Hardly a moment passed without me thinking about Taylor Flanagan’s body being discovered. I had imagined numerous circumstances where I learned of the news, and I practiced my reaction for each one. I had the most practice with the scenario that involved Sasha and me finding out together while watching the evening news. In that situation, I played the role of consoler when Sasha’s emotions got the best of her. She would shed tears of anguish for little Taylor and also tears of relief that our children were safe.
Tending to a distraught wife gave me something to do. Grabbing tissues and offering pats on the back to Sasha along with soothing words was busywork that disguised my culpability in the crime and spared me from having to confront my guilt.
In my mind, I had practiced the different situations so often that I didn’t leave room for any other scenario, and I was taken completely off guard when I stopped in a 7-Eleven to pick up a Triple Cheese Pizza and a Blue Raspberry Slurpee for Zoe. I wanted to surprise her with her favorite snack—my way of making up for being so distant and preoccupied lately.
As I pulled the door open and heard the store’s doorbell chime, I felt kind of cheerful, a big change from the angst and worry that had been plaguing me for the past week. But the moment I stepped inside the store, my jovial mood vanished.
Standing in line at the register was none other than Heather Flanagan, holding a red basket filled with snacks.
Heather was the last person on Earth that I wanted to run into, and I reflexively stopped in my tracks. My uneasiness quickly built into full-blown panic, and I considered making backward steps out the door. But the thought of surveillance cameras capturing me as I avoided her, gave me a change of heart. Although it was a stretch to think that law enforcement would ever view the footage and question me about my motives for rushing out the door, I watched enough crime shows to know that you could never predict what the police would look at and consider as evidence during a murder investigation.
With my legs feeling like they’d turned to lead, I trudged over to the Slurpee machine. I hoped that no one was paying attention to me and noticing how badly I was sweating, but it seemed that everyone in the store had eyes on me. I was so self-conscious, I had to will my hand not to shake as I grabbed a cup and flipped the lever to dispense the fizzy beverage.
A sudden loud shriek, seemingly from hell, pierced the atmosphere. The sound was so disconcerting, I accidentally knocked over the cup, splashing blue sludge all over the counter, my hand, and the front of my pants. Jerking my head in the direction of the awful cry, I wished I could have instantly disappeared when I witnessed Heather Flanagan collapsed against the counter. The items she’d been holding in the red basket were scattered on the floor, along with her rhinestone-encased cell phone.
“No! No!” she repeated as she thrashed and flailed.
“What’s wrong, ma’am?” said the store clerk as he rushed from behind the counter and attempted to assist Heather.
“They found her! Oh, God! They found my baby’s body in a freakin’ cornfield,” she wailed.
“She said they found her daughter’s body. You know, the missing little girl,” another customer translated to the patrons that stood nearby, gawking.
“They found Taylor Flanagan, and she’s dead,” blurted a grinning teenager. He promptly held up his phone and began to record the devastated mother in the throes of grief, capturing what should have been a private moment, and no doubt uploading it to the Internet for the world to see.
The store was abuzz with activity and excitement as Heather’s wails reached a feverish pitch. Some jackass must have called the police because within minutes, two patrol cars sped into the parking lot.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that this would be the way that I learned that the body had finally been discovered. Sharing the same environment as the grieving mother at the exact moment when she was told that her daughter was dead was quite ironic. Many would say that it was poetic justice for me to have to endure the discomfort of viewing the pain that my son and I had caused.
Customers stepped aside when four uniformed officers rushed inside the store, their faces tense, hands near their weapons, as if a crime were in progress.
“Do you need us to escort you home, ma’am?” asked one of the officers as they approached the grief-stricken mother.
Heather’s face contorted in outrage. “No, I don’t need an escort. I need you assholes to find the bastard that murdered my child. Why the fuck are you wasting time in here? He’s out there somewhere, and you guys are bumbling around like Keystone Cops. I want justice! I want you to find him!”
In her hysteria, Heather shoved the cop closest to her, leaving the officers no choice but to arrest her for assaulting an officer.
The same teenaged boy that had filmed her meltdown, now began to film her arrest.
A few moments after she was hauled off in handcuffs, I sheepishly exited the store. Never had I felt more like a worthless piece of shit. My actions in covering up my son’s crime had caused additional emotional trauma to the mother of the murdered child.
• • •
Somehow I made it home. Miraculously, my car ended up parked in the driveway, yet I had no conscious memory of traveling the familiar route from the convenience store to my home. It was as if the car was on automatic pilot and brought me home without any assistance from me.
As I sat at the wheel wondering if I should mention to Sasha that I’d witnessed Heather Flanagan getting arrested inside the nearby 7-Eleven, the front door opened and Sasha hurried toward my car. She jiggled the handle of the passenger side, indicating that she wanted to get in. I didn’t have to ask what was wrong; I could tell by the distressed expression on her face that she’d also heard the news.
I hit the switch that unlocked that door, and she slid inside.
“They found the girl,” she said grimly.
“I know.” Showing respect for the situation, I spoke in a low voice that was barely above a whisper.
“We should talk to the kids together. We need to be a united front in assuring them that they’ll be safe as long as they adhere to the rules we’ve laid out.”
“Sasha, we’ve pounded those rules into their heads. If we go over them again, it’ll be overkill, and they’ll probably tune us out.”
“I don’t care if it’s overkill. Until the police catch the madman that’s responsible, you and I have to do everything in our power to protect the kids. If that means being repetitious, then so be it.”
“All right, Sasha,” I said wearily.
“Don’t patronize me, Malik,” she snapped.
“I’m not patronizing you; I’m agreeing with you.” There was so much on my mind, the last thing I wanted to do was get into an argument with Sasha.
“I’m agreeing, babe, that’s all,” I reassured her, squeezing her hand.
“Maybe I’m overreacting. I’ve been jumpy ever since I heard that they found the poor child in a cornfield. What kind of monster would discard a child’s body like it was trash?”
Wearing a miserable expression, I shook my head.
“The kids are in their rooms, doing homework. Let’s go inside and talk to them.” In an attempt to make up for snapping at me a few moments ago, I could tell that she was making an effort to speak in a calmer tone.
She caught a glimpse of my blue-stained crotch and wrinkled her forehead. “What happened?”
It was the perfect opportunity to tell her about seeing Heather Flanagan and witnessing her meltdown, but I choked back the words. “I bought that blue Slurpee that Zoe loves so much, but I spilled it on the way to the car.”
“Why didn’t you go back inside and get another one?”
I shrugged. “I was in a hurry to get home and change out of these wet pants.”
“Do you want to change before we speak to the kids?”
“Yes, for the sake of my dignity.” I affixed a weak smile to my face.
Inside the house, I raced up the stairs. Phoenix’s door was closed, but Zoe’s was wide open. She sat on her bed with a notebook and colored pencils spread out.
Holding one of the pencils in her hand, she looked up and smiled. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, sweetie. Your mother and I want to have a talk with you downstairs.”
“Right now? I’m in the middle of—”
“Yes, right now,” I said, cutting her off.
“Okay! God!” she whined.
As I walked to my bedroom, I could hear Zoe stomping down the stairs, making it clear that she didn’t appreciate being disturbed while in the middle of a homework project. My sweet Zo-Zo was slowly morphing into a disgruntled adolescent, and I didn’t like the transformation one bit.
With Zoe out of earshot, I had the opportunity to speak with Phoenix privately. Instead of changing my pants, I wheeled around and made purposeful strides toward his room. I softly rapped on the door and then entered.
He was sitting at his desk, wearing headphones while reading an ancient history textbook. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how he could comprehend what he was reading with music blasting in his ears.
He didn’t hear me knock, but sensing my presence, he looked up. Pulling the headphones away from his ears, he said, “Hey, Pops.” He eyed me curiously and said, “What’s that on your pants?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said brusquely. “Listen, the police found the body…” I paused, expecting a strong reaction from him, but he kept a straight face. “Sasha wants us sitting down as a family when she and I make the announcement. Afterward, we’ll reiterate the safety rules. You need to act surprised and somewhat bothered by what happened to the little girl. No inappropriate jokes and no wisecracks that trivialize the situation. Your lack of empathy will make you seem suspect. Do you understand?”
He gave me a cold stare. “Of course I understand. I get it,” he said with a hint of disdain.
With a frustrated sigh, I left his room and returned to mine. I changed out of the stained pants and put on a clean pair, and then went downstairs. I could only hope that Phoenix would be able to act the part of a person hearing shocking news for the first time.
Dreading the discussion with Sasha and the kids, I slowly descended the stairs. They were seated at the dining table drinking sun tea and munching on tamales and burritos. Apparently, Sasha wanted to soften the bad news with some of Arizona’s most popular snacks.
I joined my family at the table and slid a small plate in front of me and picked up a burrito from the serving tray. With my nerves badly on edge, I wasn’t the least bit hungry but wanted to give the impression that I was fine.
“Your father and I called you downstairs to discuss a new development in the Taylor Flanagan case,” Sasha began.
“Is she back home? Is she okay?” Zoe questioned with a glint of hope in her eyes.
I set the burrito on the plate in front of me and cleared my throat. “No, honey, she’s not home. Her body was found in a cornfield, not too far from here.”
Zoe scrunched up her features. “Her body?”
“That means she’s dead,” Phoenix offered in a monotone.
Sasha nodded. “She was murdered by her abductor.”
“How?” Zoe inquired in a shocked, high-pitched voice.
Nerves getting the best of me, I rubbed my palms circularly on my khakis, creating a rustling sound. “We don’t know all the details, yet. But, uh, someone killed her and until he’s found…”
“How do you know it’s a he?” Phoenix asked, feigning ignorance.
Being that the actual murderer was doing the questioning, I paused for a beat and ran a hand over my forehead before responding. “Uh, it could be a woman, but in most cases of child abduction and murder, the perpetrator is usually male,” I replied in a surprisingly steady voice.
“People are saying the mom did it,” Phoenix continued. “Do you think that’s true?”
Zoe gazed at Phoenix, her head tilted. “Who’s saying that Mrs. Flanagan did it? Why would a mother kill her own child?”
“That’s only a rumor,” Sasha interjected. “The police didn’t find any evidence that Mrs. Flanagan had any involvement.”
“They say she did it for the money,” Phoenix insisted.
“Let’s not perpetuate baseless rumors,” I said, giving Phoenix a stern look that told him to knock it off and pipe down, but he didn’t.
He held up his hands in bafflement. “Why do you guys want to shield Zoe from the facts? So far, Heather Flanagan and her boyfriend, Cory, are the only people the police have taken in for questioning.”
“And they were released,” I said bitterly while glaring at him.
He was taking the innocent act too far. I’d instructed him to act surprised, but I didn’t tell him to reignite the rumor about Heather Flanagan being responsible for her own child’s death. After witnessing her meltdown in the 7-Eleven, I felt terrible. She wanted the police to bring in the perpetrator, but I, feeling an innate sense of duty toward my son, was standing in the way of justice.
“We realize you children are tired of having the safety rules drilled into your heads, but we’d rather be safe than sorry during this terrible crisis,” Sasha said.
“We understand,” Phoenix responded, cueing Zoe with a head nod.
“Yeah, we understand, Mommy,” Zoe piped in.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, Sasha and I went over the safety rules we put in place, and both children listened with rapt attention, as if hearing them for the first time.