Saving Cheryl

Cops live in a relatively small world. That world is mostly composed of other cops and their families, and its because people other than other cops and their families don't understand what our lives are like. Most don't want to. They'd prefer to go about their business without ever meeting one of us. That's because when they do meet one of us, it's either because they've done something against the law or they're involved in a situation where someone else has caused them or theirs harm. We don't enjoy those situations either.

Contrary to what most people think, cops don't really like arresting people. We'd be a lot happier if we didn't have to chase down some asshole, wrestle with him or her to get them into cuffs, and then do all the paperwork to record what happened. We also don't like testifying in court. Some lawyers are assholes too.

What we do enjoy is helping people. It might be just checking on a senior citizen to make sure they're just staying inside and aren't hurt or sick. It might be finding the guy who robbed your house and then finding out what he did with your grandmother's wedding ring so you can get it back. It might be staying with you after you've been in a car accident so you won't feel alone and you'll know help is on the way. We feel good about doing things like that. It's the only reason some of us have been a cop for fifteen years like I have.

I had hopes of getting that feeling again one day in July. The station had gotten a call from Belle Venica that one of their residents had somehow gotten lost. When the call went out, I was close to Belle Venica so I said I'd go talk to them.

Belle Venica is called an assisted living community for seniors, but their residents tend to be those with memory problems or health problems that require monitoring. They have a doctor and several nurses on staff to do that so in my mind anyway, it's more of a nursing home. They have a large yard with trees and places to sit so the residents can get some fresh air.

They also have a nine foot chain link fence around that yard and the doors that lead out onto the street are all locked except the visitors entrance. That one has an unlocked door that opens into a vestibule. The door from the vestibule to the lobby is unlocked by a receptionist after you state your business over the intercom.

I'd been to Belle Venica once before to interview one of their residents about a burglary in his house. We'd nabbed a guy we suspected of a different robbery, and got a search warrant for his house and car. When we looked through what we'd found, there was a man's wallet with his ID. Walt, the detective assigned to the case ran the ID and found out he was the victim in an earlier burglary. Walt asked me to go to Belle Vinica and talk to the guy to see if he could identify any of the things we found.

My first impression of the place was that it looked more like a prison than a nursing home. I suppose when one gets to the age one needs help with bathing and going to the bathroom, it would be better than nothing, but I decided I'd never want to live like that. Anyway, the guy identified a camera and a couple pieces of jewelry, so I had him sign a statement and then went back to the station. Walt thanked me, added the guy's statement to his file and charged the perp with that burglary too.

The same little blonde with the same cheery smile buzzed me into the lobby that day. I asked to see Beverly Rand, the manager of Belle Venica and the person who'd made the call.

Beverly was a pretty good-looking woman if you like the professional woman type. Me, I'm not a big fan of women's business suits, hair done up in a tight bun, and wire rimmed glasses. The ass she had crammed into her tight skirt and the big tits that pushed out her frilly silk blouse looked inviting though. What wasn't inviting was her attitude. I'm also not a big fan of anybody who seems to work at being an asshole. Beverly was like that.

As soon as I walked into her office, she smiled. That was the last smile I was to see from her. After she said hello and I shook her hand, she frowned.

"This morning when the nurses made their rounds with meds, they discovered Mrs. Tillerson wasn't in her room. We're not sure how or when she got away from us, but she apparently did so sometime last night."

She shook her head.

"I have to keep telling the night nurses to watch carefully when visiting hours are over. There's always a crowd of people who wait until the last second to leave and they stack up in the lobby waiting to get out the door. It's worse than visiting day at the juvenile detention center I supervised a few years ago.

"I think Mrs. Tillerson probably got herself in the middle of the crowd and just walked out. Our security cameras don't show her leaving, but there was a large group of people walking to the parking lot together so she could have been in the middle of them.

"The camera in our parking lot stopped working last week and I haven't been able to get the goddamned repair guy out to look at it. He say's he's busy with a new installation down town. What the hell does he think I'm paying him a retainer for -- to sit around and play with himself?"

Beverly calmed down a little then.

"Mrs. Tillerson is physically fine for her age, but she has some problems remembering things and when she's at home, she drinks. That's why her son put her here a month ago. I don't think she's a danger to anyone but herself, but God knows where she might wander off to. She's really not with it most of the time. She may seem all right, but she keeps having these delusions about people kidnapping her and being locked up in here. We have tight security, but people are free to leave with their relatives any time they want."

I asked what clothing Mrs. Tillerson might have been wearing when she left. Beverly frowned again.

"If I had my way, it would have been just scrubs so we can tell the residents from the visitors, but the kids of these people want them to look like they're fine and enjoying their stay here. It could have been anything, though the nurses say she seems to like black pants and white blouses. She has several of each. Oh, and she likes white tennis shoes. I don't think she has any other kind of shoes."

I asked if she had a picture I could have. Beverly printed one from their resident data base. I couldn't help but notice it looked like one of the mug shots I show people. It had her name, Cheryl Tillerson, and her room number on one of those little boards with removable letters, and she was holding it under her chin.

I said I'd circulate the picture, and if Mrs. Tillerson was in the area, we'd probably find her within a day. It's happened before, not from Belle Venica, but because some man or woman went for a walk and then couldn't remember how to get home. They're easy to spot because they look confused. Usually they're happy to be found.

After having one of the office clerks send the picture out to all the squad cars and posting it on the missing person's board, I started driving my regular route. It was difficult to figure out where Mrs. Tillerson might have gone, because people with memory problems will often surprise you. They might not be able to remember where the bathroom is in their own house, but they'll remember how to get to someplace they used to go a lot.

I didn't know where that might be in Mrs. Tillerson's case, but since it was on my patrol route, I decided to stop by the address Beverly gave me as Mrs. Tillerson's home. When I drove up in front of the house, there was a red SUV parked in the drive.

The woman who answered my knock was maybe forty, and she looked more like she was getting ready for a night on the town than doing anything else. I introduced myself and stated my reason for being there. The woman fluffed her dark brown hair, batted eyelashes that were obviously fake and looked ridiculously long, and smiled.

"Officer, I'm so worried about her. When the home called, I just about died. My husband's mother is the dearest woman in the world and I've been thinking about all the bad things that could happen to her."

"Well Mrs. Tillerson -- I'm assuming it's Tillerson.

She smiled at me with her red painted lips.

"Actually, it's Anderson-Tillerson, but please call me Andrea."

"Ok. Andrea, can you tell me anyplace she might like to go? Sometimes people with memory issues remember things you wouldn't think they would. Maybe she liked a certain park or a certain store, things like that."

"Well...other than this house, I can't think of any. It was hard to get her to leave, but it was for her own good. We're trying to sell it now. I came over to clean because I thought it might take my mind off her being out roaming the streets. It isn't helping much though."

"How long ago was it you took her to Belle Venica?"

"A month. She got confused and ended up at the liquor store two blocks away. We know the owner and he didn't think she should have been there so he called me. When I went to pick her up, she said she knew where she was and just wanted to buy some vodka. She drinks and that seems to make her worse. That's another reason we put her in Belle Venica."

I thanked Andrea for the information, assured her the entire police force was looking for her mother-in-law, and then left.

As I drove away from the house, I was a little suspicious. My cop nose had picked up something that seemed a little off. Call me a cynical bastard if you want, but it was a little odd that if Mrs. Tillerson's daughter-in-law was so worried about her, why didn't she also call the station to report it? The only call we'd gotten was from Belle Venica. In the past with a case like this, the desk sergeant often gets a call from a worried family member about every hour until we find the person.

I supposed she could have been being honest about being worried and coming over to clean the house to take her mind off it, but after a few years of interviewing people, a cop starts to be able to read faces and body language. A lot of times, body language and facial expressions will tell us as much or more than the words we're hearing. Andrea didn't seem as upset as she said she was. In fact, she smiled most of the time.

I drove to the liquor store where Andrea said Mrs. Tillerson had gone. The owner remembered her.

"Mrs. Tillerson? Sure. She was a good customer for a lot of years. Bought a fifth of vodka every two weeks or so. At Thanksgiving she'd buy a quart of rum. For her Christmas fruitcake she said. Man, you should have tasted it. I don't like fruitcake, but what she made was great. She said she baked it the day after Thanksgiving and then soaked it with rum every day until Christmas. She always brought me a big piece wrapped in foil. She hasn't been in for about a month though. Something happen to her?"

"Did it look as if she might have a drinking problem?"

He waved his hand.

"Mrs. Tillerson. Nah, never. I mean, how could you have a drinking problem if all you drank was a fifth every two weeks? That's what, a shot a day? I have customers who buy two quarts of something every week."

"Maybe she bought more somewhere else."

"Not Mrs. Tillerson. She was sober as a judge every time she came in here."

"The last time she was here -- do you remember anything different about her?"

He thought for a minute, then frowned.

"No...she seemed happy. Just picked out her usual, paid me, and then left. No, wait. She did say she'd twisted her ankle walking down to my store and it hurt. She had me call Andrea to come pick her up so she wouldn't have to walk back."

"Who would this Andrea be?"

He frowned.

"Andrea is Mrs. Tillerson daughter-in-law. Her husband and I went to high school together and after I bought this place he and his wife started buying their liquor and beer here. He said he was supporting an old friend, and I guess he was a friend back then. He was a little soft spoken and never was into sports like I was, but he was a pretty nice guy. His wife, now there's a real case for you."

"Oh, how so?"

"Just how she acts and dresses. It's always fancy clothes, lots of makeup, and lots of jewelry. Must cost Mrs. Tillerson's son a fortune keeping her that way. She's a lot on the stuck-up side too. Most of my customers are pretty down to earth people. Andrea seems to think she's better than most. That's how she acts anyway."

I thanked him for the information and started driving again. This was starting to smell worse and I'd only talked to two people. I'd learned not to come to conclusions before exhausting all the possibilities though. Those premature conclusions can come back to bite you in the ass if you're not careful.

My shift ended without any word from any other officer about Mrs. Tillerson. I was a little worried for her. It's warm enough in July she wouldn't get cold at night, but there some animals in people suits out there who'd not think twice about hurting an older woman.

As I started to pour my third scotch that night, I had to stop and think. I'd asked the liquor store owner if he thought Mrs. Tillerson had a drinking problem, and here I was starting on my third. I capped the bottle, put it back in the cabinet, and pulled a soda from the fridge.

The next day after my lunch of a burger and fries, I drove back past Mrs. Tillerson's house. It was just a hunch, but older people don't walk very fast and it was almost three miles from Belle Venica to her house. The red SUV wasn't in the drive, so I pulled in. Nobody answered my knock, so I walked around back.

Like a lot of these old houses, the garage was behind the house. It was unlocked, so after I banged on the door with no response, I went inside. No, it wasn't legal to do that, but I figured maybe Mrs. Tillerson might have come back and since she couldn't get in the house, she might be in the garage.

There was nothing in the garage except a bunch of plastic bins. I didn't open any of them because I wasn't looking for things. I was looking for a person. I just walked back outside and closed the door. It was then I saw somebody peeking around the corner of the garage nearest the alley.

I couldn't tell if it was her or not. All I could see was the white hair and one eye, but I didn't know who else it could be. I stepped away from the garage with my hands raised.

"Mrs. Tillerson? I'm officer Mike Ransom. I don't want to arrest you or hurt you. I just want to talk to you."

The voice was female, and was surprisingly strong for an older woman who was supposed to drink a lot and forget where she was all the time.

"You just want to take me back to Belle Venica."

"No, at least not until I talk to you. I'm not sure I believe everything I've been told about you and I want to hear your side. Can you come a little closer so I don't have to yell?"

She walked out from behind the garage slowly, but she didn't appear to be hurt. She walked better than some younger people I'd arrested. When she was about fifteen feet away, she stopped.

"I'm close enough. What do you want to know?"

"Well, why you ran away from Belle Venica for starters."

"I ran away because that Beverly broad is in cahoots with my daughter-in-law. I went to bed one night and woke up the next morning in there. They must have drugged me because I don't remember any of it. After that, Andrea started bugging me to give my son power of attorney so they can sell my house, but I said I wasn't going to sign anything unless my attorney looked at it first.

"Once I said that, the nursing home started giving me drugs. They wouldn't tell me what the drugs are for, but I'm not stupid. I'm not sick so I don't need any medicine. The only reason for the pills is to dope me up enough I will sign."

She grinned.

I fooled 'em though. My lower plate is kinda loose, so I'd just stick the pill under it and pretend to swallow. When they made me open my mouth to prove I'd swallowed, they wouldn't see any pill. When the nurse left, I'd flush it down the toilet. I have to act like I'm a little groggy though. That's a real pain in the ass. There's a couple of men there that I like, but they think I'm all ga-ga all the time."

"Where did you spend the night?"

She smiled.

"With a friend. He has a really nice refrigerator box and a mattress with two blankets he got from the mission down the street."

"You spent the night with a homeless man?"

"Yes I did. Jeremy's a really nice man. He was in the Army and went to Afghanistan. When he came back, he had some problems fitting in, so he started living on the street. My husband Rick was in Vietnam so I understand Jeremy. I used to bring him and his friends sandwiches every other day, and he told me if I ever needed anything, I should ask him. After I walked out of that prison they call an assisted living facility, I walked to his alley and asked. Jeremy's a big man, so I knew I'd be safe with him.

"I'd still be making him sandwiches if that bitch Andrea hadn't put me in Belle Venica. Pardon my French, young man, but that's what she is -- a real bitch. She spends money like it's water and she has my son Randolph wrapped around her little finger. Randolph always was a wimp, but I think he's worse now. A few years ago I used the bathroom in their house. In the bathroom closet I found a dog collar, a leash, and a little whip. They didn't have a dog and as far as I know, never had one."

I should have just put her in my car and taken her back to the station and let her tell a detective her story, but I found myself starting to like Mrs. Tillerson. At least she was believable. She didn't seem senile, and she didn't seem like a drunk. She was also pretty feisty for an older woman.

"Mrs. Tillerson, I'd like to believe you, but I really need some proof. Could I talk with Jeremy?"

She thought for a few seconds, then frowned.

"If you go walking down that alley in that uniform, all the people will scatter because they'll think you're going to arrest them. Maybe I can talk him into coming with me out of the alley. I'll have to see. If I can, just be nice to him, OK? Oh, and could you bring yourself to call me Cheryl? I know I look old enough to be your mother, but I don't feel that old."

"I promise I won't do anything to upset him. Where is this alley?"

I waited on the street corner while Cheryl walked down the alley. It was a risk to let her go. She could easily have just kept on walking and I'd have lost her again, but I didn't think that would happen. She seemed to eager to clear up what I'd heard from Andrea.

Ten minutes later she came back out leading a man in an Army field jacket by the hand. They stopped and she pointed at me and then said something to the man. He nodded, and they started walking again. When they were a few feet away, Cheryl said, "This is Jeremy. Jeremy, this officer just wants to ask you some questions about me so don't be afraid, OK?"

I stuck out my hand.

"Hi Jeremy. I'm Mike. Those are Staff Sergeant strips aren't they?"

Jeremy shook my hand.

"Yeah. Got 'em in Afghanistan."

I smiled.

"I'm impressed. I only made it to buck sergeant."

His face brightened a little.

"You were in the Army?"

"Desert Storm. It was a cakewalk compared to what you guys went through."

"Yeah, it was pretty rough over there."

"Cheryl here tells me you're a friend of hers."

He grinned.

"She used to bring us sandwiches before they took her away. She's a nice lady."

"She spent the night with you?"

I saw a fleeting look of fear in his eyes. Cheryl squeezed his hand.

"It's OK, Jeremy, you can tell him."

Jeremy still looked afraid, but he answered me.

"Yes, sir. She did, but I didn't do anything to her."

I smiled.

"I didn't think you did, Jeremy. I just wanted you to confirm what she said. She said she felt safe with you and I believe her. She's lucky to have a man like you to help her out."