Adam was the medic who attended the first scene to confirm death, back before Nash was assigned to the station. Nash tried not to think about the events that led up to the deaths. He was positive not all of the details had been released to the public, but those that had were absolutely horrifying. The boys were found with high levels of a panel of different drugs in their systems and evidence of prolonged drug use, their bodies starved and abused. Sexual assault was just one of the horrors the kids had lived through, and all of that before they were suffocated and left naked in various dump sites around the city.
The cops were getting desperate for a lead.
A tight knot formed in Nash’s stomach. The boy now wrapped in hospital-issue blankets and shivering against the nonexistent cold had been holding the latest victim. He was covered in the victim’s blood. Nash had barely laid eyes on the kid, but somehow he knew as surely as anything that the boy sitting in his ambulance was as much a victim as the others.
“You wanna wait on Dex here?” Nash asked, pulling himself back to the present.
Adam looked suddenly grateful. “If you’re good with that. We’re going to be shut down after this call, so I’ll meet you back at the station when we’re done?”
“You got it.”
The supervisor walked over then, reinforcing what Adam had said. They were instructed to finish with the patients and then head home, where they would receive a call about the debriefing meeting and likely another from the police to give a statement. Nash hadn’t seen much. He hadn’t been the one to confirm death, Adam had. It was tough, but it was part of procedure and something he’d done more than a hundred times before.
He waited for the supervisor to finish giving them their instructions, then climbed back into the ambulance to help Caleb and Rob with the patient. Once Nash had taken one last set of vitals, he double-checked the boy was warm enough and properly secured in the back, Caleb jumped into the front, and Rob took the jump seat next to them before they pulled back onto the street and headed for the hospital.
WHEN THEY
arrived, the ambulance bay was empty. Caleb and Rob offloaded, wheeling the boy in on the stretcher through the sliding doors. He didn’t move other than to tug the blankets Nash had given him more tightly around his body. He kept his eyes trained on the ceiling as they entered.
Rob had called ahead to brief the hospital on what had happened and to give them a heads-up on the situation with the patient they were bringing in. When they entered, the ER was quiet, most of the nurses sitting behind the desk, but they were anticipating the crew’s arrival. As soon as they walked in, Ford rushed over.
Caleb and Rob transferred the boy from the stretcher to the bed in the first available room. Nash held Ford back to bring him up to speed with what had happened. With how scared the boy was, Nash thought hearing about the death of his friend would only upset him further, and he’d been through more than enough already.
Ford listened attentively as Nash gave the report.
“John Doe, found in the churchyard holding a second victim, deceased. Doesn’t appear to have any serious injuries. He’s got some small lacerations across his ribs, and there is more of him bruised than not, but nothing seems broken. His vitals were stable on scene…. BP was 145 over 93, temp was normal, pulse was 103, and SpO2 was sitting at 97 percent. Overall I think he’s more traumatized than physically injured.”
“Addict?” Ford looked up for the first time from the clipboard, past Nash to the patient. The moment his gaze fell on him, Ford’s eyes widened almost impossibly.
Nash watched the color drain from his face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m fine.” Ford shook his head as though to clear his thoughts.
“You sure? You look….”
“What?” Ford asked.
“You look like you saw a ghost.” The kid looked rough, but Nash knew he was nowhere near the worst Ford had ever seen.
“Yeah, I’m sure. He looks like someone I know…. It’s not him, though. It’s fine… I’m fine. Go on.”
Nash paused, evaluating Ford’s words for a moment before he continued. “There’s a better than fair chance he’s an IV drug user. He’s pretty scarred up. He was somewhat awake but not overly alert when we picked him up, but he seems to be coming around a bit more now. We haven’t been able to get him to talk yet. I’m leaning toward it being a coping mechanism after the trauma, rather than a developmental delay, but psych will be able to tell for sure. He seems more frightened than anything.”
Ford took the flimsy yellow carbon copy of their report to place in the boy’s chart.
Nash looked at him, still watching and gauging his reaction to the situation. Gone was the rosy-cheeked, laughing, carefree guy he’d walked home. In his place stood a tense, all-business nurse. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he read over the PCIS form. The information written there was the same as Nash had just told him. Ford’s shoulders were lifted, his body tense, and his mouth was drawn into a tight line.
“He’s going to be fine,” Nash assured him, wanting to give him some measure of comfort. Nash wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it was difficult to see Ford so tense.
Ford lifted his eyes to Nash’s, blinking twice. “I know.”
But he didn’t. Neither of them did. Chances were good that the boy was going to be perfectly fine, physically. But it was anyone’s guess at what the psychological ramifications were of what he’d been through.
Nash dipped his head forward, shoving his hands into his pockets rather than reaching out to pull Ford to him. He wanted to. He felt as though if he could get his hands on him, just hold him a minute, he could pull Ford from the dark place Nash suspected he was falling into. The world wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, and they saw it more than most.
“I should go.” Nash gestured behind him. “Adam’s meeting me back at the station, and I should help him get the paperwork started. I have a feeling the cops are going to be eager to have it.”
“Okay,” Ford said, his voice small.
“Will you let me know later how he does?”
“I will,” Ford promised, and with that Nash turned and walked out of the ER before his willpower broke and he did something stupid.
IT FELT
like it took an eternity for Ford’s heart rate to return to normal. When he’d looked past Nash and saw the boy being transferred into the quiet room, his heart had nearly stopped. He could have been Aaron’s twin a decade ago. He was the spitting image of Ford’s little brother, except now Aaron was twenty-three and living on the other side of the country.
Clearly he needed more sleep, or a day off… or a lobotomy. Maybe all three. But for a split second, his irrational brain had processed the kid as his brother, and his stomach had dropped out. The longer he looked, the more differences he noticed, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. He needed to hold it together.
The boy was in rough shape and absolutely terrified. Ford couldn’t imagine what kind of horror a kid would have to experience to put him into a state this severe. Doctors, nurses, and other ER staff came and went, taking temperatures and blood pressures, checking oxygen levels, and drawing blood. As the flurry of activity unfolded—protocols Ford witnessed on almost every patient that came through their doors—Ford’s focus narrowed in on the patient. The fear hadn’t ebbed. Instead he looked more afraid than ever.
It took a lot to ruffle Ford. He’d seen the worst of the worst, but there were still patients who got to him, who burrowed beneath his skin and took hold of his heart. He’d stood there, looking at this kid—his wide blue eyes, nails bitten to the quick, the way he trembled despite the piles of blankets covering him—and Ford felt his blood pressure rise. The only thing that kept him grounded was the steadiness of Nash’s voice. He was so calm, and Ford held on to that, letting the cadence of Nash’s words slide into him and slow his heart. Even now the memory of Nash’s calmness made Ford feel steady.
Ford imagined the situation from the kid’s point of view. After having lived through God only knew what, he was picked up by paramedics, who were complete strangers to him, and taken to a hospital. There were people everywhere, poking and prodding at him, while he lay naked, alone, and afraid in a sterile ER.
Ford stepped close, slid his hand against the boy’s, and squeezed tight.
“Just look at me for a second, okay? Everything is going to be fine. All this stuff might seem overwhelming, but we’re just trying to help you.”
Looking down at him, he smiled when the boy looked back and tightened his grip. Careful not to jostle the IV, Ford held on as the lab tech came to collect blood. The boy’s grip became almost bruising as she wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and slid the needle into his vein with skilled precision.
Ford spoke calm, soothing words to the boy as they waited for the doctor to return. Any questions he asked were met with silence.
Track marks marred the pale skin of his arms, and there were welts and bruises on almost every inch of exposed skin. He was dirty and smelled of mildew and stale urine, his hair matted to his head in blood that, as far as Ford could tell, didn’t appear to be his own.
Despite the filth and the drug-addled look in his eyes, there was an innocence that shone through. Maybe it was his age. Ford pegged him to be somewhere around thirteen or fourteen. Whatever it was, Ford’s heart broke for him.
The boy shivered, and Ford wanted to hug him. He wondered when the last time was that someone had bothered. He wondered if anyone at all cared about him. He wondered where his parents were and if they were missing him. He didn’t look like he’d been taken care of in a long time. Why was he all alone?
Usually they were able to track down family members fairly easily, but if the boy wouldn’t talk there wasn’t much they could do but hold tight and see what the police came up with.
“I’m going to go get you a new warm blanket, okay? I’ll be right back,” Ford soothed.
The boy gripped his hand tightly, but Ford slipped away, past the police officer stationed outside the boy’s bed since the boy had been brought in, and walked briskly to the stainless-steel cabinet in one of the supply rooms to the right of the nurses’ station. He grabbed a couple of blankets from the warmer and shut the cabinet tight before returning to the boy’s room.
The boy was on the bed, the back inclined so he could sit up without having to exert effort. Ford unfolded the rough blanket and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders, replacing the ones that had gone cold, draping the fabric over his emaciated body. A small smile played at the corner of the boy’s mouth, and Ford felt a wave of relief.
“My name’s Ford,” he said, realizing he’d never introduced himself.
“Joel.”
The noise was small, broken, and Ford wasn’t sure he hadn’t hallucinated hearing it.
“Joel?” Ford asked, watching carefully.
Joel nodded slowly, his expression guarded, as though he was unsure what Ford wanted to do with that information.
“Can you tell me your last name?”
Joel shook his head and lowered his gaze to his lap.
“What about how old you are?”
He was again met with silence.
“What if I guess? Can you nod for me?”
Joel did as he was asked, and Ford imagined this was how Anne Sullivan felt the first time Helen Keller responded to her techniques. He could have danced, he was so happy.
“Fifteen?”
No response.
“Fourteen?”
No response.
“Thirteen?”
And there it was, the almost imperceptible nod to let Ford know he’d gotten it right.
“Thirteen, okay, good. Joel, you’re doing awesome.”
Amanda ducked her head through the curtain at that moment. “Hey, Ford, the detectives are here.”
It took a second for Ford to process the information. He’d been so swept up in the progress he’d made, however small, with Joel, and he needed to think about what would happen next.
“Let them know we’ll meet them in the quiet room in a minute,” he said.
“Not a problem. Diana just arrived as well. I’ll let her know where you’ll be.”
Ford thanked her, and she left.
“Everything is going to be fine. They just want to ask you a few questions about your friend.”
Joel’s eyes widened, and he started shaking all over again. Ford held his hand tighter.
“I won’t leave, okay? I’ll be right there with you. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
He stood from the bed and Ford helped him into a wheelchair, making sure the blankets were wrapped around him. He pushed Joel out of the curtained room and across the ER, past the nurses’ station into the quiet room, used primarily for patients who were psychologically delicate—those who had been abused or suffered some sort of trauma that didn’t require bandages or stitches.
It was set off to the side, away from the other beds in the department, and rather than being clinical and sterile feeling, it was painted a soft blue. There was a plush couch and two chairs arranged around a small table, and there were paintings on the walls and a window to let light in.
Diana, the social worker who often dealt with cases like this for the hospital, greeted them when they arrived. She was charmingly plump, and her dark hair was swept into a bun on the top of her head, the little wisps that escaped resembling a halo around her face. Her demeanor was unassuming and kind, and patients warmed to her instantly. She had that soothing personality that always made people feel instantly calmer, and even in situations where the victim was agitated or aggressive, she never lost that calm façade.
“My name is Diana. I’m one of the social workers here at Saint Joseph’s. These are detectives, and they want to ask you a few questions. You’re not in any trouble, and if at any time you want to take a break or stop, you only need to let me know, all right?”
Joel reached with a shaking hand for Ford, and Ford grasped Joel’s hand in his own. As Ford looked, he could see the panic flooding Joel’s eyes. He didn’t answer Diana.