I have always hated being assigned these cases. With murder, you are handed a folder and, if there is nothing else certain, death is the given. You take the death and work backwards. The missing children cases are like having a huge suitcase full of hope plopped onto your desk. A suitcase that needs to be unzipped and all that hope scooped up and embraced, which you do, as a detective. But, after working a few, there is the inclination to close the eyes and clamp the jaw, at teeth-cracking pressure, while you gently slide that zipper. So often, more often than not, there is nothing but stale air inside, nothing but a big scoop of dead end and it springs out like a powerful jack-in-the-box. That is where you start, at a dead end, but with all the hope that there is still life in that dead end and work towards finding that life.

This particular dead end begins at a park. The entertainment industry has made case investigation look easy. In a movie or TV show there is something convenient, maybe a single, critical item that leads to a quick arrest, and always at the perfect time. Maybe a cigarette butt loaded with the perp’s DNA was flicked onto the parking lot, along with hundreds of others, but this butt is the butt. Perhaps a shoeprint from some oddball foreign sneaker is imprinted in medium density clay so it is near exact, and, of course, the sprinklers in the park just happened to be broken so the shoeprint was preserved, and that shoe is the only one like it in several states and somebody just happens to know who is wearing that oddball foreign shoe. Yeah, I have learned to hate how those detectives always get the suitcase that is brimming with leads and evidence and convenience. I understand it is fiction. It is entertainment and everything has to be wrapped up in an hour or two. The problem is that friends and family of the victims cannot always differentiate between real and pretend. I know, because I have had them in my face, or on the phone, telling me how it is done in Hollywood.     

Sure, we catch a break now and then, but the park was scoured and it was clean. No butts, no shoeprints, no empty drink cans in the trash to fingerprint, no witnesses, no trail for the dogs to sniff, no Hollywood convenience goodies half-hidden like Easter eggs. So, I go there, with my big scoop of dead end and hope to see if I can add to it. Nothing plus anything equals something! That is one of the signs in the coffee room at the station, hung there maybe twenty years ago, to give us another bushel of hope. Someone else, just to rib a rookie who puked at this first dead body scene posted another—S S S. It stands for Sick, Seasoned, Sick. But the joke is really true. The first cases make you physically sick. Then you toughen, get seasoned, until you have had enough and get sick and tired of the whole job.  That is when it is time to call it quits. I’m kind of there, at that third S, but I still have enough competitive edge left in me to stay, to outwit the scum that has attached itself to society.

No one is at the park, it is still cordoned off, but there are plenty of adults walking by on the other side of the street, plenty of kids on bikes and foot, also. Gawkers. Something else Hollywood has done is create an intense curiosity in the average citizen. I walk the perimeter, see nothing, feel nothing. I do my best to evaluate the whole scene as the perv would. I have been good at that my whole career, so good that I am nicknamed Pervis, a combination of Melvin Purvis and pervert. I don’t mind it. It’s a good thing.

I walk park a second time to take photos from all points, and something finally starts perking near a wood fence at the east end, a spot where the parking lot ends along the back side of the fence. From a physical perspective, it would be the best place to do a snatch, easy to get to a car, a little obscure and hidden. I walk around the fence, photograph the shit out of it, both sides. But on the park side I suddenly hear children, very faint. They are happy, almost excited, and they are asking where they are going. I look around, no kids, no other sounds, only those faint voices. I blink, scrunch my eyes tight a couple times. Then there is a low rumble of voice that is rough as dry corn husk. It tells the kids they will have a really fun time, that there will be some surprise treats. The voice is bass, as low as I have ever heard, the kind that tickles the eardrum. The kids giggle, the rough voice says to hurry and come on, so they don’t miss anything. Anything. Right. I take another glance around, both sides of the fence, into the low shrubbery at the left end of the fence, and still there is nothing, nothing but my sick and tired Pervis imagination.

At home, I pour a glass of Jack, take it, and the bottle, to my desk, where I download the photos, to have another quick study before supper. Photo after photo after photo, no AnythingNothing to give me Something. My finger is tired. Tired of clicking a shutter button, tired of clicking a mouse, tired of tapping on my steering wheel and desks, but only a few more pic to look at, so I tap the mouse, click fast to get finished. The last sip of Jack calls. It is bite on my tongue, I swish it around, swallow, feel a tepid flush in my throat.  Over the top of the glass I catch something in one of the last photos that flashed by. I put the glass down, click back and push my face to the monitor. What the… Shadows on the fence. Not just a shadow of me clicking away on the shutter button, but other shadows as well. Shadows from non-existent bodies. A large shadow and a couple little shadows.  Shadows from voices. I have been immune to gooosebumps and shivers for years, till now. I slowly pull back from the screen, still staring at the image, and  can think of nothing, other than refilling my glass, retirement and another banner in the coffee room. We will chase every lead, through the gates of Hell, if necessary! So, I pour and start downing in gulps, thinking, one way or another, how that particular banner may be correct.

I remember the day, not the exact date, but it was in late spring 1964, near dusk, when I looked up and saw it. I saw it, I really did. To me, living in Kansas, it was as odd as aurora borealis. It had been a long day of hard play and several of us, all third and fourth graders, were stretched out on the crisp stubble of grass in our back yard. Mike, Calvin, Russ and Ross—the twins, and Gwen, a girl from Alaska who had moved next door a week earlier. There was no particular conversation. Minds and bodies were too exhausted. Mike mumbled that the Cardinals had won, with Bob Gibson pitching. The twins were chatting, to each other, about what cereal they wanted their mother to buy at the commissary on Sunday. I was quiet until I noticed the sky—half dark, half light. Not black butted up to white, with a straight line of definition, but with the roll of my eyes I could see blue in the west and the darkness of full night in the east, the center having a murky transition. It occurred to me at that point that we must be living on the center of the earth, directly under the center of the sky, maybe the center of the universe, and I said, “Look at the sky. Do you think we live at the middle of the world?” Only Gwen responded, “That’s keen.” I had never heard that word before and asked her what it meant. She explained it was a way to say that something was nice or very, very good. Evidently they said keen lots in Alaska. She was a twig of a girl, pale as clouds with carbon black hair and a huge mouth. She was friendly, but I thought she was extremely ugly and, because of that, hated that word, or the use of it, my entire life. 

None of them answered my question about our spot, right there in Wichita, being the middle of the world. It was also  the spot, that little house on Deerfield Street, where I began to love sports, all sports. Baseball on the radio and television got me started, but listening to the fight between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston hooked me forever, with the excitement and victory of the underdog. Playing sports would eventually dissolve the daily kid play. That was the spot, the home, where my family would all live together for the last time. My father would go to Vietnam in a few weeks. I would be left at my grandmother’s home in West Virginia, while my mother, two brothers and two sisters traveled on to Ohio to live. Ultimately, my question was answered. Any place, every place, can be the middle of something, physical location or otherwise, just as any place or every place can be a starting point or endpoint.

It was funny, at the time, not just gut-busting funny, but veins-popping-on-your- blood-red-face hysterical, and I don’t know why. They were just a few slivers of chewed-up paper, hard enough to roll into a little ball and throw,  yet mushy enough to stick to something--spitwads. And the last one I heaved stuck to the inside of Wade’s ear. 

Mrs. Alexander, who wasn’t a day under 100, didn’t see, or hear, any of the action, but things unraveled when she asked Wade why he was digging into his ear with a pencil. Someone burst out laughing, she looked at me, saw my nearly purple face, then asked me what was so funny. Ultimately, the spitwad fight was discovered, a lecture given on how second graders should behave, and those involved were given the choice of taking a note home to have signed, and returned, or a phone call to the parents. I chose the note, thinking forgery a possibility.

My uncle Kenny, who was sixteen at the time, could certainly help me with a signature, if he would sign, maybe I would not tell about him drinking beer, with his friends, behind the garage. I showed him the note, he called me some name, involving dirty words, then took the note to my mom, who told me to wait,until my dad came home. Uncle Kenny met my dad at the car, told him the news. He came directly to my bedroom, asked what happened, and took his belt off. Suddenly, my mom called for him, he left, but did not come back to the room.

I waited.

An hour. 

Two. 

I heard the family eating supper, saw my dad go to the garage and get the lawnmower,and begin mowing the yard. I ducked underneath the window, everytime his head went by.

Three hours. 

I heard them in the family room, watching television. I had to pee, really bad, but knew the danger of going to the bathroom.  I took the empty root beer bottle, that I got at the school

carnival, and filled it up. Felt better,  but now had a bottle of pee,  which I emptied from the window, after popping the screen loose.

Four hours.

I rested on the bed, listening for my name to be mentioned, listening for footsteps.

Five hours.

Next thing I knew, my mom was waking me for breakfast. I didn’t take the signed note to Mrs. Alexander, and she never asked for it.

No one ever called my parents.

In spring, 1963, we moved from Savannah to Wichita. During the first week at the new school my third grade teacher put a finger under my chin, lifted it up slightly and said, “Why don’t you try looking up when you walk? Be proud of yourself.” I am sure her goal was to help me fight, as she perceived, my low self esteem. What she didn’t know was that I came from a place where there were at least four varieties of snakes, always hidden in thicket and underbrush, which could strike a kid’s bare foot, leading to amputation or death. I learned those small details before kindergarten. No, she couldn’t have understood that. This new school, in Kansas, was surrounded by wheat fields on two sides and the biggest problems were mice and rabbits.

For years I have been thrilled with the shows on Animal Planet. Even though there is considerable film editing before it gets to viewers, there is a grit and grind about the episodes that keeps me in front of the tube. With so much life to be enjoyed, and death that strikes quickly, or slowly, in myriad ways, I connect and understand it for what it is, as most humans do, and it seems so easy to apply many of the situations to humans. Sounds cliché and silly, but it is the cycle of life. However, the saddest occasions for me to watch are the changing of the guard scenes, whether they happen in a pack, pride, troop, herd or any other social structure. The alpha or dominant male that has sired throngs of offspring, protected, directed and, on occasion, provided, has his relatively short reign ended in a usually violent, winner take all showdown.

 

I have reached a milestone recently that makes me think about the changing of the guard in the animal kingdom.  Actually, I probably reached that point some time back, just never acknowledged it. I went trail riding with my youngest son, 18, on trails that I have ridden many times without incident. That day was different. It was the day chosen, for whatever reason, to be my personal Animal Planet day of reckoning, of awakening and self-assessment. It was a reality check-up. Up to that day I was the dominant male, the king of my domain. I have not been defeated or banished. I am still the father. I am still the alpha male in most respects, but my physical domination has given way in my own changing of the guard episode.

All three of my sons always referred to my strength as “man muscles.” I had, what seemed to them, a system of iron cables and precision pulleys and wenches beneath my skin. Only a few months ago I wore my youngest down in an arm wrestling match. My scrawny arm holding firm, until it was time to finish off his bulk. I think he was slightly shocked, since he works out lifting weights every day, and I do virtually nothing to maintain condition.

Anyway, I led for the first part of our bike ride, then, at the second rest and drink stop, I told him to go first. He offered me some pointers, to make my pedaling easier. I was sucking for air, he was hardly breathing, so I suppose those two rest stops were really for me. It didn’t take long for something unfortunate to happen. From behind, I watched him jump his bike over a small clump of roots, with about a one-foot drop back onto the narrow trail. Who can’t do that? Well, me. I got up speed, reached the roots, jerked up on the handlebars and made the small jump, with only one problem; I landed in the soft sand alongside the eight-inch path. The sand acted like a perfect set of brakes. The bike smashed down on its side, I flew off and skidded a few feet. No harm or injury. Physically. Through the aches and scratches it struck me as funny and I lay there laughing, for nearly a minute, before mounting up and continuing.

It wasn’t even ten minutes before the next mishap. I was pedaling down a small hill, attaining a decent speed, to where my son was waiting at the bottom. When I was several yards away I braked hard, squeezing a bit too strong on the front brake handle, plus I was leaning too far forward with my body and, once again, found a patch of soft sand. My bike did a beautiful cartwheel, catapulting me eight or ten feet onto a hardpan, gravelly area, where I plunked my head against a rock. I was not seriously hurt. Physically. However, I was scuffed, stunned and a little unaware. He came running over to check on me. Again, after getting collected, I laughed, told him I had never fallen before and here I had done it twice in front of him. As I mounted the bike and began pedaling, I started playing in my mind those episodes of dethroned big cats, wild horses, wolves, baboons and more, applying the downfall of each to myself. Yes, my reign of physical dominance was over. I realized I was a finite commodity and took my place behind him as we began the last couple miles back to the truck.

My youngest, our baby, rode ahead slowly, at first, his words of concern, the same words every minute or so, getting smaller and softer as the distance between us increased, “You okay, dad? You okay?”  In my huffing and puffing I responded each time that I was fine. Then, he was no more than a speck, way up ahead, until he disappeared beyond the last bend in the trail, leaving me with my pounding heart, heaving breath, the beauty of  a yellowish late-day light and a concert from the mockingbirds, singing about how lakes go dry, deserts flood and, sometimes, the moon darkens the sun.

Dirt

I love to weed the beds by hand. Low, beneath the breeze that shakes a scratch into the leaves of the podocarpus and thrusts a rustle through crisp iris blades, I scoop ungloved fingers into the blackness, squeeze the moist grit, watch it build a stain on my skin, feel the moisture being transferred from my body into the earth. Part of me will nourish spouts, grow into something of substance and, in turn and time, deliver its own seed. Hands will leave when the person leaves. The dirt will remain as long as there is a planet. It is innate in humans, this toying with the soil, something that cannot be denied or squashed. Then, at the end, a splinter -- a drop of blood to honor every child who has been told to “stay out of the dirt!”

 More often than not, the thing about trees is the leaves.