Chapter 1

Tuesday, September 2, 1997, North of Barstow, California

Deputy Sheriff Tom Nettle kept a firm foot on the brake pedal of his San Bernardino County Blazer. The unpaved trail road he was on was punishing his kidneys. This area located a few miles from Barstow was desolate California desert, and at night even the experienced could get lost or stuck. He rechecked his map and tried to peer past the billowing dust and silt lit up by the powerful roof mounted light bar.

A call about strange lights in the area could mean anything. It was probably nothing, but it had to be checked out. The off roaders had moved onto better trails so he discounted that. Early morning hours, suspicious lights, a remote location - it could be drug activity. He'd recently spent two weeks in Sacramento training with state and federal agencies. The California State Hazardous Materials Unit demonstration on the dangers posed by mobile drug labs had certainly gotten his attention.

Dispatch had already contacted the nearby Army post and they reported no scheduled or unscheduled activity.

Twenty minutes later, Deputy Nettle decided that he had done his due diligence.

With his spot light on the trail shoulder, he began looking for a place to turn around. Radioing dispatch he started to report. "Dispatch? Unit thirteen. Did the reporting party make any further ... standby!"

Braking to a hard stop, Nettle focused the spotlight on a ghostly figure. He was already grabbing the microphone for his portable radio as he exited the vehicle.

"Dispatch, this is unit thirteen. I'm code six at this location, three or four miles north of the abandoned gas depot off Forgotten Mine road."

The blowing silt was lit up like a dense fog by his lights, swirling around the vehicle and the small child standing in the middle of the trail.

"I'm a police officer, can you tell me your name?" he announced as he moved toward the child. Years of experience had taught him that small children knew what a police officer was, but 'deputy sheriff' just confused them.

The nearly naked child was covered from head to foot in what looked to be oily sand and dirt. As he moved closer, careful not to frighten the child, the details of what he was seeing concerned him. A pair of blue eyes stared out from the dirt encrusted face, focused on nothing. He, or she, was panting for breath in quick shallow little gasps.

"Dispatch? Unit thirteen, how quickly can an RA unit respond to this location?"

"Unit thirteen, at least forty minutes if they don't get stuck. What's your status?"

"Dispatch, I've found a small child in need of immediate attention." Several seconds passed, "Oh God."

In the dispatch center, that tone of voice, and the unusual radio procedure from an experienced deputy got immediate action.

"Dispatch, we need Air Medical immediately. I need backup, K-9 if possible, and a supervisor to this location. Have the Third Floor duty officer contact me."

The dispatch center kicked into high gear. A coded alert with the deputy's general location was sent to the Air Medic office. The nearest patrol units were redirected toward unit thirteen. The area supervisor had monitored the call and was already rolling. At the Barstow Courier, the overnight editor perked up when she heard 'third floor' over the paper's scanner. Third Floor was local code for homicide and specialized investigations. She knew that they would use a cell phone to keep the juicy stuff off of the public airwaves, but a story was brewing in the desert.

Tom Nettle was fighting rising nausea. He'd been with the department for twelve years. He'd seen some pretty terrible things in Kuwait back in '91 when he was in the service. Kids were every officer's weak spot, or they weren't very good at the job.

"Unit thirteen this is Dispatch. Air Medical is getting airborne and needs details."

"Dispatch, there should be plenty of landing room. There's nothing out here. Some terrain issues to the west. No hazards. I'm the only thing lit up for miles."

"Unit thirteen, they're requesting patient info."

"Dispatch, patch them through to my phone."

"Unit thirteen, standby one."

Nettle answered his phone on the first ring.

"Deputy, this is Flight Nurse Anderson, what have you got? We're ten to fifteen minutes out."

The noise of the helicopter was muted by her microphone.

"A child, male I think. I'd guess between four and six years old. The child is non-responsive, but conscious. Breaths are rapid and shallow. He's covered in sand and dirt, and soaked in old blood, lots of it. There's a kitchen knife stuck in his chest."

"Say again?"

"A kitchen knife. The handle is behind his right arm, just below the armpit." The deputy tried not to look at the knife handle jerking with each rapid breath that the child made.

"How is the patient positioned, and how large do you think the blade is?"

"He's standing. I'm not sure if I should try to sit him down or not? The blade is buried to the hilt, and it must be three inches wide at the base. I don't know how long it could be. I hate to think about it."

"Copy that deputy. Don't try and move the knife. We'll be there shortly. If you can keep the patient upright please do so, or lay him down on the opposite side if you have to. The less movement the better. I'll let Regional Memorial know the situation. Air Medical out."

In the distance, Deputy Sheriff Nettle could hear the faint siren of another patrol vehicle working its way up the valley.

His phone rang again.

"Tom, it's John Alvarez. What have you got out there?"

"Sergeant, I've got a four to six year old child, I believe it's a boy. He's been stabbed."

"Ah, man," said Alvarez.

"He's caked in dirt and blood. It's in his ears and nose, head to toe. He's naked except for some underpants." In almost a whisper, "I think somebody buried him out here. His fingers look real bad, they're all torn up. His feet aren't much better. I don't know how far he's walked, or for how long."

"You think there's more?"

"I think there has to be. This blood can't all be his," replied the deputy.

"I'll call in another K-9 unit," the sergeant said. "At first light we can get some people on horseback out searching. I'll call over to China Lake and see if they can put something up to help. The Navy has some pretty good night/thermal gear. We'll see what the Army guys can kick in. Lieutenant Moore is the duty supervisor and is en route. He may call in the state boys."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

"Keep me posted, Deputy."

A short eternity later it was all routine, but with an edge. There were procedures to follow. Tape was strung where Deputy Nettle indicated that he had first spotted the boy. It was a known point the dogs could work from. The first responding unit laid out flares for the landing zone. Air Medical was on scene and they were attempting to stabilize the knife so that it wouldn't shift during transport.

Nettle could tell that they were having trouble with all the dirt. They'd placed foam blocks around the knife handle, and were trying to tie it all down. The experienced crew had carefully moved him to the gurney, wound side up, using purpose built cushions to keep him fixed in place. They had trouble getting the IVs started, but the flight nurse was good. This crew knew trauma. They were moving quickly.

Lieutenant Moore was on scene with a phone stuck to his ear. There was a lot to coordinate. Reserve personnel were being called in to help with the search. The undersheriff, or even the sheriff himself needed to be kept apprised. The case was certain to have profile.

Other deputies waiting for assignments were standing around watching the medical team load up the patient. It was a familiar routine except for the grim faces.

Later, as the sounds of the helicopter started to fade, Lieutenant Moore walked over.

"It's a hell of a thing, Tom."

"Yeah," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not going to forget this one."

"What did you notice first?" the lieutenant asked.

"Scared the hell out of me popping up on the road like that. When I got up close I could see that his hands were all torn up. With all that dirt, and what I figured out was blood, it was hard to see if he had other injuries. He wasn't talking, or reacting, and I didn't want to scare him further. I started walking around him with my flashlight checking. Finding the knife like that, I just knew it was bad."

Lieutenant Moore carefully put a hand on Tom's shoulder, "Yeah, that's rough stuff, but he's survived this long so he has a chance. Where do you think he came from?"

"Somewhere out there," the deputy pointed into the dark. "We've got to find where."

"I think the K-9 crew brought in some coffee and rolls. Let's get you warmed up." Lieutenant Moore patted him on the shoulder. He knew a veteran deputy like Nettle would be okay once he got him refocused. A case like this would stick with you no matter what, but it would eat at you if you let it.

Moore gathered his team together and started prioritizing; it was going to be a long day. One thought was shared by all, "Where are the parents?"

Late Afternoon

Detective Sergeant John Alvarez and his newly assigned deputy, Detective Susan Miller, sat in their department issued sedan parked outside of the county crime lab.

"The Bureau offered to expedite any lab work we needed," he explained to the detective as he plugged the cell phone back into the charger. "What I want to do now is get back to the office and find out where we're at with missing persons."

Their time with the lab director had been frustrating. Forensic examination of the kitchen knife revealed little. It was a common type sold in stores all over the state. There were no finger prints. Soil samples gathered from the victim's body and underwear were consistent with what you expected to find in the area. Even with being moved to the head of the line, tests on the blood evidence would take days. The DNA would take weeks.

Their best information had come from Dr. Patel at the hospital. He reported that the child was well nourished, and had access to regular health and dental care. There were no signs of prior abuse or sexual assault. Somebody had cared for this child. They'd had a quick look at him in the critical care ward. There seemed to be more medical equipment than patient.

Alvarez had asked what the prognosis was.

Dr. Patel paused, and then replied, "He's critical. Cross your fingers for the next forty-eight hours because we are. If he makes it past this crisis then I'll be guardedly optimistic. I can tell you that the consulting neurologist says that all the tests he looked at were good. However, we won't really know until we try to wake him up.

It was a quiet drive back to the office, each detective wrapped up in their own thoughts.

Deputy Miller turned to her sergeant, "So what's your theory?"

"I've just been going over it again. Somebody stuck a knife in this kid, took him out to the desert and buried him. He might not have been found for years, if ever. No abuse. No rape. What's the motive? And I don't think we can just assume the doer was familiar with the area."

"I couldn't find it," Miller said.

"You could end up there, but I agree that getting back out would be very tricky. It suggests familiarity, but we can't get locked into that."

"Somebody is missing this kid," she stated.

"Unless they're out there too," replied the sergeant. "After the evening news the pressure is going to be on."

"You've handled high profile cases before."

"Yes, of course there's pressure on us, but I meant pressure on our would-be murderer. His, or her, big secret didn't stay buried. That may force the mistake that we need to break this."

Back at the Specialized Crimes Division office a new white board had been set up. The few, known facts were highlighted, and a brief time line was listed; time of the original call about strange lights, time of initial contact between Deputy Nettle and the victim, time of victim's arrival at Memorial, confirmation of the delivery of physical evidence to the county crime lab, and so on.

There wasn't much to go on.

Deputies dispatched that morning to the home of the caller learned little. Standing in front of a rundown airstream trailer located out in the middle of nowhere the aging alcoholic had not seen a vehicle. Solemnly declaring, "I seen strange lights, so I called. Don't like those damn aliens out here." The deputies remarked that a follow up welfare check by county services would be a good idea.

Somebody had transferred a portion of Miller's notes from their interview with the doctor to the board.

'Penetrating chest trauma, thoracic injuries, combined with blood loss, shock, and exposure. Self inflicted abrasions to the extremities.'

It didn't really belong up there, but the sergeant understood why it had been written. They were professionals, but motivation never hurt. A stark picture of the kitchen knife had been added. One corner of the board had a detailed survey map taped to it. Colored flag post-it notes indicated where the boy had been found, and what the search team had been doing. Clipped to the top of the board was a transcript of the callout from the dispatch center.

Word from the K-9 units was disappointing. They'd tracked the boy for several hundred yards, but it was clear that he had been stumbling aimlessly around. The dogs were confused doubling back on the same tracks.

A thermal survey by a specially equipped Navy helicopter revealed only a few coyotes or wild dogs. A daylight search confirmed what Alvarez already knew. There were vehicle tracks all over that part of the desert and most were years old.

Out at the scene, Lieutenant Moore had pulled Tom Nettle to one side and whispered that if there were other victims, the investigators' best bet might be to start looking for vultures.

A quick briefing was held to make sure that the entire office was up to speed and operating on the same page. The California Department of Justice was coordinating the missing persons angle, and their equivalent partners in Nevada, Arizona, and Colorado had been notified.

"We're going to need all hands on deck after the evening news. The county call center is going to screen calls, but anything with potential is going to get forwarded here," announced Alvarez.

"Let's get that TV turned on. We can see what the brass have been up to."

Regional Memorial Hospital

The hospital administrator was nervous which was making the chief of surgery nervous. There had been press conferences at Regional Memorial in the past, but none that caused such a buzz in the air. Satellite trucks were parked up and down the street outside of the hospital. The surgeon had never gotten one phone call from a hospital board member before, let alone five. The administrator told him as they sat down that the governor had personally called the sheriff of San Bernardino County while the two men were waiting together outside of the conference room.

After some perfunctory remarks by a member of the hospital's public relations department, the microphone was turned over to the administrator.

"I'll make a brief statement. Our chief of surgery will make a statement, and then we'll take questions. The sheriff and his people are waiting here patiently. I want to say that there are many questions that I will not answer. The patient is a minor, please keep that in mind."

Reporters simultaneously shouted questions.

Ignoring them he continued, "Our surgical team received the patient at 3:22 a.m. from San Bernardino County Air Medical. Surgery lasted just over two hours. I want to thank our trauma team, the surgical staff, the thoracic and cardiovascular group that consulted, and our critical care unit. Barring setbacks, the team here at Regional Memorial is cautiously optimistic about the patient's recovery. Chief do you want to say a few words?"

The chief of surgery, master of the operating room, top dog of the surgical wards looked out at the hungry pack of reporters and punted. "No sir, I think you said what I would have, I'll just wait for questions."

The surprised administrator turned and pointed at the KABC reporter.

She shouted, "Is he conscious and has he said anything?"

"Please wait for the microphone so that we all can hear the questions," the administrator admonished. "Chief, why don't you answer this one?"

"The patient is being kept unconscious, medically. That decision was made by the surgical staff and the post op care team. Recovery will be delicate, and the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are critical," replied the surgeon, licking his suddenly dry lips.

"Has he said anything?" shouted another reporter.

"That's best addressed to law enforcement."

"—from KTLA, were there any surgical complications?" he only caught the end of the question.

The questions continued for another fifteen minutes. The hospital administrator once again took the microphone.

"I'm going to wrap up our portion of this press conference and turn you over to the sheriff and his people. Before I go I want to remind all members of the media about where you can, and cannot go here on hospital property. Please stay within those established media areas. I especially want to thank our local police department for sending extra personnel to help remind you of that if needed," the administrator said sliding out of his chair.

"Sheriff, they're all yours."

"Thanks," muttered the Sheriff of San Bernardino County.

Taking his seat the sheriff waited for the rest of the new participants to find theirs. Past the glare of the television lights he could see reporters shifting in anticipation. Remember to smile, he thought. His wife nagged that if he'd smile more, then reporters wouldn't be so hostile. They'd be a lot more respectful if I shot a couple, he laughed at the notion.

Smiling, the sheriff adjusted his microphone and began to speak.

"I'd like to thank the staff of Regional Memorial, and the administrator in particular, for hosting us. I hope you'll agree that it was easier for all of us to come here than to have two different press conferences?"

He could see a few reporters nodding. The camera and sound crews seemed more enthusiastic on that point.

"To my left is Captain Parsons, head of our Specialized Investigations division. To his left is Lieutenant Moore who was the initial on scene supervisor. To my right is Lieutenant Rodriguez representing the Highway Patrol, and to his right is Commander Jansen representing the U.S. Navy which has been helping us with the search."

"Why is homicide the lead on this investigation?" shouted a balding, middle aged reporter from the second row.

Because it will save time you idiot, thought the sheriff.

Smiling a second time he replied, "We wanted our best investigators. Given the facts and the nature of the case, Captain Parsons and I agreed that this was the best course to follow. As you can see we're making every effort and we have tremendous support from the entire law enforcement community. Let me say that departments all across our state coordinate like this on a daily basis, but we don't usually have you fine folks dropping by to steal our donuts."

There were appreciative chuckles from the assembled reporters.

Another reporter, "Why can't we hear from the lead investigator?"

"We could arrange that at a future date. Right now, we're here to answer your questions while our investigative team works the case. You can appreciate, I hope, that time is of the essence?"

Another voice from further back in the room, "Can you recall any similar cases where the victim was buried alive?"

That one disturbing fact explained all of the satellite trucks.

Friday, September 5th

The investigators were anxious, the first forty-eight hours has passed without any new leads. The volume of phone calls had quickly fallen off without new details for the public to feed upon. If it bleeds, it leads, and once it stopped bleeding the press was off to the next story.

They'd gotten the usual rash of crazies. Enterprising psychics called and told them to look, "close to water." Sergeant Alvarez was thinking about taking his kids to the beach on Sunday.

The worst calls were the ones from desperate parents. Several dozen leads were checked, but none fit the right time frame, or the details of their victim.

While the investigation floundered, news from the hospital kept their spirits up. The victim had stabilized. Vitals were strong, Dr. Patel reported. If he had a good weekend they wanted to start letting him wake up. Patel passed along another tidbit of information that made the whiteboard. Blood work by the hospital had shown that the victim had all of the state's required inoculations. That ruled out a recent immigrant who had bypassed traditional screening measures. It was a worry that the investigation team had raised, one that might explain the lack of any missing persons reports.

In exchange for that detail, Alvarez had gotten a lecture about, "A century of public health policy and medical research spent wiping out third world diseases only to be ruined by a decade of yuppie knows better. Clusters of whooping cough and measles could be found with increasing regularity in California," Patel practically shouted. He'd only gotten the good doctor off of the phone by reassuring him that all his children had gotten their shots.

The desert search had been scaled back, but a new volunteer effort was going to kick off Saturday morning. Volunteers were bringing horses, ATVs, and dirt bikes. Several local off road racing crews were going to lend a hand and try to keep the amateurs from getting lost.

In a quiet neighborhood north of Los Angeles called Altadena, Marty Rothstein was going to get his wife, Miriam, off of his back one item at a time. His 'honey do' list had gotten too long to be tolerated, or so she told him. First on the list was cleaning up the garage. After thirty-five years of marriage Marty knew that the secret to a happy union was doing what Miriam wanted.

Well, I can finally return this chainsaw to the Van Pelts, Marty decided. He's used the little electric chain saw to cut up a dead crape myrtle before Thanksgiving. It hadn't even been a year yet he grumbled.

Typical of the new families that had moved into the neighborhood over the last ten years, the Van Pelts were always on the go. While they often exchanged pleasantries over their adjoining back fences, Marty thought he should walk around the corner to their front door and express his thanks properly. "Miriam, I'm going next door to the Van Pelt's," he shouted.

"It's about time!" she screeched.

They're not home, he decided as he got a look at David Van Pelt's uncut grass, and at the last few days' worth of the local paper scattered around the front door. Taking in the accumulated lawn service and food delivery door hangers Marty decided he could use one to leave a note. Wedging the note into the door, Marty glanced through the side window.

"Miriam! Miriam call the police!"

John Alvarez had just relaxed into his seat for Friday night dinner when the phone rang. He exchanged the look with his wife. They didn't need the words after this much time together.

"Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant," he heard as he answered the phone.

"What have you got?"