Traces of Guilt by Dee Henderson
“I still have it,” Grace told him with that still-familiar smile, “tucked away in a box of childhood keepsakes.”
“Nice, Grace. I don’t have a box, but I do keep the memories.”
Her eyes held a sadness. The years had knocked the naïveté out of him, and he recognized what it was. He now knew a victim when he saw one. He didn’t let his smile fade, for he was glad to see her, no matter the circumstances. He got them cold drinks from the cooler. “Ann mentioned you might stop by. Are you passing through town or staying awhile?”
She pushed away a strand of hair blowing across her face. “That depends a bit on you,” she said, her voice low. “No one in town knows I’m here, and I’d like to leave it that way for now.”
“Sure thing. But now you’ve got me curious.”
“You know my history.”
Puzzled, he nodded, but answered what she seemed to be asking. “Your parents went missing when you were two, your uncle became your legal guardian and raised you here. He was killed in a hunting accident when you were fourteen. I know child services moved you away, but I don’t know details from there. I do know I missed you. A lot.”
She smiled. “Thanks for that. I went to Trevor House in Chicago, lived there while I finished high school. Ann has friends with history there.”
“Since then?”
“Odd jobs mostly. Bookkeeping, inventory, office temp work. That kind of thing.”
“Still draw those cartoons?”
She seemed surprised he remembered. “I’ve published a few, have a monthly gig for a magazine now, mostly providing the better ones I’ve already done. But occasionally I have a new idea worth the time to sketch out.”
“Good for you—congratulations.”
She dipped her head in thanks, nodded toward the shop and the boats. “I can see you’re thriving on your lake.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve always been a bit possessive about Carin Lake.” He took a seat on the other end of the picnic table. “Business is winding down for the year now that November is rolling by.”
He drank more of his soda and without staring tried to get a good picture in his mind of her at twenty-seven. The last mental images he had of her, she was fourteen going on fifteen. She’d turned into a graceful woman, if a nervous one, he noticed, as she turned the bottle between her hands.
“I need a favor,” she said, averting her eyes.
“Ann said you might ask. You’ll find a receptive ear.”
“I’m told your two dogs are used by the cops in searches, that they’re trained as . . . what is it, cadaver dogs?”
“They are. Ann pass on that nugget to you?”
“Paul did.”
So she knew both Ann and Paul well enough to be comfortable on a first-name basis. That was good to know. “What’s the favor?”
“I want you to help me search my uncle’s property.” She looked over at him. “For human remains.”
He opened his mouth, then quickly shut it, gave himself a moment for her words to sink in. “You think your uncle killed your parents?” he finally asked, shocked by the thought of it but determined to hold his tone even.
Grace looked away again. “He had money troubles, then suddenly he had none. The property is two hundred acres, forty of it lake-inlet water and mature forest. I know it’s hard to make a car and two people disappear. He could have, though.”
He thought about her conclusion, the painful implications that would have arisen for Grace even to be thinking such a question. No wonder Ann was stressed about this.
Grace looked over at him. “Will you help me search?”
Josh felt slightly sick. “Yes, I’ll help you, Grace. But when we search, and likely find nothing, what then?”
“I’ll sell the land knowing I at least looked. The farmland already has a buyer, the woods and access road will attract somebody who likes to hunt.”
“You’ve let the property sit for years, the land leased out to be farmed. Why sell now? Has something changed recently?”
“It’s simply time. I don’t like facing old ghosts, but it needs to be done.” She stood, placed the bottle in the recycle bin. “I’ve rented a motor home and will be staying at the campground down the road—slot twenty-nine. I was thinking we could go over to the property, look around, decide how best to do the search, then plan a schedule that works for you. I’ll help however you direct. Hopefully I won’t be in your way.”
“Well, it takes two people to do a search and record the terrain covered so there’s no doubling back over grids.” He stayed at the table, studying her. She looked tired, tense, but otherwise in good health, so she could probably handle a tough four-hour walk, turn around and repeat it again after a break. Adding volunteers wouldn’t help really; more than two people would just impede the dogs’ work. And he doubted Grace wanted word to get around about what they were doing.
But he much preferred that she stay at the campground while he did the search with one of his brothers instead. She didn’t need the cruel reality of what might be found. “I’d rather someone else help me, Grace,” he said. “Searching for remains this old can be done, but it requires near perfect conditions for the dogs to pick up a scent. The ground around the gravesite had to be firm enough that an air cavity formed, trapping the decay, but loose enough now the odors can rise.” He kept his voice neutral as he deliberately gave her some of the gruesome details, watching to see if she got shaky. She’d turned to face him, had paled, but then simply sat and waited.
“The dogs will inevitably alert on animal remains, even though they try to distinguish the difference. There are going to be numerous false positives that will have to be dug up and checked. Someone else will be working behind me with a shovel. It’s going to be long, hard days pushing through underbrush and crossing rough terrain, looking for something I really doubt we’ll find after this much time.”
“Josh,” she said, her voice low, “I’ve lived with this for twenty-five years, wondering where my parents are. The rawness of this reality . . . a search to find them? At least I’m looking. I want to be—need to be—out there. I’ll handle it.”
He slid off the table. “Then we’ll give it our best effort, Grace. If the ground reaches the freeze point or we get the first snow, this all will have to wait until spring.”
She nodded, stood, and pushed her hands back into her pockets. “I’m sorry, I should have told you already, but I’m not expecting this to be free. I’ll pay for your time and your dogs’ effort. You’ve got a business and a life, and it’s a big request.”
“If we find something, you can make a donation to the K-9 fund. My time’s my own to give, Grace. Don’t worry about it.”
She studied him, then nodded. “You can tell your brothers and your parents about this, if necessary. Please limit it to that. I’m not ready to deal with a reporter or curious neighbors.”
“Understood. Get yourself settled in at the campground. Once the bait shop is open, I’ll drive down and join you. We’ll go over to the property and take a look, make a plan. We’ve got good weather today, and we’ll take advantage of it.”
“I appreciate it, Josh.”
“I’m glad you came back. No matter how this unfolds, it’s nice to see you again.”
Grace nodded her thanks, and Josh watched her walk to her car.
She wants to find her parents. Her murdered parents . . . What had Ann let him walk into? He knew Ann was flying in today and so he sent her a text: Grace asked her favor. Call me when you have privacy to talk.
Evie Blackwell
“Ann, you wanted to talk about the Dayton case this morning?” Evie asked, finishing a donut and reaching for her coffee. They were getting an early start at the post office and that suited her, as Day Four of her vacation needed to cover a lot of ground.
“Yes.”
“Where do you want to begin?”
Gabriel, who had brought the glazed donuts and coffee with him, took another and slid the
“Summary first.” Ann took a last bite, stretched her legs out, looking relaxed. She already told Evie that she had flown out of Chicago before dawn, had been thinking about this case all the way to Carin. She now spoke from memory. “The Daytons are an upper-middle-class family. An executive father, stay-at-home mom, one child, trying to have a second child—a good marriage by all accounts. They transferred to Florida with his job, but still have family in Chicago.
“Thirteen years ago they were traveling by car from Florida to Chicago on vacation, stopping at small antique stores, showing their daughter the mountains in Tennessee, horses in Kentucky, farms and cows in Ohio, generally aiming toward Chicago but not on any particular schedule. On the night of Friday, July 24, they stopped at the All Suites Hotel here in Carin County, just off I-42. Six-year-old Ashley Dayton was abducted from the hotel just after nine p.m.
“Her father, Elliot Dayton, was bringing luggage from the car to their third-floor room via the elevator. Her mother, Arlene Dayton, was getting sodas and snacks from the vending machines on their floor, and their daughter, eager to help, took the ice bucket to the ice machine farther down the hall. The mom got back to the room, the father did, the girl did not. The father found the ice bucket on the floor by the ice machine—their room number was on it—but no sign of Ashley. She hadn’t cried out, and neither parent had seen another person on their floor. Elliot rushed down the stairwell to the parking lot while his wife called 911.
“Cops had an AMBER Alert active on the highways and area roads within twenty minutes. Both Carin and State Police swept the hotel, checking rooms and interviewing guests. No one reported seeing the child in the parking lot with anyone other than her parents. No one heard or saw a child struggling. Ashley Dayton, a blue-eyed, blond six-year-old with a pretty smile and outgoing personality, would smile and say hi to a stranger, but had a good security sense about her, knew to stay in sight of her mom and dad. She was grabbed that night, hustled down the stairs, probably out to the back parking lot, and driven away before anyone saw the abduction.” Ann looked over to Gabriel’s father, sheriff at the time of the abduction. “A decent summary?”
Caleb nodded. “They had filled up the car with gas before checking into the hotel, but otherwise hadn’t stopped in Illinois before they arrived here. It’s unlikely they were targeted by someone who knew the family. This was a crime of opportunity by someone at the hotel or someone who saw them at the gas station, which is located across the street from the hotel. Checks of vehicles at the hotel, those who filled up a vehicle at the station during the hour in question, didn’t generate a name we could fit to this. A couple of locals remembered seeing the family at the station, one remembered saying hi to the girl, yet no one observed anyone take an unusual interest in the family.”
Evie made notes as Ann and Caleb talked. She could visualize the scene. By nine that summer night, it would be dark but still warm, people inside in air-conditioned rooms, or outside, heading with purpose to where they needed to go without rushing about it in the heat. Travelers, mostly friendly with each other, sharing a glance at other cars packed like theirs with luggage and kids going somewhere. The hotel would be the same—tourists staying overnight, leaving for another destination at first light. Families rather than business people, Evie thought, as the single business traveler would try to make it home before the weekend.
Truckers, taking advantage of the cooler night hours and the slack in traffic, would be moving their cargo at a good pace, keeping their fill-up times short. Overnight-delivery folks would be starting to refill vending machines and counter snack displays. People would have been out for a meal. At nine o’clock, it would not have been a deserted area. Had the girl been able to break away from her abductor inside the hotel, or at least outside the hotel, someone would have likely heard her crying or seen her running.
A trucker is interesting, Evie thought, someone who saw the girl, had one of those big extended-cab sleeper berths inside the truck, a place to put a child, bound, mouth taped, while he cruised down the highway passing cops. He’d still be on schedule for his deliveries, since the snatch was probably at most thirty minutes from the sighting of the girl at the gas station to her disappearance from the third floor of the hotel. The father would have moved the car to the closest entrance door before hauling in the luggage. Finding the right floor, their assigned room, would have taken only minutes.
Evie felt her heart squeeze with emotion as she could see the sequence play out. Pull around back of the hotel. Use the stairs or the service elevator, glance down hallways, spot the family coming and going. And there she is, coming right to you without her parents, compliments of the ice machine. Scoop her up and you’re gone. Maybe in a delivery uniform, maybe even having stayed at the hotel before or parked behind it to grab a few hours of shut-eye. Hand across her mouth, out the back door, into the cab of the truck, close the door and you’ve got your prize. Pull out, watch the speed, you’re gone before the parents’ cry of alarm alerts people to look around.
Someone who knew the area well enough to make a snap decision and get away with it. Confident. Quick. Maybe he’d gotten another child in the same area before. Evie felt a surge of interest at that idea . . . not the first time he’d grabbed a child, not the first time from a hotel along the Interstate. Maybe if they looked at those towns within driving distance of the hotel, going back a few years, they might find another footprint pointing to this same perp.
She wrote, Not the first abduction from a hotel along this Interstate for this guy. Where else? When? She underlined the idea so hard, her pen nearly went through the paper. Had someone pursued this possibility or was it a fresh idea? Maybe they had given it only a cursory glance, not gone far enough back in time. Forward in time would be worth checking too, she realized. He successfully snatches this girl and feels lucky, so then after a few years, why not take another one along the same stretch of freeway? Maybe the piece of the puzzle she was looking for was more in the present, in the years since the girl went missing.
Evie tuned back into the conversation. Gabriel was saying, “. . . a lot of calls came in. She’s a pretty child, there were numerous sightings on interstates all around the Midwest, but none panned out as Ashley Dayton. Without a lead on a vehicle, all the police activity on the roads couldn’t stop this guy from slipping through and away. To cover the bases we did a systematic search of every campground and state park in the county, to see if her abductor sat tight, waiting for the police and public interest to fade before he moved on, but we didn’t find any leads.
“What else?” Gabriel said, more to himself than the room. “This case was highlighted on the ‘help us solve this crime’ TV shows during the second and third years, and that generated more leads on blue-eyed blondes, but again, not this child. The parents still live in Florida. They have two other daughters now. They call every year on the anniversary of Ashley’s abduction to see if there’s anything new, but they mostly gave up hope after about three years.”
“In abduction cases,” Ann mentioned, her voice grim, “most often the child is dead within a day. An alarming number are dead within four hours.”
Evie had heard that stat before, but it always caused a pang to hear it again.
Gabriel studied the crime wall. “So how do we approach it, Ann? Go back to those we can place at the hotel, the gas station? One of them is most likely the abductor or saw who was. But we’ve focused there before without success.”
Evie was studying the photos on the wall. “Maybe it was someone eating at a restaurant nearby,” she said before Ann could reply. She pointed at a photo. “There’s a Denny’s and a Pizza Hut and what looks like an Italian restaurant. They would still be open
Gabriel slid forward in his chair. “An interesting idea,” he said, and Evie could tell by his tone that he liked it. “I know video was collected from any business in the area that had security cameras, but I don’t think receipts were pulled.”
“It’s going to be hard to track down names without credit-card receipts,” Evie agreed, “but some diners inevitably would go over to see what was going on at the hotel, check out the gathered cop cars. Locals would remember who else was in the restaurant that night. It’s the kind of excitement you remember even a dozen years later. You’ve talked about it with friends, speculated on the crime, followed the news. Locate a few spectators’ names from cop notebooks, and we can push out from there, see what people remember.”
Gabriel nodded. “Make a note, and let’s pursue it.”
Evie picked up her pen and did so.
A phone beeped a text alert, and Evie glanced at hers, not sure whose it was. Ann scanned hers, typed a quick reply, and pocketed her phone again. “Is the door locked?” she asked.
Evie glanced at the door, surprised by the question. “Yes.”
“It’s a good idea, Evie,” Ann said quietly. “But it won’t be necessary.” She opened her briefcase, removed a manila envelope, picked up a roll of tape and walked over to the crime wall. She visibly took a deep breath, let it out, then tore a piece of tape from the roll.
Ann taped a picture of Grace Arnett, age six, beside the photo of Ashley Dayton, also age six. “Any questions?”
The similarities were heart-stopping, though after a second look, clearly two different girls. Evie was so startled that for a moment she stopped breathing. She saw both Gabriel and Caleb go still. The silence in the room was palpable.
Ann wiped the heel of a hand across her eyes. She turned and held Gabriel’s gaze first, then looked at Caleb. Evie felt herself prepared when Ann looked at her. She understood now why Ann had arranged for Carin County to be the first county, why this case was one of those being worked, why Ann had made sure she was here for Grace.