Glass Shatters (24 page)

I refresh the browser and navigate to the missing persons section of the police department website. Blurry, pixelated people stare back at me from photographs, pleading with me, wishing to be found. The first is a man named Robert Vincent Butler, an old man in a plaid shirt leaning back in a rocking chair. I click on the photograph and here the details are abundant, more than I expected. Male, age sixty-four, of Caucasian descent, six feet, 170 pounds, gray hair, brown eyes, reported missing on March 21, 1998. The circumstances: “Mr. Butler was despondent over his health. On the day he was last seen he failed to keep a medical appointment. Mr. Butler may be a patient of a medical facility or be in the care of a boarding facility.”

I click on another photograph, a black-and-white photograph of a young girl with a bright, mischievous grin on her face, two front teeth missing, a tabby cat nestled in her arms. Karen Lane Jacobs, female, age eleven, of African American descent, black hair, green eyes, four feet eleven inches and only 55 pounds. She was reported missing on November 18, 1961. The circumstances: “The missing person was last seen on November 18, 1961, at approximately 3:00 p.m., leaving the Ridgewood Elementary School grounds. The missing person was en route home where she was never seen again.” I close my eyes and try to think about what she would look like now, how her face would have transformed with age, sleek and seamless in her late teenage years, fuller and more mature in her twenties and thirties, a few wrinkles creeping in around her forties and fifties before people began to think of her as
wise in her early sixties. This woman, this child, would be over sixty years old if she were still alive. In the time she has been missing, she would have gone through adolescence and adulthood, motherhood and her middle years. Or maybe she didn’t see any of this part of her life. Maybe the last day she saw was November 18, 1961, and she has been left to linger like a ghost on this list.

I imagine what it would be like if they were on this list, Julie and Jess gazing back at me, Julie crouched on the living room floor, Jess curled in her arms, sticky paint all over their fingers. Their information would be listed just like everybody else’s, first Julie and then Jess. Julie Lang, female, age thirty, of Caucasian descent, five feet seven inches, 130 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, reported missing August 23, 2009. Jess Lang, female, age five, of Caucasian descent, three feet four inches, 39 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, reported missing August 23, 2009. The circumstances: “The missing persons were last seen at their home residence on the evening of August 22, 2009, at approximately 8:30 p.m. The next morning they were no longer at the house. They have not been seen since.”

But then I blink and they’re not there. I check two, three times. Julie and Jess are not on the list. Instead, in front of me, I see a round, blotchy male face, familiar somehow. His eyes are like beads of dark matter, his mouth pulled back into a toothless smile. I recognize the name: Bruce Kerman. Male, age forty-eight, of Caucasian descent, five feet ten inches, 210 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, reported missing on September 25, 1986. The circumstances: “Mr. Kerman was last seen at Ridgewood Elementary School on the morning of September
25, where he shot and killed eight-year-old Gordon Howe before fleeing the crime scene. Mr. Kerman has a history of mental illness including antisocial personality disorder. If he is spotted, please call 911 immediately.”

October 7, 2008

Age Thirty

A
teacher stands at the front of the classroom, her students gathered in a hush on the rug. The children squirm like caterpillars, restless, perhaps wondering why they weren’t allowed to go to lunch. One child bolts for the door but discovers it’s locked. Only Jess sits still among them, her hazel eyes sparkling green in the sunlight until the teacher pulls the shades shut. Jess is by far the smallest of the children. She’s a year younger than everybody else, only four years old. Normally the school wouldn’t have allowed a child so young in kindergarten, but she was so precocious, so mature, there was nothing else for them to do. Charles sits in the back of the room, watches the teacher straighten her blouse. He was supposed to speak to the class for career day, tell them why they should be excited about science.

The teacher, Mrs. Henry, clears her throat. She struggles to maintain her composure, wipes her mouth, smudging her lipstick. “Now class, you may be wondering why you’re not allowed to go to lunch and why some of your parents have started to gather outside. You may wonder why there was an ambulance earlier today and why the flag is only raised halfway up the pole. And you may have noticed that Benjie’s not here.”

The students look back and forth, suddenly aware that Benjie is missing. When the teacher continues, there are tears running down the little crevices in her cheeks.

“At recess today, Benjie fell off the monkey bars and had a very bad accident. The ambulance took him to the hospital but it was a very bad fall. And I’m afraid that Benjie is in heaven now.”

Jess raises her hand, gazing down and picking at the carpet’s fibers at the same time.

“Jess?”

“How come Benjie didn’t say good-bye?” she asks.

“Unfortunately, sometimes there isn’t time to say good-bye.”

As the teacher continues to speak, Charles starts forward and scoops Jess up in his arms. He holds her tiny body against his chest. Charles wishes this moment would never end, feeling Jess’s heartbeat against his, protecting her from everything bad, even as he senses that she has already become tainted. She’s still so young, and yet she is already doomed.

I
UNPLUG THE COMPUTER, THE IMAGE OF
B
RUCE
K
ERMAN
sizzling off the screen. The teacher’s words echo through my ears:
Sometimes there isn’t time to say good-bye
. But maybe there can be. Maybe there still is, and the only way to know is to find out what happened the night Julie and Jess disappeared. They could still be alive, they could be out there, even if they’re not on the missing persons list. But of course, the logic
of it is hard to justify. What causes people to disappear and never come back? If this were a Hollywood movie, the answer would be easy. They were abducted, held hostage, brainwashed and such. But the more likely possibility is that if Julie and Jess are still alive somehow, they probably don’t want to come back. They wanted to disappear. I don’t like to think about this option, because if they were escaping from Charles, they were escaping from me. But I push all of this away, shove down the gnawing feeling in my stomach. I’m not Charles. I’m not the same man, and I can still hope for something. At least that hasn’t been taken away from me yet.

I head to the school next. Ridgewood Elementary, two blocks away. They must have some sort of school records on file. There must be somebody who knows something. The wind snaps around me as I exit the library, dark storm clouds brooding above, still pregnant with rain. I pull my coat in closer to my neck, wishing the sun would peek out. I feel I could use it, today of all days. A thick fog filters through the school yard with the trademark chill of the Pacific Northwest. The children don’t seem to mind, though, and they continue with their games of handball and Chinese jump rope.

“Hey Mr. Lang!” a voice calls out, and a small boy runs up to the fence. He has a nest of blond hair flopped down on his head, and his sweatpants have holes in the knees.

“Hi,” I say, giving an awkward wave.

“It’s me, Leo. I’m friends with Ava. We have playdates sometimes,” he says, slightly out of breath.

“Of course, I remember you, Leo,” I say, although I don’t at all.

“Did you move back to town?” Leo asks. “Ava and I never got to do the volcano experiment you said you’d set up in your backyard.”

“We’ll have to get to that.” I give a half smile, not managing a full one. “Say Leo, what grade are you and Ava in?”

“I’m in fourth grade. Ava’s in third.”

“I know it’s a long way back to remember, but can you recall if there was a girl named Jess in kindergarten with you?”

Leo squinches up his face to think. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Jess Lang?”

“No, cause we would’ve sat next to each other since I’m Leo Lucas.”

“You’re sure?”

A red handball bounces toward Leo. “I’ve gotta go. I wanna play before recess is over.”

I nod to Leo as he runs back across the asphalt yard, lined with tan bungalows and ficus trees. There’s a grassy lawn out in front, an American flag blustering in the wind, and a sign on the double doors leading into the school, reading: “Parents and/or Guardians of Currently Enrolled Students, please type in the access code on the dial pad to the right. Other visitors, please schedule an appointment with our receptionist in the main office. You must have an appointment to come onto school grounds. Thank you!”

I peer in through a small glass window in one of the doors, tapping against the glass. An older African American woman in a navy blue blazer looks up from her paperwork in the main office, then glances back down again. The fluorescent lights glint off of the laminated ID card fastened to her pocket. I
press the buzzer by the side of the door. Nothing. I knock on the window again, harder this time. Nothing. I begin pounding against the door with my fist. Finally the woman rises from her desk chair. Even from outside I can hear her heels clack against the linoleum floors as she walks toward me. Instead of letting me in, though, she leans over and opens the mail slot at the bottom of the door.

“Can I help you, sir?” she says, a crinkle in her voice.

I crouch down, look into the set of gray eyes that stares back at me. “My daughter used to attend this school. Jess Lang. I need to access her school records.”

“I’m sorry, sir—”

“Charles. Charles Lang.”

“Mr. Lang, you need to make an appointment to come onto school grounds.”

“I swear—it’ll only take a moment.”

“Policy is policy.”

“What if you got the records? I could stay out here. You wouldn’t have to give them to me. You could just tell me what they say. Please.”

“And when did your daughter attend Ridgewood Elementary?”

“She was in kindergarten for the 2008–2009 school year. Jess Lang. She was technically too young, but they let her in because she was precocious.”

“Right. She didn’t continue on to first grade?”

“She went missing after that.”

The woman sighs. “Look, Mr. Lang, I wish I could help you. But we’re not going to have her records anymore. We
only hold onto student records for two years after they stop attending Ridgewood.”

My knees wobble. I put a hand down to balance myself. “And then what happens to them?”

“You’ll have to contact the district offices for any further information. I’m sorry, I have to get back to my paperwork.”

“What about you?” I plead. “Did you know her? Jess Lang? Does the name sound familiar?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Lang. I’ve only been working here for about six months.” And with that, the woman lets the mail slot clatter shut behind her as she returns to the main office.