Chapter 22
Thursday afternoon
JP sat at his desk, Rourke’s report spread out in front of him, Hannah Caldwell’s file open beside it. Two versions of the same story, one official, one observational.
They didn’t match as cleanly as they were supposed to, but then he knew his reports didn’t usually either. Rourke was thinking outside the box. The County was the box.
JP picked up a pen and started writing on a yellow legal pad.
Witnesses:
Frank Deluca—crossing guard ?
Students (3)—walking group
Substitute teacher
Mother
Victor Hayes?
He decided to start with the kids. They often saw things adults missed. And sometimes they remembered them better, especially when no one had asked the right questions the first time.
He pulled his laptop closer and started digging. He found their names in the file buried in a short paragraph that may not have seemed important back then.
Tyler and Megan Burch—twins—age 11 (6th grade)
Alana Ruiz—age 11 (6th grade)
He started with the twins. They had the same last name and the same address, at least back then. JP ran a search that didn’t take long.
“Still local,” he said.
Property records showed the same house, still in the parents’ name. Tyler, one of the twins, was still listed at the address.
Megan was easier. She had lots of social media accounts, and her out-of-state college was listed.
JP made a note. Megan Burch—University (Oregon), call later
People talked differently in person, especially about uncomfortable subjects.
He shifted back to Tyler. He had no public profile worth anything, no recent posts, and no obvious trail. But the name got a hit in a local employment listing, a warehouse distribution center.
He jotted it down.
The next one was Alana Ruiz, which took a little longer. Her name was too common, but JP narrowed it down by age, old address, and school district. Finally, he found her in a nursing program at a local community college.
“Still in the county,” he said.
He wrote: Alana Ruiz—student—local
JP looked at the list. They were just kids themselves at the time. Now they were adults. They were all present the day Hannah disappeared, and all assumed to have not seen anything.
He didn’t buy that. He turned back to the file and flipped to the teacher’s section.
Substitute teacher—Ms. Ellen Adams
JP frowned. “Sub,” he said. That explained a lot. Subs didn’t know routines. They didn’t know who walked where, who waited for who, and what was normal. Which meant no one verified whether Hannah left the way she was supposed to.
JP searched for the name. Adams was retired, but still in the system. The address popped up in a nearby town, Lemon Grove. He added it to the list.
He sat there a moment, scanning everything again, then flipped to the mother, Yvonne Caldwell.
He searched but couldn’t find a current address tied to her name. He tried variations: maiden name, prior addresses, past workplaces, but still nothing.
Either she had moved or she didn’t want to be found.
The mother missing from easy records seemed significant. He circled her name, then went back to Rourke’s report and read it again. This time he read not for what was there, but for what wasn’t.
Rourke had watched Hayes, noted inconsistencies, and tracked movement, but his witness section was thin.
Rourke didn’t strike JP as sloppy. So, if something wasn’t in the report, there must’ve been a reason. He would check with him.
He picked up the pen and added one more line at the bottom: Reconstruct timeline—after school release
His question had changed from: Who took Hannah? To: Who saw her last, and didn’t realize it mattered?
JP stood and grabbed his hat off the desk. His first stop would be Tyler Burch. People who stayed close to home usually carried the past with them. Sometimes whether they wanted to or not.