A Child is Torn: Innocence Lost (2 page)

“Better?”

Again he replied with the tiniest nod.

“Does anything hurt, Brad? Are you hurt anywhere?”

This time he shook his head no. He seemed unfocused; it was almost as if he was oblivious to other people in the room. Suddenly, he turned and looked directly at me.

“Where’s my Mom?” he asked, before his attention shifted again. It was as if he was scanning the room, his blue eyes darting from one corner of the room to another expecting to see his mother’s face.

I took a deep breath as I made an effort to distance my personal feelings from my professional ones.

“Sweetie, do you remember what happened to your mom and dad?” I placed my finger under his chin, tilting his head so I could see his eyes. “Do you remember how the blood got on you?”

I was surprised by his composure as he answered me.

“Something bad happened,” he whispered. “Can I go home now?”

“No sweetie, you have to stay here a little while longer. I need you to try to tell me what happened at your house. Can you tell me what happened to your mommy and daddy? Did someone come into your house and hurt them?”

He shook his head again. He looked exhausted; it was obvious to me that he just wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep. Perhaps he was thinking this was all a dream.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” he asked me. This time his eyes locked with mine. Then he said, “I hurt them.”

I looked around the room. Everyone was trying to take it all in, looking for a good explanation for what they’d just heard. Was it an admission of guilt? Did this child just say he’d done the unthinkable? Did he just say he murdered his parents?

It was then I became aware of a disturbance outside. Someone was yelling; a man’s voice was begging for answers.

“Where is he? Is he okay? Where the hell is my nephew?”

I watched Moran step outside and heard him trying to calm the hysterical man without much success. The man’s sobbing became louder when the detective confirmed that what he’d been told was true; his sister and her husband were dead. Brad had heard the familiar voice, and tried to connect with it.

“Stay here, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.” I told him.

I glanced over at Whitley and she nodded, letting me know she would stay with the child. I walked out to a scene I’ve seen too many times before—a grown man on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

After a few minutes, the man got his emotions somewhat under control. He looked at Moran, his eyes pleading for answers.

“We’re trying to find out what happened, Mr. Ginns. We’re not sure what happened yet, but we’re doing everything we can to find out.”

There was no question in my mind that Moran’s reply was genuine. He then introduced me.

“Mr. Ginns, this is Dr. Rubin, the child psychologist we’ve called in. Dr. Rubin, this is Ed Ginns. He’s Mrs. Madison’s brother and Brad’s uncle.”

“Psychiatrist, detective, I’m a psychiatrist,” I corrected. I then turned to Mr. Ginns.

“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” I said, taking his hand. “Can you tell me a little about Brad? Has he been having trouble at home? Has he been under any treatment?”

The question seemed to surprise him, but in a second, the implication hit him.

“What are you saying? Oh my God, no, you’re crazy. I want to see Brad; I want to see him now. He’s just a little boy; he must be scared to death.” He was getting louder, and his body was shaking. The shock of his sister’s death was just starting to sink in, and this accusation added to his emotional burden. “No, no way,” he said, his tone quieter now.

Detective Moran answered. “Mr. Ginns, let me speak to you in another room before you go in to see Brad. I need to ask you a few questions first.”

It was if the wind had been taken out of his sails; Ginns nodded with reluctance. The detective led him away; I walked back into the cubicle where Whitley and Brad were deep in conversation.

“Was that my Uncle Eddie?” Brad asked me.

I nodded and said, “Yes Brad, Detective Moran wants to talk to him before he sees you. Do you like your Uncle Eddie? Is he nice?”

His face broke into a crooked smile for a split second; then his head dropped so that his chin was on his chest. He again looked as if he was deep in thought. After a moment, he slowly raised his head and asked, “Can I go home now?”

Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer him. Ginns walked into the room, and Brad opened up his arms. Brad began to sob uncontrollably into his uncle’s embrace.

After a few minutes, Eddie held Brad at arm’s length and looked intently into his face.

“Brad, what happened? Who hurt mommy?”

It seemed like minutes, but it was only seconds before Brad replied.

“I did.”

I could tell that no matter how many times Eddie Ginns heard those words, he would never believe them; there was no way he could accept what Brad said he had done.

The orderly had brought Brad a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and Brad ate it as though he were starving. One sandwich obviously wasn’t going to be sufficient.

“I’ll be right back,” the orderly said. “How about some ice cream to go with another one of those?”

Brad nodded, although his fatigue was becoming more pronounced. The second sandwich and the ice cream probably wouldn’t arrive fast enough.

I felt we’d gotten all the answers we were going to get for now. A nurse came in to administer a mild tranquilizer, and asked us to leave the room. It had been a long day, and Brad needed to get some rest. Seconds later, as he clung to his Uncle Eddie, he fell into a deep, chemically induced sleep.

Detective Moran asked us to follow him into the lobby.

“Can I get either of you some coffee, or a soft drink?” he asked Ginns and me. I was dying for a cold drink so I nodded my head.

“Yes, please, anything diet.”

Ginns shook his head no, staring stoically at the floor.

After directing an officer to get some refreshments, Detective Moran pulled out a notebook. His partner Whitley had her cell phone on her lap. She glanced down at it from time to time; I got the feeling she was recording the conversation.

“Do you have any idea why Brad would do something like this Mr. Ginns? It’s hard to believe a child of his age would do something so incomprehensible. Do you know if either of his parents mistreated him? Is there a history of abuse?”

“Absolutely not!” Ginns cried, his eyes flashing in anger.

“My sister and brother-in-law loved that little boy. He is… was their world. I—don’t—don’t you dare accuse my sister. Oh my God, Caroline, my God! What am I going to tell my parents?” His large hands rubbed at the tears running down his face. “What’s going to happen to my nephew? What’s going to happen to Brad? Can I take him home?”

“I’m afraid not.” It was Whitley who answered, taking his hand in hers.

“We’re going to have to arraign him. We’ll find out what happened. We aren’t too familiar with the process in this kind of case—it’s unusual to have a homicide suspect so young. We need to follow some sort of procedure, but I promise we’ll take good care of him Mr. Ginns.”

He looked beaten. I’d seen that look many times in the parents of my patients. They don’t understand why their child isn’t normal. Was it their fault? Why hadn’t God given them a kid like the kid next door? Why did their child have to be different? What had gone wrong? What should they have done differently? Why can’t the doctors fix them? That was the question I regretted having to answer the most. Why couldn’t I fix their baby? I wanted to be able to tell them, “Yes, we can fix it,” but usually I couldn’t, even though I tried to remain optimistic. Tonight though, for the first time in my career, I looked back into the room where Brad was now sleeping and felt myself losing hope.

I glanced down at my watch as I heard Moran ask Mr. Ginns if he needed a ride home.

“No,” he answered. “I’ll be okay. I need to go see my parents. I need to tell them. Oh God, how am I going to tell them?”

“Somehow,” I said, putting my hand over his, “somehow we always find the right words. You’ll find the words Mr. Ginns, and you’ll find the strength.” He nodded his head.

After giving his contact information to Moran and Whitley, he followed a police officer out of the building.

I was beginning to feel worn out. As I took the last sip of my soda, I asked Moran if he would send me his reports so I had a better idea of what I was dealing with the next time I saw my patient. He agreed to have copies faxed over to my office by tomorrow. I stopped to peek into Brad’s room, and was relieved to see him sleeping soundly.

“What’s going to happen to him now?” I asked the detectives as we exchanged contact information.

“I guess that’s up to the judicial system and social services,” Moran answered. “I’ll talk to the DA and see how she wants to proceed. In the meantime, I’m going to do all I can to find out how this happened. What would cause that kid—?”

He stopped, looking down at his ringing cell phone.

“Excuse me Dr. Rubin. I have to take this.”

“I still don’t believe it,” Whitley said. “That child is covering for someone. No way that little boy did that.”

I couldn’t figure out if she was talking to me, or to herself. We said our goodbyes, and I went home hoping to get some rest. I wanted to look at the reports tomorrow with a clear mind and a fresh prospective.

By the time I arrived home that evening I was absolutely famished; the six-month-old frozen microwavable dinner in my freezer sounded like a delicacy to me. Coming home to an empty house was something I was finally getting used to. It wasn’t always like that. I had been happily married for eight years—until the day I came home and found my husband Richard packed and ready to go. “I’m just not happy, Hope. I need to find myself.” Find myself, my ass; he needed to find the cocktail waitress he’d been sleeping with for the last nine months.

I groaned when I saw the answering machine blinking. I didn’t have to guess who had left the five messages on the machine. My mother was persistent. She knew better than to call me on my cell during work hours; I wouldn’t answer. I’d finally convinced her I was a doctor with more important things to do when I was on call than to help her analyze my lack of a social life. I truly believed that she blamed me for Richard leaving, although she made every effort to convince me it was her fault I was such a screw-up.

“Maybe… if I were a better mother,” was her mantra.

I always told her she was a wonderful mother. Well she was if you had never watched Donna Reed or Carol Brady or any of those other TV moms. My mother wore both the apron and the pants in my house. She would faithfully serve breakfast every morning—toast, eggs, bacon, and orange juice. Dad would sit there reading the morning paper, while she would proceed to tell him how his day would be.

“Don’t forget to pick up the dry cleaning… don’t forget to stop off and get those papers signed. Do you have to wear that shirt?” she badgered him.

And then she’d move on to my brother Lenny and me.

“Did you study for that test in Spanish? Did you do all your homework? Isn’t that skirt too short Hope?”

You get the picture. My mother was the world’s biggest nag—but she was there. Something that I couldn’t say for the parents of a great deal of my patients.

After my dad passed, she nagged me double-time.

“Why don’t you pester Lenny like you do me?” I’d ask her.

Lenny could do no wrong. He was happily married with two-point-five children and had recently made partner in a prestigious law firm in NYC. I thought being a doctor would make her proud. But no, that’s not what she wanted. She wanted me to marry a doctor, stay home, and make babies.

“I thought when I paid for you to go to medical school, you would meet a nice Jewish doctor—not become one!” she would cry.

She probably would’ve been happier if I were a gynecologist and at least delivered those babies. The place where I worked scared her to death. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t understand her fears; it did get scary at times. Some of these kids I treated were dangerous to themselves and others. My job was to get them on the right medication, get them talking about their problems, and send them back to their parents—if their parents still wanted them. Unfortunately for a lot of them, their parents dropped them off and never came back. There was an occasional mom and dad that fought for their child to get healthy and come home, but that was rare. Most of my kids would enter the foster care system or end up in the criminal justice system. Once in a while, I’d have a kid go home and lead a normal life. Most children were deposited there for long-term treatment; at least until they could go into an adult facility.