Off The Record
‘Come Quick, He’s Here!’ A Cop Led Me Into A Jail Cell While I Was Just Searching For My Missing Son
I was just a distraught parent searching for his lost son when I got back to the small hamlet that I used to call home. I followed every lead to a dead end until I got a Facebook notification on my phone with the terrifying words, “Come quickly, he’s here.”
As I entered the corner store, the bell above the entrance began to ring. As I walked up, a man behind the desk looked up from his phone.
His voice was bland as he inquired, “Can I help you?”
I displayed Ethan’s school photo, a wrinkled printout. “Has this boy caught your eye? His name is Ethan, and he is sixteen. It is possible that he passed by here last night.”
“Have you seen this boy?”
After taking the photo, the man examined it.
“I recognize the kid, but I haven’t seen him in weeks.” He squinted at me as if I were a bad check as he leaned closer. “I’ve never seen him with you before, for sure. Why are you searching for him, and where are you from?”
It hurt to be suspected.
I said, “I’m his father,” and the title felt squishy from all the years of separation.
“Where are you from, and why are you looking for him?”
I had ripped around our downtown neighborhood, yelling Ethan’s name until my voice broke when I realized he had gone early that morning, leaving his phone and wallet behind, the window open, and the bed empty.
Had he fled? If he had voluntarily left home, why would he have left his phone and wallet behind?
My ex-wife, Kelly, had called me multiple times in the months leading up to her death to inform me that Ethan had been getting into problems and had joined a dangerous group.
Ethan had been having problems.
What if he had brought that danger to my city home?
When I mentioned that something had occurred to him, the cops didn’t appear to take my suggestion seriously.
After divorcing Kelly, I drove all the way back to this town in the hopes of finding something that would help me find my son.
After divorcing Kelly, I drove all the way back to this town in the hopes of finding something that would help me find my son.
“Wait — I know that kid.”
I pivoted. Behind me was a middle-aged woman wearing a work apron.
“Remember how he used to come in with his mother, Kelly? Lovely woman. The woman looked thoughtfully at me. Try sharing a photo of him on the town’s Facebook page. Here, people watch out for one another. They’ll tell you if anyone has seen him.”
“Try posting his picture on the town Facebook page.”
The woman was right to recommend it. The Facebook site might provide me with a hint if there was somebody in the town involved in Ethan’s disappearance.
I located the town group outside, leaned against my car, and took out my phone. I started typing: “David is my name. Ethan, my kid, has gone missing. Kindly let me know if you’ve seen him.”
My post had received a few encouraging remarks by the end of the afternoon, but no leads. That changed while I was parked outside the municipal library.
The Facebook site might provide me with a hint if there was somebody in the town involved in Ethan’s disappearance.
A Facebook notification about a new comment on my post buzzed through my phone.
Marianne has made the following post: Hello David, I work as a high school teacher. I had an English class with Ethan. Maybe I can tell you where he might be. Would you be able to stop by?
I used my Maps app to enter her address and followed the instructions to a modest home on the outskirts of town.
I was met at the entrance by Marianne. “Come in, please, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Maybe I can tell you where he might be. Would you be able to stop by?
The living room inside was pleasant but packed. As she poured tea from a fragile porcelain pot, she gestured for me to sit.
She started, “Ethan was a good kid,” and sat down opposite me. “Until he grew close to some of the problematic students at school. Kelly was concerned that she was losing him, so she made an effort to bring him back on track.”
I bent over and gazed at my hands. “I understand. I made an effort to be more involved in his life, but as he grew older…”
“Ethan was a good kid until he became friends with some of the troubled kids in school.”
“He pushed you away?” Gently, Marianne inquired. “David, that’s what all teens do. Even when they slam the door in your face, the trick is to keep reaching out to them and letting them know you’re there for them.”
As I admitted, “I’m scared,” “Ethan forgot his phone and wallet. If he left voluntarily, he wouldn’t do that, would he? Was it possible that the children he was interacting with had come looking for him?”
“Could those kids he was hanging out with have come looking for him?”
Marianne gave a shrug. “Hannah is a girl he was friends with in school. I’ll attempt to contact her mother. She might know something.”
With her phone in hand, she entered the hallway, and the only sound in the old house was the soothing, steady ticking of a wall clock.
My phone rang. a fresh alert regarding my Facebook post.
It was simply another “praying you find him soon” message when I checked Facebook. I sighed in disappointment as I left the post.
On the group’s main feed, however, I saw a new post that was a reshare of my own with the description, “Come quickly, he’s here.”
My heartbeat quickened, and my ears became abruptly loud.
“Come quickly, he’s here.”
The post received a few likes but no comments.
Then I noticed that the poster’s name was Marianne.
I jerked my head up. I turned to face the hallway from where the woman had just left the room. Was I the subject of this post?
A sudden cold dread tightened in my stomach. Why? To whom was she warning?
To whom was she warning?
I saw a flash of blue lights bouncing off the glass through the front window. Outside, tires screeched—a jarring, unanticipated sound in the otherwise peaceful neighborhood.
As soon as the front door opened and an officer in uniform entered, I stood up. He had a severe countenance and was tall.
The officer said, “Sir,” in a steady, authoritative voice. “I need you to come with me.”
As soon as the front door opened and an officer in uniform entered, I stood up.
The officer led me out into the light of the late afternoon.
“What’s going on?” My voice cracked as I asked. “Why did Marianne call the police on me?”
My growing nervousness was exacerbated by the officer’s professional stoicism. “Sir, let’s have a conversation down at the station. It has to do with your son.”
My ribs were pounded by my heart. “Is he—? Has something happened to him?”
“Sir, let’s have a conversation down at the station. It has to do with your son.”
The automobile door was opened by the man. Just come with me, please. Downtown, we’ll go over everything.
The cafe, the park, and the former gas station where I had begun my desperate search that morning all vanished as the cruiser slid away.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead in the station. The cop stopped in front of a door after guiding me down a chilly, winding hallway.
The cop stopped in front of a door after guiding me down a chilly, winding hallway.
Ethan was in a tiny holding cell, seated on a bench. He raised his head slowly. His face was strained and pallid, and his eyes were crimson.
“He’s okay,” remarked the cop in a low voice. “I apologize if I startled you, but my sister urged Marianne to contact me right away when she called. We make every effort to maintain discretion while dealing with kids. Marianne must have unintentionally made a public post on Facebook.”
I said, “Cases involving minors,” once more. “What did Ethan do?”
“We caught him trying to get into a house on Willow Drive,” the officer informed the victim. It was reported as a break-in by a neighbor. Fortunately, he didn’t do any harm.
I scowled. “That’s where he used to live.”
As he unlocked the gate, the officer nodded. “He said it was his home, sir.”
As the pieces came together, I gasped. I knelt before my son as soon as I entered the detention cell.
“We caught him trying to get into a house.”
“Have you fled, Ethan?” Your wallet and phone caught my eye, and I wondered, “Why?” Despite my emotional outburst, I spoke quietly and steadily. “Why’d you come all the way back here?”
“I had to.” Ethan’s mouth shook. “There was something important I needed to do here.”
After clearing his throat, the officer supplied the least logical piece of information. “He said he was trying to find a cat, that he saw it inside the house and was trying to get it out.”
“There was something important I needed to do here.”
Bewildered, I blinked. “A cat?”
“Smokey,” Ethan said in a whisper. Mom used to feed him every night, out on the back porch, even though he’s a stray. He waited for her all the time.
“Animal control has existed already.” The officer went on, “They caught the cat, and it’s safe.”
I gave a headshake. “So you came all the way back here to get the cat?”
“Mom used to feed him on the back porch every single night. He waited for her all the time.”
Ethan nodded slightly as new tears welled up in his eyes. “If we hadn’t been there to feed him, he would have gone hungry. Moreover, he was Mom’s little man. She owed me this.”
My throat constricted as the intensity of his agony became evident. “Friend, why didn’t you tell me? Together, we could have drove down.”
A tiny, defenseless shrug lifted Ethan’s shoulders. “It’s just a cat, and you’re busy, right? But without Mom, he’ll be lost. similar to me.”
The words struck me hard.
“Without Mom, he’ll be lost. similar to me.”
Those few broken sentences contained the unvarnished, unadulterated truth of his loss and his sense of desertion.
Nothing came out of my desire to correct it and let him know that he was the only thing that mattered. Rather, I extended my arm and drew Ethan into my embrace.
After a half-second of resistance, he broke and clung to me as if I were the only thing that could keep him from falling apart in the face of a violent storm.
Ethan was drawn into my arms as I extended my arm.
“Hey,” I said in a heartfelt whisper, “we’ll look after him, Ethan. You two. I swear, we’ll take Smokey home with us.”
The sound of Ethan’s voice was muffled by my shirt. “Really? Do you mean it?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice firm and determined now. “Of course. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to go pick him up. Together.”
Something inside of me relaxed for the first time in years. My son was merely a child in need of his father, a child in misery, and not a problem to be solved. And there I was. After all, it wasn’t too late, right?
After all, it wasn’t too late, right?
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