I’ve been working for the F.B.I. now for seven years, dealing with kidnappings. It’s surprising how often it happens. There are approximately 17,000 cases per year in the U.S. ; that's about 50 people being kidnapped every day.
I work mostly with testimonials; listening and taking notes directly from the abductees themselves. For the most part, I record what is reported and organize it into detailed reports for the certain departments that require the information.
Most of the investigators who work here are not experienced enough, or just can’t ask the questions that are needed to bring out the best results. They don’t have the capability to bring out the trust in a person who has been mentally and physically abused. Mostly they don't have the stomach for it. I am able to keep my job owing to my stoicism in dealing with the very often gruesome details; the colleagues I work with on an every day basis know that I’m good. They appreciate my ability for bringing out the best results in any given situation. What they don’t know is that I actually like what I do.
Case number: KF215973 Name: Denise Joan McThaniel.
Once a kidnapped person is found, we need to bring them in to testify while their memory is still fresh.
The state pushes for quick psychological treatment and assessment; after the shrinks are done with them they’ve personalized everything that they went through. This makes them focus on how they feel about what happened, and usually deludes their memories of what really happened.
Sometimes the psychology actually helps to get through some mental blocks, unlocking what their minds won't let them remember. Though I would argue that the repressed memories never come out clean.They’re partial and filled with fiction that they use to complete a memory they can never completely recover.
Denise disappeared when she was 23 years old; she was living and working in L.A. California. Her car had been discovered near a coffee house that she was known to frequent. Five months after she disappeared, she was found naked, walking down an interstate in Arizona.
She entered the room where I was waiting from the lobby; a blank look glazing her eyes.
Denise turned out to be a generally pleasant looking tall, thin brunette. She was wearing a black skirt and a blue flower print blouse with a v-neckline; revealing her cleavage. Old scars lined the top of her breasts and her hair was very short, it was only an inch or two long at most. It looked like the kind of cut they give military boys when they enlist, still, it worked for her.
I could tell that it was an old work outfit from before she was abducted; it being somewhat loose on her. It’s common for someone to lose weight when kept in isolation for long periods of time.
There were scabs on her neck and wrists; cuts and scrapes visible on the bare skin which was showing. She sat down with poise and good posture, not even a glance at me when she took off her sunglasses.
"Good afternoon Miss McThaniel. My name is Agent Michael Allen. Do you know why you’re here?" I asked.
She responded quickly and clearly, "Yes, you’re going to question me about the kidnapping."
"Would you like anything before we begin?" I asked.
"No, thank you Mas.. " She stopped short of finishing the sentence before continuing, "No, thank you Mr. Allen." She cringed slightly.
"Don’t hesitate to ask if you want anything during the interview; food or water, a break perhaps." As I turned the tape recorder on, I kept my voice even and without much emotion as I continued, "Do you remember being abducted?"
"Yes." She responded, looking at me. "I remember it well." As I met her eyes for the first time I saw that she had been left with another cruel mutilation. A pair of scar lines slicing straight down the middle of each eye, from just above her eyebrows to an inch beneath the eye. Her black pupils were deep with suffering. Mercifully, she had not been blinded.
"Tell me what happened on the day you were kidnapped." I asked.
"I was walking towards my car when he came from behi.."
I cut her off in mid speech. "Tell me what happened during that day, leading up to the attack." I instructed her as I picked up her medical report.
Photos had been taken of her entire body. For the amount of abuse written on her skin she still had an undeniable beauty.
"Yes sir. I was working that day. I had a job at the Del Taco office building; I was in advertising. I had long styled hair, with highlights. I was the picture of commercial beauty. Everyone loved me at work, the men hovered around my desk every day. I gracefully turned down all of their advances, my career was the only thing I cared about.
I got off work at 6p.m. and drove to Long Beach. Im an alumni at CSULB. I used to go to a coffee shop in the city, to study.
After graduating from college, I would still sometimes go there. I had always been comfortable with the casual, drowsy feel of the place.
`Not having a date or anything else to do that night, I went to the coffee shop to read a book; ‘The Postman,’ I think it was. That's another book that's just so much better than the movie. Of course they always are.
I knew a few of the regulars there, among them was a guy named Rich who had always wanted to go out with me. He had made a lot of money working as a lawyer, (I think that he thought I would be impressed) and talked with me about it for a while. It was not very exciting at all, mostly personal injury cases. He did tell funny jokes though. As he talked about work, I drank my coffee and stayed until about 10p.m., closing time."
Turning her head to the side, Denise lay her head down on the table, sighing. "And that was ‘Portfolio’ the coffee shop?" I enquired.
"Yes sir." She confirmed, raising her head and nodding.
"Go on." I prompted.
"I was the last person to leave because Rich kept me talking outside for half an hour. I told him that I had to work the next day and told him goodnight. He asked me if I wanted him to walk me to my car, I told him I’d be fine and said no. He got into his car, waved and drove away.
Long Beach is a very dark city at night; I had never had a problem before, but I began to think that maybe I should have taken him up on his offer.
I started walking to my car, a little more shaky from all the coffee I had. The light was dim, I hoped that all of the shadows would keep to themselves.
I never heard anything or sensed anyone behind me until the last moment. Turning around, I saw a man wearing a dark black or blue mask. He was wearing an orange T-shirt that tightly gripped his chest, revealing how strong he was. His pecks popped out in between his sinuous shoulders and arms.
He pointed a silver gun at me and growled "Shut up or die. Turn around." My heart leapt out of my chest. My worst nightmare was happening. I could barely breath.
