The Body Box (4 page)
EIGHT
Back to the Marquavious Roberts case.
Job one, get Vernell Moncrief's DNA. Which meant, first, getting Vernell in the flesh. I looked at the map, noticed that his last known address was close to Jenny Dial's house. Well, not actually. But it wasn't more than five miles out of the way. Ten, max. And hey, I told myself, Atlanta is home of the world's longest commute. Statistical fact, you can look it up, Atlantans drive farther every day than anybody else on the planet, Los Angelenos included. A five or ten mile driveâthat's nothing. What could be the harm, right?
So before going on what I anticipated would be a wild-goose chase to find Vernell Moncrief, I rolled up to the little white frame house where Jenny Dial lived and sat there in the car for a minute, my heart beating fast. This was not the smart play, and I knew it. If word got back to Sgt. Fairoaks in Missing and Abused that I was poaching on her territory, then it would get back to the Chief, and the Chief would rip me a new one.
I tried to tell myself to let the whole thing go, to just go back to the office and forget about Jenny Dial. But I couldn't. I don't know why, but I couldn't.
The house was a small wood-frame structure in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood off Buford Highway. Mexicans had been pouring into the area for about five years, and most of the poor whites who used to live there had moved on.
I knocked on the door. It opened swiftly.
“No news,” I said quickly, showing my badge. When somebody's missing, people think the worst every time a cop comes to the door. “Detective Deakes, Atlanta Police. Mind if I ask you a couple questions?”
“Come on in,” the woman said. “I'm Tracy Dial, Jenny's mother.” She was small boned and blunt featured, with a blond dye job that showed an inch or two of dull brown root. She wore a Waffle House waitress uniform and had a couple of blurry green jailhouse tattoos on one forearm. But despite the trailer-trash signifiers, there was something about her that seemed strong and solid.
“I thought Sergeant Fairoaks was working on Jenny's case,” the woman said.
“I'm from a different unit,” I said. “Following up a different angle.”
Tracy Dial studied me for a minute. “What angle would that be?”
“Probably nothing,” I said.
“That's not an answer.”
“You're right,” I said. “I'm sorry. I was in on the bust of that pedophile ring the other day. We're trying to see if there are any connections.”
She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then said, “Wait, I saw you on TV the other night. You're the one killed that pervert.”
I nodded.
“Good for you.”
“It's not keeping me up nights,” I said. Not entirely accurately.
There was a brief pause. Tracy Dial studied me with a pair of intelligent brown eyes. “Detective,” she said finally. “I don't who you are, what angle you working here. But look.” She held up her arm, showing me the jailhouse tats. “Every cop that comes in here, first thing they do, their eyes go down to my arm. Okay, yeah, I went through a bad stretch once. But it was a long time ago. So I'm goddamn tired of cops coming in here acting like I'm stink on their shoe, acting like I probably done something wrong, acting like this is nothing because my deadbeat ex probably just wandered off with her. Okay? So before I answer any y'all's questions, I want to know what the hell y'all gonna do to find my little girl.”
I thought about it for a while. What
was
I going to do to find her little girl?
was
I going to do to find her little girl?
“That cop in charge of finding Jenny, the one from Missing Children? I don't believe she's taking this serious.”
I wanted to tell her I agreed with her. But you can't say that to a victim. Instead I said, “Sergeant Fairoaks is a good cop.”
“You say you're working an angle. What angle? I asked you once and you dodged my question. Now, what you doing to help me?”
Again, what was I going to sayâthat I was off the reservation, running on some kind of impulse, and that even I didn't know what it was about? “I can't tell you that,” I said.
Tracy Dial's face got hard. “You people make me sick. That's what that paper pusher Fairoaks keeps telling me. I ask her what progress she's making, she tells me âI can't tell you that.' Then she starts in asting questions about my ex. My first husband, Jenny's biological dad, the minute I told him I was pregnant, he looked like somebody'd kicked him in the nuts. He was so terrified that a baby might interrupt his busy social life, he left me four days later, moved back in with his mother in Ohio. Hell no, he didn't come back and sneak off with her. Not unless he's been took over by a space alien. And if it ain't that, Fairoaks starts in on my husband Larry. âDid Larry ever do anything inappropriate with Jenny? Did he ever take long showers with her? Did she wet her bed?' Hey! Listen up, y'all! It ain't Larry! I done ast you people for a little help publicizing this here case, help me get Jenny's pitcher on the TV, help me get her name in the paper. And what happens? Day one it's on TV for thirty seconds. Day two, it's a little-bitty old story on page five of the local news section. Day three, it's like she never existed.” She stared at me. “And you can't tell what angle you're working? To hell with you.”
“Lookâ”
“I ast you people to help me put up posters.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of crudely photocopied MISSING posters with the girl's grinning picture printed on them, waved them furiously in my face. The posters were printed on a variety of bright colored papersâblue, yellow, redâthat reminded me of elementary school art class. “I ast you people to look at other suspects. I ast you people a dozen different things. And you know what I got? Nothing! Everybody just sits there staring at my tattoo. Sergeant Fairoaks done wrote my little girl off. I can see it in her eyes, she thinks Jenny's dead or up in Ohio with my idiot ex-husband. So, no thank you, Detective Whatever-Your-Name-Is. Tell me what you know about my daughter, or get the hell out of my house!” She stood there waving her MISSING posters at me, tears streaming down her cheeks.
My face felt hot.
Tracy Dial took a long, slow breath. Then, as she blew the air out of her lungs, she seemed to crumple, like nothing had been holding her together but pure will. “Oh, God,” she said, putting her face in her hands. “I went out last night, started hanging pictures of her on light poles. Drove around till the sun came up. I don't know if it does a damn bit of good. I feel so helpless.”
“Darling,” I said softly. “Darling . . .” Trying to think what else to say. Part of me felt like just apologizing and walking out the door. And the other part? The other part felt like doing something crazy. I felt myself hanging there, like a gust of wind could have blown me one way or the other. And then I took the crazy leap. “I need to explain something to you. The God's-honest truth is, I'm not even assigned to your daughter's case. My supervisor doesn't even know I'm here.”
She looked up at me, a wrinkle forming in the middle of her brow. “You serious?”
I nodded.
“Then why are you here?”
I looked up at the ceiling. For a second, tears started brimming up in my eyes. I guess I knew why I was there. But what was I going to say? If I told her what was really in my mind, she'd laugh in my face. And for good reason. It was too complicated to explain.
“Shoot, it doesn't matter why,” she said finally. “If you're really gonna help, then just tell me what you want.”
I wiped my eyes. I didn't want her to see the tears. “Start from the beginning,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
She took another deep breath. “I work the night shift at the Waffle House on weekends,” she said. “So usually I get home at eight in the morning, play with Jenny a while, then go to bed. That day Larry was out fishing.”
“Where was he fishing?”
“Lake Sinclair.” I knew the name of the lake. It was somewhere out in the boonies, but I wasn't sure how far from Atlanta it was. I'd have to check.
“And was he with anybody? Somebody that could verify what he was doing, where he was?”
She looked at me with her dark brown eyes, finally said, “Nope.”
“So anywayâ” I said.
“So anyway, how it happened, I get home from the Waffle House around eight o'clock. My replacement on the day shift was late, so Larry's all mad 'cause I was spose to get off early so he could get out to the lake by sunup. Anyway, he takes off in his truck, pulling the boat. Jenny's playing in the yard. As he's driving out of the yard, this van comes creeping down the road, and Larry, he's in such a rush, he just backs out without looking. Even though this van's coming real slow, he has to slam on his brakes, nearly tips the boat trailer over. Gets mad, shoots a bird at the man in this white van.” She wiped one eye. “That's the last thing Jenny seen of her daddy, him yelling and shooting a bird. Mm. Sometimes I just . . .” She sighed, regained her composure.
“So anyway, I had brang some pancakes back from the Waffle House, and me and Jenny ate them, then we went out to play in the yard. Jenny's a little tomboy, likes playing ball, you know, so we played with one of them playground balls. Like a kickball? And she was kicking the fool out that ball. Here, I'll show you.”
She stood, opened the door, led us out into the front yard. It was a very small yard, but neatly kept, with the grass cut, impatiens and pansies planted around the mailbox, and all the bushes trimmed like jello molds. We walked by the open carport, kitty litter scattered over an oil stain, and around the back of the house. The backyard was just grass, with a rusting chain-link fence, and an alley running along one side. At the far back of the property, behind the fence, the land fell away into a deep crevasse full of kudzu that sloped down toward the back of an aging brick industrial building.
“Jenny kept kicking it over the fence,” Tracy said. “I was by the fence and she was by the house, so I kept having to go down into all that dadgum kudzu and get the ball. Finally I said, âNext time you kick it in the kudzu,
you're
getting it.' Well, I roll her the kickball, and boom, she busts it right over the fence, down the hill. Slap out of sight. So I tell her, âGo, head on!' Well, she goes scurrying right over that fence, just like a boy. Didn't even use the gate. Goes running down the hill. I yelled to her, âI'm going to get me some more coffee. ' ”
you're
getting it.' Well, I roll her the kickball, and boom, she busts it right over the fence, down the hill. Slap out of sight. So I tell her, âGo, head on!' Well, she goes scurrying right over that fence, just like a boy. Didn't even use the gate. Goes running down the hill. I yelled to her, âI'm going to get me some more coffee. ' ”
Tracy Dial closed her eyes, stood stock still in the middle of her yard for an uncomfortably long time. Finally she said, “I went inside, and when I come back out, she hadn't got back.”
“You see anything at that point?” I said. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Well, I figured she was just playing down behind the plant.” She pointed down toward the industrial building at the bottom of the kudzu-covered hill. “That's a old factory, used to make conversion vans, they got all kind of junk cars and parts and boxes and stuff down there. Everybody in the neighborhood tells their kids not to play down there, and every kid in the neighborhood plays down there anyway.” She smiled briefly. “I hollered for her. She didn't come. So I went down the hill, poked around some. No Jenny. I come back up the hill, looked in the front yard. That's when I seen that van again. The one I told you about? The one that Larry almost backed into? It comes out of the alley over yonder. Just oonching along. Then, it's like as soon as he sees meâthe driver I'm talking aboutâhe floors it, goes hauling ass up the road.” Tracy's eyes went cold. “I know she was in that van. I know it.”
She sighed. “I guess you'll find out anyway. I hooked up with my husband Larry right about the time Jenny was born. Six months later, Larry dropped her off the changing table. Broke two of her ribs. Dee-Fax come in, made a report on it, so on.”
Dee-Fax
was how people in Georgia pronounced the acronym for the state's Department of Family and Children Services, DFACS. “They was talking about how it was maybe child abuse.”
Dee-Fax
was how people in Georgia pronounced the acronym for the state's Department of Family and Children Services, DFACS. “They was talking about how it was maybe child abuse.”
“Was it?” I said.
She shook her head. “Hell, no! Larry's all bark, no bite. That's a fact. And especially with Jenny. She's got him wrapped around her little finger. He wouldn't hurt a hair on her head.”
“You're sure.”
She looked me square in the eye. “I'd stake my life on it. I'm not one of these dumb girls that believes any old shit her husband says just because he's her man. Larry's got his flaws, believe me, but he wouldn't do a thing like this. Besides, like I say, he'd done went fishing already.”
“Okay, so this van,” I said. “Did you see the face of the driver?”
“It was a man.”
“White guy?”
She spread her hands helplessly. “I guess, yeah.”
“But you're not sure.”
“I keep trying and trying and trying to remember.” She slammed her fist on her leg four or five times in a row, like she was trying to punish herself, and a tear ran down her nose. “I just wasn't
thinking
at the time. I just wasn't thinking!”
thinking
at the time. I just wasn't thinking!”
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