how nice all the workmen were to her, sounds of the heavy equipment reverberating in her brain. The men were very accepting—not ridiculing at all. She was, frankly, very flummoxed by their attitude as she had been warned of just the opposite. It was a nice surprise, for a change.

She heard the front door open as Dan arrived home from work. His hours were long, too, especially since the discovery of the missing Petaluma girl. Their relationship would be tested until she got used to her new job, its hours, its demands, and its workers. She emerged from the tub and wrapped a big white towel around her tall, slim body and another around her wet mop of sun-streaked hair and descended the stairs. Hey, Dan! I made it through my first day! she hollered while righting the lopsided turban on her head.

That’s great Cass. You’re all sunburned. Were they nice to you?

Yes, even though I broke my folding rule the second I opened it.

Ouch … How’d that go over? He scrunched up his nose and whistled.

Well, after my foreman and the motor grader operator had a private chuckle to themselves, my foremen stated that everyone makes mistakes when they try something new.

How magnanimous of him.

Mag…what? she asked as she walked over to her RCA hi-fi on top of their makeshift stereo cabinet consisting of boards spanning cement blocks of concrete used in construction. She quickly flipped the on switch and placed the needle on her seven-inch vinyl, Paperback Writer, by The Beatles.

Hey, have you noticed that you’re playing lots of Beatles tunes lately? What’s up with that? I mean, I like The Beatles and all, but it’s getting humdrum.

I’m sorry. Not sure why. Just drawn to them lately. My foreman looks familiar to me. Not sure where I’ve seen him, though. Maybe at the County. I have to ask, what’s the lowdown on the girl they found?

"She was murdered and placed on the grass behind a dumpster. It’s sick and disturbing. We may have another monster on the loose in Frisco, and he’s the worst of the worst if he targets young, innocent girls. I may need your precognitive skills at some point," he razzed her.

No, you don’t. You can do it, she appeased him although her instincts on the last case were spot on luring her to a crime in progress—something Dan will never forget or take for granted.

I’m interviewing her grieving parents tomorrow.

That’ll be brutal. I’ll make you a special dinner tomorrow. Comfort food. My spicy jambalaya.

Jambalayyyyy…ya! Make sure you throw some little shrimps in the crockpot.

Don’t worry, there’ll be lots of shrimpies.

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CHAPTER TWO

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Petaluma

C APTAIN FRITZ AND OFFICER Beckstead arrived at the front door of Donald and Millie Trisk. They dreaded this interview, but since Mollie had been found in San Francisco, it became their case to solve as well as Petaluma’s. The Trisks lived in a ranch-style track home in a small subdivision. It was a middle-class neighborhood unlike the swanky neighborhoods of Nob Hill and Pacific Heights they were used to calling on lately. But their home was well-cared for with a manicured lawn and groomed flowerbeds in the front. A few neighboring homes looked a little rundown with rusty old trailers in their driveways and weeds growing through the cracks in the concrete. Lawns were threadbare of grass; strangled out by clover, dandelions, and crabgrass.

A cluster of three white birch trees was the focal point of the Trisk’s front lawn. One tree branch had a homemade swing from an old rubber tire hanging from it. Dan imagined their little girl once swinging on it. A blue bike lay on its side on the driveway. Probably her brother’s, Dan surmised. They would work in conjunction with the Petaluma PD to theorize why the girl was found so far from home. And more importantly, who abducted and killed her.

Petaluma was named by the Coast Miwok Indians. It stood for backside of a hill. The city was known as the egg capital of the world. It was a milling and chicken industry city. It was one of the locations for George Lucas’s 1973 movie America Graffiti. It was Harrison Ford’s role in this movie that launched his career from a carpenter to his first leading man role in Star Wars, currently playing. This movie also discovered a flirtatious extra named Suzanne Somers who drove the classic white Thunderbird and had recently been chosen to star in a sit-com entitled Three’s Company.

Good morning…officers. Please…come in, greeted Mrs. Trisk solemnly. The couple had been sobbing all night but still agreed to be interviewed by the San Francisco homicide detectives.

Sorry for your loss, folks…, began Dan. We just have a few questions to add to the ones you’ve already been asked by the Petaluma PD. And then we’ll leave you alone to grieve in private. Dan snatched his notepad from his shirt pocket.

The grief-stricken couple held hands and sat down on their couch for the interview. First of all, do you have any connection to the Russian Hill area…any relatives living there or friends or foes? Dan began as Bob listened and watched, as he was new to the position as Dan’s partner. All the new detectives were placed with Dan to learn from the best. His former partner, Jim, was on his own heading up the investigations of larceny and felonies, crimes of greed.

No, we sure don’t, spoke Mrs. Trisk. She was a petite woman with dark hair, small features, and currently puffy lower lids to her pale blue eyes.

Have you had any suspicious calls before or after your daughter’s abduction? Dan asked as he scribbled in his pad, but the lead broke. Partner Bob quickly pulled one from his pocket protector and handed it over. Bob was a slim young man with sandy hair and hazel eyes. He was in his late twenties and had started his career as a traffic cop getting acclamations for the most tickets issued last year. Down at headquarters, they playfully nicknamed him the Ticketmaster.

No, not at all, declared Mr. Trisk, a tall, heavyset man in his late forties with a ruddy complexion. It’s a real mystery to us. Likely just a random abduction.

Did your daughter ever mention anyone following her home or a suspicious vehicle approaching her?

No, never, they said in unison shaking their heads and unlocking their hands at this speculation.

Did she walk home alone often? Dan continued.

Sometimes… Millie stopped to sob. Most of the parents prefer…driving their kids to and from school but…we chose to…allow her to walk. She broke down again. It was good exercise, plus, we live in a…safe neighborhood for God’s sakes! She began to sob heavily.

I know ma’am. You live in the safe suburbs. You should see all the crime in the city. This suspect is just a lowlife, Dan assured her. He handed her his signature purse-size Kleenex packet from his other shirt pocket. Her husband put his arm around her and whispered some comforting words. Would you mind if we checked her bedroom?

Sure…I guess… it’s down the hall on the right, she answered as she motioned with her hand.

They walked into the spotless room adorned with a collection of dolls on her pristine white bedspread— a Barbie, a Tiny Tears, and a Betsy Wetsy doll. On her shelf sat a collection of little Kewpie dolls won at county fairs no doubt. In the corner, propped up against the wall, was a life-size Patty Play Pal. She was definitely a feminine little girl, judging by her toys. Not a Tomboy at all. No toy guns, pogo sticks, soldiers, airplane models, or Lincoln Logs. Those toys were prominently on display in her brother’s room.

Dan looked in her jewelry box to see if any red flags popped up. What do little girls collect? he asked himself. There was a set of clunky vintage jacks, some silver thimbles, a collection of foreign coins from the Philippines, her hospital beads with her last name, a My Fair Lady ticket stub, a collection of Mercury head dimes, cat’s eye and aggie marbles, and an odd collection of metal knockouts from electrical outlets, it appeared. Why and where’d she get those? Dan thought. Was her father an electrician? Over on her dresser she had a collection of 45 records—mostly of The Beatles. Love Me Do was on the top. On her wall, she had a poster of The Beatles advertising their Hard Day’s Night film. They looked in her closet and saw all her little patent leather shoes and frilly lacy dresses hung tightly together.

When he came out of her room he asked, What’s with these slugs from electrical junction boxes in her jewelry box? He held one up with his fingers.

"Oh those. She used to stop at the construction site down the street and sift those out of the dirt on her way home. She pretended they were nickels, bless her heart. ‘I found nickels’; she’d often say when she got home. Then her mother broke down in tears. They’re the shape, size, and color of nickels. We encourage our children to be curious and explore, whenever they have a chance. You know we’ve taken them to places to dig for Indian arrowheads, fossils, pan for gold or whatever, she elaborated. It’s a good family outing."

I agree wholeheartedly. What construction site? What’d we have here a little future Cassandra. Likes dirt, the Beatles, and construction? Dan mused to himself. It also reminded him that Cassandra had been playing her Beatles albums incessantly lately after work. Was she having extrasensory perception of the little girl?

Oh, they’re… building a mobile home park…a couple of blocks from here. She passed it on her…way home, she said between sobs. Millie had instant recollection that they had tried to petition against that project being so close to their homes.

Can we have a picture of Mollie to use in our investigation?

Sure, the mother uttered between sobs as she popped Mollie’s photo out of a frame displayed on their mantle. Mollie was wearing a striped, green sweater set with her blonde locks neatly flowing over her shoulders.

That’s all we have for now, folks. Your phones are being tapped in case you get any suspicious calls. Please call me if you think of anything else or if you receive any suspicious drive-bys—day or night, Dan urged as he handed them his card. He wrote his home number on the back as well.

On their route back to the city, Dan voiced his concerns, Well, she definitely likes dolls, The Beatles, and nickels.

Well, what little kid doesn’t like nickels? chimed in Bob.

You’re right. As long as she’s not taking any wooden nickels, as my dad used to say. Wooden nickels were produced during the depression of 1933 and given out as souvenirs at the Chicago World’s Fair. Dan, being from Chicago, probably heard the phrase a lot warning country folks not to be duped when going to the big city of Chicago. Ironically, Mollie did take a wooden nickel from whomever abducted her. I’m still going to check out the construction site later this week. I’ll bring this picture of Mollie with me, added