as the other voicemail and the creepy cut-out of the kid with the red ball cap.”
There was the stark sound of what sounded like a young boy whimpering again in the distance, followed by the scratchy interlude and the distorted voice of the kidnapper. “He cried like a baby and will never be a real man.” Click.
Bo shifted in his chair, clearly in some sort of discomfort. “Nice, eh? I’d like to see this peckerwood hangin’ by his goddamn nuts!”
Now it was Jane’s turn to shift uncomfortably in her chair. “Wait a second. There’s not a word wasted with this guy. He
used the word cried instead of cries. That doesn’t make sense when we just heard the boy actively crying in the background. Wouldn’t Jake still be crying when he leaves the message? So the guy should have said, ‘he’s crying like a baby.’”
“You a part-time lawyer?” Bo asked. “’Cuz you just took an ax to split a hair.”
Jane leaned forward, pressing her index finger into Bo’s desk. “Why is he telling us something obvious? We can hear the kid crying. Of course, the kid conveniently stops crying right before the kidnapper makes the final statement.”
“What in the hell are you sayin’?”
“She is saying,” Weyler interjected, “that the kidnapper is possibly playing both roles on the phone. He takes the disguiser off the phone, moves away, does the crying jag, puts the disguiser back on and says a message.”
“Thank you!” Jane declared to Weyler. “Which brings us back to the idea that there is no kidnapper and this is all Jake’s elaborate set up. That’s why I called…”
“You don’t know Jake, lady!” Bo bellowed. “ I do ! Vi knows him, too. He’s not involved in this!” Bo slapped another plastic covered drawing in front of Weyler and Jane. A crinkled blank page in plastic was attached to it. “Or this!” He slammed another plastic sheeting on the desk that held a smaller piece of paper. “ Or this !” The final clue hit the desk, another protected sheet of 8½ x 11 paper. “This one,” pointing to a sexually graphic drawing of a young boy around eight or nine years old in bondage, with his pants around his ankles, “is not something Jake would draw!”
The other two were handwritten in the same hesitating and somewhat childish scribe. One was an odd riddle:
Name this classy car.
Seven letters.
The first four spell what you do before going on a trip.
The first three spelled backward is something you take on that
trip and
wear on your head.
The last clue was written in all capital letters:
I BEARED MY SOUL AND STILL YOU IGNORE ME???
“His parents got the sicko drawing with the blank sheet of paper,” Bo added. “The last two were delivered under the mat out front. This one,” he pointed to the I BEARED MY SOUL … clue, “showed up this mornin’!”
Jane stared at the graphic drawing of the young boy that implied sodomy. She’d seen a lot of perversion directed at children in the early days when she worked four hard years in assault but this sketch somehow seemed more explicit. She felt deep down in her gut that what was drawn on that page had indeed already occurred. Now, the idea of Jake being a runaway was starting to feel less likely if his “scrawny, shy, sensitive, artistic” description was indeed valid. And yet, the more Jane scanned the clues, the more she felt that there was a deeper implied message as well as an actual and quite valid threat to Jake’s family. She began to regret her knee-jerk phone call to Betty at the runaway shelter. It was now clear to her that this case would require some intense thought, and intense thought usually involved a pack of cigarettes. She pinched the skin between her eyes hard, realizing that she had never worked a case without nicotine fueling her adrenal glands. Suddenly, the idea of making any headway on this case seemed beyond comprehension.
“You got a problem?” Bo’s voice broke the silence.
Jane pulled herself
There was the stark sound of what sounded like a young boy whimpering again in the distance, followed by the scratchy interlude and the distorted voice of the kidnapper. “He cried like a baby and will never be a real man.” Click.
Bo shifted in his chair, clearly in some sort of discomfort. “Nice, eh? I’d like to see this peckerwood hangin’ by his goddamn nuts!”
Now it was Jane’s turn to shift uncomfortably in her chair. “Wait a second. There’s not a word wasted with this guy. He
used the word cried instead of cries. That doesn’t make sense when we just heard the boy actively crying in the background. Wouldn’t Jake still be crying when he leaves the message? So the guy should have said, ‘he’s crying like a baby.’”
“You a part-time lawyer?” Bo asked. “’Cuz you just took an ax to split a hair.”
Jane leaned forward, pressing her index finger into Bo’s desk. “Why is he telling us something obvious? We can hear the kid crying. Of course, the kid conveniently stops crying right before the kidnapper makes the final statement.”
“What in the hell are you sayin’?”
“She is saying,” Weyler interjected, “that the kidnapper is possibly playing both roles on the phone. He takes the disguiser off the phone, moves away, does the crying jag, puts the disguiser back on and says a message.”
“Thank you!” Jane declared to Weyler. “Which brings us back to the idea that there is no kidnapper and this is all Jake’s elaborate set up. That’s why I called…”
“You don’t know Jake, lady!” Bo bellowed. “ I do ! Vi knows him, too. He’s not involved in this!” Bo slapped another plastic covered drawing in front of Weyler and Jane. A crinkled blank page in plastic was attached to it. “Or this!” He slammed another plastic sheeting on the desk that held a smaller piece of paper. “ Or this !” The final clue hit the desk, another protected sheet of 8½ x 11 paper. “This one,” pointing to a sexually graphic drawing of a young boy around eight or nine years old in bondage, with his pants around his ankles, “is not something Jake would draw!”
The other two were handwritten in the same hesitating and somewhat childish scribe. One was an odd riddle:
Name this classy car.
Seven letters.
The first four spell what you do before going on a trip.
The first three spelled backward is something you take on that
trip and
wear on your head.
The last clue was written in all capital letters:
I BEARED MY SOUL AND STILL YOU IGNORE ME???
“His parents got the sicko drawing with the blank sheet of paper,” Bo added. “The last two were delivered under the mat out front. This one,” he pointed to the I BEARED MY SOUL … clue, “showed up this mornin’!”
Jane stared at the graphic drawing of the young boy that implied sodomy. She’d seen a lot of perversion directed at children in the early days when she worked four hard years in assault but this sketch somehow seemed more explicit. She felt deep down in her gut that what was drawn on that page had indeed already occurred. Now, the idea of Jake being a runaway was starting to feel less likely if his “scrawny, shy, sensitive, artistic” description was indeed valid. And yet, the more Jane scanned the clues, the more she felt that there was a deeper implied message as well as an actual and quite valid threat to Jake’s family. She began to regret her knee-jerk phone call to Betty at the runaway shelter. It was now clear to her that this case would require some intense thought, and intense thought usually involved a pack of cigarettes. She pinched the skin between her eyes hard, realizing that she had never worked a case without nicotine fueling her adrenal glands. Suddenly, the idea of making any headway on this case seemed beyond comprehension.
“You got a problem?” Bo’s voice broke the silence.
Jane pulled herself
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