Page 19 of Paternal Instincts
“I am, but it gets exhausting lying around all day.” Nixon returned her to the couch, and Imogen didn’t protest.
The distressed man studied his wife as though trying to figure out what else he could do to alleviate her discomfort. She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m fine,” she said again, and I had a feeling she said those words a lot.
“W-we have to talk to the detectives.” Nixon wrung his hands, face crumpling.
“You shouldn’t have gone.”
“I had to. You know, I had to.”
Imogen Davis wore the same red-rimmed eyes as her husband. They shared a look I couldn’t read. I pegged the couple as in their early to mid-thirties. While Nixon’s face was permanently wet with tears, Imogen’s cheeks were dry. Their anguish and worry, however, were indistinguishable from one another.
Not everyone wore grief the same. I’d seen parents from every walk of life go through the tragedy of child abduction, and it always looked different. It was impossible to predict how someone might act under such astronomical strain.
Some managed to keep themselves in check. Imogen, despite her circumstances, struck me as the type. Others, like Nixon, were borderline inconsolable. Neither was wrong. Their pain was the same. They coped the only way they knew how. I was thankful for the balance. Otherwise, getting information might have been tough.
Imogen sat, and Nixon worried himself rearranging pillows again, ensuring his wife was comfortable. She endured the fuss without complaint as though submitting was the only solution. Chastising a doting husband for caring about her well-being seemed wrong, and Imogen must have realized how it looked to be so indignant.
Once the couple was settled, I motioned for Jordyn to go ahead and take the lead. This was a new type of case for her, and the only way to learn to swim in these murky waters was to dive in headfirst. My job would be note-taking and observing the couple for any reaction that seemed out of place or obscure. I would remain alert for signs of someone withholding information or outright lying. Like I toldJordyn in the car, someone knew more than they were letting on, and for the safety of the missing child, we needed to figure out who.
Jordyn handed me the iPad and repositioned her body to appear more at ease and approachable. Like me, my partner tended toward cold and intimidating if she wasn’t careful. It was a shared personality flaw we were both aware of, and we did our best to compensate when meeting with families.
“Mr. and Mrs. Davis, I’m going to cut right to the chase. Time is vitally important in a situation like this, so we can’t waste a single second. The fact that Crowley has been missing since Tuesday is a huge concern.”
Tears surfaced in Nixon’s eyes, and he wrung his hands, blubbering, “We should have come sooner. I wanted to.” Not once did he look at his wife. His entire focus was on Jordyn.
Imogen chewed her nails, worry lines creasing her forehead. She watched her husband but didn’t agree with his words or reach out to comfort him. Her distress seemed more internalized, but it was there. The strain of the situation could not be good for the baby, and the poor woman was already on bed rest, ordered to keep her stress down.
“For this reason,” Jordyn continued, “It is critically important that we gather as much information from you as fast as possible so we can put together a plan to hopefully recover your son. Local district police will be here soon to canvas the area. We’re also arranging a search party to cover the ground between here and the Soccerplex. Before they arrive, can you give us an idea of which way Crowley might have gone?”
I showed the couple a map of their neighborhood, blown up to encompass the streets between us and the Soccerplex. Nixon drew a line with his finger. “He probably took the shortcut. Here, behind Sundial Crescent, there’s a path. It leads over the train tracks and comes outbehind the Soccerplex building. It’s an eight– or ten-minute walk. Not even that.”
“Is this the typical route you would take?” I asked.
“If we were walking, yes. Always. Going around easily adds twenty minutes or more.”
“Imogen?” I angled the iPad so she could confirm the route.
Her features were drawn and pale, but she shook free from her daze when I presented her with the map. “Yes. I agree. It’s the quickest way. I doubt he would have taken the road.”
I nodded at Jordyn to carry on.
“We need to make a list of family and friends. Imogen, we’ve already spoken to your husband and learned about the conflict between him and his work partner. We’ve also learned about the recent dismissal of your nanny. I want to come back to these people and ask more specific questions, but for now, I’d like to get a feel for your family dynamic. Nixon shared about some discord between his parents and yourself.”
“What?” Imogen’s look of betrayal made her husband shrink.
“It’s true, Genie. You and my dad don’t get along.”
Shaking her head, forehead creased, she pleaded with my partner. “It’s not like that. We’re perfectly civil with one another, and it’s no worse than your relationship with my mother,” she snapped at her husband.
“I know. I told them—”
I held up a staying hand. “Hold on. Let’s back up. Names. Addresses. Occupations. Everything. Then we’ll break it down further.” I motioned for Nixon to go first.
Nixon nodded like his head was a bobble, moving of its own accord. “Um… My father is Benedict Davis. My mother is Bess. They’re both retired. No, wait. Dad owns twenty percent shares in my company, so he pops into the office from time to time, but he doesn’tdo much. I think he likes to show his face and pretend he’s important. He’s a retired lawyer. Mom’s a retired schoolteacher. They live near Woodbine Gardens. Um… I don’t know what else you need.”
“How often do you see them?”
“Regularly, I guess. Every couple of weeks. Mostly I go visit them with the kids. They don’t come here often.”
