Every Fear (7 page)

F
our hours after Maria Colson left her home pushing Dylan’s stroller to Kim’s Corner Store, FBI agents were setting up a video monitor beside a table and folding chairs in her driveway.

Preparations for the news conference.

For Lee Colson to plead for his son’s life.

“Have your IDs ready,” Special Agent Ron Foley said as he approached the yellow tape keeping reporters and neighbors on the street. “Only accredited press will be let onto the property to set up for the news briefing. For you people going live, that’s nineteen minutes from now. Let’s go.”

Some sixty news types jostled to claim a piece of the Colsons’ pavement. Metal clanked as TV crews erected tripods and called for cables, switches, and batteries to be ferried from satellite trucks. Harried cell phone calls were made to editors, patched through to booths and networks. Data about birds, dishes, coordinates, feeds, airtime, and sound tests were exchanged. Overgroomed TV reporters checked their hair, teeth, earpieces, and mikes and helped with white balances by holding notebooks before cameras.

“We’re going live through New York!” a red-haired TV reporter, hand cupped to one ear, repeated into her camera.

A mountain of portable recorders and microphones with station flags rose at the center of the table as reporters settled into spots while taking calls from their desks.

Jason nodded to Nate Hodge to check out the agent testing the video monitor. The agent was cueing up a tape that appeared to be footage from a surveillance camera. Hodge raised his Nikon, squinted through the viewfinder to line up a shot.

Another agent began distributing sheets of paper. Jason studied it. A summary of facts and descriptions. Nothing he didn’t already know. A spread of color photos. One of Maria Colson. One of Dylan. One of a red Chrysler minivan over a note that read, “Seeking information related to a vehicle similar to this model.”
And what’s this one?
It looked like a frame taken from a security tape. His phone rang.

“It’s Spangler, are you at the news conference?”

“Yes, with Hodge.”

“Update me.”

He looked around, then dropped his voice to guard his information. “Got a fairly good inside account of what happened. I talked to the corner store clerk who was there and supposedly watching over the baby.”

“Fine, they got a suspect yet?”

“No one so far. At least no one they’re talking about. But the way they’re setting up for us here, looks like they may have caught something on a security camera.”

“What do you know about the Colsons? Sinners, saints, what kind of people are they?”

“Blue-collar high-school sweethearts. Maria’s a supermarket cashier on maternity leave. Lee’s a tow truck driver.”

“Sounds like a Springsteen song. Anything else? Police getting any solid leads or tips from the alert? What’re they saying?”

“Nothing yet.”

“That’s it? Come on, Wade. We need to break news on this story.”

“I’m doing the best I can. We were first to report the abduction, got it up on our site, and scooped everybody. The FOX affiliate and the Associated Press credited us, and that went national.”

“It’s history now, Wade.
Metro Pulse News
is reporting that Maria Colson is in a coma, brain-dead.”

“I haven’t heard anything like that.” Jason’s attention went to the suits emerging from the house. FBI agents, Seattle police detectives, including Grace Garner. They formed a protective ring around a distressed man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. That had to be Lee Colson. “Looks like it’s going to start.”

Colson took the center chair before the microphones. To his left he was flanked by Special Agent Kirk Dupree; to his right, another agent. Grace drifted off to the side as TV lights and strobe flashes showered the people at the table. After making introductions Dupree read a brief summary of the case verbatim from the handout.

“Now,” he said after he’d finished, “I’d also like to
clear up some erroneous reporting regarding Maria Colson’s condition. She is
not
brain-dead and on life support, as some outlets have suggested. The FBI confirms that Maria Colson is alive, in critical condition; and we are not prepared to elaborate. At this time, Mr. Colson will make a statement.”

Cameras tightened on him and the anguish carved into his haggard face. He looked toward the group, or through it, as if he were gazing at a distant dreadful land.

“I just want to ask anyone…” He paused. “I’m asking anyone who knows who might have my son, Dylan, to ask them to return him safely. Please.”

As Colson spoke, one of the all-news networks broadcasting live framed him with large still photos of Maria and Dylan over the graphic:
FATHER PLEADS FOR ABDUCTED INFANT—FBI SAYS MOTHER’S CONDITION CRITICAL.
“Dylan is our only child. Don’t harm him. I’m sure that whoever has Dylan is taking care of him. Dylan’s a good baby. We love him. He’s our world. We need him so we can be a whole family again. Please, if you know who has Dylan, tell them not to be afraid. Tell them they can make everything better by just taking him to someone’s door, anyone’s door, ring the bell or knock. Please, Dylan’s our only son. He’s our miracle. Please take care of him and return him. Please.”

Lee Colson covered his eyes with his hand as an agent took his shoulder to comfort him and Dupree took over.

“As you know, we’re looking for a red 2002 Chrysler Town and Country minivan that may be related to this case. According to witness reports, the rear bears a
small customized painting of the sun and trees. We’re now going to run a few seconds of security tape taken by a camera in a store across the street from the abduction. We’ll make copies available, as well as still frames. We believe what you’re seeing is a very limited view of Maria Colson and a person and vehicle that are of interest to us. We’re asking that if anything in this sequence looks familiar to any member of the public, that they immediately call the hotline at the FBI or Seattle Police.”

Murmurs rippled through the group as the tape played on the monitor, then Dupree asked reporters to identify themselves as he took questions.

“Agent Dupree, David Troy, WKKR. With this tape you must have a prime suspect?”

“We won’t rule out anything but our focus now is on Dylan’s safe return.”

“Cathy Cain, Pacific Post Syndicate. Has there been any contact, directly or indirectly, with Dylan Colson’s abductors? Any demands?”

“That’s an area we’re not prepared to discuss.”

“Is that a confirmation, sir?”

“It’s a subject we’re not prepared to discuss. Our goal at this stage is to make sure Dylan is reunited with his family. Next question, over there.”

“Jason Wade,
Seattle Mirror.
I have a question for Mr. Colson.”

Grace sharpened her attention to assess Jason, impressed by how he’d found Lani Tychina so fast. She didn’t know much about him other than having read his stories in the
Mirror.
He seemed to be a cut above the
other reporters.
Let’s see what you’ve got here, Jason,
she thought.

“Sir, I know that this is a difficult time, but I understand there may have been other difficult times for you and Maria?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“You called Dylan your miracle, can you explain what you mean by that?”

Colson thought, then said, “He means everything to us.”

After watching their exchange, Grace stayed on Jason’s question. It was cryptic.
Does he know something?
she wondered as Dupree brought things to an end. “Last question,” he said.

“Amy Quan,
Action News.
Mr. Colson, tell us when you last saw your son?”

Colson blinked several times. “Last night, when I held him, I—” His chin crumpled and he shook his head, unable to continue. Dupree wrapped things up.

“We’re asking anyone who knows anything about this case, who has any concerns, no matter how seemingly insignificant, any unease about something, or someone they know, to please contact us. Thank you.”

Dupree and the other agent helped Colson back into the house as reporters lobbed parting questions.

“Is there a reward?”

“When’s the next briefing?”

“We’ll let you know,” Dupree said.

Jason shouldered through the crowd toward the table and his recorder, testing it to ensure it had picked up everything. It had.

His cell phone rang. He figured it had to be Spangler.

“Jason Wade,
Seattle Mirror.
”

“Grace Garner.”

He looked around until he saw her standing alone at the side of the house, looking directly at him.

“What were you getting at with your question?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your question was odd. What do you know, or think you know?”

Now, she’d hit a nerve with him. She’d crossed a line, expecting him to cough up information for her.

“You confuse me. First you prevent me from doing my job when I was interviewing Lani Tychina in a public park, now you want information from me. I’ve got a question for you, Detective Garner, just—”
Just who the hell do you think you are?
But he stopped before finishing, realizing this call was something he could use to his advantage.

“Go ahead.”

“Forget it,” he said.

“I was curious that you seemed to be headed somewhere with your strange question.”

“Hold it. Look—maybe we could talk?”

“Talk?”

“Like the movies, a little quid pro quo.”

“This isn’t a movie.”

“Poor choice of words. You know what I mean. Besides, you called me.”

She continued looking at him a few seconds more.

“Let me think about it—I’ve got to go.”

I
n the Seattle community of Lake City, at Duke Piston’s gas station, the attendant, Ritchie Sneed, read the oil dipstick of the van he was filling at the pumps.

Down a quart. Excellent chance for a small-parts commission, Ritchie thought as he tapped the driver’s window. It lowered about two inches, giving him a sliver view of the man at the wheel and the woman in the passenger seat who was contending with a crying baby.

“What’s the problem?” the man asked.

“You’re down a quart, sir. Want me to put one in?”

“No, we don’t have time. I’ll catch it next time.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Just the gas, and hurry it up here.”

Three crumpled tens appeared at the window. After taking the money, Ritchie took control of the gas nozzle to finish the fill. The baby’s crying was muffled but there was a lot of movement inside. He ended the flow at exactly thirty dollars, capped the tank, then tried to close the van’s small gas door.

It was stuck and wouldn’t shut.

Suddenly the van’s motor started, forcing him to
step back quickly as the van moved toward the station’s exit, where it stopped to wait for a break in the traffic.

Definitely some sort of family crap going on there.

At the counter, as Ritchie rang up the sale, he resumed staring at the battered TV atop the steel file cabinet next to the pyramid display of oil bottles and the shelves with batteries, fuses, and lightbulbs.

Another breaking news bulletin about that thing in Ballard. They’d been running a lot of them. He’d been too busy to pay much attention until he noticed something he’d missed earlier. A fax had come in from the alert network. Ritchie scanned the data about Dylan Colson’s abduction while glancing up at the TV.

What the hell?

He absorbed the key details: police were looking for a man and woman who stole a baby and drove off in a red 2002 Chrysler Town & Country minivan with small custom art on the rear showing the sun and trees. His head snapped to the lot.

Just like the one pulling out of the station right now!

Ritchie bolted from the counter to grab the van’s license plate but he was too late. It vanished into northbound traffic. With the baby’s crying still fresh in his ears, he ran back to the office, picked up the phone, and began jabbing the hotline number.

In Ballard, at the towing and salvage shop where Lee Colson worked, Gina Shepherd twisted the cuff of her faded denim shirt.

“Lee worships Dylan and Maria. There’s nothing he
wouldn’t do for his family. What kind of person steals a baby?”

Gina was sitting in the cab of her tow truck with the door open. Other workers at the shop had gathered to talk to Jason Wade about Lee Colson. All of them had seen the news conference. Some had been to the house. They were organizing volunteer search groups with other tow companies and taking up a collection for a possible reward.

“What kind of person would just steal their child?” Gina said.

“They must be deranged,” said a bearded man in a stained ball cap. “None of this makes one damned bit of sense to us. You reporters always know something. What do you figure?”

“I don’t know,” Jason said, “it appears—excuse me.”

A Chevy Blazer screeched to a halt in the lot. It was Nate Hodge, gesturing urgently for Jason to approach him.

“They’ve got a good tip on the van!”

“Where?”

“Lake City. It’s breaking right now on the scanners, get in!”

Hodge gunned his engine; the Blazer’s tires squealed, creating a cloud of blue smoke and leaving two strips of burning rubber.

Upstairs at the Colsons’ home, Detective Grace Garner was helping Lee Colson gather some personal items for Maria as they prepared to leave for the hospital.

Downstairs, the hum of FBI agents and detectives at the makeshift command post in the dining room turned into a commotion when the special phone lines began ringing at virtually the same time as cell phones.

Perelli entered the bedroom to alert Grace just as her phone went off.

“Grace, it’s Boulder. We’ve caught a good lead on a van from a gas station. Right color, custom art on the back, crying baby inside. All happening now in Lake City! Get rolling, I’ll call with more.”

“We’re on our way.”

Grace and Perelli hurried down the stairs, where FBI Agents Kirk Dupree and Ron Foley were collecting files before rushing to their car. As investigators scrambled from his house, Lee wanted Grace to tell him what was happening.

“We’ve got a van fitting the description with a baby inside.”

“Where?”

“Lake City. We’re heading there now.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Lee, it’s better that you wait.”

“He’s my son. I’m going with you.”

Grace looked at Perelli, both of them knowing that one way or another, Colson would get to the scene.

“All right, Lee. Let’s go.”

Seattle Police Officer Kip Henley was northbound two blocks from Duke Piston’s station when the dispatch went out on the van suspected in Dylan Colson’s abduction.

Henley, a traffic cop, kept his siren and emergency lights off. He carefully navigated his unmarked Crown Victoria through traffic until
bingo,
he spotted the red Chrysler Town & Country with its telltale open gas door and a painting that showed mountain forests in the sunset.

Henley edged up unnoticed behind it, locked on to the license plate, then called it in, making an urgent query for all data to be cross-checked with a number of police databases holding local, state, and federal crime information. His response came back in less than a minute.

“Registered owner is a Charles Robert Burkeyne. White male, approximately thirty-five years, of the 3300 block of 123rd Street, Seattle. One outstanding warrant for firearms violation. BATF shows failure to update registration of a nine millimeter, semiautomatic handgun and a hunting rifle. So heads up.”

“Ten-four,” Henley said.

Keying off of Henley’s position, Seattle PD updated police agencies across the region, including the FBI, Washington State Patrol, and the King County Sheriff’s Office, which put up its “Guardian One” helicopter over Lake City.

A stalled city bus slowed traffic, buying police time to gather resources. As Henley maintained visual surveillance of the van, calling in its location every few seconds, FBI and Seattle police commanders reviewed their options and made several immediate decisions.

Seattle’s SWAT team was activated to begin rolling
to the area, but the situation was mobile, and things could unfold before they arrived. The baby’s safety was the paramount concern. Not a second would be wasted to rescue the child.

Best option: a lightning takedown at the right moment.

The Seattle police marshaled every available unmarked unit in the zone while others headed into the area. All of them kept their lights and sirens off. Marked police cars took up ever-changing choke points in inner and outer perimeters, as the operation flowed with the suspect’s direction.

The van led police through a neighborhood dotted with porn shops, rough-looking restaurants, used-car lots, barred-up liquor stores, strip clubs, and strip malls. It pulled off the main street, and slowed into a parking lot at a large office plaza.

“Okay, this is it. They’re stopping.” Henley pinpointed the address over the radio. In less than thirty seconds, half a dozen unmarked police cars glided into the lot, taking strategic positions around the van, poised to seal off any attempt to escape.

The police helicopter thudded high above them.

The woman stepped from the van, holding a crying baby, and began walking quickly through the lot toward an office storefront.

Police sirens yelped as two unmarked sedans lurched toward her, boxing her in. Car doors swung open, guns were pointed at her, a voice over a loudspeaker barked orders.

“Police! Sit on the ground now!”

“What? Why?”

She shot a look to her van. The man had been ordered out. His hands were above his head. Three police cars, their lights now flashing, had encircled him. Using their doors as shields, officers aimed rifles and pistols at him.

“Charlie!” the woman cried, tightening her grip on the baby.

“Mandy!”

Afraid and confused, the woman lowered herself to the pavement. An officer rushed to her and snatched the crying baby from her arms while another handcuffed her.

“No! What’re you doing? Give me my baby! Charlie!”

At the far end of the lot, Jason Wade and Nate Hodge watched with the other news crews who were first on the scene. TV and still cameras recorded the drama as the officer hurried with the baby to another unmarked car a safe distance away. Jason recognized Detective Garner and Lee Colson inside.

“Lee?” Grace Garner turned to Colson.

After watching the takedown from the backseat, he stepped from Grace’s car to stare at the baby. Slowly, he began to shake his head, then he covered his face with his hands as news cameras captured his reaction.

“It’s not Dylan. That’s not my son.”

But no one heard Colson over the screams of the woman who was handcuffed and hysterical on the ground, staring at guns pointed at her face. Or the cursing of the man being patted down for weapons
before he was handcuffed and put into the back of Dupree’s car.

It took senior officers nearly an hour to sort out and confirm the facts.

Charlie and Mandy Burkeyne were taking Crystal, their baby girl, to a doctor’s appointment to treat an ear infection. The doctor’s office confirmed through medical records that the Burkeynes were the baby’s parents.

Photos of the van’s windshield were e-mailed to the crime scene investigators. The van was not missing a wiper, like the one Maria Colson had ripped from the vehicle.

Charlie Burkeyne was a welder “between jobs.” Money was tight and he was a procrastinator, had never fixed the gas door or updated his gun registration.

Police regretted any inconvenience the Burkeynes had experienced after being arrested, but they refused to apologize for making the stop, asserting that under the circumstances, they had made the right call.

“If Crystal were taken from you,” Sergeant Stan Boulder said softly to Charlie and Mandy Burkeyne, “wouldn’t you want us to do everything and look everywhere to find her?”

Mandy Burkeyne kissed her daughter’s head tenderly, then nodded.

So went the search for Dylan Colson.

In the wake of the alert and news conference, the FBI and Seattle Police hotline received a steady flow of tips, reflecting the concern of people making a heartfelt attempt to help. Unfortunately, most of the information
was useless, with calls like: “I saw a van, not sure where, when or what color”; or, “My neighbor’s weird because his dog barks a lot.” Calls with something a little substantive usually dead-ended.

All were saved and stored.

In the hours after Dylan Colson was stolen and his mother left to die on the street, police were no closer to the truth.