The Cold Case

The file was on my desk before I had taken my second sip of coffee. The mug touched down just as the officer slipped away, almost as fast as he came. He shut the door. Suddenly I was alone again in the small consulting office of the New York Police Department, about to read a file for a case I did not have the time to take on. Any moment now the chief would probably walk in. Give me the same speech they always did when it came to Private Investigators like me. For some strange reason though, I could not shake the uneasy feeling as my hands brushed the side of the folder. I had almost opened it when Chief Hansen walked in.

I was taken aback. He had to have been at least six foot five, with a hard-set face and a cold demeanor. Still, the man smiled politely, sitting across from me. I sat up straighter. Swallowed hard, and looked him in the eye. He looked like the kind of man who could take a gunshot to the chest and pull it out with his bare hands.

“Linda Powell, correct?” His voice was almost as deep as it was rough. Hansen plucked the file from my hands and opened it. “I'm sure your no stranger to missing person cases.”

So that's what it was, I thought. A cold case for a missing person. “No sir.” It was all I could get out.

“Well, this one here’s been cold for almost 10 years. A thirteen-year-old girl who went missing in upstate Maine, we investigated for about five then dropped it.”

A strange thought crossed my mind at that moment. I quickly dismissed it, but still. I hadn't thought of that specific memory in almost...

“However,” He cleared his throat. “Someone turned in some evidence leading us to believe she could still be found.”

Just read me the file, I thought impatiently. I nodded and he took the hint. He opened that little manila folder. And the words that followed flipped the whole room upside down.

“Her name is Dalin Poe. She was last seen at the train station in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. She had no possessions with her, but the witness stated she was covered in bruises and a poorly wrapped cut on her right leg. Supposedly, she got on a train and never got off. That was the last she was heard from.”

The officer flipped the page, not looking up. Which was good, because if he had he would have seen a pale-faced, wide-eyed, and completely horror-stricken woman staring back at him.

“That train went to seven stops that day before retiring at the yard for a week and four days.” He continued nonchalantly. “We searched each stop for any sign of her. We searched the yard. Watched all the footage. Spoke to over two hundred passengers from the day and nothing. No one had even seen her. Our only witness was the boy at the station.”

I felt like my heart was going to pound right through my ribs and fall onto the floor. Sweat beads tickled my temples as he looked up. I took a breath and swallowed hard.

“Everything, okay?”

“Fine!” I said much more cherry than necessary. “Just... a heartbreaking case is all.”

“Didn't you just do the shootout case in Brooklyn?”

We stared at each other for about five seconds. Lying was never my strong suit but I knew today would really put that to the test. At least, until I could leave. Drop the case without a word and go back to my quiet life.

“That's beside the point. I -” I paused. We had to stay on the subject. That was the only way I had a chance of making it out.

“The evidence,” I said, calm. “You said there was new evidence.”

He seemed suspicious but went along. Pulling out a clear evidence bag, and setting it in front of me.

Lord, this was going to be harder than I thought.

It was a necklace. So simple. So delicate. Meant for a young girl - it was one of those cheesy heart shape lockets, the ones usually dawning photographs of loved ones. This one, small and silver, stared up at me already opened. A photograph of young Dalin, grinning. She looked so beautiful. So happy. And beside her, her a radiant woman. Holding Dalin tight.

“The mother. I'm assuming?” I cleared my throat and slid the bag back to him.

He shook his head. “Aunt, apparently. Carrie, she still lives up in Maine.”

I immediately knew where this was going. Immediately. I could feel it in the air around the two of us, his unspoken words. He had no idea he had invited the wrong PI to this case. He had no idea how complicated this made things.

“So my first thought is to send you up there to visit with her. See what she may or may not know.”

Before I could protest he cut me off. “With a couple of officers of course.”

“Officers?” He saw my confusion and smiled warmly.

“Well, we believe Dalin had some enemies. This Carrie may be one of them. Just want to be safe.”

Now I was intrigued. How would a cop in New York know this fifteen years later?

I turned to look out the small window. Maybe... I thought, I should just come clean. Tell him everything. Because, as surprising as it was, he was right. He was absolutely one hundred percent right. Carrie was dangerous. Probably the most dangerous person he would ever meet. That bandaged wrapping on Dalin’s leg? Gunshot. One of many she somehow survived.

Now. How did know this? How do I, a humble private investigator of the big apple, know the ins and outs of a cold case from a decade ago in the middle of no were Maine?

Because I was her. Am - whatever. Scrambled my own name on a napkin on that very train headed north. Took nothing. Told no one. Essentially, I died. That's how I planned it. And to be honest, I am still impressed my thirteen-year-old mind came up with a case that stumped big city cops.

I turned back to him. I smiled.

“Alright. Listen. What I'm about to say might not make much sense but you're going to need to believe me.”