Page 51 of Her Final Hours
“Fancy equipment,” Don muttered, his eyes widening with intrigue. He watched Noah expertly maneuver the drone, adjusting its height and angle.
“Yeah, beats using an expensive chopper,” Noah replied. The drone rose higher and higher, ascending above the towering treetops. It provided a unique vantage point, allowing Noah to survey the area and capture up-to-date aerial footage that human eyes might overlook. All of it could be reviewed later.
Noah controlled the drone’s movements with a focused expression, carefully examining the terrain below. He scannedthe forest, searching for any signs, any clues that could provide insight into what had transpired.
But it was just a blanket of green for as far as the drone could see.
He ran it up the rail for a good mile before returning it. After capturing the valuable footage, he brought it back to the ground, carefully landing it and shutting it down. With purpose, he focused on the area beneath his feet.
“Five minutes, detective.”
“You got it,” Noah said.
Crouched, he meticulously surveyed the ground, his gaze shifting from the tracks to the area between. He searched for any traces, any sign of blood, or markings that could indicate a possible path taken by the victim.
As Don watched intently, curiosity etched on his face, he piped up, “So, you think she’s one of the missing?”
Noah paused, his eyes meeting Don’s. “Huh?” He was caught off guard by the unexpected question.
Don clarified, filling in the blank before Noah could retrieve the name from memory. “Well, it’s just that we’ve had our fair share of girls going missing in the county. After what happened, I searched online. I figured I might be able to put a face to a name or vice versa. I didn’t realize so many girls have gone missing from New York state.”
Noah’s mind connected the dots, his thoughts turning to the cases that stretched far back. “Possibly,” he said. Convinced there wasn’t much to be found, he collected his bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. “Every state has them,” he said, his voice carrying a mixture of resignation but also determination that the outcome would be different this time.
As they returned to the hi-rail truck, Noah chewed over the possibilities. The puzzle was far from complete, and the pieces seemed scattered across a broader canvas than he anticipated.Murder cases tended to be a simple matter of connecting the dots with family, friends, and co-workers. But a girl appearing out of nowhere, with no memory, presented a far more formidable challenge.
“You mentioned you were with another guy,” Noah said, sitting in the hi-rail truck as Don started the engine.
“Frank Rodriguez. He’s a freight conductor. I was giving him a ride back. We’re not supposed to do it, but it happens.”
Noah nodded, understanding the camaraderie that existed among colleagues in challenging circumstances. “You do that often?” he asked, his curiosity piqued by their solidarity.
Don shrugged. “Time to time. We help each other out,” he replied, a touch of pride evident in his voice.
Their conversation trailed off as the familiar sight of Noah’s Bronco came into view. Don glided off the track, wheels rolling forward. Noah got out, bag in hand.
“I appreciate your assistance, Don.”
Don shook his hand. “Anything to help,” he replied sincerely. “I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”
As he turned to walk away, he glanced back.
“By the way. How was he? Your friend after he saw her?”
“Freaked out. Much like myself.”
With a final exchange of gratitude, Noah watched Don drive off, disappearing into the distance. As he climbed back into the Bronco and started the engine, Noah picked up the statement the two men had given and scanned it again. Working off a hunch, he phoned the railroad to enquire about one thing that hadn’t been checked — the men’s schedules. Although they had found the girl and alerted the authorities, and nothing about Don struck him as someone trying to hide or cover up any misdoing, he wanted to verify their alibis with someone above them.
He was put on hold.
A moment later, a supervisor came on the line. “This is Darleen Fisher. How can I help?”
He gave her his credentials.
“Just following up on the incident that occurred on Sunday. Can you confirm the schedules of two of your workers?”
“It will take me a minute.”
It didn’t take longer than five minutes for her to come back with that information. Don Hammond checked out; his friend, on the other hand, had lied.
