Free By My Hands by Alton Gansky Page B

paused,
reflecting on what she had just been told. “I’m afraid I can’t help
you. I haven’t seen them for at least two days.”
    “Have you seen their car, or maybe lights on at
night?”
    “No, I don’t think they’ve been home since yesterday
morning.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because I usually see Lea when she gets her
newspaper.”
    “Lea?”
    “Yes. Lea Hailey, Lisa’s mother. You see, the
newspaper comes about the same time every day—about 4 o’clock. I
hear the paper land on our porch where the delivery boy throws it.
Then I go out to get it. Lea does the same thing. I often see her
picking up her paper. She always waves at me. Seems like a real
nice person.”
    “Seems? Then you don’t know her very well?”
    “Only talked to her once. That was when we first
moved here—about three months ago. Can I get you some coffee or a
soft drink?”
    “No, thank you.” Priscilla thought for a moment.
“You say the paper comes about the same time every day, yet you
haven’t seen Lea pick up the paper. Have you seen anyone else pick
it up?”
    “No, no one.”
    “Perhaps they’ve had the paper stopped.”
    “No, I don’t think so. I saw the paper there today
and yesterday too.”
    “But, there was no paper when I was there a few
moments ago.”
    “Perhaps they’ve gone on a trip and someone is
picking it up for them.”
    “Perhaps.” Priscilla couldn’t say why, but something
didn’t seem right. It made perfect sense for them to leave with
their recently healed daughter—probably to get away from the
onslaught of reporters who would descend after yesterday’s report.
Or, maybe to get away from doctors who would want to run more
tests. It made sense, yet Priscilla’s reporter instincts said there
was a story here.
    Priscilla repeated the scene with the other
neighbors, but with the same results—no one had seen or heard from
the Haileys since yesterday morning, and no one knew them well
enough to suggest where they might be.
    Priscilla walked back to her car and pulled away
from the curb. If she hurried, she could be at the Langfords in
fifteen minutes. Maybe they would have some answers to the
questions that were percolating in her mind.
    Priscilla made it to the Langfords’ street in
thirteen minutes. As she slowed and looked for the address, a black
and white car caught her eye. On the door were painted the words,
“To Protect and to Serve.” She parked behind the San Diego Police
car and quickly walked up to the officer standing on the doorstep
of the Langfords’ home.

 
SEVEN
    Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 8:15
P.M.
    “I’M SORRY,” THE POLICEMAN said with polite
firmness, “but this is a crime scene, and only authorized personnel
are allowed in. You’ll have to remain outside the barricade.” The
officer was so young that she guessed he was fresh out of the
academy. The barricade he spoke of was a three-inch-wide yellow
plastic ribbon with the initials SDPD printed in large, black
letters. The ribbon enclosed the entire front and side yards.
    “I’m Priscilla Simms of KGOT-TV,” Priscilla said,
attempting to sound authoritative. “I’m here to cover the
story.”
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t help you.”
    “You don’t understand, I’ve just used my car phone
to call for a camera crew. They’ll be here any minute. I would
really appreciate some information and a chance to film inside the
house.”
    “I still can’t help you, ma’am.” The young officer
was resolute. Priscilla would have to take a different
approach.
    “What exactly are your orders, officer?”
    “To keep individuals away who might disrupt this
investigation.”
    “You may not know that that doesn’t include the
press.”
    “Until I am told otherwise it does.”
    Priscilla’s anger was growing. As she considered
what to do next, another officer appeared through the door. He was
a short, heavy-set man with close-cropped hair.
    “Is there some problem here, Officer Gerrick?”