Desiree walks across her office foyer, passing a woman who is about her age, well dressed, pretty, busy. She is someone who probably has plans for the weekend. Perhaps she will see a movie with her boyfriend or have a drink with a girlfriend. Desiree has no such arrangements, which should depress her more than it does.
Somebody has taped a newspaper clipping on a whiteboard near the watercooler—a photograph taken outside Star City Inn. Desiree is visible, two feet shorter than the detective standing next to her, pointing at something on the second floor. The speech bubble says: “It’s de plane, boss! It’s de plane!”
Desiree doesn’t tear the clipping down. Let them have their fun. She’s not supposed to be in the office, but she knows that Senogles left an hour ago and she doubts anyone else cares whether she recuperates at home or at her desk.
Her phone is ringing.
“Is this Special Agent Furness?”
“Who’s calling?”
“You probably don’t remember me. We talked at Three Rivers prison. You wanted to know about Audie Palmer.”
Desiree frowns and looks at the caller ID number. “I remember you, Mr. Webster. Do you have some information about Audie?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think I do.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“I think he might be innocent of that robbery they said he done.”
Desiree sighs internally. “And what has led you to this startling conclusion?”
“That boy he kidnapped. I think he belonged to the woman who died in the robbery—the one they never identified.”
“What?”
“I think she had a kid with her. Don’t ask me why he wasn’t in the car when it got hit. Maybe he got thrown clear. He didn’t get found until a few days later.”
“How do you know this?”
“I just talked to the man who found him.”
“On the phone?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He came to the prison?”
“I’m not in prison anymore.”
“You had a life sentence!”
“They let me go.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know their names. They said that if I found Audie Palmer, they’d get my sentence commuted, but I think they were lying to me. I think they’re going to kill Audie and they’re gonna kill me for talking to you.”
Desiree is still getting her head around the fact that Moss Webster isn’t in prison.
“Wait! Wait! Go back!”
“I’m gonna run out of spare change real soon,” says Moss. “You gotta listen to me. The man I spoke to said a deputy told him to lie about where he found the boy. The police said it was miles away, but it was just near the shootings.”
“Go back to the beginning—who let you out of prison?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see these men?”
“I had a hood over my head. They’re gonna say I escaped, ma’am, but I didn’t. They let me go.”
“You got to come in, Moss. I can help you.”
Moss sounds on the verge of tears. “Audie is the one who needs help. He deserves it. I’m going back to prison regardless, if I live that long. I wish I’d never become friends with Audie. I wish I could help him now.”
There is a beeping sound on the line.
“I’m outta change,” says Moss. “Remember what I said about the boy.”
“Moss? Give yourself up. Take down my cell phone.” She yells the number but doesn’t know if he heard the last digits before they’re cut off and the line goes dead.
She contacts the switchboard and asks if the call can be traced. The operator comes back with a location: a pay phone at a supermarket in Conroe. By then Desiree has managed to get Chief Warden Sparkes on the phone from Three Rivers prison.
“Moss Webster was transferred out two days after Audie Palmer’s escape,” he says.
“Why?”
“They don’t always tell us why. Prisoners are moved around all the time. Could be operational or on compassionate grounds.”
“Somebody must have approved this,” says Desiree.
“You’ll have to talk to Washington.”
An hour later—having made a dozen calls—Desiree is still on the phone. “This is horseshit!” she yells, berating a junior staffer at the Bureau of Federal Prisons, who must regret having returned her call. “Why was Moss Webster transferred from a high-security federal prison to a holiday camp in Brazoria County?”
“With all due respect, Special Agent, the Darrington Unit is a prison farm, not a holiday camp.”
“He is a convicted killer serving a life sentence.”
“I can only tell you what I have in front of me.”
“And what’s that?”
“Webster used a homemade knife to threaten and disarm a U.S. marshal during a rest stop at a Dairy Queen in West Columbia. The marshal was unharmed in the escape. State police have been informed.”
“Who authorized the transfer?”
“I don’t have that information.”
“Why wasn’t the FBI notified of his escape?”
“It’s in the system.”
“I want to see statements from the marshal and any other witnesses. I want to know why he was being transferred. I want to know who gave approval.”
“I’ve made a note for the director. I’m sure he’ll look at it first thing Monday morning.”
Desiree can hear the sarcasm in the bureaucrat’s voice. She slams down the phone and considers hurling it across the room, but that’s something a man would do and she’s sick of men.
Instead she goes back over what Moss told her. Logging into her computer, she calls up information on missing children.
Do you have any idea, Mr. Webster, how many children go missing every year in Texas?
She narrows the search to Dreyfus County in January 2004 and comes across a story in the Houston Chronicle:
A small boy dressed as a cowboy was found beside Burnt Creek Reservoir in Dreyfus County on Monday, showing signs of having spent all night in the wild, police say.
Aged between three and four, the child was discovered by Theo McAllister and his dog Buster on the eastern edge of the reservoir.
“We were just walking along the track and Buster found this bundle of rags under a bush. I got closer and realized it was a little boy,” Mr. McAllister said. “He was a hungry little hero so I gave him some food. When I couldn’t find his mama, I called the police.”
The boy was taken to St. Francis Hospital where doctors said he was dehydrated, cold, and suffering scratches and bruises, indicating he had spent the night outdoors.
Deputy Ryan Valdez said: “The boy is clearly traumatized and hasn’t been able to talk to us yet. Our first priority is to find his mother and to provide whatever support she needs.”
Desiree calls up a map. Burnt Creek Reservoir is almost two miles from where the shooting took place. According to the timeline, the boy was found three days later. There’s nothing to link the two events except for Ryan Valdez…and Moss Webster’s phone call.
Almost a week later a second story appeared in the Chronicle.
State and federal authorities have stepped up efforts to solve the mystery of a young boy wearing a cowboy hat found wandering near Burnt Creek Reservoir in Dreyfus County last Monday.
The boy, aged about four, is described as being olive skinned with brown eyes, dark hair, 35 inches tall, weighing 33 pounds. He was found wearing blue elastic-waist jeans, a cotton shirt, and a cowboy hat.
Authorities are now utilizing the FBI’s NCIC system along with the National and Missing Unidentified Persons System (NamUs) in the hope of locating the boy’s parents or guardians.
Deputy Sheriff Ryan Valdez is heading the investigation. “It’s been difficult because the boy hasn’t uttered a word. We figure he doesn’t speak English or he could be traumatized. For the moment we’re calling him Buster after the dog that found him.”
Desiree puts in a call to the Department of Family and Protective Services in Dreyfus County. She has to explain herself three times before she’s put through to a caseworker who has been with the department since 2004.
“Make it quick, I’m busy,” the woman says, standing on a noisy street. “I got four police officers with me and we got to rescue a kid from crackhead central.”
Desiree talks in shorthand. “January 2004—a boy, aged about three or four, was found wandering alone near a reservoir in Dreyfus County. Whatever happened to him?”
“You mean Buster?”
“Yeah.”
She yells at someone to wait. “Yeah, yeah, I remember that one. Odd case. Kid never said a word.”
“Did you find kin?”
“Nope.”
“So what happened?”
“He was fostered.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not supposed to give out details like that.”
“I understand. I tell you what. I’ll put a proposition to you—if I’m wrong, you hang up. If I’m right, you stay on the line.”
“I might hang up anyway.”
“The boy was fostered by a deputy sheriff and his wife. I think they later adopted him.”
There is a long pause. Desiree can hear her breathing.
“I think that’s long enough,” the woman says.
“Thank you.”