Chapter Ten
Thursday morning brought fog to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Sergeant Mark Agnew stretched when he exited his patrol car, taking in the empty parking lot. He sauntered into the diner and sidled up to the counter.
Mable wiped her hands on her apron and raised her eyebrows at him. She leaned toward him. “He ain’t been in yet this morning.”
“Sick?”
Mable shrugged.
Lines formed across Mark’s furrowed brow. He repositioned himself on the red vinyl stool. Mable handed him a cup of black coffee.
“In nine years, he’s never done anything wrong, Mark. Why do you guys insist on keeping such close tabs on the poor man?”
“Mable, he’s had a PFA against him, a restraining order.” He lifted an eyebrow as he took a sip of the coffee.
Mable wiped down the counter, working a particular spot in a circular motion.
Her rounded hips jiggled with each motion.
“Lots of people have restraining orders. That doesn’t mean a thing.
Why, Roland is just a dear. Never makes remarks, never disrespects me.
I just can’t imagine what he could have done. ”
Mark remained silent, sipping his coffee. Creases formed across his forehead. It didn’t matter that the PFA had lapsed. Mark was sure Roland was on a path to no good. He could feel it. The bell above the door rang, and they both turned toward the sound.
“Howdy, Mable. Cuppa coffee, please?” Mr. Wallace headed for his favorite booth.
Mable wiped her hands on a dishtowel and pursed her lips. She locked her eyes with Mark’s, as if to say, “Let Roland be.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
Mark walked through the truck yard on high alert.
He had an active imagination, making it easy for him to think of all sorts of delinquent things that could happen within the thin metal walls of the trucks.
His cell phone rang, Marci. Mark had begun dating the assistant to the local judge two years earlier.
Their initial relationship had been one of coercion—Mark had tried to finagle his way into a meeting with the judge without an appointment.
Marci was as ethical as she was beautiful, with her shoulder-length brown hair, ample buttocks and breasts that would make even the most stunning, hourglass figured model jealous.
She was strong willed, a tigress in bed, and read Mark like an open book.
She’d wanted him as much as he had wanted her.
“Hi, Marci.”
“Hi, hon. Are we still on for tonight?” she asked.
“Sure, tonight.” He knew he sounded distracted but he couldn’t help thinking about Roland Greer’s whereabouts.
“Uh-huh. I’m hearing hesitation.”
“No, no. I’m just in a hurry. I’ll see you at eight.” He said goodbye and took a last glance through the parking lot. Roland’s truck was nowhere in sight. What’re you up to, Roland Greer?
Henry McLeod was a short man. Five-foot-five would be a generous guess. He stood in front of a tall metal file cabinet, perusing a file. Mark walked into the small office and sat down in an upholstered chair opposite Henry’s desk. Henry turned toward him.
“Mark, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.
Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Mr. Greer,” he said.
Henry raised his eyebrows. “Roland?” He set the file on top of the cabinet and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Is he at work today?”
Henry laughed. “Roland hasn’t missed a day’s work since he started.”
Mark nodded, then asked again. “Is he at work today?”
Henry reached for his phone. “I’m sure he is.” He pushed the intercom button and spoke to his secretary, “Belinda, is Roland in today?”
A scratchy, elderly voice came through the line. “Just a moment, Mr. McLeod.”
Henry turned back toward Mark. “I wouldn’t blame him if he did take a day off. The man works like a fiend.”
Mark nodded, leaned back in the chair, and took a deep breath.
The red light on Henry’s phone shone bright and he pushed the intercom button again.
“No, Mr. McLeod, he’s not. He must be sick. I’ll check with Jeffrey and see if he’s heard from him.”
Henry turned toward the officer. “What’s up, Mark? Why the concern?”
Mark looked at him sideways.
Henry sighed. “Really? Give the guy a break. Hasn’t he proven to us that he’s not that guy? He hasn’t stepped out of line even once since he’s worked here.”
“Once that guy, always that guy.” Mark stood to leave. “Let me know when you hear from him.”
Mark followed his gut, always had. Even though following his intuition had once led him astray, he remained steadfast in his belief that ninety-nine percent of the time, his intuition was dead on.
He cruised over to Roland’s apartment complex.
Three teens ducked behind the building when he drove into the parking lot.
Normally, Mark was a stickler for truancy, but today, he had one thing on his mind, and that one thing’s truck wasn’t in the parking lot.
Mark drove through Chambersburg looking for Roland’s truck.
He checked the bars, though he knew Roland wasn’t a drinker.
He’d kept tabs on him for years. You just never knew with these crazies—they were fine one minute and psychotic the next.
He’d seen it hundreds of times: abusers who appeared gentle and loving by day and turned into wife and child beaters at night; pedophiles who passed as good Samaritans but secretly spent hours manipulating and hurting small children.
Unstable minds could fall apart at any moment.
He drove by the stores where Roland shopped, then stopped at the diner to feed his rumbling stomach.
He withdrew a worn leather wallet from his pocket and flipped it open.
The newspaper photo of ten-year-old Carly Witherspoon smiled up at him.
He stared down at the last photograph ever taken of Charles Maynor’s last victim.
She’d never had a chance, and Mark would be damned if he’d let another perp get by him.
He’d never again be fooled by a calm demeanor, eye contact, or whatever else he’d overlooked with Maynor.
Mable stood before him at the counter with an expectant look in her eye.
“What?”
“Did you find him and apologize for your wicked thoughts?” She laughed.
“Nope. He’s not at work.”
“Sick?” Mable set a white mug on the counter and filled it with coffee.
Mark shrugged.
“I know that look. You have something up your sleeve.” Mable rested an elbow on the counter, went eye to eye with him, then said, “What’s going on in that little brain of yours?”
He sipped his coffee, then set the mug down. “I don’t know. A guy who does the same thing day in and day out suddenly disappears? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
She wiped the counter, “No. He’s tired, bored, sick, whatever. Everyone’s allowed a day off once and a while.”
“I suppose,” he said. “He’s not at his apartment.”
“So sue him.” She laughed. “Even people who once had restraining orders are allowed to go out of their apartments.”
Mark nodded. His cell phone rang. Mable walked away as he answered.
“Mark?” Harry’s tone was hesitant. “You asked, and well, Roland hasn’t called in today.”
Mark drew in a loud breath.
“Now, Mark, let’s just settle down. The guy hasn’t ever missed a day of work. You can’t just jump to conclusions that he’s doing something unsavory. What are you worried about, anyway?”
“That’s just it. It’s what I don’t know that I’m worried about.”