Authors: Margaret Fenton
I handed her my blue form and we made
small talk. She didn’t mention Michael. I wondered how much she knew about what
went on upstairs, since she spent most of her day in this dungeon, purging old
charts.
She went to find the chart I wanted and
returned with it several minutes later. I thanked her and took it to my office.
Behind my desk, I opened the faded brown folder and began to read.
It took me forty-five minutes to go
through it all. The investigating social worker on the first case, seventeen
years ago, was someone whose name I didn’t recognize. She was long gone. Her
case notes revealed she’d been contacted by a babysitter who’d reported that
three-year-old Heather had several bruises on her bottom and the back of her
legs. Interviews with both parents were conducted. Tina denied ever spanking
Heather. Al admitted to spanking her after she ran into the street, but stated
he hadn’t left the bruises. He claimed those were from her falling off the end
of the slide in the backyard. Her parents were referred to parenting classes at
the agency and the case was closed.
The next social worker was someone whose
name I did recognize. Danessa Brown, now a supervisor in the foster care unit,
one floor above me. She’d been an investigator thirteen years ago. I read her
meticulous notes. When Heather was in second grade, Danessa was called out to
the school by the guidance counselor who’d noticed several bruises on Heather’s
legs. Heather revealed how she got them from her daddy spanking her, and the
case was sent to court on a dependency charge. That was so the court could
supervise the family and place Heather out of the home if needed. Al was
required to go to parenting classes, ordered not to spank the child under any
circumstances, and to attend AA meetings. The case was left open for oversight
by DHS.
Danessa made regular contact with
Heather, as required, and noted that two months after the court appearance, Al
moved out. I got the feeling from reading between the lines that sobriety was
too much of a strain on his marriage. He visited regularly with his daughter,
though, and just before she turned eight, more bruises appeared. Once again,
brave little Heather told exactly where she got them, the case went back to
court, and Al was ordered to have no contact with his daughter whatsoever. The
case was closed a year and a half later after no further incidents.
I closed the chart and put my face in my
hands. All this time, Al Mackey’s record was two floors below me and I didn’t
know. How was the state office going to react to that one? Why in the hell
hadn’t I run his background check two years ago?
Time to go see Danessa. I took the chart
with me up the stairs to the third floor and made my way to the perimeter of
the foster care unit’s area. She, too, had a window office with a plate glass
front that overlooked cubicles in the middle, just like Mac’s. Hers was more
cheerfully decorated, with plants and jazz concert posters.
Danessa sat behind the large desk. She
was in her late forties, and I speculated she was getting close to the magic
twenty-years-of-service mark. A lot of our long-timers left at that point,
since they could draw full retirement from the State. She had soft black hair
that rested on her shoulders, a few gray threads visible. Crows’ feet and laugh
lines stood out like wood grain in mahogany. A pair of half-moon reading
glasses balanced on her nose. She had a boisterous personality and a lot of
spirit. I wouldn’t have minded being in her unit, come to think of it.
She was writing something, but stopped
when she saw me in the doorway. “Claire! What you up to, girl?”
“Can I interrupt for a sec?”
“Sure, come on in.”
I stepped in and closed the door, then
took a seat in the burgundy metal-framed chair in front of her desk.
She asked, “How have you been? I heard
about that case of yours.” Funny how no one used the word “death.” Like it was
bad luck or something. Like saying Macbeth in a theater.
“Yeah. Michael.”
“You afraid they’re gonna make you a
scapegoat?”
She didn’t mince words, so neither did
I. “Yep.”
“Fight for it, girl, you hear? If you
don’t want to leave, don’t let them make you.”
“I’ll try.”
“Not good enough. You’re too good to go
someplace else. If you want this job, make sure you keep it.”
The pep talk cheered me a bit. “Thanks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to pick your brain about a
case from thirteen years ago.”
She hooted. “Girl, you know I can’t
remember what happened last week, but I’ll try.”
“The Mackey case. The little girl was
seven. You did two abuse investigations in the same year. Bruises. Dad was the
perp. He wound up moving out and the court ordered him to have no contact. Ring
a bell?”
She thought back, her faraway gaze on a
framed Wynton Marsalis poster. “Oh, yeah,” she said slowly. “Al. Little girl
was Heather. Smart kid. Pretty, too. Lots of wispy black hair, just like her
momma. Only child, thank God. He was a drunk.”
“That’s him. I don’t suppose he was ever
prosecuted?”
“ ’Course not. The mother didn’t
want Heather to testify against her own father, and he probably wouldn’t have
done much time anyway. Wasn’t worth it to the D.A. Why? What’s his sorry ass
done now?”
“My kid that died? He was his
stepgrandfather.”
“Oh, crap. You think he had something to
do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your kid OD’d, right? On mamma’s
drugs?”
“He OD’d. I’m not sure the drugs were
mamma’s.”
“Al’s MO was more smacking them around.
If your boy —”
“Michael.”
“If Michael had been beaten to death, then
I’d be suspicious for sure. Is Al doing drugs?”
“I don’t think so. He’s still a drunk,
and a gambler.”
“Nice.”
“No kidding. Thanks for the info.”
“Hang in there, kid. And remember what I
said.”
“I will.”
I returned the file to Dolly in the
basement and went back to my cubicle to get my things, where I literally ran
into Michele.
“There you are. I was looking for you.
You want to go to lunch?”
“Thanks, I’d love to, but I’ve already
got plans.”
I headed north a few blocks to the Top
of the Hill Grill. The restaurant squatted on a small rise of ground near the
Convention Center, and was walking distance from the courthouses and towering
financial institutions downtown. It was a popular lunch spot for those who
wanted something hot and fast. The fare was typical diner stuff, hamburgers and
club sandwiches and a daily special. It was also where Ashley had worked every
weekday from eleven to four.
I circled the block and parked at a
meter. Hoofed it back to the restaurant, made my way around the chalkboard sign
announcing the specials, and went in. A long green Formica counter ran the
length of the space, and a few small tables sat in front of the windows. The
place was half full but buzzed with loud conversation. The special today was
fried catfish, and the oily rich smell pervaded the place. The bells on the
door jangled and I froze.
Sitting at the counter, in front of a
crumb-covered plate, was Kirk Mahoney.
Chapter Eight
Today’s dress shirt was pink, sleeves
again rolled to just below the elbows. The pink emphasized the ruddiness of his
skin and made his blue eyes a shade lighter than I remembered. He was chatting
up a waitress with purple-streaked hair and ketchup stains on her apron. The
bells on the door announced my entrance and caught their attention. Kirk the
Jerk’s eyebrows went up.
“Well, hello, Claire from DHS. What
brings you here?”
“I’m here to eat lunch.”
“Not fond of good food then?’
The unamused waitress snorted a “huh”
and cleared his plate away.
“I wouldn’t come here again,” I said.
“She’ll probably spit in your food.”
“Why do I have a sneaking suspicion
you’d be fine with that?”
I bit back a smile, took a seat at the
counter several stools down from him, and pointedly stared at the menu. In my
peripheral vision I saw him look at his check, lay down a ten out of his
wallet, and stand up. He swaggered over and hovered at my shoulder. His cologne
mixed with the smell of frying oil and fish.
“Come take a walk with me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He lifted the
laminated menu out of my hands and laid it down on the counter. “Five minutes,”
he said, executing a gentle grip on my upper left arm. “I won’t bite.”
He led me out the door. The heat of the
day was peaking and, after the rain, it was muggy. Steam rose off the sidewalk.
Kirk put a toothpick in his mouth, which bobbed up and down as he talked. “Walk
with me to my car.”
“What is it you want?” I asked.
“I want to know why you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anybody.
I hate what you are doing to — my agency.” I almost said “to me” but caught
myself in time.
He stopped and faced me. “What? What am
I doing to your agency? The article I wrote about Dr. Pope was very fair.”
I lost it. “Hah!” I sputtered, “Are you
kidding? You’ve done nothing but point out all of our failures. Bringing up all
those old cases. Using words like incompetent and mismanaged, and making us
sound like a bunch of unfeeling idiots.”
I was really getting mad now. I could
tell because my eyes were filling with tears. I always cry when I’m really
angry, but I didn’t want Kirk to see that. Trying in vain to calm myself, I
went on. “Why the hell don’t you ever write about all the good stuff DHS does?
About all the kids we save from sexual abuse. Or about all the crack babies we’ve
found homes for? About the kids we’ve taken out of dangerous meth labs? We save
lives, damn it! Lots of them. But nobody ever hears about that.” My voice was
cracking and my eyes were welling up again. I brushed the tears away quickly
with my hand.
Kirk took the toothpick out of his
mouth. His head cocked and his eyes squinted as he studied me. Then he finally
put two and two together.
“It was your case, wasn’t it?”
Through clenched teeth I said, “I can’t
talk about it.” I whirled around and walked quickly back to the diner.
Thankfully he didn’t follow me. In the distance, I heard a car door shut, then
the engine roar as he drove away.
I took a second outside to compose
myself. I pulled a mirror from my purse to make sure what was left of my
mascara wasn’t streaking down my cheeks. It wasn’t, but my face was red and I
was sweating. I put the mirror away, went back in, and sat down.
The purple-haired waitress approached
me. “You okay?”
“Hi, Brandi. I’m fine. Don’t I look
fine?”
“You look rattled. Don’t worry, he asked
a lot of questions about Ashley, but I didn’t answer them. She don’t need all
of her business up in the paper.”
Brandi was Ashley’s best friend. They
were the same age, twenty-three. Brandi didn’t have any children yet, and she
didn’t have the same history of addiction. But Brandi had enough violence and
pain in her past to be able to relate to Ashley. It was the cement that held
their friendship together. I’d met her twice, once here at work and once at
Ashley’s apartment when I’d done a spot-check on Michael. That day, Ashley and
Brandi had been sitting on the sofa, barefoot, talking and giggling. A
different time. A different Ashley.
“Have you seen Ashley?” I asked.
“I haven’t been able to get off work
during visiting hours. I’m going tomorrow.”
“She looks miserable.”
“I’m sure.”
A portly gray-haired man in a navy suit
sitting at the other end of the counter said, “Excuse me —”
“Be right there,” Brandi said to him.
“Are you going to want anything to eat?” she asked me.
I scanned the menu. “Sure, um, the
hamburger, I guess. With chips.”
She scribbled my order on her pad, tore
off the sheet and placed it in the window that led to the kitchen. I continued,
“Can I ask you something?”
The elderly man said again, “Excuse me
—”
She rolled her eyes. “Hold on.” She
walked the length of the counter, slapped his ticket down in front of him, and
whisked his plate away just as he shoveled in the last bite. He left without
leaving a tip. Brandi put his plate in the window and came back to me. “Sorry.
What were you saying?”
“Do you know if Ashley was seeing
anyone?”
She looked uncomfortable. “Why?”
No immediate denial. I decided to tell
her. “I keep seeing this green Dodge Charger around. Looks like something Flash
might drive, and someone slashed my tires and left a threatening message on my
voice mail at work. Sounds like something he might do. Do you know if she was
hanging out with him again?”