Michael Johnson was looking at the ancient Harley-Davidson motorcycle he had brought home from the junkyard a week ago. He was twisting a wrench in his hands. He was 45 years old, divorced, and had two grown children who lived their own lives. He was an electrician for the City Housing Authority, but his real love was engines—anything that moved on wheels, flew, or floated. Michael went to the city landfill on the weekends.
It wasn’t about the money; he just liked giving things that people had thrown away a second chance. He would sometimes patch up a bike and give it to the kids in the neighborhood, or he would fix up an old radio. It was cold that Saturday morning, October 3rd. A light rain had been falling since daybreak, making the junkyard a dreary mix of muck and puddles. Michael put on his old army jacket and rubber boots before getting in his Ford truck and drove to the place.
The junkyard located outside of the city, past the industrial park. It was a huge area where piles of debris looked like the hills in a post-apocalyptic world. Bulldozers shifted the trash about, and seagulls flew around the new piles. Homeless people looked through the trash for scrap metal and bottles. Michael knew where to find it.
People usually put their bulky trash in a separate area where intriguing things were kept. There were broken couches, refrigerators, and washing machines. He passed along a line of old furniture when he saw something that looked familiar. It was a stroller for babies.
Based on how it looks, it looks like it would cost a lot. It has big inflatable tires, shock absorbers, and blue highlights on a gray background. In stores, these cost about $500. “What kind of idiots throw this away?” “Michael wondered as he got closer.
It looked like the stroller had been hauled across tough terrain for days and then thrown here. There were stains on the upholstery and a tear in the hood, which may have been from dirt or something worse. Michael looked at it more closely. The frame was in good shape, all the wheels were there, and the folding mechanism worked.
It may be cleaned, patched, and look brand new. Mary’s granddaughter, who lived next door, had just had a baby a month ago, and they were destitute. He thought, “She’d be so happy,” as he pulled back the hood and looked inside. The mattress pad was soiled, but it was still in one piece.
Michael started to pull it out to look at the base. He spotted a plastic tray with a small compartment for small things under the mattress pad. There was something in the hole. Michael took out a folded piece of paper that was within a clear plastic sleeve to keep it dry.
He opened it up. A picture was the first thing that slipped out. A regular picture taken by an amateur. A young woman, maybe 25, with light hair that goes to her shoulders and a worn smile…
She was holding a baby girl who was wearing a pink jumpsuit. The baby appeared like it was just 5 or 6 months old. The background was normal: an apartment with floral wallpaper and an old cupboard. Michael turned around and looked.
The words “Me and Sophie, July 2023” were written in script. Then he opened a piece of paper. A page from a standard notebook with messy writing on it. “If someone finds this, I don’t know how to explain.”
Alina Miller is my name. Sophia, my daughter, is 8 months old. She has cancer of the blood. The doctors believe she needs a bone marrow transplant to live for another year.
I gave it a shot. Oh, how I tried. I went to every foundation, wrote letters, and tried to get money. But it costs $2 million to get the procedure.
Two million? How am I meant to get that much money? When Sophie realized that she had cancer, her father left us. He replied it wasn’t his problem and that he wouldn’t spend money on a sick kid.
I hated the day I met him. My mom doesn’t know. She has a sick heart and lives in the country. She won’t live if she finds out about Sophie.
I didn’t succeed. Please forgive me, my little one. I’m sorry, Mom. Please call my mom, Vera Miller, if you are reading this.
Her address is 23 Pine Grove, Upstate New York. “At least tell her the truth.” The date at the bottom was September 28th, which was five days ago. Michael read the letter again and felt a cold deep inside.
His hands shook, and he explored the box more quickly, discovering a thin folder. A documentation of medical care. Number 7 for kids’ clinics. Sophia Miller is a patient that was born on January 15, 2023.
The doctors’ notes, stamps, and the diagnosis, which was written in red, said: Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Michael thought the ground was about to fall out from under him. He sat down on the muddy ground next to the pram and held on to the papers. What did this mean?
Where was the kid? Where was the mom? His mind was racing. Did the mother kill herself because she couldn’t take it?
What about her daughter? God, please don’t do it. Michael’s hands shook as he picked up his phone and called 911. “Police? I need the cops.
Right away. I found a baby stroller at the junkyard with papers in it. A letter from the mother and a medical report for the child claim she has leukemia. I don’t know, but it looks like suicide or something worse.
Please come. The dispatcher took a long time to validate the data and get the address. He said he would send a unit in 20 minutes. Michael sat in the rain, which was light, and didn’t feel cold.
He glanced at the picture. The young woman’s eyes were worn but still alive, and she was holding a baby that was vulnerable. What had happened to them? Were they still alive?
A cop car showed up half an hour later. Two officers came up to Michael: a man in his 30s and an older woman. “Did you call this in?” “asked the man, whose name badge said Lieutenant Davis.
“Yes, I did.” “Look here,” Michael said as he handed them the letter and papers. Lieutenant Davis frowned as he carefully read the papers.
Captain Jones, his companion, peeked over his shoulder. “Look in the database,” she said. “Alina Miller and her daughter Sophia.” Let’s check to see if there is a report of a missing person.
Davis came up to the automobile and began tapping on his tablet. He came back a few minutes later with a sad look on his face. “There is. A neighbor made a report on October 1st, the day before yesterday.
Alina Miller, 26, and her 8-month-old daughter Sophia had not been seen or heard from in four days. They aren’t answering their phones, and the door to the flat is locked. Jones snatched the stroller by the handle. “We’re going to the station with this.”
“We need to open the apartment.” She stared at Michael. “Will you join us?” Give a speech? Michael nodded and said, “Of course, anything you need.”
They got to the police station forty minutes later. They took Michael to a room where they could question him. The walls were bare, there was a table and three chairs, and the place smelled like a government building. Captain Jones started the voice recorder.
“Tell me everything in order.” When, where, and how did you find the stroller? Michael went into great detail about the morning, the journey to the junkyard, and the find. Jones wrote everything down and sometimes added more information.
“Did you touch anything else in the stroller besides the papers?” Michael said he lifted up the frame, noticed the plastic sleeve, and then took out the papers. “Okay. We will examine the stroller for forensic purposes.
It might have traces on it that could help us figure out what occurred.” At that moment, a man in his 50s with gray hair and a fatigued but attentive appearance strolled into the room. He had the rank of Major on his uniform. He told Michael, “Major Thompson.”
“I’m in charge of this case. “Thanks for calling the police.” “How could I not?” “Michael really wanted to know.
“A child is missing.” “You’d be surprised how many people ignore other people’s problems,” Thompson said with a sigh. “Okay.” We’re headed to the Miller’s place presently.
“We need to break in.” They let Michael go home, but not before taking all of his contact information. He departed, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the story. He couldn’t sleep because he was thinking about what they might find in the flat.
Major Thompson called him the next day, on Sunday am. “Michael, we have some news. Not so good. Can you come to the station?
We need your aid. Michael came over in less than half an hour. Thompson met him in the hall and took him to his office. The Major sat down at his desk and said, “We broke into the apartment last night.”
“The apartment is empty.” There are things there, but neither the mother nor the infant is there. There were no signs of violence. But we did find this.
He put a printout of a conversation on social media on the table. “This is from Miller’s computer.” She was writing letters to a man named David Coleman. It looks like the child’s father…
Michael picked up the sheets and started to read. The trade took place in early September. “Dave, I need to talk to you.” “This is very important.” “Alina, we’ve already talked about everything.”
I don’t owe you anything. “Sophia is dying.” Do you get it? Your daughter is going to die.
She needs an operation. “We need money.” “First, I’m not sure she’s my daughter.” Second, I don’t have that much money.
Third, I’m married, and my wife shouldn’t know about you. “You’re a total jerk.” “I’m going to tell your wife everything. Go ahead and try it.”
I have lawyers. First, show me that the child is mine. And then try to acquire anything through the courts. That will take a long time.
Does your daughter have that much free time? “I cursed the day I met you.” “I feel the same way.” Please don’t write to me again.
Michael slowly looked up at Thompson. “That guy is a jerk.” We did check out this Coleman, right? “David Alexander Coleman, 42.
City Councilman and owner of the building company “BuildWell Group.” He is married, has two kids, lives in a mansion in Greenwood Heights, and drives a Lexus. “So he has the money?” “Michael hissed.
“A lot. Our data shows that the corporation made more than $100 million last year. “Two million for his child’s therapy is nothing to him.” “And now what? “Now we call him in for questioning.”
We want to know what he knows about Alina and the child’s disappearance. Thompson stopped. “There’s a problem. He has a lot of power and contacts at the top.
He had already called the police chief to complain about being harassed for no reason. “But we won’t back down.” David Coleman got at the station on Monday morning. He parked his white Lexus right near the entrance, even though there were signs that said “No Parking.”
He was tall, fit, and wearing an expensive suit. He walked with confidence and had a faint scowl of scorn. A slender man with spectacles and a briefcase under his arm strolled next to him. He was a lawyer. Thompson met them in his office. He started the voice recorder.
“Mr. Do you know Alina Miller, Coleman? “Can I ask what this questioning is about?” “The lawyer said,” Coleman leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s about the disappearance of Alina Miller and her eight-month-old daughter, Sophia.”
“Yes, I know this woman. We were out for a short time two years ago. Then we broke up. “Do you have a daughter with her?” “I don’t know.”
She said I did. “I asked for a genetic test, but she said no,” Coleman said with a shrug. “Most likely because she knew the child wasn’t mine.” “The girl has leukemia.”
She requires surgery that costs a lot of money. Did Alina Miller ask you for help? “She wrote something in September.” I said that I couldn’t help.
I have my own family and my own bills to pay. “Is $2 million a lot of money for you?” “The lawyer stepped in again. “Major, my client’s money problems have nothing to do with this case.” “They do if we’re talking about motive,” Thompson said in a calm voice.
“Did Alina Miller say she would call your wife, Mr. Coleman?” “She threatened me,” Coleman said with a sneer. “But I’m not scared of threats. “Where were you on September 28th?” “My wife knows I’m perfect.” “Look at my calendar.
In meetings and at work. “We will check. There are witnesses.” And what about September 30th? “Also at work.”
“All day.” “Do you know where Alina Miller and her daughter are now?” “I don’t know.” And I don’t care. Thompson took a picture out of the file that Michael had found in the stroller.
He put it in front of Coleman. “Look at this kid. She is 8 months old. She’s going to die.
Are you really sure you don’t care? Coleman looked at the picture for a second and then turned away. “I don’t care,” the lawyer said and got up.
“We’re leaving now if you don’t have any more questions.” “That’s all for now,” Thompson said, nodding. “My client has answered everything.” “But keep in touch.
“Maybe we need to talk again.” Thompson hit the table with his fist when they departed. “Scumbag.” It’s really cold.
“Couldn’t even look at a picture of his own child.” At the same time, the police were looking for Alina Miller. They looked in hospitals, morgues, and bus terminals. They talked to others who lived nearby.
Antonia Fields, an older woman who lived next door to Alina, told them, “Alina was a quiet, calm girl.” After the kid was born, she got quite quiet. I could see how hard it was for her. By yourself with a child and no money.
I would sometimes bring her soup and do what I could to help. “When was the last time you saw her? “I think the twenty-seventh.” I saw her in the hallway.
She was pushing the stroller and the baby was sleeping. Alina seemed, how can I say, confused? It seemed like she had been crying because her eyes were red. I asked her, “What’s wrong, honey?” “Nothing, Antonia, everything is good,” she responded. But I knew it wasn’t. “Did she say anything about her plans? “No.”
She said farewell in an odd way. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “You’re very kind.” I didn’t think much of it then, but now I do. The old woman used a handkerchief to wipe her tears.
Checking Coleman’s alibi proved that he was at work on the days in question. Cameras saw him going into and out of the office building in the morning and evening. But this didn’t mean he couldn’t have employed someone. Thompson set up a wiretap on Coleman’s phone…
For a few days, nothing interesting happened. Talking to contractors, his wife, and friends. And then, on Wednesday night, there was a discussion that changed everything. Coleman called someone, but the number wasn’t provided.
It looks like a burner phone. “What’s going on?” “It’s clean.” No sign.
“Someone already took the parts off the car,” a harsh masculine voice said. “Good.” “You’ll get the money tomorrow.” “What about the?” “I don’t care.”
Do what you want. The most important thing is that no one discovers her. “Got it,” Thompson said and asked for the call details.
The second number belonged to a 35-year-old man named Max Olsen, who had been convicted of robbery before. They followed Olsen’s address and summoned a SWAT unit. At one in the morning, they took him into custody at his residence. Max was drunk and passed out, so he didn’t fight back.
They found $5,000 in cash, a set of car keys, and a phone with a text message exchange while they were looking. They took Olsen to the station and put him in a cell till daylight so he could sober up. The questioning started in the morning. Thompson put the copy of the conversation with Coleman in front of him.
“Max, what did you and David Coleman talk about on October 3rd?” “I don’t know any Coleman.” “Don’t lie. Here are the records of the calls. You called him, and he called you back.
The talk is being recorded. Do you remember the car that was taken apart for parts? “Olsen went pallid. He remained quiet for a minute, then he inquired, “What will I get for this?” “It depends on what you say.
That’s one thing if you just helped get rid of an automobile. “That’s totally different if you were involved in a murder.” “I didn’t kill anyone,” Olsen said without thinking. “I swear.” “Then tell us everything in order; maybe we can figure something out.” Olsen let out a heavy sigh.
“Coleman recruited me on September 28. He called and said he needed to get something done. He said he’d pay handsomely, and I agreed.
I needed the money. “What did you need to do?” “She said there was a woman who was bothering him.” “To scare her off so she’d leave him alone.” “Alina Miller?” “Yes, her.
He gave me a picture and the address. She said she normally walks with the baby in the park behind her apartment building around six in the evening. “And what did you do?” “I went there on the 29th, in the evening.”
I stood outside and waited for her. I went up to him and said, “Hi, I’m a friend of Coleman’s.” I told her he was telling her to leave him alone or else there would be trouble. “What did she say?” “She cried.”
“Tell him I don’t want his money,” she said. I continued, “I just want him to recognize his daughter so Sophia knows she has a father.” “Is that all?” I asked. “No.
That following night, Coleman called me and inquired if I had done it. I agreed. He remarked, “That’s not enough; she might start calling and writing again.” “We need to deal with this in a big way.” Michael, who was there as a witness with Thompson’s consent, felt everything inside him clench.
“What does ‘radically’ mean?” “Thompson asked.” “He offered,” Olsen said, stumbling. “He said he would get rid of her.”
“For $10,000.” The room went quiet. “And you said yes? “I was scared to say no.
Coleman is a serious guy who knows people. They might have come after me if I had said no. Okay, you get it. “I agreed, but I didn’t kill her.” “What happened next?” I went to her apartment building on the morning of the 30th.
I kept an eye out for her. She came out with the stroller around eleven. I walked over to her and said we needed to chat. I took her to my car.
“I had a Chevy Impala back then.” “And?” “I told her the truth.” Almost the truth, though.
I told him, “Coleman paid me to kill you.” But I’m not a murderer. You have a chance with me. Get out of the city.
For good. “Take your daughter and your papers and leave, or he’ll send someone else who won’t talk to you.” “And what did she say? “At first, she didn’t trust me.
Then she knew I was telling the truth. “Where can I go?” she inquired. “I don’t have any money.” I gave her $500 from the money Coleman had given me for my costs.
I told him, “That’s enough for tickets and the first little while.” “You’ll have to do it on your own after that.” She went. Yes, I took her to the bus station.
She got tickets. I don’t know where to go. I didn’t say anything. The less I know, the better.
She got out of the stroller. She stated she would have to buy a new one anyhow, and she didn’t want to throw this one out. I took the stroller to the junkyard and threw it away so Coleman would think I had done the job. Thompson slumped back in his chair.
“So, you think Alina Miller is still alive and hiding out somewhere?” “Yes.” I let her leave. I told you I’m not a killer. “And why did you take off the car?” Coleman told me to do it.
He indicated there might be some on it. I took it off. “Did you get the money from Coleman?” “Sold the parts.” “Five thousand dollars.”
He claimed he’d give me the rest later, but he guaranteed me $10,000. I didn’t fight back. I made it through. That was good enough.
Thompson turned to Michael. “What do you say?” Michael said, “If he’s telling the truth, then they’re alive.” “Thank God.” The Major nodded and said, “We’ll check his statement.”
“Max, you will stay in jail. At least for helping and abetting. We’ll see from there. Olsen was taken away…
Thompson got up, fetched himself and Michael a glass of water from the cooler, and sat back down. “We’re going to take Coleman into custody. “Attempted murder is a big deal.” “What if Olsen is lying? “Michael inquired.
“Maybe he did kill her and then hide the body?” And now he’s attempting to get out of it? “Possible,” Thompson said. “That’s why we need to look for Alina Miller.
We will look at the bus station cameras on September 30. “She really bought tickets, so Olsen isn’t lying.” Over the next two days, the investigation team looked at the bus station cameras’ surveillance footage. On Wednesday night, they located a recording from September 30th at 2:23 PM. A woman in a dark jacket with a toddler in her arms walks up to the bus ticket desk.
The video quality isn’t fantastic, but you can tell the faces apart. Thompson looked at it next to the picture from the case file. A perfect match. It was Alina Miller.
She buys tickets and gets back the change. She walks toward the platforms. She is carrying a bag in one hand and a rucksack on her back. The girl in the pink jumpsuit is sleeping in her arms.
“Thompson said, “So Olsen wasn’t lying.” “She left.” “Where did she go?” ” inquired Michael, who had been instructed to come to the station again.
“We’ll find out now,” Thompson said as he sent a message to the bus station ticket office. The answer came back an hour later. Two tickets were bought by Alina Miller.
One adult and one child. For the bus from New York City to Buffalo. Leave at 3:00 PM. “Buffalo, huh,” Thompson said again.
“She said in the letter that her mom lives in Pine Grove, New York.” Michael nodded and said, “So she went to her mother.” “Let’s go check.” The next morning, Thompson, Michael, and two other detectives headed to Upstate New York.
It took four hours to drive. The village of Pine Grove was very small. There are about 30 residences, and half of them are empty. The house at number 23 was on the edge.
The fence was leaning, the yard was overgrown, and the house was old and made of wood. Thompson knocked on the door. For a long time, no one answered. Then footsteps were heard, and the door opened a little bit on a chain.
There was a breach in the wall, and through it you could see the face of an old woman in her 60s. She was skinny, haggard, and had scared eyes. “Who is it? She asked in a raspy voice. “Vera Miller? “Yes, I am.
What went wrong? “We’re the police,” they said. Don’t worry, everything is well. Can we come in? The old woman carefully took off the chain and let them in.
The house was frigid, and the stove was hardly burning. They were definitely trying to save wood. The furniture was dirty, but it was ancient and worn. “Vera Miller, do you have a daughter named Alina?” “The woman stopped.
“Alina? Yes, I do. What’s wrong with her? Did something happen? “When was the last time you saw her? “I haven’t seen her in almost a year.”
“She lives in New York City, works, and doesn’t call much. She’s always busy.” The old woman’s voice shook. “Did something really happen?” “Thompson looked at her closely.
“Vera Miller, do you know that Alina had a child? “The woman’s face twisted. “A baby? Alina? It can’t be.
“She would have told me,” the Major said with a sigh. “Vera Miller, your granddaughter is very sick. Leukemia.
She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want to make you worry. You don’t have a good heart, do you? The old woman sat down on the seat next to the table and held her hand to her chest. “Oh my God! My granddaughter is not feeling well.
And where is she? Where is Alina? “We don’t know.” She hasn’t been seen in a week.
“She might have come to you,” we said. “No, she’s not here.” Vera Miller started to cry. “Where’s my girl?”
What happened to her? “Please calm down,” Michael said as he sat next to her. “We believe she’s still alive, but she’s hiding.” You see, the child’s dad tried to hurt her.
“Alina fled New York City to get away.” “What father? Who are they? “Thompson told the story in a few words.
Coleman, his refusal to help, and the threats. Vera Miller listened and cried, using a dish towel to wipe her tears. “The bad guy! How can someone leave their own child behind?
A child who is sick? “Vera Miller, if Alina calls you, please let us know right away,” Thompson asked. “She needs help, and the girl needs treatment.” “Of course, of course,” the old woman said.
“But what can I do to aid her? I don’t have any money. “Don’t worry about that. My pension is nothing.”
Michael questioned Thompson, “And now what?” as they left the village. “Now we take Coleman into custody.” We have a motivation, Olsen’s testimony, and the recordings of the discussions.
“That’s enough to make an arrest.” The SWAT squad got to Coleman’s residence in Greenwood Heights on Saturday morning. A two-story house with a high fence, a security alarm, cameras, and a well-kept grass. A woman answered the intercom when the officers rang it.
“Who is it?” “Police.” “Please open up.” A minute later, the gate unlocked.
A woman in her forties, well-groomed, and wearing a pricey tracksuit with a frown on her face strolled into the yard. “What do you want?” My husband is at work. “We need your husband, Sandra Coleman,” Thompson stated.
“Where is he?” “At work, at his company’s office,” I said. “Call him.” Tell him that the cops are waiting for him at home.
We’ll take him from the office if he doesn’t come. In front of the people who work with him. “He can choose which one is better.” The woman grew pale and took out her phone.
A white Lexus came into the yard ten minutes later. Coleman got out of the automobile with a blank face. “What is happening?” “David Alexander Coleman.”
“You’re under arrest for trying to kill someone,” Thompson said to the officers. “Handcuffs.” “What?” “His wife screamed.
“What murder? What are they saying, Dave? Coleman didn’t say anything and clenched his jaw. The police put him in handcuffs.
Thompson went on, “You have the right to remain silent.” “Anything you say can be used against you.” “You have the right to an attorney.” “I know my rights,” Coleman said with a sneer.
“And you will be sorry for this. I know people at the top. “I’ll get you all fired.” “We’ll see,” the Major said quietly.
Coleman was put in jail. His wife stayed in the yard, not knowing what had happened. That night, Michael called Thompson. “Did he admit it?” “Not yet.”
He is sitting there without saying anything. His lawyer is the one doing all the talking. Saying there is no proof. Olsen’s testimony is not trustworthy.
It was against the law to make the recordings. “Standard defense.” “What comes next?” “Tomorrow, the judge will determine if he should stay in jail or be released on bail.
The prosecutor will insist that he stay in jail. “There’s a chance of witness tampering.” The next day, Michael went to the courthouse. The room was packed with journalists, Coleman’s friends, and people who were just interested in what was going on.
The case of a City Councilman who was accused of trying to kill someone was a big deal. They brought Coleman into the room with his hands tied. He seemed sure of himself, even cocky. His lawyer spoke something to him in his ear.
The judge, a woman in her fifties with a worn countenance, looked over the case files and listened to the lawyer and the prosecutor. The prosecutor wanted him to be arrested. “Your Honor, the defendant is a threat to the community.” He tried to pay someone to kill the mother of his child.
He has enough money to leave the nation or threaten witnesses. “We ask that he be held for two months.” The lawyer disagreed. “Your Honor, my client is a well-respected man who is a City Councilman and a business owner.
He has kids and a wife. He doesn’t want to run away. The prosecution’s single witness, Olsen, who has already been convicted, is not a reputable source. “We ask for his release on his own recognizance.” The judge thought about it for a minute before making the judgment.
“I agree with the prosecutor’s motion because the charges are serious and there is a risk of witness tampering.” The court said, “David Alexander Coleman will be held in custody for two months.” There was a murmur in the room. Coleman’s friends were upset.
Reporters wrote in their notebooks. Coleman was put back in jail. Michael let out a sigh of relief. At least some fairness.
But that wasn’t the end of the story. Vera Miller called the police station a week later. “Major Thompson, Alina called. “She’s alive,” Thompson said as he put her on speakerphone.
“Take it easy, Vera. “Tell me everything in order.” “She called last night.” Tears.
“Mom, I’m sorry this happened,” she said. I asked, “Where are you, honey?” and she said, “I can’t tell you.” “She said she was safe.”
She can’t say for sure where. “She thinks Coleman will find her.” “Does she know he’s in jail?” “No.
I told her. I told Alina, “That man is in jail.” He was arrested, but she didn’t believe it at first.
After that, she wanted further information. I told her what you told me. What did she say? “She cried.”
“Does that mean I can come back?” she said. “Of course, come back,” I answered. “She promised to think about it and call back.” “Vera, if she calls again, tell her we will keep her safe.”
She needs to come back. “Okay, Major, I will,” she said. “She and her child need help.” Another three days went by.
Michael couldn’t sit still. He called Thompson every day. “Any news?” “Not yet.”
“We’re waiting.” Then, on Wednesday night, Thompson got a call from the bus station. The security guard said that a woman with a child had come up to him. She told him that the police were hunting for her and requested him to call Major Thompson.
Thompson got there in 20 minutes. Michael went along with him. There was a slim woman with short hair seated in the security room. In the picture, her hair was long.
She was holding a small child who was sleeping in a blanket. The woman’s face was drawn, and there were black circles under her eyes, but her eyes were lively. “Alina?” “Thompson inquired.
She nodded. “Yes, it’s me.” “Where have you been all this time?” “Different places.”
Renting rooms, paying in cash, and staying out of sight. “I was scared they would find me.” She gazed at the youngster. “I thought he would kill me and take Sophia.”
Or simply get rid of us both. Thompson said, “Coleman is under arrest.” “He faces a long sentence.” Alina put her hands over her face and cried.
Long, deep cries that let go of all the stress from the last few weeks. Michael came over to her and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. “It’s all right. “You’re safe.” When she calmed down, Thompson said, “Alina, your daughter needs help.”
Right away. When was the last time she had a check-up? “Almost three weeks,” she muttered. “I know that every day counts, but I couldn’t.
“I was scared to come back.” “Now you can.” “We’ll help you set up the treatment.” “But I don’t have any money,” Alina cried.
“Not at all.” “Don’t worry about that,” Michael said. “The $500 I got is almost gone.” “We’ll get the money.”
“We’ll find it somehow.” Alina and her daughter were rushed to the hospital. Doctors looked at Sophia and saw that her condition had gotten worse; the leukemia was getting worse. The girl would only live for two months without a bone marrow transplant.
The hospital’s top doctor, an old guy with sympathetic eyes, invited Alina into his office. “We will do everything we can. We will admit the girl to the ward and start supportive therapy. “But we need $2 million for the transplant.” “I know,” Alina muttered, “but I don’t have it.” The doctor stopped.
“We will try to get it through foundations.” Thompson got in touch with a number of nonprofits that serve kids like yours. They put up posts on social media seeking for help with Sophia.
Then something strange happened. The story was taken up by federal news outlets. Reports on TV talked about the City Councilman who left his sick kid behind and paid someone to kill her mother. Headlines in the newspapers were loud.
The people went crazy. Coleman was the target of a lot of curses. People stopped buying from his company. His wife filed for divorce, took the kids, and moved in with her parents.
The most essential thing was that individuals started sending money for Sophia’s care. Hundreds, thousands of transfers. From regular people: $100, $500, and $1,000. From businesspeople: $10,000 and $20,000.
Three million dollars were raised in a week. Too much. Michael went to the hospital every day to see Alina and Sophia. He brought them toys and food and talked to Alina. She slowly warmed up and started to smile…
She said “thank you” once. “If it weren’t for you, if you had just walked by that stroller.” “How could I walk past? Michael thought.
“There was a letter and some papers. “I couldn’t help it.” “Many could,” Alina said with a sorrowful smile. “I didn’t think anyone would find the stroller and help when I threw it away.
I simply wanted my mom to know the truth so she wouldn’t blame me. “And why did you decide to run away in the first place? “Michael inquired. “Olsen told you they wanted to kill you?” “Alina sighed.
“When he came up to me by the building and stated Coleman had paid him to kill me, I didn’t believe him at first. I thought it was a horrible prank. But when I looked into his eyes, I knew he wasn’t lying. He told me I could leave, gave me money, and stated that if I stayed, they would send someone else. “And why didn’t you call the police?” “I was afraid.
Coleman is a councilman, therefore he knows people. I assumed they wouldn’t trust me. Or that he would hide the case. She stared at Michael.
“Was I wrong?” He nodded and said, “You were wrong.” “But I get it.” “After everything that happened to you, it was hard to trust anyone.” Sophia had surgery two weeks later.
The transplant of bone marrow worked. Doctors indicated the girl had an excellent chance of getting better. Alina cried tears of joy. The investigation into Coleman’s case, on the other hand, went on.
Max Olsen gave a thorough account and said that Coleman had ordered the murder. He gave records of phone calls and texts. Investigators learned that Coleman sent money to Olsen in two parts: a down payment and then the whole amount. Coleman’s counsel tried to say that the transfers were for different jobs and that Olsen was lying to get a lighter punishment.
But the proof was too strong. A genetic test was also done. The court ordered that Coleman give a DNA sample. The findings showed that there was a 99.9% chance that he was Sophia’s biological father.
“Well, Mr. Coleman?” “Thompson inquired again during another interrogation. “Are you still saying the kid isn’t yours? Coleman didn’t say anything and just stared at the wall. “You could have just given money,” the Major said next.
“Two million?” Do you want peanuts? You paid more for the previous time you fixed up your office. But you choose to have someone killed.
Why? Coleman eventually spoke, but his voice was flat and cold. “I didn’t want my wife to find out. I didn’t want all of this to come out, you know? It would have devastated my family, my reputation, and my profession. “And you were willing to kill two individuals for this?
A mother and a sick kid? Coleman snarled, “I didn’t think of it as murder.” “I thought of it as solving a problem.” Thompson felt sick to his stomach.
“You are a sick man, Coleman.” And thank God individuals like you are put in jail. Three months later, the trial against Coleman began. At that point, Sophia was doing better.
The physicians were hopeful. The transplant had worked, and the girl’s body started making healthy blood cells. Alina went to the trial. She was thin and pale, but she kept her head high. Family legal services
Vera, her mother, who had come from the country, sat next to her. Michael was also there as a witness in the courtroom. The judge, who was old and had a gray mustache, read the charges. David Alexander Coleman was accused with trying to hire someone to kill someone, making threats, and not paying child support.
The prosecutor showed the jury recordings of conversations, Olsen’s testimony, the findings of the DNA test, and bank statements. Coleman’s lawyer sought to help him. “My client didn’t mean to kill anyone. “Paying her $10,000 to kill her would scare her,” said Miller. “It was just a way to get her to stop asking for money.” “the prosecutor said with a hint of sarcasm.
“A highly costly method to scare someone. Olsen lied to my client and utilized the situation to get money. The prosecutor called Olsen as a witness. Max told the story of how Coleman hired him, what he told him to do, and how he paid him.
Alina was then called. She walked to the witness stand, put her hand on the Bible, and promised to tell the truth. The prosecution asked, “How did you meet David Coleman?” Alina started in a low voice, “Two and a half years ago, I was an administrator at a fitness center.”
“Mr. Coleman was a customer. We began to talk. He confessed he was dissatisfied in his marriage and wanted to end it. I trusted him.
We went out for six months. “Then I got pregnant.” “What did he do?” He told me that the child couldn’t be his, that I was a slut, and that I was asking for money.
We ended things. I had Sophia all by myself. He never came by or asked how we were doing. I wrote to him when Sophia got sick.
I still felt he would help. But he said no. “Did he threaten you?” “Yes.”
He claimed I would regret it if I went to his wife or court because he had connections and would destroy me. Coleman’s lawyer stood up. “Your Honor.” All of them are guesses.
“My client can’t prove these threats,” the lawyer said. “She can,” the prosecution said, pulling out the printouts. “Here is the conversation on social media. Coleman clearly says in these messages, “Just try to get close to my wife; you’ll regret it.” The courtroom erupted in noise.
The lawyer sat back down, his lips hard. After that, they called Michael. He told the police how he found the stroller, the papers, and the letter, and how he called them. “Why did you choose to help?” “the judge asked.
“How could I not help?” Michael really wanted to know. “A child was not there. A child who is unwell.
“I couldn’t just walk by.” The judge nodded and wrote something down. Coleman got to say the last word. He got up and fixed his tie.
“Your Honor, I know I did something wrong. I agree that I could and should have helped my child. But I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I promise.
Olsen lied to me and took my money. I’m willing to help with the girl’s treatment and pay child support. “Please think about this when you sentence me.” “It’s a little late for second thoughts,” the judge said.
“Your daughter is getting better already.” Because regular people paid for her treatment, not you. The court gave its decision a week later. “And you spent all this time in jail, only thinking about how to avoid punishment.”
Coleman was sentenced to 12 years in a maximum-security prison for trying to hire someone to kill him. He also lost his City Council seat and was told to pay Alina $2 million for moral damages and monthly child maintenance. Olsen got five years of probation for helping and encouraging. The court took into account that he didn’t finish the crime and helped with the inquiry.
After the verdict was read, Alina left the courthouse and was swarmed by reporters. “Alina, are you happy with the decision?” “Yes,” she said with a nod. “Justice won.” “What will you do next?” “Bring up my daughter? Job? Live? “She grinned.
“We have a future now, thanks to all the caring people.” “And what would you say to Coleman if he were here? “Alina stopped to think about what to say. “Thank you,” I would say. It sounds strange, but…
I would never have learned how many nice people there are in the world and how many people are prepared to help a stranger’s child if he hadn’t been so rude. And for him. “Let him think in prison about what he lost—a daughter, a family, his freedom—all because of his pride and cowardice.” The reporters wrote down everything, and the cameras were rolling.
Alina said farewell and proceeded to the door, where her mom was waiting. Michael stepped back and watched the spectacle. Major Thompson walked up to him. “Are you happy with the result, Michael?” “Yes,” Michael nodded.
“everything’s sad that everything came out this way. The girl is growing up without a father, and her mother went through a lot. “But they are alive and well,” Thompson said. That’s the most important thing.
And Sophia didn’t have a dad before. “Yes, you’re right. Coleman was just a source of problems for them.” Thompson pulled an envelope out of his pocket and said, “By the way, this is for you from the City Administration.”
Michael opened the mail and saw a letter of thanks and a cash prize for helping to solve the crime. Inside was a document with seals and $5,000. “Thanks, but I didn’t do it for this.” “I know,” the Major said with a smile.
“But you worked hard for it. “Use it for something good.” Six months went by. Spring came early and was warm…
The trees in the park were in bloom, and kids rode bikes while their moms carried strollers. Michael was sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper. Alina and her daughter sat on a different bench close by. Sophia was walking with confidence, trying to run, and giggling as she pursued the pigeons.
“Don’t run too far, Sophia!” “Alina yelled. The girl waved and ran away. Alina took a seat close to Michael. “Can I?” “Of course,” he said, folding up his newspaper.
“How are you doing?” “Normal.” Working and seeing the grandkids. He grinned and said, “My youngest son’s daughter was born last month.”
“What about you?” “Good. I got a job. Administrator at the clinic where Sophia got her care.
The pay is good, and the hours are good. My mom moved in with me from the country to help with Sophia. “That’s great.” “I still can’t believe all of this happened,” Alina remarked gently.
Six months ago, I thought my life was gone and that my daughter would die. I don’t know what would have happened to me. And now I’m sitting in the park, watching Sophia run, joyful, and healthy, like a fairy tale. “It’s not a fairy tale,” Michael said. “It’s real.
You are a strong woman; you got through it. You didn’t do it by yourself. If it weren’t for you. Michael said, “I just found a stroller.”
“Anyone in my position would have done the same.” “No,” Alina said, shaking her head. “Not everyone. Do you realize how many people walked by that stroller before you?
I tossed it away in the morning, and you didn’t find it until after lunch. How many hours it was there. And no one looked inside or checked. Everyone walked by. Michael thought about this.
She was correct. “I wanted to ask,” Alina said, pausing. “It’s almost my birthday.”
I’m going to have a modest party at home with my mom. Would you like to come? “I want to thank you in person, not just with words.” “Of course I’ll come,” Michael grinned.
“Sure!” At that moment, Sophia went up to them and gave them a pebble. “Mommy, look how pretty!” ” “Oh, how nice! “Alina yelled.
“Should we add it to your collection?” The girl nodded and rushed away again. Alina said, “She collects pebbles.” “She already has a whole box of them.”
“She says each one is special.” “Kids see beauty in simple things,” Michael said. “If only we did.” They stayed for a little longer and talked about trivial things.
Alina then contacted her daughter, and they went home. Michael stayed on the bench. He saw the sun shine through the leaves, the wind blow papers across the road, and life go on. Two more years went along.
Sophia went to kindergarten. A smart, happy girl with big blue eyes and golden pigtails. The teachers loved her. Alina got her personal life in order.
She met a nice guy who worked at the same clinic as her. Andrew is 32 years old and works as a pediatrician. Kind, patient, and loved Sophia. He asked Alina to marry him.
She said yes. Michael got an invitation to the wedding. He wore his nicest clothes and brought a bunch of flowers. He hugged Alina and said, “Congratulations.”
“I hope you find happiness.” “Thank you.” She smiled for the first time in years. “I believed I would never be able to trust men again…
After Coleman. But Andrew is not like that. “I see that.” “He’s a good man.”
“Take care of each other.” The wedding wasn’t too big. Around 30 people came. A little bistro.
Music played live. Michael sat next to Major Thompson at a table. He had also been invited. “Well,” Thompson remarked as he raised his glass. “The narrative had a happy ending.
It doesn’t usually happen that way.” “Yes,” Michael agreed. “We were lucky.” “Not luck,” the Major said.
“You helped. That’s what makes them different. When it’s chance, that’s luck. But you made a choice here.
You saw the stroller and didn’t walk past it. You phoned the police. You helped look for it. That’s not luck.
“That is humanity.” Michael didn’t say anything, but he watched Alina and Andrew dance. Sophia clapped her hands and spun around nearby. David Coleman was doing his time in a maximum-security jail hundreds of miles away.
The first few months were terrible. He couldn’t handle the conditions because he was used to being spoiled and comfortable. He slept on a rough cot, ate prison food, and worked in the sewing factory where prisoners created uniforms. His cellmates quickly found out why he was in jail.
There is a hierarchy and a set of regulations that aren’t written down in jail. People don’t like those who hurt kids. Coleman was beaten up, embarrassed, and had his care packages taken. Six months after he was arrested, his wife left him.
She grabbed everything they owned. She had the right to do so according to the prenup. She sold the BuildWell Group to other companies who were in the same business. She brought the kids to a different city.
She changed the last names of the people. His lawyer sent him papers to sign. Coleman signed them without reading them, so what did it matter? It didn’t matter; all was lost.
He sought to submit an appeal and then another one. All of them were turned down. The punishment stayed in effect for 12 years. A year after he was arrested, a parcel came for him with no return address.
Inside was a child’s photograph—Sophia, perhaps a year and three months old. The girl was sitting in the grass with a dandelion in her hand. She seemed healthy and joyful. Someone had scrawled on the back of the picture, “Your daughter, alive and well, without you.” Coleman stared at the picture for a long time before crumpling it up and throwing it away.
But after his cellmates were asleep at night, he pulled the picture out again, smoothed it out, and put it under his pillow. It was the only photograph of his daughter he had ever seen. He had refused to look at her before and had refused to talk to her. But now he stared at it every night.
Something within of him had broken. Or maybe it had gotten better. He started to write letters. To Alina, Sophia, his ex-wife, and his kids.
He pleaded for forgiveness, told how he had made a mistake, and how much he regretted it. No one wrote back to any of the letters. Ten years went by. Sophia turned 11 and began fifth grade.
She was smart and got A’s in school. She also took dance and art classes. Her family was whole. Her mother Alina, her father Andrew, who had officially adopted her, her grandmother Vera, and her younger brother Arthur were all there. She didn’t know who Coleman was.
Alina had made up her mind not to inform her till her kid was older. Why should a kid know that their biological father was a criminal who planned to kill them? Michael got older. He was already more than 70.
He stopped working, yet he was never bored. He went to his cottage, assisted his kids with their grandkids, and fixed his neighbors’ appliances. Alina’s relatives came to see him often. Grandpa Mike was what Sophia called him.
She made him cards and crafts. “Grandpa Mike, did you really find my stroller? She asked once. Michael smiled and said, “It’s true.” “I found it at the junkyard.
It was nasty but tasty. I decided to clean it up so I could give it to a neighbor. “And what was inside?” ” “There were paperwork and a letter from your mom,” Michael decided not to tell the whole truth yet.
“She wrote that you were sick and needed help, so I took it to the police.” “Mommy is the best,” the girl said. “And you are the best grandpa,” Michael said as he hugged her.
“Thank you, Sophia.” Two more years went by. Coleman did his 12 years and then got out of jail. He was 54, gray-haired, old, and shattered.
He didn’t have anything. No work, no money, no home, no family. Just a release certificate and a worn-out bag of things. He moved back to the city where he had lived before, found a room in a boarding house, and obtained a job as a loader at a warehouse.
He had to labor hard for little money. Coleman knew where Alina stayed. The address was in the papers for the case. He walked by her house a few times and looked in the windows, but he couldn’t bring himself to go up to her…
He saw her one day. She was exiting the building with a tall, pretty girl who was wearing a school uniform. Alina. Sophia.
Age: 13. Coleman couldn’t move and froze on the other side of the street. Alina said something to her daughter, who laughed. They got into a car and drove away.
Coleman stood there for a long time, watching them leave. He then pulled out his phone and called a number he knew by heart. Alina had not modified it. The phone rang for a long time.
“Hi? Finally, she said, ” “It’s. “It’s David,” he said in a scratchy voice.
A break. Heavy and long. “What do you want? “I wanted.
I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I.” “Stop!” She cut him off.
“I don’t need you to say you’re sorry. We don’t need anything from you, Sophia and I. “Leave us alone.” “I just wanted to see my daughter.”
Once. “No!” “I won’t.” “Alina’s voice got stronger.
“You don’t exist to her.” Do you get it? She has a dad. A good, loving one.
Not you. Don’t worry about us. “We forgot about you,” she said and hung up.
Coleman held the phone in his hand and looked at the black screen. She was correct. He wasn’t a dad. He was just a person.
He turned around and left. Five more years went along. Sophia graduated from high school with honors. She got into medical school.
She aspired to be a doctor who treats cancer in children. To help kids like she used to. Alina and Andrew were very proud of her. Michael was 82 years old.
His health was getting worse, and he walked with a cane, yet he stayed tough. Sophia arrived to his house one summer day. “Grandpa Mike, can I come in?” “Of course, Sophia, come in.” She sat down across from him, looking serious and grown-up.
“Mom told me the truth. That dude. Michael nodded. “About Coleman.”
“I get it.” “It must have been hard to hear.” “It was.” But I’m not mad.
Do you know why? “Why?” “Because he means nothing to me.” He was just a man who made a mistake once.
Or maybe not a mistake at all. A crime. But he had to pay. He did his time.
That’s what he says. His life. “And I have mine.” Michael grinned and said, “Wise words.”
“I came to say thank you.” For what you did. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. Or I would be a different person…
Without a parent or a family, I would have grown up. “You saved my life.” “I just found a stroller,” Michael said for the hundredth time. “No, you made a choice.
You could have just walked by. But you didn’t. “And that changed everything.” She rose up and hugged him hard.
“Thank you for everything, Grandpa Mike.” Michael hugged her again, and tears came to his eyes. A year later, Coleman died. 59 years old.
A cardiac attack. He was located in the boarding house room where he had lived for the past seven years after being released. His ex-wife was the only one who came to the burial. Just because he felt like he had to.
His kids said no. He was buried in a cheap grave in the city cemetery. A plain cross, no photograph. The news told Alina about it.
She let Sophia see it. “He died,” she said. “Your biological father.” Sophia said softly, “I feel sorry for him.”
“Sorry he lived his life that way.” But I’m not sad. My dad is doing fine. “That’s Dad Andrew,” Alina said as she hugged her daughter.
“You’re right, sweetie.” Michael lived to reach 87 years old. His family loved him and he died quietly in his sleep. A lot of people attended to the funeral.
His kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, neighbors, and friends. And Alina was with her family: Sophia was with her husband and young daughter Vera, Andrew, Arthur, and Grandma Vera. Alina stood by the grave and remarked, “He was a good man.” “He didn’t do anything brave; he just didn’t walk past when someone needed help.”
Sophia put a bouquet of white roses on the grave and said, “That was enough to change the lives of many people.” “Thanks, Grandpa Mike.” “Rest in peace.” Little Vera, who was three years old, questioned, “Mommy, who is that?” Sophia said, “That’s an angel.”
“Our guardian angel.” The story came to an end, but its effects would last forever. Sophia became a great doctor, saved the lives of many children, and raised two children with love and care. Alina and Andrew had a long and happy life together.
They had three kids and got to see their grandkids and great-grandkids. The family always recalled Michael Johnson’s name. As the man who did a simple but vital thing. He didn’t just walk by someone else’s bad luck.
And maybe that’s what real heroism is. Not accomplishments, not awards, not celebrity, but simply being human. The ability to see someone else’s misery and help them. Do you want me to change another text or help you with something else?
