Page 121 of Strays
He’s late fifties, maybe early sixties. Pale skin, almost gray. Slick black hair, too dark for his age. Thin mouth, narrow nose and brown eyes. I don’t recognize him. I never saw the man back then. A woman called my mom in, maybe a nurse. The door closed, and that was it.
His bio is short. No mention of Chicago. Just a list of elite schools and some bullshit quote about trauma as transformation.
Jay’s behind me now, reading over my shoulder. “We need more than internet hits,” he says. “We need to run him.”
He’s right. I still don’t believe this guy is Eme Araña, but it’s too much of a coincidence not to check every fucking thing about his life.
I sit on the edge of the nest and do something I’ve never done in my life: I ask for help from someone outside my pack. If there’s anyone who can dig into a man’s past and rip it out by the roots, it’s the FBI.
Will Harris picks up on the first ring. I don’t sugarcoat it. I give him the name and my mother’s story. I expect to have to push, to convince him it’s worth looking into, but he doesn’t hesitate.
“We’re on it,” he says. “My brothers and I will dig.”
Tuesday afternoon, right after sensory drills, David Solomon finds us in the hallway and jerks his head. “Command room. Now.”
When we walk in, Josh and Samuel are already inside. The Harris pack stands near the front, flanking the screen like they’ve been waiting.
We sit.
Will Harris steps forward, holding a remote in one hand and a folder in the other.
“This is what we’ve got in forty-eight hours,” he says.
Click.
A name appears on the screen.
Miles Aranya
M.D., Psychiatry — Women’s Mental Health
Current practice: Short Hills, NJ
“Clean license. No complaints and no flags,” Will says. “High-end clinic. Private clients. All female.”
He clicks again, and a U.S. map fades in with seven red pins: Chicago, Santa Fe, Miami, Wilmington, El Paso, Philadelphia and Short Hills.
“Every two to three years, he relocates,” Will says. “New state and new business name on the lease. Nothing illegal, you wouldn’t notice the pattern unless you were looking for it.”
He clicks again. “In two thousand seven, Aranya was running a private psychiatric office in Chicago. Records clean, clinic legally registered, no flagged patients, no complaints. But one month after Kory’s mother disappeared, the clinic shut down. The lease was terminated and staff was dismissed.”
My pulse spikes. I remember every word of my mother’s case file from when I tried to reopen it six years ago. They questioned Aranya back then. He confirmed she showed up for her appointment, left calmly afterward. Internal cameras from the building backed it up; she exited alone. No one ever suspected the doctor.
I’ve been sure for a long time now that she’s dead, and nothing I can do will change that. But I owe it to her, and to myself, to at least find out what happened. Six years ago, I tried, but came up empty. I thought I’d done all I could, that the trail was cold, and that it was impossible. But now I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I can finally do it.
Will moves on. “Two thousand ten, Santa Fe. Two Mexican women rescued from a parlor house. They’d been brought in with job promises, then locked up and forced into prostitution. They told the local police that a doctor regularly sedated them, and they woke up with no memory and signs of assault they couldn’t explain. They described being moved between two locations. One was raided, but the other was already cleared by the time police got there. Same week, Aranya’s practice in Santa Fe shuts down. Office emptied. Gone.”
Josh Solomon’s jaw flexes. His brothers lean in.
“Two thousand thirteen, Miami,” Will continues. “An undercover operation led to the discovery of multiple brothels tied to international trafficking. Women from Colombia, Venezuela, Thailand, all held under tight surveillance. Aranya was practicing five miles from the central site. He’s not mentioned in the case, but a week after the first raid, he shut down again.”
“He doesn’t run when they find him; he runs when they get close,” Jay mutters.
Will nods. “Same pattern in Wilmington. Then El Paso. Then Philly. Every time a trafficking ring gets exposed, even if he’s never officially linked, he vanishes.”
Click.
Short Hills, NJ
