Page 6 of Her Last Whisper
Katie looked at the photos again and studied the injuries and wondered if they could have been self-inflicted. But the more she stared, the more she was convinced by the angles and depth that someone else had perpetrated those injuries. It was possible that the injuries were sustained in another way—even consensual. But if Amanda didn’t want to further cooperate, there was nothing the police could do to move forward.
Katie wanted to talk with Amanda to hear what happened in her own words, to see for herself if she was telling the truth. The last thing she wanted was a case like this to fall through the cracks, leaving a violent perpetrator on the loose. She knew firsthand that women were often reluctant to report attacks and sexual assaults. She had seen cases when she was a patrol officer; and in the army, she had heard about women raped and assaulted with little investigation. There was no way she would let that happen with Amanda Payton’s case. She would make some enquiries and if it proved that there was more to Amanda’s story, she would keep digging.
Looking at the personal information that the deputies had gathered from Amanda at the time, Katie called the phone number listed. The call immediately went to a recording announcing that it was no longer a working number. She called it again to make sure, but with the same result. Out of service.
Katie wrote down Amanda’s last known address: 1127 Brickyard Street, apartment #14. It was almost 6p.m. and the block was on her way home. Grabbing her briefcase and the office keys, she left.
Five
Monday 1815 hours
Katie drove her assigned police vehicle to the downtown area and looked for Brickyard Street going northeast. Traffic was heavy, but as she drove steadily through the inching sets of cars, weaving in and out of the lanes occasionally, she realized that it felt a bit peculiar and somewhat freeing to be moving through her first investigation on the first day. She felt a little rush of independence break through her nerves.
It had been only six months since the suspected kidnapping and it was likely that Amanda still lived at the same residence. Katie composed some questions in her head, running them through as she drove. She needed to be compassionate about her approach; kidnapping or not, it was obvious from the photographs that Amanda had been through some type of trauma. If what she told Deputy Windham was true, the case needed a much closer investigation and Katie wanted all the facts before deciding one way or another.
She slowed the sedan and made a right turn from Main Street onto Brickyard Street where many remodeled old and quite large residences had been turned into apartment complexes. Pine Valley had been growing significantly over the past ten years and always pushed to accommodate more people. Mature trees dotted the sidewalks giving shade to the flowers blooming from low-lying bushes.
She drove another block until she found number 1127: a two-story development painted dark brown with white trim. She searched for a parking spot on the street, driving around the block twice until she found one. Most of the cars parked along the street and in designated parking spaces were small compacts to mid-size SUVs. It was clear that the neighborhood was made up of the average working force mixed with young families.
Getting out of the car, Katie watched as cars sped down adjacent streets, racing to get home. Several teenagers rode down the sidewalk on their bicycles talking and laughing with one another. She kept walking until she stood at the gate entrance to Amanda Payton’s apartment. Quickly surveying the area, she noticed the bushes and flowering vines had been trimmed recently but the steppingstones were cracked and some were missing. Someone had left a roasting pan filled with water as a makeshift birdbath.
The gate hinges screeched as Katie pushed it open and walked through. Amanda’s residence was located on the first floor around the other side of the building, so she continued along the path, her heart sinking as she approached apartment number 14 and saw there was a “for rent” sign taped to the front door. Peering inside the small side window revealed a living room and galley kitchen, with what must be the bedroom and bathroom behind one of the two closed doors. It was completely empty and she could smell a hint of some type of cleaning solution.
Damn.
Pulling out her cell, Katie called the property management telephone number listed on the door notice. It immediately went to voicemail which rattled off many of the available rental units. Hesitating a moment, she ended the call without leaving a message. She was about to leave when a voice above her said, “Are you looking for Amanda?”
Looking up, Katie saw a young man in his late teens, with dark brown hair, leaning over the second-story railing staring at her. He rested his skateboard against the iron barrier, a playful, curious look on his face.
“Hi,” Katie said, tilting her head back to see the young man more clearly. “Do you know her?”
“Yep.”
“You live here?”
“Yep.”
“When did she move?”
“About three weeks ago.” He leaned farther over the railing to get a better look at her.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where she went?” Katie asked.
“Nope.”
“If you had to guess,” Katie prodded.
“You a cop?”
“I’m a detective.”
“What do you want with Amanda?”
“Just wanted to talk with her,” she said. “She’s not in any trouble.”
“No?” he said.
“No, not at all. I thought she might be able to help me with a case I’m working on.” Katie sensed that he knew more than he let on, and that he might be toying with her.
