Page 13 of The Missing Half
The Grand Rapids police station hasn’t changed much over the years, and walking into it is like walking into an old forgotten nightmare. Around every corner is another memory I’d prefer to keep buried. That’s the room where I sat, a cup of weak tea in my hands, as Detective Wyler took down my statement about the day Kasey went missing. That’s where some uniformed officer got my fingerprints so they could compare them to the prints found in our car. That’s the door to the bathroom where I once ran to throw up in the middle of an interview. Wyler and I had been talking about something relatively benign when it happened. I’d been telling him how Kasey always took care of me when we were kids, making me breakfast on the weekends when our mom was asleep, too hungover to remember to feed us, and suddenly my stomach lurched. When I came back, there was a soda and vending machine chips on the little table, which he slid over to me. Adrenaline, he said, was a fickle thing.
Wyler did eventually call me back, though it took two more voicemails to get his attention. When he did, two days after I first reached out to him, I told him Jenna Connor and I were looking into our sisters’ cases and we had a few questions. Would he mind sitting down with us sometime within the next week? It was obvious he was surprised to hear from me, and he seemed skeptical about the visit, but he agreed. “I have a window this Friday afternoon,” he said. “You can swing by the station then.”
Jenna had to use a sick day, and I asked Brad if I could come in this weekend instead and, as I knew he would, he said yes. So, here I am again, in a place teeming with bad memories. But this time, I’m not alone. I have Jenna by my side now, and we have ammunition in our pockets.
Jenna did her due diligence when researching Steve McLean, and what she found makes Lauren’s account of him seem almost juvenile. According to the internet, McLean has racked up a hefty list of offenses over the years. He was charged with intimidation and multiple instances of domestic violence against his ex-wife, and there are protection orders against him filed by two other women. Most disturbingly, he was charged with rape but took a plea deal before it ever went to trial. That seems to be his legal MO: In almost every case, he took some kind of plea that lowered the charges to misdemeanors. Jenna says the offenses are the kind police and judges chalk up to an inability to have decent relations with a woman, nothing criminal. But the implications are clear.
And these are just the things for which he’s gotten caught. Which makes me wonder: What else has he done that he’s gotten away with?
On top of all this, Jenna found that McLean’s family owns a small piece of land in Kentucky. I wouldn’t have thought anything of this if it weren’t for what Wyler told my family all those years ago: that the man the police were looking for most likely owns or is familiar with some sort of property where he brought Kasey after the abduction.
I’ve never been in Detective Wyler’s office. Back when I came to the station during Kasey’s investigation, he didn’t have one, and I was always led to the conference rooms. But he’s the sergeant in charge now, and an office came with the promotion, though it’s dinkier than I would’ve imagined. It’s not that different from Brad’s, actually, just a small, run-down room drowning in files.
“Sorry I wasn’t able to meet earlier,” Wyler says after he shakes hands with me and Jenna. “Things around here have been busy. In fact, I’m feeling a bit guilty you girls came all this way. A new case fell into my lap the other day, so I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”
Once, Kasey had been his number one priority, and a phone call from me would have made him drop everything. I know I shouldn’t blame him for not still working on a seven-year-old cold case, but I do. I resent waiting days for an audience with the man who did nothing but let us down. Briefly, I think about the family in Wyler’s “new case,” the people he doesn’t wait to respond to. I envy the hope they undoubtedly have. I pity them for what’s coming.
“And as I mentioned over the phone,” he continues, “I’m no longer the lead on your sister’s case. It was passed on to another detective a few years ago when I took the promotion.”
“We know,” Jenna says. “But it’s you we wanted to see.”
He nods. “I also feel it’s prudent to add, since both of you are here, that while we always theorized Kasey’s disappearance was connected to Jules Connor’s, Jules’s case was not within my jurisdiction, so I can’t speak to it with any authority.”
“It’s Kasey we’re here to talk about.”
Jenna offered to spearhead this interview, which was fine with me. She was going to ask open-ended questions, she said, let Wyler do most of the talking. Most important, she—we—were not going to mention Steve McLean’s name until we had to. McLean is our trump card, the only card we have.
“Well,” Wyler says, “you have my attention.”
“We understand that the police have to keep some things under wraps during an active investigation, but now that it’s been so long, we were wondering…were there any leads you didn’t tell Nic’s family about?”
Although it was Jenna who asked the question, Wyler looks at me. “In most cases we can’t share every lead with the families. We have to protect the integrity of the investigation. But in this case, we didn’t hold anything back. Because there was nothing to hold back.”
“But you never told us anything,” I say. “All you ever said was that you were looking for a guy.”
“A man on the periphery of Kasey’s life, yes. That was our theory.”
“That’s not a theory. That’s a fucking line.”
“Nic—”
“No, really. I can count all the words of your entire theory on two hands. A-man-on-the-periphery,” I say, punctuating each word with a finger, “of-Kasey’s-life. That’s eight words.”
Wyler stares passively at me. I think back to the day I smashed that mug on the driveway as he pulled out, one of many times I’d snapped that year. Perhaps, by now, he’s used to me. My gaze flicks to a glass bowl on his desk. It’s filled with those hard candies wrapped to look like strawberries. I grab one, unwrap it, and pop it into my mouth.
“Help yourself,” he says. I glower at him.
“Can you tell us,” Jenna says to Wyler, “when you were looking for this man, what avenues did you go down?”
“We spoke with people in Kasey’s life. Her family, for instance. Her friends. We asked them if they knew where she was going that night, why she was on the road. We asked if they’d seen any shift in her behavior and you, Nic, told us before she disappeared, she’d been stressed with school. We asked if they could think of anyone in Kasey’s life who would’ve been motivated to take her. We asked if they knew of any man who showed a little too much interest, anyone who kept coming around the house or the store where she worked. That kind of thing.”
“And? Did that get you any names to look into?”
“Unfortunately, it didn’t produce any viable suspects.”
“But were there names?” Jenna says, and I hear the smallest crack in her calm exterior. Wyler’s diplomacy is edging into caginess. “You did look into people. Right?”
“We looked into many people. We just didn’t find any viable suspects.”
“You keep saying viable suspects,” I say. “But what about unviable ones?”
“Well, in that case, Nic, we would consider them unviable.”
Jenna and I exchange a look. My question was dumb, for sure, but it feels like he’s dancing around something.
“During your investigation,” Jenna says, “did you ever talk to Lauren Perkins?”
Wyler shakes his head. “You’re gonna have to refresh my memory.”
“Lauren was Kasey’s friend from high school. They worked at the record store together that summer. Or at least most of that summer, before Lauren got a job at the restaurant next door.”
“Of course,” Wyler says. “We spoke with Lauren, yes.”
“So did we.” Jenna lets the words hang in the air.
“If you have a specific question, I’d be happy to answer it.”
“Lauren gave us a name. Of a man who worked at the barbecue place right by the record store where Kasey worked that summer. He had a reputation for harassing women. Steve McLean. She told us she gave you his name too.”
Wyler leans back in his chair. Again, even though it was Jenna who said it, he looks at me. “Nic, I’m sorry Ms. Perkins got your hopes up, but we looked into McLean. He wasn’t our guy.”
“Why?” I say.
“For starters, take a look at the crime scene—Kasey’s car abandoned on the side of the road. When we got there, it was immaculate. No sign of a struggle, no blood, no fingerprints aside from your family’s, which we’d expect to be there, not a dollar bill taken from her wallet. It was clean, self-contained. Steve McLean is not that kind of guy. He’s the type who gets heated and slaps a woman when he thinks she’s out of line, or grabs someone’s backside when no one’s looking. He doesn’t premeditate his crimes, he improvises them. Plus, he’s not a rich guy and he’s greedy. If McLean had abducted your sister, at the very least, her wallet would’ve been taken too.”
“So, wait,” I say. “You’re ruling out McLean because the crime wasn’t his style ?”
“Profiling goes a long way in these cases, Nic.”
“That’s such bullshit. You can’t rule somebody out because you don’t think that’s the way he would’ve done it. Maybe you didn’t understand Lauren when she told you, but this guy is a predator. We looked him up online. He has protection orders against him. Charges of domestic violence. Of rape.”
Wyler frowns. “Those must be recent. Seven years ago, he didn’t have all that.”
“That’s not true,” Jenna says. “The dates are online. In 2012, he had a charge of intimidation from his ex-wife and one of domestic violence.”
“You’re right. I didn’t mean he didn’t have any charges, but those were specific to his ex-wife. The two of them clearly weren’t capable of maintaining a healthy relationship.”
My eyes go wide. “Excuse me? Did you just blame McLean’s ex-wife for his violence?”
Wyler is quiet for a moment, then says, “It was bad phrasing. All I was trying to point out is that at the time we were looking at him, he hadn’t racked up the kind of charges you mentioned.”
“So,” I say. “He’s just gotten worse.”
“Look.” His voice is curt. He’s getting flustered. “I’m not defending McLean. I’m telling you he wasn’t our guy.”
“Because you had him fill out an online personality test? And you just don’t think a Gemini has that much foresight.”
Jenna shoots me a warning look. I know I’m not doing us any favors here, but my skin is hot with resentment. For all these years, this man has hidden the name of a potential suspect from me and my parents—for what?
“His family owns land in Kentucky,” I say.
Wyler narrows his eyes. “I’m not following…”
“You told us that the man who abducted Kasey would’ve had a property where he took her.”
“A lot of people own property, Nic. It’s circumstantial. McLean also had an alibi.”
“What was it?” Jenna says.
“He spent that night at a friend’s house. They hung out till the early hours of the morning and then McLean crashed on his couch. He was there all night. And before you ask, I honestly can’t remember the friend’s name, but take me at my word when I say we looked into it. It checked out.”
“But—”
“I’m not sure what else to tell you, girls. McLean doesn’t fit the profile and his alibi is solid.” He makes a show of looking at his watch, then stands. “Now, I’m sorry, but I have a briefing to get to. It was good to see you again, Nic. Jenna. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
—
Jenna and I walk across the police station parking lot to her truck. She’s probably half a foot taller than I am, and I have to jog to keep up with her.
“You gotta get better at this, Nic,” she says. “You can’t snap every time someone pisses you off.”
“Jenna, he knew about McLean. This entire time.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a strawberry hard candy. Just before we left Wyler’s office, I grabbed a handful. The pettiest revenge.
“I know. But Wyler’s one of the few resources we have. We can’t burn that bridge, even if he is a dick.”
“Such a dick,” I say.
Jenna lets out an incredulous little laugh. “He really was. I think we should reach out to the detective who inherited your sister’s case when Wyler got promoted. They might not know as much, but maybe whoever it is won’t be as condescending.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do that.”
She nods. “God, Wyler. And here I was always so jealous of yourfamily getting Grand Rapids PD. But, Jesus, victim blaming McLean’s ex-wife? Acting like an alibi from a friend and a personality profile are irrefutable proof of innocence?”
“Yeah.” The candy clicks against my teeth. “And it just backfired. I suspect McLean now more than ever.”
I’m expecting Jenna to respond with her usual level-headedness, to tell me we need to pause, do our research, get our ducks in a row,blah blah blah. But instead, she stops and turns to face me. “Oh, absolutely. Screw everything Wyler just said. We’re finding Steve McLean.”