Authors: Edward Trimnell
Knox had worked at a bank for about three years. Then her employment record became suddenly spotty and irregular—and it stayed that way. This, at least, was the story told by the information that Alan was able to access in the various state and federal databases.
The Cincinnati Bell landline number that had been assigned to Jessica Knox had since been reassigned to a dry cleaning business. This suggested that Jessica had not had the number for quite some time. Her last known address—the address on her driver’s license—was in Cincinnati, at an apartment complex.
Alan called the complex and spoke to one of the managers who was willing to talk to him over the phone. Jessica had moved out months ago, and she had left no forwarding address.
“I probably shouldn't tell you this,” the complex manager said, “but her rent checks kept bouncing. That’s why she had to move out.”
“Thank you,” Alan said, winding up the call, “that information may be helpful.”
Alan didn't know exactly what was going on, but there was something suspicious about the story presented by the data: For some reason, Knox had either quit or been fired from a stable job at a Cincinnati area bank, a position which probably paid well and offered some career mobility. Then she had shifted to working irregularly at jobs that would constitute underemployment, considering her resume at that point. Then her rent checks had started bouncing, and she had gone off the grid, more or less.
And, of course, she was likely associated with Travis Hall, given that he had been filmed driving her car.
Alan accessed Jessica Knox’s DMV photo once again. The face staring back at Alan on the screen revealed nothing. There were only suggestions.
“Are you Lilith?” Alan asked the photo in a whisper.
I’m going to find out.
“Maribel,” Alan said over his shoulder, “how would you like to take a field trip to Iron Mills?”
Late the next morning Alan and Maribel made the roughly thirty-minute drive to Iron Mills. The town was located within the orbit of the Greater Cincinnati area, but it might as well have been a different country—or at least a different part of the country. In Iron Mills there was none of the easy affluence that one observed in the up-and-coming new suburbs of Cincinnati. There were no McMansions, designer daycare centers for upper middle-class working parents, or gleaming shopping malls.
Iron Mills was a land that post-industrial, globalized America had forgotten. Alan did not know if there had ever been any iron smelting facilities here, but it was clear that there had once been working factories. These factories now formed a perimeter of ramshackle, rusting hulks on the outskirts of town—businesses that had probably not made a payroll since the late 1990s.
“Kind of a depressing place, isn’t it?” Maribel observed, noting a large, deserted factory building with a weedy gravel parking lot. The windows of the factory were boarded over. It was impossible to discern exactly what sort of business the factory had once been. There was a prominent sign near the chained main entrance: a FOR SALE sign with the name and telephone number of a real estate holding company.
“Not exactly prosperous,” Alan agreed grimly. He thought of his own blue-collar roots and his blue-collar parents. He was grateful that both of them had retired years ago. Neither one of them would be capable of competing with dollar-an-hour laborers in China or India.
“Jessica Knox is an only child,” Alan said, changing the subject. “She doesn't have much family in the area. Only her mother, in fact, so far as I was able to determine. Her name is Cynthia Knox, age fifty-four.”
“Is her father dead?” Maribel asked.
“He might be. And then again, he might be living in California or Mexico, for all I know. Her father’s name was Todd Knox, but he apparently deserted his family more than twenty years ago. Cynthia has filed her income taxes as a single taxpayer for years. The Todd Knox who would be Jessica Knox’s father left Ohio around the time that Cynthia started filing single.”
The residence of Cynthia Knox was located inside the town proper. It was a small pre-World War II house with a small yard and a covered front porch. The white paint on the wood siding was faded and peeling in places. Yet another reminder that money was tight in Iron Mills.
It was just before noon, so Alan knew that Cynthia Knox might or might not be at home. According to the employment information that Alan was able to locate in the government databases, Cynthia had worked at a convenience store in a nearby section of Cincinnati for the last two years. Convenience store workers weren’t necessarily nine-to-fivers; many worked irregular hours.
He and Maribel caught a break. When Alan rang the doorbell, he immediately heard the sounds of footsteps from the rear of the house. Then there was the sound of a latch lock being opened, and the front door swung open.
A tired-looking, gray-haired woman regarded them through the glass of the storm door. Cynthia Knox had once been pretty, Alan speculated, but the years had taken their toll on her. She looked much older than her fifty-four years.
“Mrs. Knox?” Alan inquired.
“Ms. Knox,” Cynthia Knox corrected. “I haven’t heard from my ex-husband since I was a young thing.”
Alan held up his badge so that she could see it through the storm door. “I’m Agent Alan Grooms of the Ohio Department of Criminal Investigation. This is my partner, Agent Maribel Flynn. We’d like to speak to you for a moment, Ms. Knox. May we come in?”
“You aren’t local cops, are you?” Knox countered.
“No ma’am. The ODCI is a state police agency. Now—I think it would be better for everyone involved if we could talk inside, rather than out here on the porch.”
For a second it seemed that she might relent. She reached down to open the storm door. Then she said, “If I called the Iron Mills police department, would they know who you are?”
“Absolutely, Ms. Knox. Your local law enforcement will know exactly what the ODCI is, and you can have them verify the identity of both myself and Agent Flynn. In fact, I can call a state dispatcher, and I can have a local patrol car sent out here myself, if you’d prefer. That’s your right; this is your home, and we aren’t serving a warrant.”
Although Alan wasn't bluffing about calling for an Iron Mills patrol car, he hoped that it wouldn't come to that. That would mean nothing but complications and further delays. And all for naught—if Cynthia Knox turned out to be another dead end.
Finally she gave in. “Okay,” she sighed. “I guess that won’t be necessary. You can come in. But this won’t take too long, will it? I have to be at work in a few hours.”
“Agent Flynn and I shouldn't require too much of your time.”
Cynthia Knox opened the storm door and stepped back, allowing Alan and Maribel entry. Given the size of the house, the front door opened directly into the living room. It was poorly lighted, a jumble of old, mismatched furniture and various domestic clutter. The floors were hardwood, but not the modern, coated kind.
“You can sit over there,” Knox said, gesturing to a sofa. “Say, I may have forgotten to pay a parking ticket a few months ago. This isn’t about that, is it?”
“We aren’t concerned with your parking tickets,” Maribel said. “We’re investigating a homicide.”
“Homicide? You’re talking about murder, aren’t you? Well, I didn't kill anyone.” Knox grew suddenly, visibly nervous.
“No,” Maribel said. “No one thinks that you murdered anyone—”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“We’ve been trying unsuccessfully to locate your daughter, Jessica Knox.”
“Is Jessie in trouble?” Cynthia asked. “Oh my God. What did she do? Are you telling me that Jessie went and killed somebody?”
“We only want to talk to her at this point,” Alan said. “That’s normal in an investigation. Sometimes we have to talk to a dozen or more people just to identify the only one who is significant to the crime. There’s no reason to be alarmed, Mrs. Knox.”
Alan realized that his words were, to one degree or another, misleading. But if Jessica Knox wasn't Lilith, then there truly was nothing for either her or her mother to worry about. On the other hand, if she was Lilith, then this tiny deception was insignificant in the larger scheme of things.
“And we have reason to believe that Jessica may keep company with a man named Travis Hall,” Maribel said. “Do you know a Travis Hall, Ms. Knox?”
There was a sudden shift in Cynthia Knox’s expression. In Alan’s experience, such a shift almost always preceded a lie.
“I don't know anybody named Travis Hall.” Knox paused and looked up toward the ceiling, as if giving the matter deep consideration. “No, I never heard of any Travis Hall. Is there maybe a country singer by that name?”
“Travis Tritt,” Maribel supplied. “That’s who you’re thinking of. There is a country western singer named Travis Tritt.”
“I don’t keep up much with music nowadays,” Knox said. “Too busy workin’ all the time. Like I said, I’ve got to get to work before too long.” Knox stared pointedly at the front door, an unspoken but clear request.
“We shouldn't need much more of your time,” Alan said. “But as we told you, we need to locate your daughter, Jessica Knox. Can you tell us where we might find her?”
“I haven’t seen Jessica for years. We’re—estranged.”
Before replying, Alan took a moment to survey the room. The home of anyone was always an open book.
There was a fireplace at the front of the room, which appeared to be long disused. On the mantle above the fireplace was a series of framed photographs. They were unmistakably photos of Jessica Knox at various ages. Though none looked especially recent, there was at least one that might have been less than ten years old.
“Estranged,” Alan repeated. “It looks like the two of you went fishing not all that long ago.” He motioned to a framed photo of Jessica at a lake, holding up a freshly caught bluegill on a fishing line. There were no other people in the picture.
“That was a long time ago,” Knox said.
Alan could tell that this was going to go nowhere. He stood abruptly, and Maribel followed suit.
“Please take one of my cards, Ms. Knox—and one of Agent Flynn’s cards. If you hear from your daughter, please tell her to get in touch with us. And if you hear from Travis Hall, we advise you to both call us and to be careful. Travis Hall may be an extremely dangerous man.”
“I already told you I don’t know anyone named Travis Hall,” Knox said, snatching a card from each of the agents.
“So you did, Ms. Knox. But if you hear from him, be careful.”
Out in Alan’s Explorer, Maribel sighed and looked across the front seat at Alan.
“Dead end?”
“Cynthia Knox is, at least. She either really doesn't know where Jessica is, or she’s lying.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“If I were a betting man, I’d give seventy-thirty odds that she’s lying. We might be able to subpoena her phone records.”
“’Might’,” Maribel said, “is the operative word. But phone records are a lot less helpful than they used to be, aren’t they?”
Alan nodded. In the days when most people relied on landlines, every phone call was traceable, and only professional criminals were truly skilled at covering their tracks. All that had changed with the advent of disposable cell phones and Internet-based calling services. It was still possible to trace most phone calls, but there were a lot more layers to unravel. Equally important, it took a lot more time to rule out phone-related data that would ultimately be irrelevant.
“So now what? Back to the office? Or more gumshoes?”
“More gumshoes, Maribel. Always more gumshoes. You’ll recall that Jessica Knox is only in her early thirties. That means that she graduated from the local high school here only about fifteen years ago. There might be someone there who could give us some insight into her whereabouts—or could point us in the direction of someone else who would know.”
“Okay,” Maribel said. “Iron Mills is a small place, after all. Maybe there is someone there who’s kept in touch with Jessica. An old teacher, maybe, or a guidance counselor. It’s worth a try, since we’re here, anyway.”
They arrived at the high school around noon, just as the general pandemonium of the lunchtime break was in full swing. As Alan pulled into the parking lot, a carload of youths—probably seniors—were headed out in an old Plymouth minivan from the 1980s. There were too many of them in the minivan, and the visible smoke inside the vehicle strongly suggested that they might be smoking marijuana.
“We’ll leave that problem for the local cops,” Alan said, in response to Maribel’s questioning look. “We can’t do everything, right?”
“Focus,” Maribel agreed, tapping her forehead.
Alan found a parking space close to the building. The long front window was covered from the inside with a hand-painted banner that displayed the school’s colors: kelly green and white. There was also a crude rendering of the school’s mascot: the Iron Mills bulldog.
The school’s administrative office was directly across from the main entrance and clearly marked. Alan and Maribel stepped inside just as a plump, sixtysomething woman behind a reception desk was standing up with her purse, probably on her way out to lunch.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Alan said. “Are you the principal here?”
“Why no,” she said. “I’m Dorothy Schiller. See the sign?”
Alan looked again, and saw the nameplate atop her desk: “Dorothy Schiller, Administrative Assistant.”
“The principle here is Bill Draper. I can get him for you, if you’d like. He hasn't left for lunch yet.”
“I think it would be better if you took us to his office, Ms. Schiller. We’d prefer to speak with him privately.”
“Well, I suppose that would be all right. Would you mind telling me the nature of your business, though—so I can give him a heads up?”
“We’re state police officers,” Alan said. He removed his badge wallet from his pocket and flipped it open.
“Oh, my! Is one of our students in trouble? Is it that Derrick Fitzgerald again?”
Alan smiled disarmingly, taking note of the name Derrick Fitzgerald. Based on the way Dorothy Schiller had said the kid’s name, Alan figured there was a strong fifty-fifty chance that he would see the kid’s name again, or maybe even have an encounter with him. Over half of the criminals tracked by the ODCI had started out as juvenile offenders.
“No,” Alan said, to Dorothy Schiller’s palpable relief. “This matter doesn't concern a current student. We need to talk to Mr. Draper about a past student of this school.”
“Thank goodness. Very well. Please wait here just a moment.”
Alan and Maribel waited obligingly while Dorothy Schiller stepped away from her desk and disappeared around the L-shape that formed the administration office. She returned less than a minute later.
“Please follow me. Mr. Draper will see you now.”
Dorothy ushered them into the principal’s private office: a fairly cramped space decorated with Draper’s personal effects and an overabundance of Iron Mills High School memorabilia. Draper himself was a middle-aged man, about Alan’s age. He had thinning hair and a full, though carefully trimmed beard. He rose to greet Alan and Maribel.
“Please sit down,” he said, the concern evident in his voice. There were two guest chairs that faced his desk. Alan reflected that these seats were probably occupied most of the time by students who had gotten themselves in one form or another of trouble.
“What seems to be the problem?” the principal inquired. “Dorothy informs me that you are here investigating a former student.”
“One of your past students is a person of interest in a crime that we’re investigating,” Alan clarified.
“A suspect?”
“Possibly.” There was nothing to be gained by presenting half-truths or evasions to this man. Alan seriously doubted that Draper, if he knew the whereabouts of Jessica Knox, would be inclined to tip her off. “But we aren’t sure yet.”
“May I ask what sort of a crime it is?”
“It’s a homicide,” Maribel said. “We don’t know the exact nature of your former student’s connection. What we know is that the ex-student’s car was used by an individual who is definitely a suspect.”
“Ah,” said Draper. “So our ex-student may be a victim, too.”
“That’s possible,” Alan allowed. And indeed it was. It wouldn't be the first time that a criminal had stolen a vehicle for use in another, basically unrelated crime. Jessica Knox might possibly be the victim of an auto theft—possibly even a violent carjacking.
But there were problems with this theory: There had been no reports of the Jeep having been stolen. The close proximity in age between Knox and Travis Hall suggested that the two were romantically involved. This would mean that Hall was using the Jeep with Knox’s full knowledge and cooperation. While it was possible that Hall had killed or otherwise incapacitated Knox in order to gain access to the vehicle, Alan judged this possibility to be remote: Everything about Jessica Knox’s behavior in recent years identified her as a person who was deliberately off the grid.
And then there was the evasive reaction of her mother. Alan did not believe that Jessica and Cynthia Knox were really estranged; and if Jessica had been the victim of foul play, Cynthia would likely have had some indication that something was wrong, even if she wasn't in daily communication with her daughter. And that would have come up during this morning’s discussion with Cynthia.
Draper allowed himself a pause to assess the situation. He was obviously at a loss. Iron Mills might have its rough edges, sure; but as principal of the high school, it was a fair bet that he had never been involved in a homicide investigation, even so tangentially.
“What's the student’s name?” Draper asked.
“Jessica Knox. Would have graduated sometime around the millennium. Probably in 2001 or 2002, based on her date of birth.”
“Just a moment,” Draper said, “And I can tell you for sure. All the records from 1998 forward are computerized. Anything prior to that, and you have to dig into the paper-based archive files.”
Draper swiveled around to a computer that sat perched atop the L-extension of his desk. His fingers moved across the keyboard as he accessed the school’s online database.
“Here we go,” Draper said. “Jessica Lynn Knox, class of 2001.”
“Any discipline problems?” Alan asked.
Draper paused while reading. “No, nothing really worth noting. A few demerits for tardiness, minor stuff like that. Nothing that I see here indicates that Jessica Knox was a discipline problem.”
“Were you principal then?” Maribel asked. “Perhaps you have some recollection of her.”
“No—sorry. I didn't come here until 2006, after Jessica Knox was long gone.”
“I see,” Alan said. Another dead end. Jessica Knox had been born and raised in Iron Mills, but she had left no evidence of herself here.
“I know that was about fifteen years ago, but would there be anyone here who might remember Jessica Knox?”
“Let me look through her transcript.” Draper pushed a few more keys, obviously scrolling down the information presented on the screen. “We still have a few teachers from back then, but a lot of them have moved on, you know.”
Alan said nothing in response to this. He knew that teaching high school in the Iron Mills school district probably wasn't the best way to get rich. It would figure that the school would have a retention problem.
“Ah, you’re in luck. Jessica did have a class with Mr. Frogge. He taught her algebra.”
“And Mr. Frogge is still a teacher here?”
“Mr. Frogge is still a teacher here. He goes out for lunch sometimes, but he usually eats in his classroom. You can probably catch him there now, if you’d like to talk to him.”
“Yes, Mr. Draper, thank you. We definitely would.”
“All right then,” Draper began to stand up. “I’ll take you there now.”
“Actually,” Alan said, “it would be better if you could just tell us where to find him.” Draper, having not known Jessica, would have nothing to add to the conversation. And as Mr. Frogge’s boss, he might prevent the math teacher from speaking with complete frankness.
“Well. Okay then. Mr. Frogge’s classroom is number sixty-three. Exit the administrative office and turn right. It will be about four doors down on your left. You can’t miss it. But feel free to come back here if you get lost.”
Alan and Maribel stood. “I don't think we’ll have any trouble finding the room, Mr. Draper. Thank you very much for your help.”