time.”
The crime reporter interrupts with a follow-up. “What about chatrooms? Any chance Ashley may have met someone online and had a rendezvous?”
“As of now we are still awaiting a conclusive report on that.” Detective Harris then indicates his boss. “I’d like to introduce our Chief of Police, Gordon Huiras, who has a brief statement.”
Huiras, a stocky man in his early forties whose graying hair is destined to become even grayer as this case indelibly marks his life states, “Because of the shifting nature of our evolving hypothesis in this case, today we’ve asked the FBI to join with us to expand our search for Ashley Pond. Coordinating the resources from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Department, the Oregon City Police and the Oregon State Police, the FBI will centralize all aspects of the investigation. It’s the very best way to maintain maximum efficiency. They will coordinate all leads. Time is of the essence here. With their assistance we are launching a new, more intensified search beginning immediately. Every location will be reexamined with fresh eyes seeking more subtle clues. That’s the agenda for now.” Huiras hesitates a moment. Then, after glancing at his fellow officers standing soldier-like, he offers a final comment. “Of course we will strive to always keep the media fully informed as developments arise, but that’s where we are at this moment, exactly ten days since the girl went missing. Thank you very much.”
Later that afternoon, dog handler Marty Neiman of Search-One-K-9 Detection, his dog Klause and a Clackamas County Sheriff’s Deputy are scouring the area surrounding the Newell Creek Apartments.3 The dog sniffs garage doors and then the edge of the wooded area leading to the apartment complex. His nose sweeps across the damp ground rhythmically, but detects no new scents. Next, the group leads Klause up the hill where they encounter the sight of Ward Weaver’s half-acre yard, its overgrown lawn and seedy tool shed beckoning for their attention. After the deputy confers with the dog handler, the men saunter onto the Weaver property, Klause wagging his tail. The deputy approaches the front door and knocks.
Seconds later, Weaver swings it open and when he notices Klause, calls out a friendly greeting. “Here boy! Come here. That’s a good dog.” Klause enjoys the attention and licks Weaver’s face. He grins. “What a neat animal. Is there something I can help you guys with?”
Marty pulls the leash to separate Klause from Weaver. The deputy removes his gloves. “Good afternoon, sir. We are conducting a search for the missing girl, Ashley Pond. We would like your permission to search the property with a dog.”
“What’s his name?”
“Name?”
“Your search dog, what do you call him?”
Marty smiles and interjects, “Klause, and it won’t take very long, because he’s very quick.”
Weaver chuckles. “A quick sniffer, huh? Sure, go ahead guys. Have old Klause sniff away all you want, but only outside. I don’t want any dogs in my house. Now I’ve got to get back inside. I’m helping my daughter with her math homework.” He quickly but gently closes the door.
The men conduct their search, but find nothing outside the house. The old storage shed reveals tattered boxes of assorted junk enmeshed in sticky cobwebs, but no discernable clues about the missing child. Marty and the deputy follow Klause on a new journey as he leads them down Beavercreek Road toward a store, but the trail goes cold.
Days tick by without a sighting. The morning of January 23, Detective Viola Valenzuela-Garcia is handing out over 1300 flyers to commuters. She is standing in the middle of Beavercreek Road during the morning drive, holding a huge life-sized poster of Ashley Pond.4 Stopping cars, she stares the driver and passengers in the eyes until they roll down the window and take a flyer. All the while she is silently pleading for help in solving the case which is slowly eroding her soul. The thought of her own twelve-year-old child is never far from her mind. The rain is incessant as each of the cars’ tires throws sheets of slimy road water in her direction.
At the same moment, fifty feet away, Portland’s Channel Two reporter, Anna Song, is holding a microphone, standing near the spot where the local school bus will soon be retrieving the Newell Creek group of Gardiner Middle School students. Song’s cameraman has her image in close, with a dozen youngsters clustered in the background chatting noisily. With tape still rolling, Song approaches the group who react with giggles and awe. She holds her mike out. “Pardon me, do any of you want to talk about Ashley Pond on TV? Come on, here’s your chance.”
A five-foot-four slender girl with lovely tied-back blonde-streaked hair steps up and offers her comments. “It’s really hard to believe that happened to one of your friends or something. It’s just really different and really sad.”
Song becomes intrigued and follows up. “Were you pretty close to Ashley? Was she a close friend of yours?”
“We were friends.”
“Did she ever talk about problems at home?”
“Yes. I knew her like from the third or second grade. And yeah, she did.”
“What do you think actually happened that morning?”
“Wednesday?”
“That one morning when she basically disappeared. Did she talk about running away?”
“Yeah, she told my little sister about a week before she did it; she told her she was thinking of running away.”
Song pauses a moment and asks a final question of the talkative student. “What do you think happened that morning?”
The teen giggles nervously. “I have no idea what happened. Really, I have no idea what happened. I just know she disappeared. Ran away or got kidnapped or something. But she’s been gone for so long, it seems like she got kidnapped or something.”
The young TV reporter looks searchingly at her. “Can I have your name?”
“Sure. Miranda, Miranda Gaddis.”5
On schedule the yellow, belching colossus rolls up behind the students and within sixty seconds all have boarded. They crowd around the windows watching Song wave to them as the bus lurches its way down Beavercreek Road, soon disappearing from view. Song is buoyant. “I think we’ve got some good stuff here, Wally,” she says to her cameraman as he disassembles his gear.
More days pass without a sign of Ashley. On February 5, Philip is away shooting a corporate video. Linda O’Neal is sitting at her dining room table that doubles as a communications hub for her home office. The table is littered with boxes of files, a computer, a fax machine and a thirteen-inch TV. Linda is typing up a routine case report. Her phone rings and she picks up. “Linda O’Neal Investigations. Can I help you?”
A twittering female voice nervously inquires, “Is this Linda O’Neal?”
“Yes.”
“Do people hire you to investigate things?”
Linda laughs. “That’s right. My job is to get to the bottom of the issue and provide a coherent report. Are you in need of an investigator?”
The
