Umm . . . hello, Mrs. Kristal—this is Joe Pennebaker. As I was trying to explain to you and your husband on the phone. Yeah, I finally retired and moved down to the land of cotton. Still trying to get used to people saying please and thank you. Anyways, I still have this case on my brain. Your daughter’s. The thing is, every detective worth anything has one like that. You know, the case that won’t leave you alone. The one that keeps you up at night. Jenny’s case . . . I don’t know, maybe it’s because I lost my daughter too—to cancer, I know, it’s not the same thing, even if it eats at you the same way, but I know what it’s like losing a daughter. Anyway, there’s some things I’ve been digging into and I have just a few . . .”
Click.
The Kristals’ answering machine looked like a relic from back when Jenny disappeared—waiting for messages from a daughter that never came. It had proclaimed: Time’s up. Like the psych they’d made me sit down with at juvie hall, who’d grant you exactly fifteen minutes and not a nanosecond more. I used to spring some great revelation on her at exactly the fourteen-minute mark just to see if she’d cut me off in midsentence. Let’s pick this up next time, she’d say in a pretty bored voice.
Next time for Pennebaker was just a few seconds later.
“Umm . . . this is Joe again. Sorry about that. What I was going to say is I have just a few questions for you, if that’s okay? If you or your husband could give me a call back, my number is 404-672-8579. Thank you.”
Evidently Pennebaker never got it. That call back.
“Hey there . . . this is Joe Pennebaker again. If you or your husband could ring me back, I’d really appreciate it. As I said, I’ve been doing some digging around and there are a few things I’ve come across—some things you could maybe help me clear up . . . one or two questions, that’s it. My number is 404-672-8579. Thank you.”
They hadn’t answered that one either. By his next call, Pennebaker was sounding a little anxious.
“Joe again. Joe Pennebaker. I know I’m not officially on the case anymore. Your daughter’s. But it’d really be helpful if you could answer just a few questions. Honest . . . all I need is a few minutes of your time. That’s all. My number is . . . well, you have my number by now. Please call me back anytime.”
I was downstairs in the living room—one ear to Joe Pennebaker, the other on the front door, which Long Island’s number one truant might walk through at any minute. And wonder what I was doing with the home phone glued to my ear without my saying anything into it.
Pennebaker must’ve waited another few days before trying again.
“Pennebaker here. I was hoping I’d hear back from one of you by now. Look, since I can’t seem to get either of you on the phone . . . understand you’re busy and all, I do . . . but this is about your daughter . . .”
He was ping-ponging between pissed and polite and having a hard time deciding which. It was kind of funny—if I wasn’t seriously on edge, it might’ve been. On edge regarding that front door. And on the edge of my seat (the orange love seat in case you’re interested) waiting for Pennebaker to finally say something interesting. Okay, you discovered something—spit it out . . .
“. . . just some questions about . . . I don’t know, the family dynamic, let’s call it. I mean, back then. It might have some bearing on what happened to your daughter. So, if you could just please call me back.”
It must’ve worked. Finally. They did call him back. And left a message.
“Uhhh . . . Joe Pennebaker here. Got your message. Look, I understand your frustration with the lack of progress in this case. I’m including my own investigation in there, of course. Totally appreciate your feelings. I understand the two of you thinking you just want to throw your hands up and say no more . . . you’re done, you’re out, but—”
Click.
“These damn machines. I was saying I understand how you might want to give up and say I don’t want to hear anything anymore, I’ve been talking to detectives for twelve years and where has it gotten us . . . I get that, I do . . . but that’s the exact reason—”
Click.
“Jesus . . . can’t these machines give you more time? I was saying that’s the exact reason I’m calling. I can’t give up on this case. I refuse. I went back and looked at everything with fresh eyes. The transcript of the initial investigation for one thing . . .”
The transcript he’d mailed to them. The one I’d read in the middle of the night.
“There’s something in there that stood out. That I’d flat-out missed before—”
No shit.
I gave me, myself, and I a pat on the back. Pennebaker might have missed something his first time through the transcript. Not me.
“In the interviews with some of your friends in your neighborhood. I tracked back and re-interviewed them. Then did a little more digging after that . . .”
So Pennebaker had spoken with the neighborhood parents. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Kelly couldn’t stop talking about me after I’d come back. Because she’d been speaking about me before I’d come back. And so had the Mooneys and the Shapiros. Blabbing to Pennebaker. Telling him how that sweet, adorable, normal little six-year-old had really been the little bitch from hell.
He kept trying to get them after that call. At least ten more times—sometimes hanging up without leaving a message, sometimes leaving a long one that needed three different callbacks to finish. He was sometimes friendly and sometimes like a cop who needed his questions answered now, and sometimes both. On the last call he made to them—the last one before his call to me when he asked me to let them know he was sorry and wouldn’t be calling them anymore, he’d finally come clean—what exactly it was he wanted answers on.
“Look, I need to ask you a few questions about your son,” he’d finished. “About Ben.”
CLICK.