They Disappeared. Rick Mofina

      “He’s a piece of work,” Ortiz said.

      “He’s a slab of misery.”

      With the sound of pressured water against metal, Cordelli turned sadly back to the smoldering ruin.

      “I’ll bet we have somebody in there, Juanita.”

      “I’m praying we don’t. Look.”

      Beyond the tape, Jeff Griffin had stepped from a taxi to anxiously survey the scene. Cordelli cursed himself for giving up the address, but Griffin was right—he would’ve found out.

      Cordelli had requested two cars be dispatched to the house of the registered owner on Steeldown Road in the Bronx, and he’d hoped the units got to it before Brewer got a chance to claim it.

      Now, a firefighter at the wreckage was shouting and signaling for Lieutenant Reston to look into the SUV’s interior. Whatever was inside could not be viewed from a distance. Cordelli saw Reston lean in, saw his face crease before he directed his men to their next steps.

      “Damn,” Cordelli said.

      It was clear to him what they’d found.

      * * *

      It was clear to Jeff Griffin, too.

      He was experienced with these scenes.

      From where he stood, he read Reston’s face and it hit him.

      Oh, Jesus.

      The dread Jeff had locked in the darkest reaches of his heart lashed against the chains that held it there. He saw the fire crews unfold the large yellow tarps—the universal flag of tragedy, the confirmation of death. He watched them take care positioning the covering. Protecting the scene while respecting the dignity of the dead.

      He was familiar with the funereal procedure.

      He’d performed it himself.

      He knew what happened to fire victims—how their skin cracked, how their bones broke, how the skulls could shatter and how the bodies could be burned beyond recognition.

      Sarah and Cole.

      He began shaking, pierced by one thought.

      I have to see them. I have to see for myself.

      Everything went white.

      Time froze.

      He could not immediately remember physically getting as close as he did to the SUV’s charred remains before hands seized him and dragged him back while he screamed for Sarah and Cole. All he saw was the brilliant yellow sheet. All he could imagine was the horror under it. He didn’t know how much time had passed or how he came to be in the rear seat of a police car with his hands covering his nose and mouth, blood roaring in his ears. For a moment or two he’d cried and when he dried his face, the clink of the handcuffs around his wrists alerted him to a man standing just outside the car.

      “Mr. Griffin? I’m Detective Brewer. Can you hear me now?”

      “Yes.”

      “Okay, I’m going to start again. You have the right to remain silent....”

      15

      Manhattan, New York City

      Jeff Griffin was placed in a stark interview room at One Police Plaza.

      He’d waived his right to an attorney.

      Left alone to contend with the agony of no one confirming that Sarah and Cole were dead, all he could do was pray.

      Please, tell me it’s not them in the SUV, I’m begging you.

      Adrenaline rippled through him.

      He flattened his hands on the wooden table in front of him while memories strobed, snapshots of standing near Times Square with Sarah and feeling her arm around him. Tight. We have to hang on and work this out. Snapshots of the joy in Cole’s face as he marveled at the skyscrapers.

      They can’t be dead.

      By degrees Jeff regained the strength to keep from losing control. He had to hang on. He had to keep hoping, he told himself as events after the fire came into focus. Upon his arrest, Cordelli had rushed to the car, confronting the bald detective, demanding answers.

      “Hey, Brewer! Where the hell are you taking him?”

      Brewer had flashed his palm to Cordelli while he ended a cell phone call with “—okay, so we’re good at Steeldown Road in the Bronx.” Then he’d turned to Cordelli. “Step back, Vic. He’s mine now. We’ve got two homicides, this is our operation.”

      “He’s got nothing to do with this the way you think, Brewer.”

      “You don’t know squat. Just get your notes to me or it’s your ass!”

      Brewer had gotten into the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford and closed the door. His partner, Klaver, was behind the wheel. The motor roared and its siren yelped as the Crown Vic left for the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan and NYPD headquarters downtown. They took Jeff up the elevator to a cell-like room where he waited.

      Time swept by and he’d stared at the cinder-block walls and at his own reflection in the two-way mirror where he saw a man struggling not to fall into the abyss.

      Sarah. Cole.

      A click. The door opened. Brewer and Klaver entered.

      They dropped file folders and notebooks on the table, dragged and positioned the two empty chairs opposite Jeff, then filled them.

      “Are my wife and my son dead?”

      The room went cold.

      The detectives stared at Jeff.

      Klaver was fair-skinned and wore the somber, pointed face of an undertaker. Brewer’s expression burned with the intensity of an embittered cop bereft of compassion.

      “The medical examiner and our people are still processing,” Brewer said.

      “You can tell me the presumed age and gender,” Jeff said.

      “Can’t do that.”

      “Why not?”

      “The remains are in bad shape. We’re awaiting confirmation.”

      “Bull. You have an idea who’s in that SUV.”

      “I know this is a horrible time,” Brewer said. “We’ll let you know as soon as we can. We’ve been reading your report and statement to Detectives Cordelli and Ortiz. We’ve made a lot of calls here and in Montana and right now we need to ask you a few questions.”

      “About what? I’ve been through this with Cordelli, he knows everything.”

      “The vehicle is linked to our operation.”

      “What operation?”

      “We can’t disclose details. A lot is in play right now.”

      “What does that mean? What the hell is this? My wife and son were abducted, they could be dead and you don’t give a damn!”

      “It doesn’t get any more serious than this and we’ll get through it faster if you help us to help you.”

      Blinking back his anger Jeff looked away, shaking his head in disgust.

      “This won’t take long, Jeff.” Klaver spoke in the softer voice of the “good cop” and opened a folder. “There are a few things we need your help on.”

      Jeff’s silence invited Klaver’s first question.

      “Take us back, step by step, to your arrival in New York, up to and immediately after you reported Sarah and Cole had been abducted.”

      Jeff inhaled and recounted every detail for the detectives. Afterward, he answered Klaver’s follow-up