NaNoWriMo: Murder in Wilson Park, Chapter 27

What happened to Renard? How come they stopped looking for him?

Amanda scrolled through more pages, soon finding the second-year anniversary of his disappearance but there was no story in the paper about him. She fast-forwarded to five years later, nothing. If he hadn’t been a foster kid, would people have forgotten about him so fast?

She looked at the byline in the initial story. A woman named Freda Jorgenson. She’d never heard of her, maybe she retired or went to another paper. But Joe was at the paper when Renard disappeared, why hadn’t he covered it? She decided to break down and do what she resolved never to do unless the situation was dire. Call Joe.

“Hey Joe, it’s Amanda. I’m in the archives at the paper and just found a story from ten years ago about a kid who went missing who lived across the street. Call me back.”

She hit print on the story, listened to the giant printer fire up, and then retrieved the copy to take with her. She figured she ought to head to Wilson Park though she wasn’t sure why. It’s not like she could stand there at the edge of the park and figure out where Renard was. He was probably long gone from there. So long gone. Different city, different state. Who could know?

Joe wasted no time calling her back.

“The archives. That’s rich. You couldn’t find enough current events to write about?”

“Of course. I was just trying to get some context, you know, maybe a ‘then and now’ theme.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. “Could you meet me at the park to talk about it?”

Joe was already there parked on the street with his flashers on when she pulled up. Did he think she needed to see his flashers to know where he was? It was irritating but oddly kind to make it easy for her to find him. She didn’t dislike Joe really, she just hadn’t spent enough time with him as two reporters working on a story. Maybe that was her mistake, always heading in the opposite direction whenever he showed up. He did have things to teach her, she wasn’t sure what, but maybe she’d find out today.

Amanda pulled the folded article out of her pocket. “Here, take a look.” Joe was still sitting in his car with the motor running.

“I already looked it up.”

“Shirley said nobody can look things up unless she’s watching.”

“No, she said you couldn’t. Some of us are more equal than others, dear.”

“Of course, what was I thinking? So, how come you didn’t write the story? Weren’t you the crime reporter then?”

“I was up to my eyebrows in the McGilligan murders – Henry McGilligan, serial killer- it was a huge story – 7 victims in six months’ time. Omaha went crazy. No time to worry about a missing foster kid.”

“What if the two things are connected?” Amanda folded the article into a small square like a note students used to pass in homeroom.

“What two things? The missing kid and that guy Jacob getting killed?”

“And Clark, the homeless guy,” she added.

“Right. It seems a little farfetched. What would they have in common?”

“Wilson Park? Look. We’re here. Let’s just explore a little. I’m a cub reporter, humor me.”

She knew that would get him. He flipped off his flashers and turned off his car. He reached in the back for his blazer and got out of the car. “Okay, you lead. I’ll follow,” he said.

“This morning, I watched Deputy John and Matt and Jovan head down that trail over there. They said they heard flute music and they took off.”

She headed in that direction with Joe just a few steps behind. She tried to walk slow to keep from making him feel old and slow and also to try to foster some semblance of them being equals, of them investigating something together. She was amazed Joe didn’t ask more about the flute music. He acted like cops chased after music all the time.

The trail was a lot less defined that the trail to the homeless encampment on the other side of the lake. In some places, it was barely a trail, just a scant opening between branches that showed that people had passed through, maybe today, maybe five years ago. Or ten. She thought about that. Maybe there’s a connection between this old trail and Renard. And the flute. And whoever played the flute. There was a bad guy around somewhere. Could it be here?

“How much further do you want to go?” said Joe after about a quarter mile.

“Further than this. I heard there’s a quarry back here. Let’s go that far and then turn around if we don’t see anything.”

“Shit!”

Amanda turned around to see Joe hopping on one foot.

“What, what happened?”

“I stubbed my toe on that damned thing.” He pointed to a pipe in the middle of the path.

“Oh, I’m really sorry!” Why was she sorry, she thought, she didn’t do anything. Joe wasn’t hurt, just irritated. They stood in the path for a few minutes to let his irritation fully flower.

“Why the goddamn hell did I let you talk me into hiking in the woods.”

“Maybe because there’s another pipe over there?”

It was the same kind of pipe, this one poking through leaves at the base of a towering maple tree.

“Maybe the pipe is a clue, Joe. I mean, why are there pipes here on this path that nobody goes on? Maybe they’re markers.”

“Markers of what? Where not to walk?” Joe was still focused on his toe as if it was a mortal injury.

“I don’t know. Something somebody wanted to be able to find. A treasure? A body?