dismissive, as the man’s partner was. “That doesn’t mean anything. Even if they were smoking that stuff, so what? It doesn’t have anything to do with this.” His arm sweeps the area. “And how are you going to get prints off a girl who isn’t here? She’s too young to have a driver’s license, she’s probably never been fingerprinted in her life.”
He’s getting antsy. This isn’t progressing the way he wants it to. Not that he expected it would, but he wants something, something he can take to this family, to the entire community, when they find out.
“Over here.”
Williams turns towards the voice. A woman detective named Jeri Bryan is standing about fifteen feet off the patio that’s outside the presumed kidnap victim’s room.
“We almost overlooked this,” Jeri says. “Be careful,” she warns, “there’s only one that I’ve found—so far. Don’t step on it,” she cautions.
Carefully, almost daintily, the sheriff walks over to her.
“Here.” She squats down, points to the edge of a gravel walkway that starts where the patio ends and leads around the house to a gate in the fence that surrounds the property. Sheriff Williams hunches down next to her. She shines her flashlight on the ground.
One footprint. A partial of the left foot. A man’s shoe, pretty large. Someone who was walking on the gravel, where he wouldn’t leave a track. But he misstepped slightly, this one time.
“See this?” She points to a mark in the tread pattern, in the middle of the print.
Williams gets down on his hands and knees in the damp grass, bending over so that his face is inches from the impression. Jeri points to the mark with the tip of her pencil. There’s a sharp, deep half-inch gouge that cuts across the connecting treads, all the way through to the foundation sole of the shoe.
“Probably caused by stepping on some sharp object,” she hazards. “Like a knife, the edge of a rake, or it could’ve come from digging with a shovel that penetrated the tread.” She looks up, catches the eye of the forensic detective who followed the girls’ footprints to their gazebo hideaway. “Take a look at this, Frank.”
The expert squats next to her and the sheriff. He stares at the footprint, then stands up. “This is good. It’s pretty fresh.”
Williams stands beside him. “Let’s cast it, yes?”
“Definitely.”
“Good work, Jeri,” Williams compliments Detective Bryan.
“Someone would’ve found it, sooner or later,” she says modestly.
“If one of us hadn’t stepped on it first and obliterated it.” He turns to his troops. “We may have caught a break here, people. Let’s capitalize on it.”
The detectives intensify their search, looking for similar prints. Within minutes, now that they know what they’re looking for, two more are found—one near the gazebo, almost hidden in some tall grass, and another closer to the gate.
While they’re carefully making impressions of the shoe prints, like paleontologists sifting for dinosaur bones, another detective comes out of the house and says something low into the sheriff’s ear. Williams looks up. Then he follows the detective back into the house, into Emma’s bedroom.
Doug and Glenna Lancaster are in the room. They both look stricken. “I think we figured out what happened to the alarm,” Doug says, his voice forlorn. “Follow me.”
He leads them out of the room into the hallway. On the wall, right outside the door, is an alarm panel.
“This panel is for this wing of the house,” Doug explains. He points to the lights that are flashing green. “The alarm’s been turned off.”
Williams looks at the panel soberly. The girl did it herself. She turned off her alarm when she and her friends went outside for their little fun and games. Then she forgot to turn it on when she came back in. What teenager who’d been smoking grass and cigarettes and drinking beer would remember?
“Maybe the abductor turned it off,” Glenna
He’s getting antsy. This isn’t progressing the way he wants it to. Not that he expected it would, but he wants something, something he can take to this family, to the entire community, when they find out.
“Over here.”
Williams turns towards the voice. A woman detective named Jeri Bryan is standing about fifteen feet off the patio that’s outside the presumed kidnap victim’s room.
“We almost overlooked this,” Jeri says. “Be careful,” she warns, “there’s only one that I’ve found—so far. Don’t step on it,” she cautions.
Carefully, almost daintily, the sheriff walks over to her.
“Here.” She squats down, points to the edge of a gravel walkway that starts where the patio ends and leads around the house to a gate in the fence that surrounds the property. Sheriff Williams hunches down next to her. She shines her flashlight on the ground.
One footprint. A partial of the left foot. A man’s shoe, pretty large. Someone who was walking on the gravel, where he wouldn’t leave a track. But he misstepped slightly, this one time.
“See this?” She points to a mark in the tread pattern, in the middle of the print.
Williams gets down on his hands and knees in the damp grass, bending over so that his face is inches from the impression. Jeri points to the mark with the tip of her pencil. There’s a sharp, deep half-inch gouge that cuts across the connecting treads, all the way through to the foundation sole of the shoe.
“Probably caused by stepping on some sharp object,” she hazards. “Like a knife, the edge of a rake, or it could’ve come from digging with a shovel that penetrated the tread.” She looks up, catches the eye of the forensic detective who followed the girls’ footprints to their gazebo hideaway. “Take a look at this, Frank.”
The expert squats next to her and the sheriff. He stares at the footprint, then stands up. “This is good. It’s pretty fresh.”
Williams stands beside him. “Let’s cast it, yes?”
“Definitely.”
“Good work, Jeri,” Williams compliments Detective Bryan.
“Someone would’ve found it, sooner or later,” she says modestly.
“If one of us hadn’t stepped on it first and obliterated it.” He turns to his troops. “We may have caught a break here, people. Let’s capitalize on it.”
The detectives intensify their search, looking for similar prints. Within minutes, now that they know what they’re looking for, two more are found—one near the gazebo, almost hidden in some tall grass, and another closer to the gate.
While they’re carefully making impressions of the shoe prints, like paleontologists sifting for dinosaur bones, another detective comes out of the house and says something low into the sheriff’s ear. Williams looks up. Then he follows the detective back into the house, into Emma’s bedroom.
Doug and Glenna Lancaster are in the room. They both look stricken. “I think we figured out what happened to the alarm,” Doug says, his voice forlorn. “Follow me.”
He leads them out of the room into the hallway. On the wall, right outside the door, is an alarm panel.
“This panel is for this wing of the house,” Doug explains. He points to the lights that are flashing green. “The alarm’s been turned off.”
Williams looks at the panel soberly. The girl did it herself. She turned off her alarm when she and her friends went outside for their little fun and games. Then she forgot to turn it on when she came back in. What teenager who’d been smoking grass and cigarettes and drinking beer would remember?
“Maybe the abductor turned it off,” Glenna
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