Finding Graciela, Part One

A science fiction short story from The Lewis Town Chronicles.

I’m a cop with blood on my hands. Nobody in Lewis Town knows as best I can tell. Detroit PD played it by the book, kept my name out of the news, even though citizens were clamoring for retribution. Shoot a twelve-year-old, no matter the circumstances, and people want you to pay — some with your life. Nobody cared that he had a real gun, or that he fired it through the front door of a burned-out drug den, or that he had been dealing through that same dingy door and I didn’t know his age.

The end result was twenty years with the department, three mayoral commendations and one early retirement. I couldn’t stay away from the job, though. My therapist said to try for the sake of my mental health and my struggling marriage; go be a greeter at Walmart instead. I said I would if she gave me a discounted session rate. She didn’t think that was funny. Two days later I applied to become the new Lewis Town Police Chief.

An unincorporated community in Michigan like Lewis Town typically relied on the county sheriff or state police to handle law enforcement. Economic incentives, a renewal of interest in off-grid living, DNR initiatives to restock the lakes, low housing costs and a host of other reasons caused a resurgence in the area. With a spike in population came an increased need for crowd control, or a good dose of security theater so the locals could feel at peace.

They must have been hard up for candidates willing to accept the budgeted salary, nearly half of my pay with Detroit PD. It only took one interview with the governing township supervisor, who called my commanding officer, liked what he heard and recommended me to the board. Within less than a month, my wife Melissa and I moved five hours up north. We both assumed this would be our peaceful transition into a lazy retirement. I wish that had been true.

As I patrolled Main Street during the crowded 32nd Annual Lewis Town Lumber Fest, I worried someone would pop out from the shadows and call me a child killer. Even though Mel and I weren’t anywhere near the city it didn’t put me at ease. We could drive to Florida, and the guilt would hitch a ride the whole way, attaching itself to the faces of every beachgoer leering in my general direction. I hoped for better days, but hope is not a solution — it only gets you up out of bed in the morning so you can find one.

All around families were enjoying a slice of the entertainment organized by the chamber. A rock wall had been temporarily constructed, where a middle school boy scaled up with ease. On the opposite side a middle-aged man past his prime struggled to traverse the first set of obstacles, causing laughter from a few of his friends when his pants slipped down too low. Bouncy houses dotted the closed off street, carnival games elicited excited cheers and the smell from food vendors wafted through the main corridor.

People lounged about in the adjacent central park, where a child’s rubber bouncy ball rolled out from and over to my feet. I picked it up and turned to see a little girl in a sundress, age five or six, staring at the ball in my hands with shy, forlorn eyes. The uniform made her nervous, but even if it didn’t, approaching a stranger with an innocent request would be a daunting enterprise for any child her age.

“Hi, sweetie, is this your ball?” I asked. She nodded ‘yes’, and I walked toward her, not realizing how intimidating that would seem. She quickly turned and ran back into the protective arms of a man I assumed to be her father. He lounged with a picturesque family on a picnic blanket, enjoying the late afternoon cool down as the sun dipped toward the horizon. A woman near him coddled a fussy baby, trying to entice it with an assortment of toys. The man stood up and walked over hand-in-hand with the girl as I approached.

“See, Isabelle, it’s just our new police chief. Nothing to be afraid of,” the man said loud enough for my benefit.

“Isabelle, what a pretty name. Here’s your ball back,” I said, crouching low. She took it gently and with the quietest whisper of innocence, said, “Thank you,” before running back to her mother with a skip in her step. These encounters made me wish Mel and I had kids. With my duty-bound occupation she could never bring herself to commit, one more crack in the facade of our perfect relationship.

“Chief Matthews, I’m Paul Sutton, nice to meet you,” the man said. “That there is my wife Kristen and baby boy, Jack. You already met my daughter, Isabelle.”

“You can call me Tim. Sutton of Sutton’s Hardware?” I asked, shaking his hand.

“That would be me,” Paul said.

“I’ve been meaning to walk the downtown during the day and talk to the shop owners, get a feel if I can be of service. I’ll try to stop in next week. You can fill me in on all of the gossip,” I said.

“There’s plenty of that to go around in a place this small, although it tends to take on a… I guess you could call it a paranormal flavor, if you can believe that.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the statement. I’d read local legends of Dogman and Bigfoot, or Aurora Borealis being mistaken for alien visitors, but nobody mentioned those with any measure of seriousness. The hesitation in Paul’s voice indicated the same reasonable assessment.

“That should keep me on my toes,” was all I could offer.

“Give it enough time and you’re sure to hear a couple odd stories. My family has been coming up here for decades, which is why I decided to buy the hardware store. It’s a different pace of life, I guess, but we get excitable occasionally with our share of mysterious lights in the night sky,” Paul said.

I needed to make my presence known elsewhere, ensuring the evening stayed quiet and without incident, but I didn’t want to leave Paul with the impression I now considered him the local conspiracy nut. An elderly woman spared me the embarrassment when she approached, speaking Spanish, frantically waving her arms. The four years I took in college didn’t hold water anymore, but I did understand the words house and granddaughter. Another man jogged over and comforted her with words I couldn’t understand.

“My name is Javier Gonzalez. This is my Aunt Rosa. She says her granddaughter, my niece Graciela, is missing. Rosa says some of the kids gave Graciela a dare of some sort, so she sneaked out,” Javier said.

“Javier, how old is your niece?” I asked.

“She’s only eleven. One of the neighbor boys says she was persuaded by a few teens to visit an abandoned cabin. It’s been difficult for Graciela making new friends. We’re new to the area and reception has been mixed. We’re all documented citizens,” Javier said.

My blood pressure ratcheted up a notch. Many vacationers with second homes lined the lakes, cabins used mostly in the spring and summer months. While people in the area like them were kind souls, city folks looking to escape the urban jungle prison, some locals wanted to uphold the town’s roots. They didn’t like outsiders and weren’t shy about expressing uninvited sentiment to anyone who would listen. It sounded as if Javier already had at least one bad experience.

“You don’t worry about that, Mr. Gonzalez. My goal is to help you find your daughter. Do you know the location of the cabin?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, I was only given the family name. It sounded German,” Javier said.

“Was it Baumgartner?” Paul asked.

“Yes, that was it!” Javier exclaimed.

“You’re familiar with it?” I asked Paul.

“The Lewis and Baumgartner families were the first to settle the area. The cabin is the oldest in these parts, but it’s in disrepair. Actually, it’s owned now by a private real estate investor and sits behind a fence bordering North Twin Lake — right off the corner of Shoreline Road East and North Territorial Road. Kids find a way past it.”

“You got a number for the investor?”

“Good luck with that. We’ve been trying to figure out who owns that land for years. Public records indicate a shell corporation of some sort. It’s Lewis Town territory, though, within the jurisdiction. Although, I suppose the whole township is your jurisdiction now.”

I assured Javier, who then assured Rosa. If Graciela found her way onto the Baumbartner residence, then I would bring her back safely. What I didn’t say is she probably left to meet up with a secret crush elsewhere, or wanted to run away from troubles she didn’t feel comfortable sharing with her uncle or grandmother. If the girl didn’t show up on her own, the next step would be a series of phone calls, interviews and late-night house calls. The worst case would be a call to the state troopers in the morning to file a missing person.

Javier emailed me a picture of Graciela with personal details and contact information. We said our goodbyes, I thanked Paul for the additional context and walked to my cruiser. After stepping inside with a little privacy, I knew I had one phone call I had to make next. Mel would be anxiously awaiting my arrival.

“Well, if it isn’t the newly appointed police chief. The same one who should already be walking through the front door,” Mel said.

“About that. A girl has gone missing. I need to poke around a bit,” I said.

“You’ve got two officers on duty. Can’t you delegate?” Mel asked.

“Dean is out sick, and Patrick is still patrolling Lumber Fest. The fireworks start soon. I need his presence there once the crowds disperse.”

“I need your presence here.”

“This is good for me. You know that.”

“No good deed, big or small, will bring that boy back.”

She knew how to stoke the fire. I breathed deep and tried to stay calm.

“I’ll call you soon. Love you,” I said.

A pause, too long, passed between us.

“Love you,” Mel said and disconnected.

I was about to pull away when Paul approached the vehicle. He waved and signaled for me to roll down the window.

“Hey, Paul, everything okay?” I asked.

“Sure, Tim, I… well… I’m not quite sure how to say this without coming across somewhat crazy,” Paul said.

“Tell me like it is, and I’ll be the judge of your sanity,” I said. He laughed, looked around and leaned in closer to make sure no one could hear him speak in a hushed whisper.

“I mentioned earlier about the paranormal happenings, lights in the sky, all of that kind of stuff. The thing is, the Baumgartner homestead isn’t any old lake front cabin. It’s got a history — one I’ll go into at a later date when you want to grab a beer at Sully’s — a history that carries a fair amount of baggage. The locals say the whole place plays tricks on the eyes,” Paul said.

“Don’t tell me it’s haunted,” I said. Paul chuckled, a nervous tick that indicated the term made him uncomfortable.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it haunted. Scientifically speaking, and I’m not much of a scientist mind you, there are locations on this planet that produce a magnetic field or distortion that can mess with our brainwaves. It throws us off balance, causes hallucinations. I get the impression that’s what we’re dealing with here. At least that’s my take compared to what others say,” Paul said.

“Thanks for the advice. It never hurts to have too much information in my line of work,” I said. That put Paul at ease and we parted ways.

A fluttery sensation in my gut, butterflies I’d not felt since my rookie days, were an indicator that finding Graciela would be about more than a girl on the run. Lewis Town obviously held secrets, the kind whispered between residents, for fear that speaking them aloud could awaken unspeakable dangers.

(Stay tuned next week, for part two, the conclusion to “Finding Graciela”.)