Around the room, heads shake.
He points to one investigator. “You. Find a ranger. Ask them if they’ve been to the observer’s cabin yet. If not, get them moving.”
He pauses. “Do we know where Barbara Van Laar was in school?”
An investigator raises his hand. “Emily Grange. Down near Latham.”
“You,” says LaRochelle to the investigator. “Head there. Get numbers from them for Barbara’s friends. Ask about a boyfriend.”
“You,” says LaRochelle, pointing to an investigator coming onto C-tour who has half a sandwich hanging from his mouth. “Head for the Van Laars’ house in Albany. Check Barbara’s room there for anything relevant. Bring back Polaroids, if you can.”
He pauses.
“Questions?”
A moment of stillness, and then one hand goes up, from the edge of the room. It’s an investigator Judy hadn’t noticed, until now, perhaps the oldest person in the room.
“Is it worth considering Jacob Sluiter?”
A general shift in the atmosphere of the room. For a moment there is a standoff; LaRochelle seems to be waiting for the investigator to explain himself, to offer excuses or some rationale.
He doesn’t.
LaRochelle folds his arms. “It’s possible, I guess,” he says. “Him being on the loose. But to me that seems less likely than other explanations,” says LaRochelle.
The investigator nods, though his expression signifies that he is not completely satisfied.
“Could he have been the unknown person in the woods? The one who led the Jewell girl toward the house?”
LaRochelle frowns. “Now let’s think about that,” he says. “Convicted sexual offender and murderer sees a girl, alone and lost, in the woods. Is he going to lead her to safety? Or is he going to seize upon the opportunity to do what he’s done in the past?”
The old investigator says nothing. The two men regard each other, as if sending silent messages to one another that the rest of the room can’t read.
“I’m not saying it’s out of the question,” says LaRochelle. “I’m just saying—when you hear hoofbeats, don’t look for a zebra.”
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
It’s almost six o’clock at the end of their first day on the Preserve. To Judy, this math doesn’t compute. She feels as if she’s been there for a year.
Hayes is driving north to BCI headquarters at Ray Brook. After that, she’ll start the long drive to Schenectady. The thought makes her want to cry.
“Tired?” says Hayes.
“A little.”
“Get ready,” says Hayes. “Case like this, you’ll be working around the clock.”
He rolls down the window. Shakes a pack of cigarettes in his hand, offering one to Judy, who declines.
“Don’t smoke?”
“No.”
“That’s good,” says Hayes. “My old man died from it, I think. He didn’t call it cancer, but he sure died coughing.”
He pulls from it. Blows a plume of smoke sideways out the open window. “I only smoke in the car. That’s my compromise with myself.”
Judy gives a weak laugh. Just enough to demonstrate that she’s been listening.
“Can I ask you something?” says Hayes, and Judy tenses, expecting something personal. It will be a very long time before Judy feels at ease enough around her colleagues to divulge anything at all about her family or her history. But when Hayes continues, it’s benign: “Why’d you get into police work?”
She considers her options. I wanted to help people sounds trite. I thought it sounded interesting—too vague.
At last, surprising herself, she tells the truth.
“The Mod Squad,” says Judy.
“The—” says Hayes, as if he hasn’t heard.
“The Mod Squad,” says Judy. “It was my favorite show.”
Hayes starts laughing. Keeps laughing until he coughs, flicks his cigarette out the window. “I’ll be damned,” he says. “First time I ever heard that one.”
Judy grins.
“The Mod Squad,” says Hayes, laughing and laughing until at last easy silence descends on the car.
