What Janie Saw. Pamela Tracy
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Nathan didn’t even notice them drive by. He was pacing while looking at a clipboard, talking on the phone and giving orders to a patrol officer.
Multitasking, getting things done. Nathan was doing it. Rafe, too. It was an exhilarating feeling, chasing down a lead, especially one on a case that was personal. It was also bittersweet. His grandfather had been a cop. His father hadn’t wanted to become one but had, all because of a missing child.
Rafe’s brother.
Rafe had long ago given up the hunt for Ramon. It had been thirty-six years, after all, and Rafe knew how to shove the memories aside, not that there were many. And today, the memories would only distract him from what he had to do.
The Chaneys’ restored two-story home was just a mile into Adobe Hills and in an established neighborhood. A basketball hoop stood guard over the driveway, and a swing sat on the porch.
It looked a lot like the house he’d grown up in.
As soon as Janie pulled up behind him, parked and joined him, Rafe headed toward the porch and rang the bell. It was Mrs. Chaney who answered. Her hair was wild, as though it hadn’t been combed in a week. Her yellow-and-red-striped T-shirt was on inside out and didn’t go with her orange pants. Her green eyes were watery and bloodshot. She kept dabbing at them with a Kleenex. Judging by the lines on her face, she was about the same age as Rafe’s mother.
Rafe wondered what she’d looked like last week—before her youngest son’s death.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Rafe said. “This is Janie Vincent, she was—”
“Derek’s teacher.” She held out a trembling hand, and Rafe was glad he’d followed his instincts to bring her.
“He talked a lot about you. I’m Judy Chaney.”
“Derek was a talented artist,” Janie murmured, shaking Judy’s hand.
Mrs. Chaney held the door open so they could walk into the living room. “We’re so glad you called, Sheriff. We’re desperate to know what’s going on and how we can help. This shouldn’t have happened.”
She didn’t invite them to sit but seemed content to let them peruse their surroundings. The couch looked comfortable, inviting and well-used. A television dominated the room. There were two bookcases cluttered with books, knickknacks and photos. Above the fireplace were three portraits. The middle showed a family: mom, dad, two boys.
Derek’s father was another tall blond.
Flanking the family portrait were high-school graduation photos. The one on the left showed a craggy blond-haired young man with a crooked grin and kind eyes. The one on the left showed Derek, black-haired, no grin and guarded eyes. On the fireplace mantel was a basket full of sympathy cards.
“We received twenty-two in the mail today.” Mr. Chaney entered the room from the kitchen. “Twenty-two.” His voice caught, and he faltered for a moment. “My wife’s only been able to open six.”
Rafe cleared his throat. Five years ago, when his father had died, they’d been inundated with cards. Rafe’s mother cried over every one.
“They’re from my friends at work,” Mrs. Chaney said.
“Mine, too,” Mr. Chaney added.
Mrs. Chaney added, “Some are also from family.”
Rafe waited. He wasn’t getting the we-received-so-many-cards report because the family felt the need to talk. Both parents were looking at the card basket as if it were an enemy.
“We didn’t get a single card or phone call from any of Derek’s friends,” Mr. Chaney said. “Not one. Or even from the parent of a friend. My wife noticed that first.”
“Of course, it’s early. Kids tend to take a little prodding. They assume they have all the time...”
Her words faded, and Rafe quickly inserted, “It’s early yet.”
“We received a few from our neighbors, and even from Derek’s past teachers,” Mr. Chaney said, “but, they were so generic—‘Sorry for your loss. Please know you’re in our prayers.’ Nothing personal.”
Rafe almost said that it had only been a couple of days and that they’d be receiving cards for months yet. Instead, he asked, “Why does this surprise you?”
“Used to be, he was surrounded by friends, kids who laughed, kids who would talk to us. I’m so mad at myself. We could sense something was going on.”
“How well do you know the friends he has now?” Rafe continued examining the portraits.
“For the last two years, not well at all.” The Chaneys looked at each other. Two people, one emotion: regret.
Mr. Chaney went first. “We mentioned this to the officer who came to notify us about finding Der—” His voice cracked. “About finding Derek’s body.”
Mrs. Chaney joined in. “We didn’t like any of Derek’s current friends. He’s been in and out of trouble lately, serious trouble, with them. They weren’t the kind to knock on the door and be respectful. They honked and Derek ran. The few times one of his friends came in, well, let’s just say his new friends didn’t bother to curb their language, hide their cigarettes, or even clean up after themselves.”
Rafe definitely wanted to show them photos of the four kids Janie had picked out. Tommy especially.
“We talked to him, gave him a curfew,” Mr. Chaney said. “We did what we could. We monitored his computer, found nothing. Whenever we could get our hands on his phone, we went through his text messages. There weren’t many. Two years ago, he kept everything. The last three months, it was obvious that he erased his messages as soon as he read them.”
Savvy kid, Rafe thought.
“But he’s almost nineteen, legal age. Outside of kicking him out, what could we do?” Mrs. Chaney sounded more like she was talking to herself than to them.
“Jimmy, our oldest boy,” Mr. Chaney said, taking over, “was worried too. He came home from his job in California at least once a month so we could do something as a family over the weekend. We’d hoped things were changing. Last year, for a while, it was like we had the old Derek back. Then, at the beginning of fall semester, it all went wrong again. He started staying out all night, missing school, taking money without permission.”
The Chaneys were doing what most parents did in this type of situation—not so much trying to convince Rafe that they were caring parents, but trying to assure themselves.
“Derek had so much potential,” Janie said. “His art was riveting, daring. I could see the artist he could be. If there’d only been more time.”
Mrs. Chaney nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
“Would Jimmy possibly know who Derek was hanging around with?” Rafe pressed.
“We asked him. He gave us two or three names, but they were kids Derek had hung around with before leaving high school.” Mrs. Chaney shot her husband a guarded look. Rafe waited.
“Jimmy and Derek didn’t spend much time together,” Mrs. Chaney admitted, “unless we were doing family things.”
“Why is that?” Rafe asked.
“There’s a ten-year difference in their ages,” Mr. Chaney said. “And we adopted Derek. He’s my brother’s son. By the time the boys got comfortable with each other, Jimmy was heading off to college.”
“Jimmy’s going to be a doctor,” Judy added. “He has little tolerance for anyone he suspects of dabbling in drugs.”
Rafe wanted to jump on that comment, but the kid had just died in a meth explosion. He could read about Derek and drugs in Nathan’s report without putting the Chaneys through more grief.
“What were the circumstances of the