Page 10 of Traces of Kara

Henry McLeod was a short man. Five-foot-five would be a generous guess. He stood in front of a tall metal file cabinet, perusing a file. Mark walked into the small office and sat down in an upholstered chair opposite Henry’s desk. Henry turned toward him.

“Mark, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Mr. Greer,” he said.

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Roland?” He set the file on top of the cabinet and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Is he at work today?”

Henry laughed. “Roland hasn’t missed a day’s work since he started.”

Mark nodded, then asked again. “Is he at work today?”

Henry reached for his phone. “I’m sure he is.” He pushed the intercom button and spoke to his secretary, “Belinda, is Roland in today?”

A scratchy, elderly voice came through the line. “Just a moment, Mr. McLeod.”

Henry turned back toward Mark. “I wouldn’t blame him if he did take a day off. The man works like a fiend.”

Mark nodded, leaned back in the chair, and took a deep breath.

The red light on Henry’s phone shone bright and he pushed the intercom button again.

“No, Mr. McLeod, he’s not. He must be sick. I’ll check with Jeffrey and see if he’s heard from him.”

Henry turned toward the officer. “What’s up, Mark? Why the concern?”

Mark looked at him sideways.

Henry sighed. “Really? Give the guy a break. Hasn’t he proven to us that he’s not that guy? He hasn’t stepped out of line even once since he’s worked here.”

“Once that guy, always that guy.” Mark stood to leave. “Let me know when you hear from him.”

Mark followed his gut, always had. Even though following his intuition had once led him astray, he remained steadfast in his belief that ninety-nine percent of the time, his intuition was dead on. He cruised over to Roland’s apartment complex. Three teens ducked behind the building when he drove into the parking lot. Normally, Mark was a stickler for truancy, but today, he had one thing on his mind, and that one thing’s truck wasn’t in the parking lot.

Mark drove through Chambersburg looking for Roland’s truck. He checked the bars, though he knew Roland wasn’t a drinker. He’d kept tabs on him for years. You just never knew with these crazies—they were fine one minute and psychotic the next. He’d seen it hundreds of times: abusers who appeared gentle and loving by day and turned into wife and child beaters at night; pedophiles who passed as good Samaritans but secretly spent hours manipulating and hurting small children. Unstable minds could fall apart at any moment.

He drove by the stores where Roland shopped, then stopped at the diner to feed his rumbling stomach. He withdrew a worn leather wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. The newspaper photo of ten-year-old Carly Witherspoon smiled up at him. He stared down at the last photograph ever taken of Charles Maynor’s last victim. She’d never had a chance, and Mark would be damned if he’d let another perp get by him. He’d never again be fooled by a calm demeanor, eye contact, or whatever else he’d overlooked with Maynor.

Mable stood before him at the counter with an expectant look in her eye.

“What?”

“Did you find him and apologize for your wicked thoughts?” She laughed.

“Nope. He’s not at work.”

“Sick?” Mable set a white mug on the counter and filled it with coffee.

Mark shrugged.

“I know that look. You have something up your sleeve.” Mable rested an elbow on the counter, went eye to eye with him, then said, “What’s going on in that little brain of yours?”

He sipped his coffee, then set the mug down. “I don’t know. A guy who does the same thing day in and day out suddenly disappears? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

She wiped the counter, “No. He’s tired, bored, sick, whatever. Everyone’s allowed a day off once and a while.”

“I suppose,” he said. “He’s not at his apartment.”