switched into panic mode.
“Annie!”
Roger yelled out her name several times as he sprinted down the same aisles he’d confidently walked just minutes before. He then ran toward the store’s backroom against the protests of the owner. The smell of stale fruit greeted Roger as he pushed through the door. The large, dimly lit space was littered with boxes and refrigeration units. Roger moved through the room without a sense of direction, stopping at a small brown table that had newspapers and a used Styrofoam cup on it. One of the folding chairs around the table was lying on its side.
Calling out for her again, Roger ran spastically through the cluttered room, tossing boxes aside. He scrambled over to the large freezers and looked inside each one. Roger was sweating, his mind racing, he knew he had to get a grip. He stopped moving just long enough to see a container of milk and a package of toilet paper sitting on the floor, next to a box of Annie’s favorite cereal. A box of crackers lay a few feet away from the other discarded things. It had been ripped open, and one of the wrapped stacks was missing.
He squatted down and gently touched the items, as though they were connected to his daughter. Then Roger looked up and saw that the storeroom’s back door was just a few feet away, and that it was ajar. He ran outside and into an empty stretch of asphalt.
“Annie! Can you hear me?”
Following the wide drive to where it met the street, Roger found himself along the side of the building. He could see his car at the other end, and for a moment he hoped Annie would be sitting inside, waiting for him. But he knew better now, and he dropped to his knees and screamed like a wounded animal. Weeping uncontrollably, he drove his fist into the pavement until it went numb.
During those wretched minutes, as he was gutted by emotions that came from some place dark and primitive, Roger Sykes felt himself cross a line that few ever dare to approach.
Though dozens of cars passed by him on the busy street, and some even slowed down a little to stare at the desperate man, Roger had never felt so alone.
Five hours later, Roger Sykes and his wife drove home from the police station in separate cars. All of the store’s employees had been accounted for, and the only security cameras were positioned over the registers. Still, the cops did their best to give Annie’s parents a bit of hope.
As Roger turned onto his street, that overplayed Fleetwood Mac song came on the radio again. But he didn’t notice, and he probably would not have had the strength to reach over and switch stations anyhow.
Six torturous days after the abduction, and twenty hours after Annie Sykes had walked into Dominic Delacruz’s store, Alex Chapa took the call that would change his professional life.
The day after Chapa broke the story of Grubb’s capture, reporters from other papers went after the crime scene, the killer, and the police investigation. Chapa did that as well, but he instinctively focused on the girl’s family, and Annie herself, knowing that the human interest angle would draw in readers. He was right.
As a result, his stories brought the child far more notoriety than any ten-year-old victim and her parents should ever have to deal with. His editors, however, were so impressed with Chapa’s work on the initial piece, how he’d managed to talk to the girl, though he refused to quote her directly, as well as her parents, that they allowed him to continue as lead reporter on the story. Soon after, Chapa landed a better job with a bigger paper.
For weeks after Grubb’s capture, and then again around the time of his trial, police had to create a barrier around the Sykes’ home to keep the curious at something close to a reasonable distance. One person in particular, a grieving father named Jack Whitlock, became especially obsessed with Annie. Whitlock believed Annie and his son had been imprisoned by Grubb at the same time,
“Annie!”
Roger yelled out her name several times as he sprinted down the same aisles he’d confidently walked just minutes before. He then ran toward the store’s backroom against the protests of the owner. The smell of stale fruit greeted Roger as he pushed through the door. The large, dimly lit space was littered with boxes and refrigeration units. Roger moved through the room without a sense of direction, stopping at a small brown table that had newspapers and a used Styrofoam cup on it. One of the folding chairs around the table was lying on its side.
Calling out for her again, Roger ran spastically through the cluttered room, tossing boxes aside. He scrambled over to the large freezers and looked inside each one. Roger was sweating, his mind racing, he knew he had to get a grip. He stopped moving just long enough to see a container of milk and a package of toilet paper sitting on the floor, next to a box of Annie’s favorite cereal. A box of crackers lay a few feet away from the other discarded things. It had been ripped open, and one of the wrapped stacks was missing.
He squatted down and gently touched the items, as though they were connected to his daughter. Then Roger looked up and saw that the storeroom’s back door was just a few feet away, and that it was ajar. He ran outside and into an empty stretch of asphalt.
“Annie! Can you hear me?”
Following the wide drive to where it met the street, Roger found himself along the side of the building. He could see his car at the other end, and for a moment he hoped Annie would be sitting inside, waiting for him. But he knew better now, and he dropped to his knees and screamed like a wounded animal. Weeping uncontrollably, he drove his fist into the pavement until it went numb.
During those wretched minutes, as he was gutted by emotions that came from some place dark and primitive, Roger Sykes felt himself cross a line that few ever dare to approach.
Though dozens of cars passed by him on the busy street, and some even slowed down a little to stare at the desperate man, Roger had never felt so alone.
Five hours later, Roger Sykes and his wife drove home from the police station in separate cars. All of the store’s employees had been accounted for, and the only security cameras were positioned over the registers. Still, the cops did their best to give Annie’s parents a bit of hope.
As Roger turned onto his street, that overplayed Fleetwood Mac song came on the radio again. But he didn’t notice, and he probably would not have had the strength to reach over and switch stations anyhow.
Six torturous days after the abduction, and twenty hours after Annie Sykes had walked into Dominic Delacruz’s store, Alex Chapa took the call that would change his professional life.
The day after Chapa broke the story of Grubb’s capture, reporters from other papers went after the crime scene, the killer, and the police investigation. Chapa did that as well, but he instinctively focused on the girl’s family, and Annie herself, knowing that the human interest angle would draw in readers. He was right.
As a result, his stories brought the child far more notoriety than any ten-year-old victim and her parents should ever have to deal with. His editors, however, were so impressed with Chapa’s work on the initial piece, how he’d managed to talk to the girl, though he refused to quote her directly, as well as her parents, that they allowed him to continue as lead reporter on the story. Soon after, Chapa landed a better job with a bigger paper.
For weeks after Grubb’s capture, and then again around the time of his trial, police had to create a barrier around the Sykes’ home to keep the curious at something close to a reasonable distance. One person in particular, a grieving father named Jack Whitlock, became especially obsessed with Annie. Whitlock believed Annie and his son had been imprisoned by Grubb at the same time,
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