“It didn’t happen in Denver. This occurred up in Midas.”
Jane let out a tired puff of air. Midas, a town of less than 10,000, was located about 90 minutes northwest of Denver. “That’s a tad out of our jurisdiction!” She was preparing to volley another lob for a week off when Weyler spoke.
“They’ve got their eye on a local guy…Jordan Copeland. Name ring a bell?” Jane shook her head. “Way before your time, I guess. It was a huge tabloid story back in the summer of 1968.” Weyler filled her in on one of the more infamous murder cases of
the late 1960s. It had “sensational” written all over it. Copeland was eighteen and found guilty of killing his next-door neighbor, a mentally retarded, thirteen-year-old boy, Daniel Marshall, in the backyard of his home in Short Hills, New Jersey. For no particular reason, Copeland shot the kid in cold blood with his father’s rifle and then hid the boy’s dead body under his bed for several days before the smell gave him away. “He did thirty-four years hard time,” Weyler added. “Got out of prison seven years ago and settled in Midas about two years back.”
“If they think Copeland did it, then why are we getting involved?”
“They don’t have enough evidence to hold Copeland… even though his behavior is pretty damn strange. They took everything they needed from him before letting him go—handwriting sample, blood, hair, DNA. Bottom line…time’s ticking away. This all went down five days ago. The family didn’t jump on it because they thought it was a suicide.”
“With no body?”
“Figured he slipped out of the noose and fell into the river. But the day after the disappearance, the family started getting the strange notes.”
“How come no news coverage?”
“Family insists on keeping it low key. So does the town.”
“Wait a second. What happened to whoring yourself across primetime TV to get help? Maybe Copeland dumped the kid across state lines…”
“This is Midas, Jane. People don’t move to Midas, Colorado to get attention. They move there to blend in and live a quiet, unexposed existence. The family and the police chief want to respect those wishes. The last thing they crave is a goddamned media circus. Can you blame them?”
Jane certainly had been part of media circuses. Too many times, she’d reluctantly played a pivotal role in high-profile cases and had the spotlight directed her way. She hated it and rejected all offers to cash in on her celebrity—except once, almost
two years ago, when she agreed to an appearance on
Larry King Live.
The owner of the local coffee joint still gave her a free refill for that. “If they
like
this Copeland asshole for it, why don’t they have some cops sit up on him to watch his moves 24/7, harass him, see if the weird notes stop arriving and then pummel him into a confession?”
“They’re short staffed. You have the police chief, his secretary and a few deputies.”
“Midas is one of the wealthiest small towns north of Denver. They can certainly afford to hire out extra help.“ Jane noted Weyler’s expression. “Oh, shit.
We’re
the extra help?”
“I pulled this file on Copeland.” Weyler stated, ignoring Jane’s annoyance and handing her a slim, olive green folder. “We’ll learn more when we get there tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I told Bo I’d be there tomorrow.”
“Who the hell is Bo?”
“The police chief. We’re old friends. Came up together on the job as rookies,” Weyler slightly hesitated. “I owe him this.”
“Owe him what?”
“Long story. Bottom line is…he’s retiring in less than two weeks and he’d like to leave his job with this case put to bed. Suffice to say, he’s calling in his chips and I’m going.”
Jane had never heard Weyler talk like this. “Chips?” What connection could an urbane, refined Black man like Weyler have with some small town police chief to make him jump so fast to his tune? “Boss, what in the hell’s going on here?”
“File this case under
mutual aid,
Jane.” His tone was succinct and unwavering.
Jane’s understanding of mutual aid was that if an outside jurisdiction had information on a case or could help through means of better equipment or manpower, they could be brought in to work with the acting police department in charge of the case. Midas had plenty of money, thanks to the scores of wealthy people who flocked to the mountain town and paid hefty taxes
on their multimillion-dollar homes. “So, what do
we
have that they can’t get somewhere else?”
“Me,” Weyler declared. “And you,” he quickly added. “But mostly, me.”
Weyler’s evasive tone was unusual. Jane was quickly piqued. “Getting back to my week off…”
“This is something I need to do, Jane, and you’re coming with me.”
“For what? Shits and grins?”
Weyler leaned across his desk. “Because I need someone who can think outside the box while I’m working inside it. But I’m also bringing you along for your inimitable tact, composure and sweet demeanor.” He smiled and stood up, latching the yellow pad under his arm.
The day was just getting worse for Jane.
The trip to Midas was set in place, but not without a few choice omissions on Jane’s part. If Weyler insisted on keeping secretive about why a two-bit police chief was “calling in his chips,” she figured she’d keep her Friday morning doctor’s appointment a secret from him. Before leaving his office that night, Jane arranged to pick up Weyler at Headquarters the following day and drive her Mustang to Midas. He balked at the idea, preferring the comfort of his roomy sedan that blended into the scenery rather than visually shouting its arrival. But Jane’s classic coupe won the coin toss.
Until then, Jane had pressing business to attend to back at her house on Milwaukee Street. She cleaned every cigarette pack out of her Mustang, emptied the ashtray and shook the butts off the floor mats. After collecting more packs from her leather satchel and backpacks, she zoomed around the house and found every cigarette in and out of sight, and stuffed the heap into a plastic trash bag. Just to make sure she wouldn’t cheat, she hauled the bag down two blocks and deposited it into an alley Dumpster. Yeah, that would solve her problem—like
she couldn’t get in her car and drive five blocks to the store and buy another carton. Jane knew it was just a game, but the fact that she was making up the game’s rules somehow made her feel in control again. That all went out the proverbial window when she got home and found a single, unwrapped pack of fresh cigarettes in a kitchen drawer.
She set the single pack on the dining room table and plopped down on the couch. The overhead light shone down on the cellophane wrapping, allowing the pack to take on a heightened sense of appeal. She looked at the clock. It was 8:30 pm. When did she smoke her last cigarette…5:30 pm? It was right before she headed into the doctor’s office. She wished she could remember it more clearly so she could have the sweet, nostalgic memory to fall back on when she was desperate for a hit of nicotine. How long had she previously gone without a cigarette? Maybe eight hours. But, of course, she was
asleep
during those eight hours. Jane stole a glance at the clock again. 8:31 pm.
God, this is torture.
Jane tossed together a quick shrimp stir-fry, the entire time stealing furtive glances to the solo, alluring cigarette pack on the table that had taken on a provocative life of its own. This was her demon and she had to fight it. In order to push the emotion of the moment to the back of her head, she turned to logic and the comforting “If/Then” scenario. It went like this: If you do this, then that will happen. If you bang your head on the wall, then your head will hurt. The “If/Then” association always gave Jane a modicum of reassurance, offering a black-and-white action /reaction she could rely on. If you smoke cigarettes, then you get cancer. If you take care of yourself, then you live. Jane added more extra virgin olive oil to the stir-fry and stirred the over-cooked shrimp with greater vigor. But what if you only really started taking care of yourself at the age of thirty-six? Then what? Then…you
might
live. “Fuck,” Jane muttered. She hated nebulous equations. The reliable “If/Then” had always made her feel safe. But now there was a rupture of grayness—a defined
flaw in her black-and-white presumption.
Jane carried the searing fry pan to the dining room table, slapped a newspaper down as an impromptu placemat and set her laptop in front of her. The opened computer served to temporarily obstruct the view of the still-tantalizing cigarette pack. Drawing the slender green file on Jordan Copeland closer, she tested a bite of the stir-fry and opened the folder.
The top document was a black-and-white mug shot of Copeland, dated July 7, 1968. The stats showed Copeland to be eighteen years old, by only a few days. Although the photo wasn’t in color, Jane easily determined that Copeland had pale, blue eyes—the kind of pale blue that almost appeared iridescent.
Penetrating…almost hypnotic
. In reading one of the many esoteric books she’d inherited from her friend, Kit Clark, Jane recalled a passage that referred to
the psychic eye
. Supposedly, there were people born with a distinctive eye that was described as intense and enigmatic. It was an eye that couldn’t be ignored and drew one in to its gaze without the least effort. Jordan Copeland had such an eye. The paleness of his eyes was even more defined against his dirty, olive complexion.
Turning the photo over, Jane uncovered a newspaper clipping from the
New York Times,
dated August 10, 1968. A large photo above the story showed what appeared to be a cleaned-up Jordan moving through a crush of reporters on the courthouse steps, accompanied by his exceptionally strained-looking, upper-crust grandparents. But when Jane read the caption, the couple was identified as Jordan’s sixty-one-year-old mother, Joanna, and his sixty-eight-year-old father, Richard. “Huh?” Jane grunted to herself. A quick mathematical calculation showed that Jordan’s mother was forty-three when she gave birth to him, while his father was fifty. Certainly not typical, Jane surmised as she scooped another mouthful of shrimp into her mouth. Just when she was considering that Jordan was an “oops baby” after a line of older siblings, a cursory read of the accompanying article revealed that Jordan was an only child. “
What
?” Jane said
aloud, wondering if anyone else found this odd back in ’68. Jordan’s parents were obviously one of the tonied elite—his mother’s painfully trim, bony frame dressed in a classic Chanel wool tweed ensemble with matching gloves and hat, and his handsome father outfitted in a smart suit reminiscent of something Cary Grant would model, complete with a modest ascot. They could have been headed to a day at the country club rather than a somber walk toward the courthouse with their felonious son.
Jane wanted to read more. She turned the page to where the story should have been continued and found nothing. Obviously, whoever copied this particular article off the old microfiche archive, failed to note there was more of it. Jane shook her head in frustration. How many times had she been forced to go back and find the missing pages to articles? Too many. And this one wouldn’t be easy to track down.
The next newspaper clipping in the short stack was dated,
October 13, 1968
and featured a sensationalized headline:
SCANDAL AND SHOCK IN SHORT HILLS—COPELAND FOUND GUILTY OF MURDER
. The tabloid-like story told of Jordan’s conviction after the jury deliberated for only two hours. The sole photo was of Jordan’s parents driving away from the courthouse in their Bentley, both of them appearing grim and stoic. Amongst the throng of reporters surrounding their car, Jane noted an irate group, holding up signs that read,
GO TO HELL, CHILD KILLER!
and
COPELAND NEEDS TO DIE!
Clearly, this was a case that had elicited vitriol and retribution.
And now, more than 40 years later, the same SOB was being fingered for another missing boy in another wealthy enclave.
“Shit,” Jane muttered and closed the folder. Too worn-out to attempt an Internet research, she slammed her laptop shut only to find the single pack of cigarettes still upright and staring back at her. It was too much. She grabbed the pack and quickly unwrapped the cellophane.
Sweet seduction
. The arousing aroma of unlit tobacco teased her brain. It was the aromatic foreplay before the tactile pleasure of feeling the naked, white paper
stroke her bottom lip. That would lead to the erotic moment of lighting the tip and inhaling that first, comforting yet electrifying hit of pleasure that would numb her mind and allow her brain to slow down. Just the thought made Jane’s heart pound harder. Her lighter hovered less than an inch from the cigarette tip. Instant gratification was a second away.
Then an overwhelming sense of gloom sucked the bliss from the moment. She threw the lighter across the room, flicked the unlit cigarette onto the table, ceremoniously dumped the remaining nineteen down the kitchen sink’s garbage disposal and flipped the switch.
Life is a battle
. That much, Jane believed.
Struggle is part of life
. So in keeping with that belief, she carefully slid the remaining single cigarette back into the pack and secured it in her leather satchel. She didn’t have to do that, but she felt comfortable walking the hallways in Hell. The hard, brutal way was a familiar road she’d traveled often. She needed to keep the temptation at her fingertips so that she could never relax, never feel too complacent. There was no edge with complacency and Jane Perry required a jagged edge in order to function. Everyone needed to meet his or her Waterloo—to endure a great test of character that would lead to a final and decisive, often negative culmination. That solitary, sensuous, slender, aromatic roll of tobacco was Jane’s Waterloo and she would fight it with the same intensity that she fought every other battle in her thirty-seven years.
She ambled down the hall toward her bedroom, walked into her closet and began tossing shirts, jeans, sweaters and an extra pair of roughout cowboy boots into a large duffel bag. Jane figured the trip to Midas would be three days max, so she packed accordingly—two long-sleeved, nearly identical blue poplin shirts, one pair of jeans, underwear, her faded
Ron Paul for President—2008
nightshirt and some toiletries. Her mind wandered through the day’s events, resting on the sobering visit with the doctor. “
You can’t ignore your bloodline, Jane
.” For some strange reason, those words resonated in her cluttered head.
What did the doc mean by that?
she questioned. In the end, was she doomed to be the sum total of her bloodline? That was an ominous predicament, given her violent, sadistic father who stroked out and her weak-willed, capitulating mother who died prematurely of cancer. Did a tattered bloodline hold one hostage to its whims and fate or was there a way to break free and chart a new course? Standing there in her cramped closet, she resolved to ignore her twisted family roots and tortured past. At that moment, it was the only possible way she could survive her future.