Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
By noon the next day, Seth sat in the conference room with a sad-looking bagel and a cold coffee, his head hurting as he cross referenced two lists of names—those who’d purchased boxcutters recently, and those on the list of white vans.
There was always a point, in every difficult investigation, where he started to feel like his wheels were spinning out on ice.
Last night, with the map, had felt pivotal. Like it could mean something. But he’d checked again this morning, took photos and marked a pin on the GPS, then asked around the station. There didn’t seem to be any record of this apparent cabin. No reports of any fires.
That voice on the phone call played in his mind.
“She’s been gone for so long. Can you please find her? This doesn’t work without her.”
Celine Dyer, whose body was never found.
Something Claire said on the drive home last night bothered him too.
Her family used to own the land around that cabin before selling it to the Bursells fifty years ago.
Maybe he’d wonder if Celine knew about that place—had even been to it before—if there was any evidence of her there at all. But there wasn’t.
Still. No matter how many times he tried to search elsewhere, the Dyers always came back into his sights.
Claire, especially.
The way she’d looked at him last night, with those eyes of hers, had gotten into his head.
At some points, he swore she was teasing him. He had to remind himself that it’d been a while—maybe it was inevitable he’d get a bit flustered around a woman like her. But Seth wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of that feeling.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him blush.
Idiot.
To cleanse those thoughts away, he abruptly stood and left the conference room, into the bullpen. Pereira was at her desk, but Yess was missing.
“Hey, who’s watching the tip line?” he asked, and Pereira gave him a clueless shrug. Damn it, Yess. He went over to the desk as Pereira skittered after him—and sure enough, the light on the voicemail button was flashing.
“Crap, Yess didn’t ask me to cover him,” Pereira said. “Sorry, Winslow.”
“Not your fault. Let’s play it back.”
He prayed it was something—anything—to set him on another track and pressed play. The automated voice said there was only one voicemail, sent in at 12:18 p.m., twenty minutes ago.
The recording played. Muffled voices, like the screams and laughter on a playground. But there was something else too—a jingle of some kind. The sounds of an arcade.
“Just do it,” a girl’s voice was saying.
“No, what if he finds out?” another one said. “We could lose our jobs!”
“We have to tell them!”
“Okay, okay.” There was a pause before the second girl’s voice became clearer. “Um—you need to look into—”
“Someone’s coming,” the other voice whispered, then blurted, “Check Mr. Giggles!”
The line went dead.
Seth sat for a moment, processing it. A prank? No, it sounded like two people trying to discreetly report something. Kids, probably. Teenagers.
“Who the hell is Mr. Giggles?” he asked.
Pereira snorted a laugh. “Um, it’s like a kids’ birthday joint. Think of it like Chuck-E-Cheese.”
“Any idea why someone would report the business?”
Pereira shrugged. “Sorry. I’m sure Yess would have all the gossip, but who knows when he’ll be back from his sub run. Owner’s a friend of the station, though. Norm Stanfield.”
“Norm Stanfield,” Seth said, feeling out the name.
But it was already familiar.
He’d been drilling those lists of names into his brain all morning, but to be sure, he went back into the conference room and grabbed the list of names in relation to the Ellen Harrison case—people who’d owned white vans.
And there, partway down the list, was Norman Stanfield.
Mr. Giggles was a giant green dinosaur with wonky eyes and big, square teeth—sort of like Barney’s cracked-out cousin.
The moment Seth entered the building, he was hit with gaudy green lights and smell of pizza.
Children screamed and chased each other around the play area in the back.
The geometric carpet looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 90s, reminiscent of old movie theaters.
Bored teenagers wandered around cleaning garbage in their work uniforms.
When Seth was a kid, he’d be lucky if his mom could afford to rent a bowling alley for a few hours. Pizza parties with all the kids from school were out of the question. This place would’ve been a dream, cracked-out dinosaur and all.
Now, as a disillusioned adult, it felt off-putting and dated.
He scanned the area, hands in the pockets of his slacks, just as a man in his early twenties, face still marred by teenage acne, blocked his view. His nametag read: STEPHEN S, MANAGER. “Sir, can I help you?” His eyes found the shield on Seth’s belt. “Oh, um, everything okay, Officer? Or Detective?”
“Yeah, I was wondering if the owner was around. Norman Stanfield?”
“Oh, no, Norm’s not in. He’s been taking some time off for the summer. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Actually, I’m following up on a tip. You think you could show me around the back? Maybe Norm has an office?”
Stephen began fidgeting with his hands. “I probably shouldn’t, right? Norm’s not in trouble, is he?”
Seth almost felt bad. Stephen would have every right to deny him, force him to come back with a warrant—a warrant he wouldn’t be able to get at this stage.
But Stephen was also too nervous to know any better.
Seth needed to gather as much information as he could before knocking on this Norman guy’s door.
Even if it meant taking advantage of poor Stephen’s naivety.
“Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I just want to take a look at how things are run around here. Nothing to worry about.”
“Am I allowed to do that?” Stephen asked.
“You’re the manager. You tell me.”
Stephen picked at his nails, shifting his weight, before he conceded. “Okay—follow me.”
Norman’s office was colder than the rest of the building. A thermostat was built into the wood panel wall beside the door, and the carpet was a shaggy forest green. A single desk sat in the middle.
Seth made his way through the room, skimming the back wall, lined with photos of Mr. Giggles over the years, going all the way back to the 90s.
One photo showed Norm Stanfield as a young man, wearing the Mr. Giggles costume, the head hooked under his arm.
He’d had a mustache and a mullet, smiling brightly at the camera like it was the happiest day of his life.
“Norm hasn’t actually worn the costume in years,” Stephen explained, lingering in the doorway. “He gets one of us to do it. I was Mr. Giggles a few times before I got to be manager. The costume’s really hot, so I’d much rather do this.”
“Quite the job,” Seth said, scanning the clean surface of Norm’s desk.
No pictures of his own family or kids, just another photo of himself—or someone else—as Mr. Giggles, standing above a group of children.
Like most things in this place, Norman’s computer was from another era. Not a flatscreen in sight.
“Yeah, it’s a great place,” Stephen stammered, anxiously checking his phone. “Parents leave their kids here for hours. They love it.”
“What’s Norm like? He have any kids? A partner?”
“Nah, he’s a nice guy, though. He’s really had my back, gave me a job here when I was seventeen. He’ll hire pretty much any high schooler as long as they’re not bad seeds.”
Seth lifted a brow. “Bad seeds?”
“Yeah, like… detention kids. Smokers, drinkers, drug addicts. You know the type.”
He did, indeed. He’d been one of them.
“So Norm values the integrity of the business,” Seth said. When Stephen checked his phone again, Seth asked, “You need to be somewhere, Stephen?”
“W-well—I need to let the kids into one of the party rooms. Their mom’s getting impatient. Will this take much longer?”
“Don’t worry, you can go. I’m good here.”
Stephen hesitated, clutching his phone, before he said, “I’ll be right back,” and darted down the hall.
With Stephen gone, Seth began shimmying open the drawers of the desk. Most of them were full of general office supplies. But as he peeked into the bottom drawer, the larger of the bunch, there was only one thing inside. A big, black hunk of plastic.
An old camcorder.
Seth frowned. He hadn’t seen one of these in years.
He carefully picked it up, the technology bulky in his hands.
The device didn’t respond when he pressed the power button.
It was uncommon to have one of these—even the cheapest smartphone on the market ten years ago could film a higher quality video.
But Norman Stanfield had an appreciation for the old ways.
That alone wasn’t strange. It wasn’t a crime to have niche hobbies, but combined with the complaint—and everything else—it painted an unpleasant picture.
This guy was definitely weird enough to question.
Outside, the afternoon sun blared in Seth’s eyes. He squinted into it as he rounded the building, into the parking lot. He almost didn’t recognize the person leaning against the hood of his car, wearing a crisp blue uniform.
Chief Wells.
One arm was tucked over her chest, the other fidgeting with her cross necklace. Her police cruiser was parked right beside his car. She stood at attention when she saw him, gathering herself.
“Chief, what are you doing here?”
“Pereira said you got a tip about this place,” Wells said, scanning the building. A hint of remorse laced her voice. “Find anything out?”
“Yeah, I got a name. Owner of this place was a person of interest in the Ellen Harrison case. Norman Stanfield. I was about to go talk to him.”
Chief Wells sighed, like his words were a physical blow.
“Friend of yours?”
“Oh, I’ve known Norm my whole life.”
He waited for the punchline, but Wells didn’t elaborate. “But you’re not jumping to defend him,” he said.
She shook her head, her face softening with disappointment. “Not this time, I’m afraid. You mind if I ride with you on this one? I’ll explain on the drive.”
Seth gestured to his car. “Lead the way.”