There is once again a small crowd gathered around Pastor Mike on the Blancharde lawn. The pastor has let his salt-and-pepper beard grow out; the worry lines on his forehead appear a little deeper, a little more jagged. Aleah and her mother stand nearby, along with Detectives Slater and Draper, and a Channel 4 news crew. Neighbors hold small, white candles in their cupped palms. There’s a strong threat of rain in the air. Pastor Mike speaks without a microphone or podium.
“Like all of you, I am shocked and saddened by the sudden passing of Dee Dee Blancharde, a new and vital member of our community. Make no mistake: this is not simply a loss, it is a theft. A brutal and merciless theft. Dee Dee was stolen from us, just as all of the beautiful possibilities life represents were stolen from her. She is with God now, and I trust that everyone here is praying for her soul. To ease her passage, the First Methodist Church of Springfield will cover the full cost of her funeral.”
There’s a chorus of soft applause while he wipes his forehead with handkerchief. The night is unseasonably hot, and the moisture adds a tropical feel.
“As you all know, Dee Dee’s daughter, Gypsy Rose Blancharde, has been missing since the night of her mother’s murder. The circumstances of her disappearance remain unclear, and as the search for Gypsy is a police matter, I will turn this over to Detective Brian Slater, lead investigator on the case. But before I do, I would like to make a personal plea: Gypsy, a sweet and innocent girl, was born into this world already suffering from a greater share of ailments than most of us will experience in our lifetimes. She is sick and frail and in desperate need of her medication. I implore you to cooperate fully with the police in their investigation. If you know anything—anything at all—that might help find her, please don’t hesitate to share that information with Detective Slater.”
He turns from the crowd and looks directly into the nearest camera.
“And if there is somebody out there who has Gypsy, I beg you to release her to the authorities at once so that she can receive the medical attention she needs to survive. Her mortal life is at stake, but so is your soul. Saving her is the only way to save yourself.”
He moves aside, gestures to Detective Slater with a slight bow of his head.
“God be with you, Pastor Mike,” an onlooker calls out.
“Amen,” others murmur.
Detective Slater, perspiring wildly in his checkered blazer, steps forward.
“Thank you all for coming,” he begins. “I’ll make my comments brief so that we can all get back to the work of finding Gypsy. Here is what we know: Gypsy was last seen at her doctor’s office at four p.m. on the day she disappeared. She was last heard from in a Facebook message at nine p.m. that evening. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the content of that message by now. We can’t at this time say whether or not Gypsy sent the message of her own free will, or even if she sent it at all: it is of course possible that her account was hacked. What we do know with some measure of certainty is that no one has heard from her since.
“We have checked with Gypsy’s medical team, and all of her prescriptions and supplies—including wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, and inhalers—are accounted for at the home. We are asking pharmacists and doctors in the area and across the country to report any attempts to buy relevant medicines without a prescription. At different times in her life, Gypsy has been diagnosed with asthma, muscular dystrophy, leukemia, and various autoimmune disorders.
“We are asking you, the public, to be vigilant. If you see something out of the ordinary, let us know. Meanwhile, we are organizing searches of local parks and open spaces. If you would like to participate, please sign up with my partner, Detective Emily Draper.”
Draper, standing at the front of the crowd, waves her clipboard in the air.
“At this time,” Slater continues, “we have far more questions than answers. As Pastor Mike noted, we’re asking anyone with information to come forward immediately. Time is critical in any missing persons investigation, but, given Gypsy’s health, it is particularly crucial in this case.”
He reads out a hotline number and a URL, then hands the floor back to Pastor Mike. The rain begins to fall in fat, warm drops. Pastor Mike leads the group in prayer. Slater and Draper hang back, scanning for anyone who looks out of place, anyone who seems overly anxious, anyone who seems to be enjoying the spectacle.
When the event is over, Slater heads back to his car while Draper remains, collecting signatures. Slater is opening the driver-side door when he hears a voice calling after him. He turns to look, sees Aleah jogging up the sidewalk. The rain is pouring down now.
“Detective Slater,” she says, “there’s something I have to tell you.”
She’s drenched and doesn’t seem to care. Slater feels irritated at having to stand in the rain any longer than necessary, but the girl’s tone is urgent, and he can’t afford to miss a potential lead.
“Why don’t you tell me in the car?” he says.
Slater pops the locks, and Aleah climbs into the passenger’s seat. He gives her a moment to compose herself. The windows fog over as the water on their skin and clothes turns to steam. Slater studies her out of the corner of his eye. She isn’t an adult yet, but she isn’t a kid, either. A difficult age. His own daughter, who disappeared from his life when her mother took her to Seattle over a decade ago, would be just a year or two younger.
“I’m getting your car all wet,” Aleah says.
“That’s all right,” Slater tells her. “It’s not really my car.”
Aleah’s smile is nervous, uncertain; she’s clearly never talked to a cop before.
“What’s your name?” Slater asks.
She dries her forehead on her sleeve, takes a deep breath.
“Aleah,” she says. “Aleah Martin.”
“You were friends with Gypsy?”
She nods.
“I think I was her only friend. I live across the street.”
Slater remembers her now—or at least her name.
“You called 911?”
“My mother did. That Facebook message was meant for me.”
Slater senses that whatever she has to say will be important, maybe game changing. He struggles to keep his voice even, calm.
“What is it you wanted to tell me?” he asks.
She hesitates, then blurts it out so fast that Slater isn’t sure he’s understood:
“Gypsy was seeing someone,” she says.
“Gypsy?”
It seems incredible: the girl couldn’t walk, and she could hardly breathe without tubes in her nose.
“Well, she had someone, sort of,” Aleah says. “She called him her ‘Secret Sam.’ They met on a Christian dating site. I don’t know which one.”
“Do you know his real name?”
She shakes her head.
“I never asked. To be honest, I thought she was making him up. But now…”
She wipes away a tear with the heel of her palm.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
Slater rests a hand on her shoulder.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “You were her friend, and you’ve given us our first real lead.”
“But maybe if I’d said something before…Before Dee Dee was killed. Before Gypsy…”
“Listen to me,” Slater says, a little more forcefully than he’d intended. “You couldn’t have predicted this. No one could have. You understand?”
“I guess,” she says.
Slater, not sure what more to say, takes her phone number and thanks her again. He sits for a while, watching her jog back to her house, then starts the car.
He’ll have to get forensics to stop dragging their feet on Gypsy’s computer.