Rufus wheeled his cart along the main road, deeper into the town.
Past sleeping car lots.
Abandoned big box stores.
A town that had moved on.
And left many behind, Rufus thought.
He glanced back at the cart, at the empty milk carton nestled within, at Michael Ridenour’s eyes.
Stay safe, his last words to the kid.
They repeated with every footfall.
* * *
At the police station, he pulled the cart into a space between two cruisers.
Mind if I park here? he thought, smiling.
As he walked towards the building, he paused, looked up and down the street, the town beginning to get into its normal flow.
He stood for a moment, guitar on his back, milk carton in hand.
The police station was on the corner of Wilson and Main, its windows looking out over downtown. These brick buildings had seen long years and many winters, flaking here and there, stucco patched and filled, left unfixed elsewhere. And in amongst, more contemporary, modern structures; lego-block buildings filling the gaps between architecture of another age.
Shops, bars, coffee shops; commercial shroud blanketing small-town neglect. Walk-Don’t Walk signals flashing at crossings. The obligatory Subway on the far corner.
Pawn shops.
Porn stores.
Tattoo houses.
Normality reigned.
People moved along Main, in cars, on bikes, on foot. Some talking with each other, most toeing isolation paths.
Like the guy in the pickup, Rufus thought, neither smile, nor will to share.
“Good morning, Anywhereville,” he whispered, before turning back to the police station, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
* * *
Rufus walked up to the reception window, unmanned at this time of morning. Behind the desk, a door; closed of course. There was a doorbell button on the wood frame:
Buzz for attention
He shrugged his guitar case off his shoulders, set it to lean on one of the wooden chairs to the side of the desk, and pressed the buzzer.
Far off, quiet, electronic noise. Not a ring, nor a buzz. Almost like tuned static. Rufus winced at the sound; something ugly, something not right in the tone, a frequency that felt like it pierced his ear-drum.
So quiet, he thought, but…
His finger came off the button and the noise ceased, bringing him relief that was almost tangible.
Weird.
He stepped back, hoping that he wouldn’t have to use the buzzer again.
After a moment, the door opened and a woman stepped up to the window. She looked to be in her fifties, hair dyed auburn but showing streaks of grey.
“Good morning,” she said, eyes twinkling as she smiled at Rufus, “sorry to keep you waiting.”
Rufus couldn’t help but return the smile.
“No problem,” he said.
The woman paused, looked at him, looked at the desk, looked down at herself, patted her chest lightly.
“Now where did I…” she said lost in thought.
She scanned the desk, gaze flitting like a butterfly. Rufus found himself tracking her attention as it flickered across the desk; the smile wouldn’t leave his lips.
Finally, she looked off to her left, at a filing cabinet under the window.
“Ah,” she said, “of course!”
And, with the energy of a small triumph, she opened the top drawer of the cabinet, reached in.
“Got it!” she cheered.
Turning back to face Rufus, she placed a placard on the desk:
Dolores M. Wilson
Receptionist
And pinned a badge to her blouse:
Dolly
Rufus laughed out loud.
“Well, hello Dolly,” he said.
Dolly laughed right along with him.
“Guess it’s not the first time you’ve heard that, right?” Rufus asked.
“Sure,” she said, “but, somehow, it never gets old.”
She nodded at the guitar.
“Sure you don’t want to sing it this time?”
Rufus shook his head.
“Nah,” he said, “not my scene.”
“Youngsters,” Dolly sighed dramatically.
Rufus shrugged, smiled, and they fell quiet for an easy moment.
“Anyway,” Dolly eventually said, “what can I do for you this fine morning?”
“Well, I was just having breakfast,” Rufus began, putting the milk carton on the counter, “and I saw this.”
He tapped the picture of Michael Ridenour.
“Missing kids,” Dolly nodded, “sad.”
“I saw him,” Rufus continued, “thought I should tell someone, just in case…”
Dolly looked him in the eyes, smiled rueful understanding.
“Of course,” she said, “when did you see him?”
“Three or four weeks ago,” Rufus thought, then tapped the ‘Last Seen’ date on the milk carton, “but it was after this, about a week or so.”
Dolly nodded.
“Oh,” she said, “okay. Let’s get you in to see someone. Why don’t you go on and take a seat, I’ll be right back.”
She left him alone in the reception, staring at the door, at the buzzer that had surprised him so.
Rufus sat down by the side of his guitar.
As he looked up at the reception window, Michael Ridenour’s eyes stared back down at him from the milk carton.
Dolly returned after a couple of minutes, and Rufus stood to greet her.
“Okay,” she said, pulling a ledger across the desk, “let’s get you signed in.”
* * *
Dolly led him along a featureless hallway, all concrete blocks painted utilitarian grey. Each door they passed was closed, and any sound from within was muffled, dialled back to little more than whispers.
Rufus didn’t know what he’d expected. This was his first time inside a police station, and any presumptions he’d made came from television or film. This could have been a factory, a public school, a warehouse. It stretched on, grey upon grey.
Finally, they arrived at an open door, above it:
Interview 1
Dolly gestured for him to enter and Rufus stepped through the door.
Now this… This was a scene from a movie. A table, two chairs; mirror lining the wall.
He turned to Dolly, who had remained in the corridor on the other side of the doorway.
“Really?” he asked.
Dolly shrugged, smiled.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said.
Rufus almost asked her if she was sure.
Then, all of a sudden, he realized he’d left his guitar back in the reception.
“No!” he blurted out, panicking slightly.
“What?” Dolly asked.
“My guitar,” he said, “I left it behind.”
The greyness of the room pressed in on him; the weight of his preconceptions, of movie scenes and television interrogations. And his guitar was back there, back down that long, grey, featureless corridor.
“I need to get it!” he yelled, feeling the panic take him and unable to stop.
Dolly stood and watched him, taking his outburst in her stride.
Rufus took a step towards the doorway.
“Shhh,” Dolly soothed, “it’ll be fine. I’ll look after it.”
“But…” Rufus continued.
A shadow fell on the wall behind Dolly and a uniformed officer stepped into view, standing at ease behind the receptionist.
“I have it, Ms. Wilson,” he said in a calm, neutral voice.
Dolly glanced back at the officer, nodded, turned back to Rufus.
Smiled.
“I’ll look after everything,” she said.
She turned and walked back down the corridor towards reception.
The uniformed officer stepped into the room and the door closed automatically behind him. There was a near-silent buzzing noise from the latch, and then the click of the door locking.
Rufus eyed the officer.
“What is this?” he asked.
The officer walked forward, brought his arms out from behind his back, and placed the milk carton on the table.
“Sit,” he instructed, “and tell me what you know of this boy.”
Rufus looked at the chairs, opted for the one facing the mirror, and sat down.
The officer stepped around the other chair and sat, his back straight, and chin level. The overhead lights cast his face in bas relief, and Rufus was reminded of a freakshow mask; eyebrows too prominent, nose protruding, and something about the mouth, a thin line that didn’t quite work.
“Go ahead,” the officer spoke, and Rufus noted the red movement of his tongue within that freakshow mask.
“Aren’t you going to take notes?” Rufus asked.
The officer gave an almost imperceptible glance to the mirror, then shook his head.
Rufus felt the pit of his stomach fall a little; flutterings of panic not unlike the sensation he’d experienced when he’d hit the doorbell button in reception.
“Do I…” he began, “do I need a lawyer?”
Another negation.
“No. Go ahead.”
“Well,” Rufus said, imagining a tape recorder and video-camera whirring behind the two-way mirror, “it was a few weeks ago, I was playing…”
* * *
As Rufus spoke, the officer moved only slightly, enough maybe to draw breath, but little else. The expression on his face remained unchanged; those thin sliver lips.
Rufus laid it all out. The gig, the low take, the boy afterwards, the discussion of whether he had somewhere safe to go… All of it.
“I didn’t find a police officer that night,” he half-lied, “and, well, you know… time passed, and I moved on. Then I saw the milk carton this morning and I came straight here.”
The officer’s eyes flicked slightly at mention of the milk carton, a quick glance at the item in question, off to one side of the table.
Stillness and silence claimed the room.
The officer didn’t move.
Eventually, Rufus blurted out his frustration, panic and fear.
“Well?”
The officer’s lips moved into what some might consider a smile; Rufus felt little humour reflected in that twitch.
“Well?” the officer replayed.
“Well, er…” Rufus blustered, unsure of himself, of this whole crazy interview, “aren’t you going to ask me any questions?”
“Questions?”
Rufus felt the blood rushing to his face.
“Yes! That’s what you’re meant to do, isn’t it?” He gripped the edge of the table, stared at the officer’s cold blue eyes.
“What would you like me to ask?”
“Huh?”
“What question would you like me to ask?”
“I don’t know… I…”
“Have you told me everything?”
“Of course! But that doesn’t…”
“What question would you like me to ask?”
“Well… How about… about… How was the kid? Had he been beaten up? Any bruises, or…”
Rufus stopped, the officer was registering no response to any of his outburst. Now, the officer leant forward slightly, and Rufus felt his whole body tense in readiness.
The officer spoke quietly.
“How was the kid? Had he been beaten up? Any bruises?”
Rufus sat silent.
What the hell is this? he thought.
“No, nothing that… that I could see. He looked dirty, like he’d been on the streets for a while, but… No. Nothing.”
“Then I didn’t need to ask the question,” the officer retorted.
“What is this?” Rufus yelled.
“What is what?” the officer said calmly.
“This!” Rufus continued, frustration hitting boiling point. He jumped to his feet, strode to the mirror, leaned his forehead against the cool glass, cupped his hands around his eyes; he could see nothing beyond the mirror, the room beyond was pitch black.
“You have told me everything you know,” the officer spoke from behind him, “and I have registered your comments.”
“Registered my comments?” Rufus said, turning from the mirror. “Registered my comments?”
That slight smile appeared again for a moment; little more than an alteration in the angle of the slash his mouth made across the officer’s face.
“You have informed me that you saw Michael Ridenour outside a coffee shop a week after he was reported missing, that you gave him the thirty-nine dollars and change you had earned as a traveling musician, before leaving him behind at the mercy of the city. Subsequently, you avoided contacting a police officer to inform him of Michael Ridenour’s presence at the coffee bar.”
“Wait,” Rufus interrupted, “I didn’t avoid anything! I…”
“Finally, you have been travelling since that evening and it was only this morning, at a local diner, when you saw Michael Ridenour’s photograph on a milk carton, that you remembered your intention to inform the authorities of the presence of the boy.”
“I…”
“This interview is complete,” the officer said, standing to his feet.
His face became even more distorted as his head ascended towards the lights. It looked like it was dripping, melting, the angles of the skull shifting beneath the surface of his skin.
Rufus breathed deep, fighting to calm himself.
“Finished?” he asked.
“Yes,” the officer nodded, causing stark shadows to ripple across his face.
“But… Don’t you want to get more details. More…”
“Have I restated your description of your experiences accurately?”
“Sure, but…”
“Then the interview is complete.”
“But what about the kid?” Rufus couldn’t believe what was happening.
The officer gave another of those quick glances to the mirror before fixing Rufus with a direct stare.
“Children go missing,” the officer said.
“You don’t say!” Rufus shouted, throwing his hands in the air.
“Nearly eight hundred thousand children younger than eighteen are reported missing each year, or an average of two thousand one hundred and eighty five children reported missing each day,” the officer continued, staring at Rufus.
Who was very scared by the numbness he saw in those eyes.
“Of those children, more than two hundred thousand are abducted by family members, while more than fifty eight thousand are abducted by non-family members.”
“But…”
“Finally, one hundred and fifteen children will be victims of ‘stereotypical’ kidnapping. These crimes involve someone the child does not know, or a slight acquaintance, who holds the child overnight, transports the child fifty miles or more, kills the child, demands ransom, or intends to keep the child permanently.”
The officer rested, and silence stretched between them.
Rufus really didn’t know what to say; confused, frustrated, scared.
“Can I go?” he asked.
Another slight adjustment to the officer’s lips.
“Sure.”
A nod to the door.
Rufus stood still for a moment, every part of his rational being screaming at him to get out, just get out now.
“I can go?” he said.
“Sure.”
And with that, Rufus walked to the door , fully expecting the officer’s hand to fall on his shoulder at any moment.
His hand fell on the door handle and he looked back over his shoulder.
“Wait,” he said, “the door’s luh…”
The locking mechanism buzzed and he heard, and felt, the deadbolt pulling back within. When he pulled, the door came freely towards him.
Rufus glanced back one more time.
The officer hadn’t moved, still stood watching Rufus.
“Turn right, follow the hallway,” he said.
“Yeah,” Rufus said, “I know the way.”
And he went, walking smoothly and quickly down the hallway past all those closed doors, back towards reception.
When he stepped back through the door, he found the office and waiting area empty, no sign of Dolly in either.
He grabbed his guitar from where it rested on the seat and got out of the police station as quickly as he could.
RUFUS – A NOVEL is a novel-in-progress by Vincent Tuckwood, a Brit author living and working in Waterford, Connecticut, USA. Read more by Vincent Tuckwood.
