Missing: The Oregon City Girls. Rick Watson
even lived with us for a long time. She was like part of the family.”
Garcia nods. “So when was this? When was she a part of your household?”
“It was during sixth grade, and then that summer. She moved back to her mom’s at the beginning of seventh grade.”
“During the time she lived with you, how did she get along with your dad?”
“Great, really great. My dad was very nice to Ashley. He bought clothes for her. He even bought her a bike. He fed her and everything. And after all that, I can’t believe that she’d turn around and lie the way she did about him. It wasn’t fair.”
“A lie? What type of lie?”
“Just a few days before seventh grade started, she all of a sudden starts telling people that my dad had tried to rape her or something. After that he kicked her out and she had to go back to live with her sisters and her mom.”
“Mallori, do you remember any times in the past when Ashley ran away or mentioned running away?”
The child ponders a moment before responding. “Yeah, I think so. In fact I remember she did run away, for a few hours anyway.”
“Who found her?”
“Her mom and my dad found her behind the Foster Farms building. She hadn’t been gone that long. But that’s the only time I know about her running away.”
The detective makes a few notes. “Can you think of any reasons that Ashley would take off without telling anyone first?”
“If she ran away, I think it was because of Lori. Ashley couldn’t stand being home with her mom because of her mom’s drinking problem and the way it made her act.”
“You said you and Ashley had been close.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure then that you must have confided a lot with each other like good buddies often do.”
“Sure.”
“Can you tell me any other reasons Ashley was unhappy?”
“Well…we both are on the dance team. We have dance practice every day after school to get ready for the competitions. Now, the rule is if you miss one practice you can still compete. But if you miss a second time, then you can’t. Ashley found out on Tuesday that she isn’t going to the next competition. She missed two practices. It made her very unhappy. The next day, yesterday, Wednesday, she was gone.”
“Thanks, Mallori, for all your help. It’s a big job when somebody goes missing so mysteriously like this. But I’m sure we’ll find Ashley.” The detective pauses and looks into the young girl’s eyes. “By the way, is there anything else you want to tell me about Ashley? Anything you can think of that I should know about?”
“Well,” she pauses and then goes on, “I guess so. There was something weird. It was around ten o’clock that same day she disappeared. Wednesday. Lori’s boyfriend, Dave, came over to our house looking for Ashley. While he was there, I asked him about dropping Ashley off at school when she was late, but he said he hadn’t ever been dropping her off at school. What was weird about it was Ashley had told me that Dave was giving her a ride to school on the days she’d missed the bus. And Ashley missed the bus a lot.”
“You live next to Newell Creek Canyon don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And a lot of your friends, like Ashley and Miranda, live in the apartments adjacent to the canyon, is that right?”
“Sure.”
“Are there special places in Newell Creek Canyon where kids hang out?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you be able to show me where they are, if we went there together?”
“You mean right now, during school?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. I can show you, if you think it’ll help.”
“Okay, one little formality. I’ll have to call your parents to secure parental permission.”
“I live with my dad.”
“I see. And what’s his name?”
“Ward, Ward Weaver the third.”
“Do you have his work phone number?”
Within minutes Garcia calls the man’s employer and has Mallori’s father on the phone. “As you may know Mr. Weaver, Ashley Pond disappeared yesterday and I’m in charge of finding her. I’ve been interviewing kids here at school trying to find some leads. I just had a nice chat with your little girl and she has indicated she knows places in the canyon where some of the neighborhood youngsters hang out. May I have your permission to take her away from school for a while to point out some of these places? Then I’ll bring her right back to finish up her school day.”
Weaver’s response is quick and polite. “Yeah, I heard last night that Ashley was missing. Of course you have my permission. Anything I can do to help, count me in.”1 He proceeds to rattle off details about his knowledge of Ashley Pond. There had been quite a bit of trouble between Ashley and her mother, so the girl had practically lived with the Weaver family for several months last year. Weaver speculates, “Because of family problems, maybe Ashley simply ran away. In any case, I had no contact with her today or yesterday and, in fact, she hasn’t been around my house for several months.”
“Why not?”
“Well the hard truth is when Ashley gets in situations over her head, she has the nasty habit of shooting off her mouth making false accusations against people out of anger. I really feel sorry for the child and I hope you find her real soon. She needs professional help. But when you do find her, you need to check out her living situation. Her mom drinks a lot and hangs around with a rough crowd. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if one of ‘em is involved in whatever happened. But if I can ever be of help, feel free to call on me, any time. I wish I had more information for you.”
Detective Garcia thanks the talkative fellow for his comments. “I’ll get Mallori back to the school as soon as we get done at the canyon. It shouldn’t take that long. Call me, sir, if you should think of anything else.”2
For seventeen years Philip Tennyson has operated a videotape service. He rents cameras, makes copies of tapes and shoots and edits videos. Philip conducts his business from a converted garage-office attached to the small home he shares with his blended family, including his wife Linda, a high-profile Portland private investigator, her twenty-year-old son Jonathan and Philip’s thirteen-year-old son, Damon. Linda works mostly for defense attorneys. She’s earned a reputation for dogged, detailed investigations, especially homicide cases. Since marrying Philip, six years before, she has moved her office to their house, taking over a spare bedroom and two-thirds of the dining room table. The kitchen separates her office from Philip’s equipment-laden video studio.
On January 10, Philip is sitting at his editing bay examining a clip depicting groups of dancing teenage girls. The video office door swings open as his wife Linda O’Neal blows in, cell phone to ear. She’s drenched from a pounding rain and clutches a waterlogged bag of groceries, half covered by a tattered umbrella. She is vigorously defending an issue. “I understand your instructions, but it’s not my fault,” she informs the attorney on the other end of the line, “and I will do it, but I’m telling you, the so-called witness doesn’t know a damn thing.” She hangs up, ponders the case she’s working on a moment and then plasters a kiss on the top of Philip’s head before she blasts on through the tiny editing suite into the adjoining kitchen.
Linda