Case Closed

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The Last Place You Look

Bakersfield, California

July 7, 1976

Frank Harriman and his partner were on a break, sitting in a Denny's. Waiting for desperately needed coffee, he spoke into his handheld cassette tape recorder, making notes from their last call to help him with the inevitable paperwork.

“Altercation began when Mr. Martin threw a plastic bag filled with excrement—allegedly left by Mr. Jackson's dog on Mr. Martin's lawn—onto Mr. Jackson's front porch. The bag broke on landing. . . .”

He glanced up to see a look of horror on his partner's face. Jimmy Chao had only been with the Bakersfield Police Department six months longer than Frank. And based on his expression, Frank was pretty sure someone must have walked into Denny's with a sawed-off shotgun and was aiming it at the back of his head.

Then Jimmy whispered, “Dude. The radio!” He pointed to Frank's hand.

Frank then realized that there was no one with a shotgun. His own worst enemy was in the booth: Frank himself, too tired to think straight.

He wasn't talking into his tape recorder. He was talking into his radio unit. And he had just entertained everyone on duty in Bakersfield with details of the dispute between the drunken neighbors.

“Uh . . . 10-22,” Frank muttered into the radio.
Disregard.

He could already hear the clicks of radio buttons being hit on and off, the others indicating laughter.

They were going to give him more shit than Mr. Jackson had on his front porch.

• • •

As they drove back to headquarters at the end of their shift, Jimmy tried to console him. “Stuff like this happens to every rookie. If we do something in a ridiculous way just once, that will be the moment the whole world is watching. Hell, it even happens to the old-timers. You ever hear anyone say, ‘I just about Blanked myself'?”

“My dad told me about Eric Blank.”

“Yeah, that's right—I guess you've already heard all those stories.”

Frank thought about his dad, also a member of the Bakersfield PD, hearing about his fuckup, and his stomach clenched. His dad wouldn't chew him out or anything like that. He would be calm. And hiding his embarrassment. Which was worse.

“I haven't heard all of them,” Frank said, thinking of a few new stories his training officer had shared with him. “But I did hear about the night Blank overestimated his sphincter's endurance rating.”

“Too long in the car,” Jimmy said, nodding. “Could happen to anyone: long shift, radio call to radio call. But Blank not only crapped himself, he went into the restroom of a 7-Eleven, lowered his pants, and used his tactical knife to cut his underwear off himself.”

“Really don't want to talk about this before eating breakfast,” Frank said.

“You're the one who just broadcast a report about dog shit.”

“Yeah. Didn't need a reminder about that, either.”

“Sorry.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Jimmy, who was driving, pulled over and said, “Listen. First time I was patrolling solo, just a few weeks before you graduated, it happened to be a rainy Friday night. Being the new guy, when a roadkill call came in, I was sent to do the pickup. Big Irish setter, although you could hardly tell what it was at that point.”

Frank decided it would be useless to remind him about breakfast again.

“So, have you done animal pickup yet?” Chao asked.

“Yes.”

“After hours?”

“Yes.”

“Awful, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so you know that you're supposed to take the carcass to the walk-in freezer at animal control, put it in one of those big fifty-five-gallon drums, and get the hell out, because the stench in there gets into the wool of your uniform and reminds you of the entire experience for the rest of your shift.”

Frank nodded. Definitely no breakfast. Chao was probably doing this to him on purpose. Then again, Chao could be socially clueless.

“So I'm alone on a rainy Friday night, dragging this big damned dog carcass into the freezer, and I can't find a drum with enough room in it for him. It's midnight, I'm looking into these god-awful drums, and it's freaking my shit out. Plus, the smell. I'm about to shoot my cookies. So I leave the fucking dog on the floor and run out.” Jimmy sighed gustily.

“Animal control complained?” Frank asked.

“Of course. I had to go back on Monday and deal with it.”

“Really?”

“I don't blame them. Wet dog, freezer floor, and fifty or sixty hours of elapsed time.”

“The dog froze to the floor.”

“You should try for detective.”

It was, in fact, what he dreamed of doing—but today wasn't going to get him any closer to that goal.

• • •

After the shift, Frank wasn't entirely surprised to find a paper bag filled with dog shit in his locker.

• • •

The razzing hadn't let up much a week later. It hadn't taken long for the others to realize that a bag of crap wasn't going to do great things for the locker room's shared air quality, though, so giving him shit began to take less literal forms. His superiors were giving him all the worst jobs, his fellow officers were still raising their hands at the end of briefings and asking, “Can we hear from Harriman about everything that happened on his last shift?”

All of this made him suspicious, one afternoon, of his training officer's grin. Gregory “Bear” Bradshaw didn't temper his enjoyment as he said, “This sounds like a job right up your alley.”

The dispatcher had sent them to an address where they were to take a missing persons report from Mrs. Frieda Sarton.

“Is there something funny about a missing persons report?” Frank asked.

“Oh, no. We have to take Mrs. Sarton seriously.”

Frank decided silence was his best option. Bear was gregarious by nature, so Frank was pretty sure he could wait him out.

They pulled up to the curb in front of a large, old, two-story, Craftsman-style home at the edge of town. The suburbs were moving toward it, but hadn't reached it yet. Frank was tempted to ask if it was really within the city limits—if it wasn't, the missing persons case was the problem of the Kern County Sheriff's Department. But that would have been a stupid rookie question. Dispatch wouldn't have sent them out of their jurisdiction. Bear wouldn't have had that look of someone handing off a snakes-in-a-can gag gift, gleefully anticipating the moment the lid would be removed.

The spacious lot was surrounded by a graying picket fence. The front lawn was more brown than green but otherwise cared for. A large tree shaded the sidewalk and house. The shady, wraparound porch reminded him of the one at his parents' house—there was a big wooden swing in front of one large window. Venetian blinds covered all the windows, slats closed.

There was a pale yellow Cadillac parked under a bougainvillea-covered pergola that served as a carport. Farther up a long concrete drive stood an old garage, one that looked as if it had been designed to shelter horses and a carriage.

An elderly, frail woman in a floral print housedress came out to stand on the porch.

“You ought to be able to handle this on your own,” Bear said, waving to the woman. She waved back timidly, elbow held to her side, fingers giving a slight flutter before she looked down and away, waiting.

Wondering when the hell all this hazing would end, Frank stepped out of the patrol car and approached the house. When he was within a couple of yards from the porch, the old woman took a step back, as if afraid of him.

He stopped, smiled, relaxed his posture, and shut out all thoughts of being irritated with Bear. That wasn't fair to this old lady. “Good afternoon. Are you Mrs. Sarton?”

She nodded.

“I'm Officer Harriman. Did you call to make a missing persons report?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “My husband. Could you please try to find him?”

“I'll do what I can. Do you want to talk out here?”

She nodded, seeming relieved. She motioned to the swing. He was half-afraid the thing would collapse, but as he sat gingerly on it, he found it was sturdy, and the eyebolts that attached it to the porch roof seemed likely to hold. The air was cool, here on the porch. Maybe not as cool as it was in the patrol car, with the windows up and the air conditioner on, but this was better than standing out in the sun.

Mrs. Sarton sat as far away from him as she could on the swing, but her posture relaxed a little.

He took out a notebook. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “What's your husband's name?”

“I already told the other officers, including that one there.” She lifted the tip of her index finger to indicate Bear. It was the slightest of gestures, made as if she didn't want Bear to see her pointing him out.

“I'm new on the job,” he said. “Maybe you could act as if I'm the first person who ever heard about this.”

She nodded. “Thought so. The others think it's funny.” She paused, then said with surprising fierceness, “It's not funny at all.”

Frank believed her, but at the same time, he knew there was something about all of this that Bear and the others found laughable, crazy, worthy of ridicule. He wasn't even close to seeing what that was, but he felt a sudden fear that she would say something to him that would make him laugh. And knew that it was the one thing he shouldn't do, especially not in her presence.

Frank had been raised around cops. Bear and others who had worked with his dad had been regular guests in the Harriman home over the years. They were family. So he had an appreciation of cop humor, and considered it essential to staying sane on the job. But there were rules—at least among the kind of officers he wanted to emulate. You didn't use that humor to ridicule the vulnerable while they were asking for your help.

What had happened here? What had made the others treat this as a joke case?

“No, there's nothing at all funny about a missing person,” Frank said. “I'm sorry if anyone gave you the impression that it is. But because I'm so new, I'll need your help.”

She nodded again. “My husband, Derek Sarton, D-E-R-E-K S-A-R-T-O-N, is missing. Here are a few photos of him.”

She handed him a set of photos that she had clearly prepared in advance. One showed a tall, heavyset bald man in a Hawaiian print shirt, black shorts, and sandals. He was tanned and smiling as he lifted some beverage in a martini glass toward the camera. Frank guessed he was in his late fifties or early sixties. Another showed him in a group of men in suits. He was younger, with more hair and less weight. It was a business photo, some kind of groundbreaking ceremony, next to a sign that said, “Future Home of Sarton Industries.” The third was of a couple with a young son. They were well-dressed, including the boy, who looked to be about ten. Sarton was a handsome man, probably in his midthirties, and petite Mrs. Sarton appeared to be near the same age. Judging by the clothing and hairstyles, the photo had been taken in the 1940s.

“Thank you. When did you last see Mr. Sarton?” he asked.

“It was Halloween.”

“About eight months ago?” He thought he could figure it out now. Mrs. Sarton probably constantly pestered the detective who had taken on the case. The case was as cold as a cod's belly and Frank had been sent here for “goodwill,” to keep the citizen happy. Empty public relations for a case unlikely to receive any other department time and energy.

“No,” she said. “Not quite six years ago.”

“Six years?” He managed not to shout it.

“October 31, 1970.”

He glanced at Bear, still in the car. Saw him laughing.

Frank wrote the date down in his notebook. “Tell me about it.”

She teared up. “You aren't going to leave? That's all I usually get to say before they say something rude to me and leave.”

“I'm staying here to listen to you until I'm ordered to do otherwise.”

She smiled at him. “Bless you, Officer Harriman!”

“I don't want to get your hopes up,” he said quickly. “You've made a report before, right?”

“Yes, although I don't believe any real effort was made to find him. Detective Pointe told me that Derek probably just wanted to get away from me.”

“He said that?” Pointe was an ass. Frank knew few departments gave missing persons cases to anyone for whom they had high expectations. You could see the pasture from most missing persons desks. Pointe, who would put more effort into avoiding work than the work itself would have cost him, was not the pride of the department.

“Not at first,” she admitted. “I think I annoyed him. Even my son told me to give up and stop bothering the police.”

“Is your son at home now?” Frank asked.

“Harold?” She hesitated, then said, “Well, I hope so, but I'm not sure that's possible. If by ‘home' you mean heaven. But maybe he asked for forgiveness at the last. Not for me to judge.”

“Your son is deceased?”

“Yes.”

He noticed that she didn't seem too broken up about it. “Is there a reason you doubt . . . uh . . . where he ended up?”

“Of course. I'm quite sure he killed his father. Or helped his wife to do it.”

Frank cursed silently. Either this was much bigger than he'd thought—way too big for a rookie—or she was delusional and nothing he said or did would matter much. She didn't seem crazy, though, just a little odd. In his few months on the job, he had already realized that he was going to be spending much more time as a half-assed mental health worker than he had expected, but he definitely wasn't prepared to assess a situation like this.

He looked over at Bear again, then back to Mrs. Sarton. “Did I mention that I'm new to the job?”

She glanced toward the black-and-white, then added, “Yes, you did, a few times. I suppose the fact that you're not like that jaded fellow over there is why I'm comfortable talking with you. Why don't you come into the house? It's a complicated story, but I'll try to explain it all to you, Officer Harriman.”