The Thomas Blume Series

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Wasted heroics.

That afternoon, I did something I had never done as a cop; I spent time researching a case no one had given me. After a stop at the office store, I returned to my dingy apartment, put on a pot of coffee and spent the day reading up on the disappearance of Jack Ellington, Elizabeth’s son. Typing, printing, cross-referencing and getting the grunt work done. In the old days, I’d have filled out the Murder Book, completed a thousand forms and hashed out ideas with my partner. This time, I used my old laptop and a cheap notepad I’d bought from the store. Not the same as working as an NYPD Detective Investigator, with resources and a team around me, but it felt good to be back in the saddle.

I set up a crudely fashioned crime board. Photographs, notes and printouts of newspaper articles I’d found online, all built a timeline of Jack Ellington’s disappearance. At the top, I attached an image of the boy himself. Barbs of grief touched me at how similar he looked to my Tommy.

The other end of the board centered on possible suspects and the ‘Unsub.’ The Unknown Subject behind his vanishing. It was possible Jack had disappeared of his own accord, in some tragic accident, but my years of experience on the force and my undeniable gut instinct told me otherwise. Everything about the case screamed foul play.

The office seemed like an entirely different place as I filled it with productivity. As though the activity burned away the smoke and the memories normally dragging me down. The space felt less personal and more like a place to work as the investigation took shape.

Boiled down, the case was fairly simple. Old scattered stories here and there told of how a ten-year-old Jack Ellington never quite got along with his mother after his father died. Elizabeth had become overprotective of her son after losing her husband, going so far as to walk him to his school, Brook Hill. As any young child growing older, not just physically but also through the hardship of life experience, he understandably began to resent and resist the suffocating oversight. Newspaper articles suggested that Jack was teased about this by his so-called school friends, which undoubtedly made it all the more unbearable. Nonetheless, I thought of Tommy again and could identify with a parent’s instinct to protect.

At some point, perhaps several months later, Elizabeth backed off and let Jack live the life of a normal ten-year-old. Once more, he walked to school with his friends, had playdates, and participated in after-school sports. Shortly afterward, he disappeared. According to police reports, he had been walking home from soccer practice when it happened.

Witnesses and C.C.T.V. coverage could place Jack all day, at school and even as he left the sports field. An elderly widow, Mary Whitaker, was one of the last people to see the boy that day. She lived opposite the school, where children would often wave to her as they passed. On Jack’s last day, she had been tending her back garden, which overlooked the school playing fields. She was on record as having spotted him walking calmly from the field toward the changing rooms.

Reports in a local newspaper noted that Mrs. Whitaker had one of the most beautiful gardens around. The reporter expounded on this as a well-known fact. I certainly didn’t doubt this as truth, but I did wonder what the information had to do with the case. The flowers were filler to lengthen an article that was short on detail and bereft of answers, exactly like the case. I surmised that the reason Mrs. Whitaker was so dedicated was likely because she was older, primarily housebound and lived alone.

I knew how lonesome and disoriented the elderly could become after their spouses had passed on. Hell, I knew what it was like as a middle-aged man. We all have ways of dealing with loss. Some manage it through counseling or friends. Others turn to the bottle. Mary Whitaker had chosen gardening. Either way, the old woman waved to Jack until he was out of sight and then there was nothing.

When he was an hour late returning home, Elizabeth Ellington had frantically called the cops, who quickly launched a manhunt, and the entire area was scoured. The next morning, Jack was still missing, and the hunt had turned up a blank. Still, the community was determined. Neighborhood Watch organized their own searches and the media began a campaign to find the boy. The news media blasted the story on every television and tabloid for a week. Every telephone pole and lamppost in the area hosted a missing poster, and dozens of volunteers widened the search. Everyone was determined to solve the case and the police encouraged the public to voice their information or concerns. After a few weeks, this seemed to backfire as various accusations were leveled at Jack’s teachers, neighbors, and even his mother.

But none of it came to anything. No one was ever charged, and the boy was never found. As with so many missing persons, the media and public eventually lost interest, and the investigation dried up. Just another sad, unsolved disappearance that had grown cold. I intended to put it back on the boilerplate.

Printouts I made of Jack’s school photos from that year sat below the crime board. Grainy color images from the days before crystal clear digital cameras. It made me long for the times when I used my own camera for more than capturing lies and deceit.

The photographs featured one shot of the boy himself in portrait, and another of his whole school year, sitting stiffly with three teachers flanking them each side. The teachers comprised of four bored-looking men in bland suits, one frowning woman with a stern gaze, and another woman in a flowery dress, with a bird’s nest of untamed hair. She stuck out as more like a hippie than a teacher.

All the staff were accounted for that day. All had been interviewed by police and official statements released. Statements I now had transcripts of, printed neatly and organized.

After eight hours, I had a nice stack of paper on my desk. I read through them again as the day faded out, bringing in the night. A light spattering of rain still fell, rhythmically tapping my windows. I threw together a ham and cheese sandwich, cracked open a beer, and pulled my office chair closer to the window.

As the night drew on, my mind kept returning to what Amir had told me. How solving my family’s murder wouldn’t bring them back. About how it was a waste of my talents to seek vengeance when people out there needed my help. Maybe Elizabeth Ellington was one of those people. I couldn’t bring Tommy back, but if there was even the slightest chance I could help this grieving mother find out what happened to her son… Well, that might not be so bad.

And besides, I needed the work. If I kept spending every day reading Sarah and Tommy’s case files over and over again, it would drive me mad and I would run out of money. Assuming the cops didn’t deport me first.

So, I kept looking out for headlights and slowly approaching cars, waiting for my nervous visitor to return. But Elizabeth didn’t show up that night. If she did, it was sometime after two in the morning, at which point I must have fallen asleep in my chair with reports of her son’s disappearance scattered in my lap and over the floor.