She knew what it looked like. Lieutenant Johnson asked if all that was necessary for a minor assault, but Sergeant Taylor assured him it was—because Janet opened a can of worms when she called later that day a few weeks earlier.
Janet was always excellent at keeping an eye out around town from her tiny motel counter. Plus, to give credit where it’s due, she had an insanely good memory. If Sergeant Taylor could have hired the woman on the spot, she would have. However, small-town cop bribery—such as dropping by with a box of donuts and a “thank you”—would have to do. She was an excellent asset where she was.
The strange couple who visited Janet’s motel were supposedly husband and wife. They matched the description Bruce gave her previously, and she had no reason to think two tourist couples were wandering through their small town on a Monday night. Janet did not have a name for the woman but did see a driver’s license for the man: Erich Zaleski, New York ID, born in 1971. They left the motel around 8:00 that night, but she didn’t see them come back. She did help them check out the next morning, but they didn’t make small talk about where they were heading.
The dark-haired mystery woman did not appear off to Janet like she did to Bruce, which was a flaw in her theory. In fact, Janet mentioned she loaned the girl her makeup bag for the night. “Sweet as pie, didn’t say much,” she commented. “You sure Bruce has his story straight? They seemed fine to me. Just quiet.”
“Ugh…” Sergeant Taylor groaned as the report on her desk mocked her with its minimal information. Erich Zaleski. October 23, 1971. Single, white male, dark blond hair, blue eyes. Six feet, three inches. 1977 black Chevrolet Nova. New York City, New York.
Before she could try to draw more conclusions from her minimal information, there was a knock on her door. “Any luck, Sarg?” The young man peeked his head around the half-closed door, his curly, thick hair and acne-scarred face a welcome sight in Sergeant Taylor’s time of need.
“Emil… not really.” Sergeant Taylor rubbed her eyes with both fists until she saw spots before she focused her attention on the intern. “Come here. Maybe you’ll see something I don’t.”
Emil was fresh out of the police academy. He came on as an intern at the Norwald Police Department last summer while he waited for his police academy slot. Despite not being an intern anymore, no one at the office ever called him byhis formal title. His first name stuck, and he didn’t have any objections to it.
Sergeant Taylor liked the kid. He was bright, kind, and had a certain light she needed during her boring shifts. He didn’t have a lot of muscle, but he was tall—he had to bend down to step through the doors in the station. He was perfect when she needed a fresh set of eyes, as he knew when to pull her from the rabbit hole and cover it with dirt.
The baby cop awkwardly bent down through the door and walked his brown loafers to the side of Sergeant Taylor’s desk. Without a word, he leaned forward to read the notes laid out in front of them. “Well, he’s a twenty-one-year-old man. Stayed at the Do Drop Inn for the night with his supposed wife… but the information you found from his license says he’s single. Did you find any marriage records from the state of New York for a name on the woman?”
Sergeant Taylor lifted her pen to her mouth, tapping her lips gently. “Well, he told Janet he was married to the woman he was with. But that could be fabricated. License was renewed on his twenty-first birthday, and no new records indicate he got hitched.”
“Maybe. Or he crossed state lines within the last eight months, and you’d have to track his name down in each state to find a marriage license. Did you get a license plate number?” Emil rocked on his feet as he considered the facts laid out in front of them.
“I did. It ties to an address for a fortune teller in New York City.”
“Who lives there?” Emil fired back his next question.
“A Mystique Braun, alongside her only daughter, Olivia Braun.” Sergeant Taylor tapped at the two names she listed in the side section of her notepad with her pointer finger. “Could be a shell address. He wasn’t on the 1990 census or 1980 census forthat address. Tracking it down through the New York Secretary of State was tedious, too.”
“How old is Olivia Braun?” Emil asked. “Is she the wife?”
“She’ll be twenty-one this November. And I don’t think so. She doesn’t match the description… Census states Mystique and Olivia are mixed race.” Sergeant Taylor sighed. “The ‘wife’ in question was described by both Bruce and Janet to be fair-skinned. Even unnaturally pale. Dark hair and green eyes.”
Emil leaned over Sergeant Taylor’s shoulder and tapped the one word—“Off? What’s this about?”
Sergeant Taylor let out a short grunt before setting her pen down and resting her chin in her hand. “Bruce said the girl was ‘off.’ Like she was seeing things or hearing things. Janet didn’t have the same description, so I began to wonder if Bruce is putting fluff over something he was doing that would be wrong.”
Emil crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. His thick curls framed his forehead, shadowing his right eye as he lost himself deep in thought. “Bruce Miller isn’t a very good guy. All rumors, but if they’re true, he’s cheated on his wife a handful of times.”
“Figures.” Sergeant Taylor rolled her eyes, but stopped as they grazed over the woman’s description again. “Bruises.” She murmured to herself before reaching for her pen again and underlining it.
Emil raised a single eyebrow from his position against the wall. “‘Off’ and ‘bruises’? You think she was scared of something… or someone?”
“What if this Erich guy isn’t a husband, but a kidnapper? What if this girl is some kind of money-maker? And Bruce just happened to be a customer that night and not some innocent bar-goer?” Sergeant Taylor wondered aloud, then bit her lip and laughed before turning her head to meet Emil’s eyes. “Or am I jumping to conclusions?”
Emil chuckled awkwardly to match Sergeant Taylor’s. “Well… it’s a bit far-fetched, but we don’t have much else. Janet didn’t see anything wrong with the two, but the interaction is limited. Is there any way we can run what we have to match descriptions on other assault cases? Or find some kind of criminal record with his name and ID? Plus… if he’s all the way from New York, where else has he been? Pay any tolls? Maybe there are some red flags there.”
Chapter 12 – July 1, 1993 – Camille
Sarcott, Pennsylvania. I never knew this place existed, and if I did, I never imagined I’d be there.
We got lucky on intoxicated moonshiners in Kentucky and made our way to West Virginia, and finally ended up in a cheap motel in a shady little town in the armpit of the USA. It had been about a little under two months since I embraced Erich’s unknown.
I was uneasy there. I would’ve liked to drive further, but the tank was low and we needed to get back to business. While we were getting farther away from Belham and the family manor that betrayed me, I was beginning to make connections between the people of Sarcott and the people of Belham. The small town people seemed to be the same no matter where in the country we went.
When we arrived that night, we decided to check into the shady motel right off the highway before making our way to thebar down the street. Our drive wasn’t long so much as tedious, trying to read the signs and remember the directions. I didn’t know how to drive, so the best I could do was try to help with directions, though I was clueless in that department as well.
The lobby smelled of stale tobacco and bleach. The front desk man was tall and spindly and had thin blonde hair and dark bags under his eyes that stared through my oversized Nirvana shirt and mom jeans as we approached him. When he smiled to greet us, he revealed yellow teeth. If the bleach didn’t burn my nostrils, I imagined he smelled like sweat and microwaved meatloaf.
