The Missing Read online

  *****

  Profiling is about putting yourself in both the victim’s and the perpetrator’s shoes, recreating the interaction and the crime. It’s a combination of gut instinct and psychology, drawing on what we know about criminal behaviour. When creating a profile, there are five major inputs — the crime scene, the victimology, forensic info, the police reports and the photos. I go over and over these five things until my mind is wading in them, until all I can think about is the victim and the perpetrator. Anna was not a victim of opportunity. She was nabbed from home and he was inside the house, waiting for them. She was a low-risk victim who was chosen and stalked. He knew her, he knew that house, and he even knew the alarm code. I’m sure of it.

  I run my eyes over the photos again, one last time before I reconstruct the crime. Now it’s time to become him. I let my imagination go, thinking about how it might have gone down. What he did, and how he felt. One thing’s for sure, he would have known their routine and he would have been watching them. Waiting.

  He sits in his car, watching the house. Tuesday night…Brighton Baths Restaurant night. Mr Gatto arrives home at 6.15pm and within five minutes the family leaves. He watches Anna, knowing she’ll soon be his.

  It’s winter, so it would have been dark, making his task of slipping into the house easier. Too easy. He walked to the side fence, reached over and slipped the lock across. His heart would have been beating faster, with nerves and anticipation. Once he’d jimmied open the door, he knew he had thirty seconds to disable the alarm. He raced down the hall and entered in the four-digit code. Next he would have spent time in Anna’s room, perhaps looking at photos, smelling her clothes, lying on her bed. When it was time, he would have prepared her closet, then re-armed the alarm before racing back to her room. There, he would have waited, knowing the family would be back soon and Anna would be asleep only a few feet away from him.

  From the closet, he heard the Gattos arrive home. Heard the key in the door, heard them talking. He stays still and silent in his hiding spot while Linda Gatto reads Anna a quick bed-time story. Perhaps he imagines looking after Anna himself.

  He waits a long time, still and patient, until finally he’s satisfied that Linda and Bruno Gatto are in bed and asleep. He prepares the syringe or maybe douses a handkerchief in something. Finally, he opens the closet door quietly and creeps across Anna’s room. Once he’s within reach, he grabs her and clamps his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet while he sedates her. Depending on the sedative and his method of administering it, she would have only struggled for a few seconds.

  She’s his.

  I pull myself away from the crime scene, but the distaste lingers. I scribble information into my standard profile template, ready to flesh out the details later, if need be.

  Sex: Male

  Age: 20-25

  Race: Caucasian

  Type of offender: Organized — lack of evidence indicates well-planned murders

  Occupation/employment: Low-level white collar

  Marital status: Recently separated — separation has ignited his desire for Anna.

  Dependants: No

  Personality: Introvert. Mood swings. Prone to lose his temper.

  Interaction with victim: Stalked beforehand. Knew and interacted with victim, but probably only minimal direct contact.

  Remorse: First time, so will feel shame.

  Home life: Lives alone but probably lived with ex before the split.

  Intelligence: Moderate

  Education level: High school and maybe TAFE or equivalent

  Outward appearance: Casual

  Criminal background: Nothing or minor offences.

  Modus operandi (MO): Waited in house. Subdued victim. Took her to his location. House well cased out.

  Signature: n/a

  Media tactics: Keep away from the media. Too much attention may scare him into harming Anna.

  I read over the information I’ve come up with, based on the five major inputs. It’s only a skeleton, but maybe it’s enough to trigger Linda and Bruno Gatto’s memories. For homicides I’d normally work on the profile for a lot longer, expanding each area. But I don’t have time, not with Anna. I look at my entry next to ‘Remorse’. This guy’s going to feel shame at what he’s done and when he does he’ll destroy all the evidence — including Anna herself.

  The phone rings. I glance at my watch — it’s 2am. No wonder I’m so wrecked.

  “Hello?” My voice is croaky.

  “Anderson. It’s Logan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Forensics just got back to me.”

  “And?” My voice rises.

  “They found a minute trace of midazolam. On the carpet in the wardrobe.”

  “I knew it!”

  “It’s a prescription injection. He must have cleared the needle of air bubbles and some of the liquid fell on the carpet.”

  “The sedative would have kept her quiet and compliant as the bastard stole her from her parent’s house.”

  “Forensics said it could have knocked her out for hours, depending on the dose.” He pauses. “Up for a visit?”

  “Where to?”

  “The Gatto’s, where else?”

  “But it’s 2am.”

  “You’re showing your homicide colors. Anderson. Their kid’s missing. The last thing they’re doing is sleeping.”

  *****

  I pull up outside the house and Logan gets out of his car. As we walk down the pathway I hand him a copy of the profile. “You might want to look at this.” Since I spoke to Logan, I’ve changed my occupation assessment. Now I think our guy might work in a pharmacy or hospital.

  Logan scans the print-out as we walk, holding it up to catch the light from the street lamps. We get to the door before he finishes, so we linger. He hands the profile back to me, but doesn’t say anything.

  “You call ahead?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Logan rings the doorbell and within several seconds the door is opened by Mr Gatto. Linda Gatto stands behind her husband, but holds his hand. They know we’ve got news.

  Logan puts them out of their misery. “We think we’ve got a lead.”

  Mrs Gatto’s shoulders visibly drop with relief. Her baby hasn’t been found dead.

  Inside the house I let Logan do the talking. “Sorry to come by so late—”

  Bruno Gatto holds his hand up and shakes his head. “Any time you’ve got news, we want to hear it.”

  Logan nods and shoots me a look. “Anna was given a sedative, in her room before she was abducted.”

  “A sedative?” Mr Gatto says.

  “She was injected with midazolam. It would have knocked her out, kept her quiet.”

  Mr Gatto looks at me. “That’s why you asked about Anna being shy?”

  “Yes. I know she’s only nine, but I got the feeling from what you said, from her room, her interests, and from the fact that she’s a light sleeper that she would have fought…if she could.”

  “You’re right.” Mr Gatto hangs his head. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “There’s more.” Logan nods at me.

  “I’ve drafted a very basic profile. I’m going to keep working on it, but I just wanted to see if it sounded like anyone you know, or that you’ve met.” I pause. “Maybe even someone who knows your alarm code.”

  They shake their heads, like it’s impossible. I don’t dwell on my hunch. That’s not important now — we need to focus on finding Anna before it’s too late.

  “The midazolam makes it likely we’re dealing with someone who works in a hospital or pharmacy. He had to get the drug somehow.” I hand them the print-out.

  “Although we are checking for midazolam thefts too,” Logan adds.

  They read through the profile. Once they’re done, I start prodding.

  “Does this sound like anyone you know?”

  “Um… I’m not sure,” Mr Gatto glances at his wife for confirmation. She shrugs.

  “Think
back.” I put my head down, trying to think of a way to soften the blow, but there is none. “I think he may have been watching Anna for some time. What about someone from the past?”

  Still no hint of recognition.

  I lean back, frustrated.

  Silence.

  I lean forward again. “Okay, we’ve covered trades people. Do you have a housekeeper?”

  They shake their heads.

  “Someone to help with Anna?”

  “We used to,” Mr Gatto replies. “Emma.” Mrs Gatto’s face turns from white to grey-white and she grinds her jaw. “And she was a nurse.”

  “It’s not a woman.” I don’t bore them with the stats, or horrify them with the knowledge that the abduction is mostly likely sexual. Instead, I stay focused on Emma. “Did Emma have a brother or a boyfriend who met Anna?”

  Mrs Gatto puts her hands in her head. “Brad.”

  Recognition crosses Mr Gatto’s face. I look at Logan but he’s none the wiser. Perhaps Brad hadn’t come up yet in their investigation.

  “Bradford Hartwell.” Mr Gatto drops the paper on the coffee table. “Two years ago we hired someone to pick Anna up from school, Emma Bunning. Brad’s her boyfriend. Emma was with us for a year, until Linda decided to be a full-time mum.”

  “Do you know where Emma works or lives now?” Logan leans forward.

  Mrs Gatto shakes her head. “No. But I think she went back to nursing.”

  “Okay. We’ll get onto it.” Logan studies his pad. “How was he? With Anna?”

  I’m interested in the answer to this one. It may tell me if Anna’s still alive.

  “He was…” Mrs Gatto takes a deep breath and shrugs. “He didn’t spend a lot of time here.” She starts to cry. “Not that I know of at least.” The tears flow, now uncontrollably.

  Logan and I awkwardly excuse ourselves. We head back to the station and hit the phones and computers. With the help of four other officers, by 6am we’ve tracked down Emma and spoken to her on the phone. She confirmed my suspicions – her and Brad are no longer a couple. She initiated the break up because Brad was getting weird. He moved back with his parents in Croydon, living in a bungalow out back. Emma also confirmed that Brad was quite taken with Anna, that he wears a size eleven shoe and that he owns a pair of ASICS, although she couldn’t remember what model. It’s enough for us, and by 6.30am we’ve got a search warrant. Under section 470 of the Crimes Act a magistrate can give us the power to search if it looks like a female is “unlawfully detained for immoral purposes”. Unfortunately for Anna and her family, Brad’s intentions are most likely immoral.

  While Logan is making arrangements for the bust, I call Morelli.

  By 8am two unmarked cars, including the one I’m in, pull up outside the house. We’ve also got cars stationed around the block in case he tries to escape and live satellite footage being monitored by one of the techs at the station.

  Morelli’s parked down the road a little. He joins us as we walk up the driveway and toward the front door. We’re all wearing bullet proof vests.

  “No movement since I arrived five minutes ago. Satellites don’t show any movement either. He doesn’t have a clue we’re here. Not yet, at least.”

  I look Morelli up and down. His fists are clenched and his brow is tight. It must have taken all his self-restraint to stay on this side of the fence.

  “So, how will he react, Anderson?” Morelli’s eyes fix on me.

  “Panic.”

  Morelli nods and undoes the clip on his gun holster.

  Logan rings the doorbell. I think of Anna. Is she still alive? He’s had her for three days now. There’s a chance his obsession with her isn’t sexual…a chance.

  A woman in her fifties answers the door. “Yes?” She notices the guns and backs away.

  “Police, ma’am.” Logan puts his foot in the door and shows his badge.

  “What?” Genuine surprise.

  “We have a search warrant for this property.” Now Logan hands her the documentation. “Is your son in?”

  She’s confused. “Yes. I believe so. Why? What’s this about?”

  I move in close and whisper in Logan’s ear. “We have to hurry. If he knows we’re here, he might hurt Anna.”

  Logan signals to the other officers, who bundle out of the car and join us at the front door.

  Mrs Hartwell’s eyes widen. “What the hell’s going on? You…you’ve got the wrong house!”

  I draw my gun but leave it hanging by my side. “I don’t think so. Is Brad in the bungalow?”

  She hesitates.

  “We believe he’s holding a young girl against her will,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “No, that’s not possible,” she says, but in her eyes I see the fear. Not fear for her son’s life, but fear that we’re right.

  I stay quiet but keep my eyes locked on her.

  She puts her head down. “He’s there. Probably still asleep.”

  I start moving toward the side of the house.

  “Don’t hurt him!” she yells.

  Logan and Morelli come with me and the four officers check the main house.

  We open a side gate and move toward the backyard. Within a few seconds I see the bungalow. It’s a large building, with two windows on either side of the door.

  At the bungalow, I line myself up underneath the window. Morelli takes the other window and Logan pushes himself flat against the door. I point upward with my index finger, and Morelli and Logan both nod. I peek into the window and bob straight back down. I recall the image of the room. It’s dark, but I could just make out the sleeping figure of Brad on the bed in the corner. There was no sign of Anna, but it’s not a one-room dwelling.

  “He’s asleep,” I whisper and point toward the back corner of the room to indicate where the bed is.

  Morelli and Logan nod again. Logan cautiously tries the handle. It’s locked — not surprising given what he’s been doing in there. Two of the other officers come out of the house and Mrs Hartwell stares out the back window. Logan meets the officers half way, and sends one of them back in. When the officer returns, he’s got a key. Mrs Hartwell is co-operating at least.

  Logan gently puts the key into the lock, and turns the handle. He uses his fingers to count off…one, two, three. On three he swings the door open and we all charge in, guns leading. Brad instantly wakes up, but before he has time to get up, we’re hovering over the bed, guns trained on him.

  “Where is she?” I scream, the anger and adrenaline suddenly overflowing.

  He ignores me.

  I look around the room, but still can’t see her. I lower my face down to his. “If you’ve hurt her…” It takes all my restraint not to punch him. I walk through an internal door with Morelli hot on my heels. The doorway opens up into a small kitchen and meals area, with a TV in the corner.

  “Anna?” I yell, hoping she’ll hear me. Hoping she’ll answer me.

  Nothing.

  “Anna!” I yell again. I head to the only other door in the room – it’s locked. My heart races, hoping Anna’s inside. I slide the lock across and swing the door open. The bathroom is disgusting — dirty and smelly. I pull the shower curtain across to one side of the bath, and there’s Anna, lying in the bath. Her hands and feet are both bound and a gag cuts into the side of her cheeks. Her pajamas are dirty and I can make out several bruises on her face and arms. She’s perfectly still.

  Morelli and I look at each other. After an initial second of shocked silence, I put my fingers on Anna’s neck. Just as I feel her heart beating she lets out a tiny moan and moves slightly. Morelli works quickly to untie her bonds and within a minute she’s free.

  “She must still be drugged.” Morelli bends down to take her in his arms, but then he hesitates and instead nods at me. An unspoken recognition between us — if Anna comes to, she may feel safer in a woman’s arms.

  “We’ve got her,” I yell to the others, who are still dealing with Brad.

  Morelli flips open
his mobile phone, no doubt to tell the Gattos the good news — their daughter is alive.

  The end

  Missing - the second story

  A girl cowers in the corner of a room. Her knees are pulled hard into her chest, her arms hugging them close. Her dark red hair is messy, covering part of her freckled face. She shakes and whimpers.

  The door opens and a man comes in, carrying a plate of food. She runs at him and bites his arm. He drops the plate – food flies across the room and the plate shatters as it drops. He gives the girl a hard, backhanded slap that sends her reeling. He closes in on the girl, towering over her terrified form.

  I wake up, overcome by the girl’s fear. It’s crippling. It seems more intense, more confused than ‘normal’ fear. And I know a lot about fear. A coldness sweeps over me, ending in a violent shiver.

  Is this simply a dream or is it something more? I think about the DC Slasher case – on that case I had dreams and waking flashes that ended up coming true. Is this girl really in danger? Holed up in some windowless room, praying that someone will save her?

  I close my eyes and roll over onto my other side…I lie on my stomach…I roll onto my back…I open my eyes and stare at the shadows in my room. But nothing works…I can’t escape the sense of darkness, of impending danger. It’s not the first time this week that my sleep’s been cut short by a nightmare. In the dreams, someone’s always in danger. But what’s real, a premonition, and what’s my subconscious?

  I change into gym gear and pack a small bag with my towel, a water bottle, some boxing gloves and my gun, a nine millimeter Smith & Wesson — standard FBI issue. I head up to the gym on the fifteen floor of my apartment building in Alexandria, and start my workout on the treadmill. The rhythmic motion finally releases the lingering confusion of the girl. I don’t mind thinking about the dreams, but I hate feeling them. With the sensation gone, I’m able to replay the dream with some distance and I let the events run over and over again. Each time I focus on a different element — the girl, the man, the room — until finally I’ve got a better sense of the dream. The girl was obviously being held against her will. The room was dark, with only a small, bare bulb illuminating a shabby bed. In the corner was a toilet and washbasin. The walls were plain white, with peeling paint. A warehouse perhaps? I couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was tall with dark hair.