Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Eight

On the street, he asked the detective where the girl lived and where she'd been abducted. She fired off the two locations.

"Take me to her home first."

Tommy settled into the unmarked car, put on his seatbelt, and began pulling on his running shoes. The midmorning traffic was light, and using only the car's emergency lights, they made it to their destination in about ten minutes. During the drive, the detective didn't ask Tommy anything about his plans, for which he was grateful. If all truth be told, he still only had a fair guess what he might do. Also, she probably would think he was crazy.

"First," he asked after she shut off the engine, "do you have access to the house?" That should have been his first question.

"Yeah, but there'll be other officers there. What will we tell them?"

"You have confidential informants, right?"

"Several."

"Then that's what I am."

"Aren't you afraid the officers will recognize you later?"

"Nah," he said. "I have one of those faces nobody ever remembers."

She looked at him, her mouth slightly open in shocked disbelieve. "Seriously?"

He laid his hand on her shoulder. "It'll be fine. Just pretend I'm not there, unless someone asks. I'll need to see Tiffany's room, though."

"I can do that," she said.

With that, they exited the car. Tommy followed the detective inside.

"Hi, Bob," she said to a short, pink-faced detective standing near the door. "I need to see the kid's room again, if it's okay with Mrs. Childes."

"Yeah," replied Bob. "She's lying down. Try and be quiet." Bob asked not a word about Tommy.

As they entered the kid's room, Tommy turned to Detective Thomas. "Okay, I'm not a pervert." He picked up some of Tiffany's clothes and sniffed them deeply. He did the same with her blankets. This lasted about 30 seconds. "Who else lives in the house?"

"Just the mother," the detective replied.

"Can we go to the laundry room?"

Detective Thomas gave him a strange look and then led the way. In the hallway they immediately ran into a thin and exhausted woman of about 35 years age.

"Camille, hello. I thought I heard you out here."

The detective stepped over and gave the woman a reassuring hug. "Mrs. Childes. I'm so sorry for waking you. I just wanted to come by and take another quick look at Tiffany's room. We're going in just a few minutes."

The woman stood there for a few moments, as if uncertain of what to say. She seemed as if she might, at any moment, dissolve into the floor. "Anything you need," she said feebly.

She turned to Tommy and seemed about to say something.

Instead, he reached out and took her right hand in both of his, gently patting it three times, before dropping his head near hers.

"Mrs. Childes, I am sorry you've had to suffer through this ordeal. I know it may not seem like it now, but such troubles make families stronger."

He added another three, almost imperceptible, pats and slowed his voice ever so slightly. It wasn't hypnosis, but he long ago had found that exhausted and frightened people responded well to a certain rhythm of speech and a gentle type of touch. "And there are no better detectives to be helping you than those from the NYPD."

Three pats.

"Ma'am," he concluded, almost lovingly, "you should get some rest."

He patted her hand three final times, and it had the desired effect. It was as if the distraught mother woke from a stupor.

"Yeah, maybe I should," she said. She stepped forward and put one arm around Tommy, pulling him in a loose embrace. He breathed in deeply. Mrs. Childes smiled faintly at Detective Thomas and went back into her room.

"Let's go," said Tommy, moving toward the exit.

Camille Thomas hesitated and then followed.

"I thought you needed the laundry room," she said at the car.

"Nope. I needed to get a whiff of her."

She looked at him, dumfounded.

"It's easy to get the scent of two family members mixed up," he said, "especially if they share a living space."

Again, a blank stare.

"Detective, I've got a great sense of smell. I'm going to be your bloodhound, and you're going to track down Tiffany Childes."

Understanding filled the detective's face, and she hit the key fob to unlock the car.

"Now," he said, "let's go to where she was last seen."

The three-block drive to the place in question took only a few minutes. As the car rolled to a stop, the detective pointed out the pertinent features.

"She left the community arts center, there, at a little after 11:00 in the morning. She was with a group of seven other students and a proctor. She was smaller than the other students and tended to fall behind. So, no one noticed her missing at first. Witnesses saw her stop and look at some magazines at that kiosk, there." She pointed to a stall 40 or so feet from the corner. "That corner, right there, is the last place people are certain of having seen her."

"Okay, stay right here," Tommy said and bounded from the car. He jogged over to the arts center and stood for a moment. Then he paced toward the corner in question, before again breaking into a jog. At the corner, he paused once more then took a left. After a dozen heartbeats, he returned to the corner and waved the detective to him. She drove to where he stood, and he got in the car.

"She got in a car right there, and they went thata-way," he said, pointing straight ahead.

The detective gave him a look of despair. "How will we follow her if she got in a car?"

He gave her a sympathetic look. "Her scent is still fairly clear. We drive straight until I can't smell her anymore. Then we circle back to the last intersection where I could smell her, I get out and walk around until I catch her scent again, and then find her new direction. Then repeat. I got a friend who's a cop," he said playfully. "We can break all sorts of traffic laws doing this."

"Is it that simple?"

"Yes. Are you ready, detective?"

"Call me Camille."

"Okay, Camille. Are you ready?"