“At the same time, of course, a child like Vee is taking social studies classes telling him he lives in a country where all men are created equal. But this just makes things worse—what he’s being told about the world and how he feels about the world don’t meet. There’s this huge disconnection, fueled by every white teacher who shies away from him and every well-intentioned social worker who looks down on him, that leaves him angry and confused.
“Young, urban African-American males report feeling trapped, feeling ashamed. There is a pressure building inside of them and they begin to resent that pressure. And what’s causing it, what’s putting them in this position? As far as they can tell, it’s the fact that they are black. So they start to hate the fact they are black. And they start to turn on other black males—subconsciously, of course, fueled by gangland wars and survival instincts, but it’s there.”
“Yo, hold up.” Koontz was looking confused again, but he was also engaged in the conversation, which gave Sandra hope. “If Vee hates being black so much, why doesn’t he declare war on other gang members. Why us?”
“Because his feelings are too conflicted on the subject. Look at his letters, Detective. In the first letter, he writes about his sister being hit by a stray bullet in a drive-by. This obviously bothers him. In the second letter, he goes so far as to say that he was raised to know better than to hurt females, that it’s wrong. Thus, he is not as much a homeboy as he would pretend in other places. There are things being done by his peers that he doesn’t approve of. In the second letter, however, he reveals classic hurt and anger toward white society, as well. He tried to enter the white community and he was shunned. When he says here that he tried to remove his face, don’t take him figuratively. Self-mutilation is a sign of keen self-loathing. Vee is receiving the message that he should hate his own skin, and he is reacting accordingly.
“Fundamentally, this child is at a crossroads. He is confused, disenfranchised by both blacks and whites. He doesn’t like the violence of youth killing youth, hence his need to sound so casual and accepting of it. But nor can he accept white authority—these are the people who look down on him, who allowed his sister to be hurt, who may or may not have taken an active role in killing his father. Vee doesn’t know where to turn or what to believe in, and yet he does want something to believe in. He is trying to provoke a reaction that will tell him which way to turn.”
“What do you mean by that?” Sandra asked sharply.
Dr. Mayes shrugged. “He is walking a dangerous path, Chief Aikens. I believe there is some part of him that doesn’t want to be pushed to violence, hence he fired warning shots last night. He writes with genuine affection of his mother and has stated twice that she’s taught him what’s right. That’s a sign of some semblance of self-worth—a part of him sees himself as a good person capable of distinguishing between right and wrong.
“But day after day, Vee is also forced to live in a world where he feels he’s invisible and unwanted. As time passes without something happening to alleviate his confusion and self-loathing, I fear he will edge closer and closer to violence. The anger and hopelessness is wearing him down, flattening him out. In several places, he writes there’s nothing he can do to change things. That is the sign of someone abdicating responsibility for their own actions, a natural predecessor to doing something someone knows is wrong. He goes on to write that the devil be on his shoulder, definitely an indication of low self-esteem. Now look at the rest of the closing of his second letter—‘God be with…’ That is the tone of someone who doesn’t expect to be around much longer. Someone who is letting go.”
“He’s a time bomb,” Sandra filled in. “And if we don’t find him soon, help him make the right decision, he’ll go off.”
“I think it’s possible,” Dr. Mayes agreed, “and I think if it happens, there will be no turning back. He is a self-destructive adolescent who talks about death, not prison.”
“Suicide by cop,” Mike stated.
Dr. Mayes nodded soberly. “I believe that’s how it might play out.”
For once, even Koontz appeared pale and troubled. “Sheeesh,” the older detective sighed. “One confused thirteen-year-old and the whole city could go to hell.”
“On the bright side,” Dr. Mayes commented, “it could go the other way. Maybe his mother says the right word one day or a schoolteacher praises his project and boom, that brings him back around. Teenagers are wonderfully fickle like that. Ask any parent.”
“But we can’t count on that,” Mike said dryly.
“Absolutely,” Sandra agreed. “What do you recommend, Dr. Mayes? There must be some way of reaching this boy before things go too far.”
“Certainly. First off, Chief Aikens, you draft a reply to Vee’s letter.”
“Oh, my.” Sandra was taken aback. “What if I said the wrong thing? What if I made it worse?”
She gazed at all three men pleadingly. Koontz looked stricken, too, so maybe they had finally found common ground. Dr. Mayes appeared calm, however, and Mike seemed to be already considering the idea.
“I’d work with you,” Dr. Mayes said. “We’d draft a simple letter, designed to let Vee know that his feelings are understandable and common. He needs to feel a connection with someone and receive validation of his self-worth. That alone could go a long way toward easing him through his confusion. At least it might keep him from taking any immediate action.
“Secondly, we work to identify him and bring him in so we can continue the conversations one-on-one. Vee needs professional help, but he’s certainly not beyond reaching. Frankly, I find the letters very encouraging. And articulate.”
“I don’t know,” Koontz said. “You start talking suicide by cop, I start thinking we should stay clear of his doorstep. What if he freaks, what if he overreacts? Hell, I’ve never tried talking to a thirteen-year-old gangbanger ’bout life. That’s what prison’s for.”
“There isn’t anyone more qualified than a cop to approach him.”
“No, sir!”
“Detective, take away the badge and legal trappings and cops are nothing but a gang themselves. Think about it. Gang members are initiated through a hostile ‘jumping in’ program. How many rookies have you razed and tormented in your career?”
Koontz flushed. Dr. Mayes smiled knowingly and continued. “Gang members can have friends who are not gang members, but they will never be important. Likewise, cops are almost never close to people outside of the department. They have wives and families, sure, but they mostly hang out with other cops.”
Sandra couldn’t help herself; she gave Mike a look. He immediately glanced away.
“Then there are partners. A gang member will go to any extreme to avenge a fellow member’s death. A police officer would surely do the same if the law didn’t stop him, and we all know there are cases when a police officer finds a way to do that anyway.”
Koontz fidgeted in his chair. Mike wore a self-conscious smile.
“So you see,” Dr. Mayes concluded, “you already have a great deal in common with Vee. You simply need to approach him calmly, man to man. He cares about his mother, you care about yours. He’s protective of his sister. Most likely you are protective of yours. He is an experienced member of the streets, just as you are experienced members of the law enforcement community. Engage him in a conversation, treat him respectfully, and hopefully he’ll cooperate.”
“Or pull out a gun and blow us away,” Koontz said stiffly.
“It’s possible.”
“Don’t worry,” Mike told his partner. “I’ll do the talking. You know no one can resist my Cajun charm.”
“Yeah, like a thirteen-year-old straight shooter is a sucker for bedroom eyes.”
“Works on you, doesn’t it?”
“Rawlins, my partnering with you is nothing more than a pity date.”
“Lasting eight years?”
“I got a big heart.”
“Gentlemen,” Sandra interjected. “Not to break up your pillow talk or anything, but I’d like to keep us focused. How close are you to finding Vee?”
Mike shrugged. “We struck out at the school. They can’t think of anyone who writes like Vee or has a sister with a scarred face. Either she was hit with the bullet after graduating, or she dropped out of school.”
“Do you have any fresh ideas?”
“We’re going to try the hospitals next. Of all the information we’ve got, a bullet wound to the face still seems the most unique. Maybe an ER doc or trauma surgeon will remember something.”
“What about plastic surgeons or orthodontists who are covered by Medicade? If it was a facial wound, some reconstruction was probably done and they see fewer patients than an ER doctor. Their memories might be fresher,” Sandra said.
Mike looked surprised and impressed. “Nice,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ll do that.”
“Just trying to help out,” Sandra said, feeling absurdly pleased by the praise. She was drifting closer to Mike when Dr. Mayes spoke up.
“Might I suggest something?”
“Please do.”
“Why don’t you go to the source? You are trying to find a thirteen-year-old gang member. You should talk to the kids on the street.”
Koontz looked horrified. “Hey Doc, we’re trying to find one of them. No way are they going to give a straight answer.”
“You assume they are liars?”
“I assume their interests and ours conflict, and they’ll resolve that conflict by lying, yeah.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You won’t know until you ask, Detective.”
Mike clapped his partner on the back. “I’ll do the asking. You just look mean.”
“Freakin’ job,” Koontz said.
“Nothing we haven’t done before.”
“Yeah,” Koontz muttered after a moment. “Yeah.” But Sandra thought something else was still bothering him. She could tell by Mike’s covert glances that he thought the same.
“Well,” Sandra said after a moment, “I believe we’re done. Dr. Mayes, please come to my office. Rusty and Mike, good luck with the doctors.”
She ushered Dr. Mayes out of the room. Behind her, Mike whispered in her ear, “Nice suit.”
Sandra walked faster.
Chapter 6
A
t seven that evening, Sandra was still hunched over her desk. A police radio was on in the corner of her office, volume turned down low. Not much activity tonight, but she could hear tension in her officers’ voices as they called in reports. Everyone was watching and waiting. Fearing what might happen next. It was a hell of a way to perform an already difficult job.
“Late night.”
Sandra started, jerking up anxiously, then immediately shook her head.
“Dammit, Mike, you scared the living daylights out of me.”
“Really? I wasn’t sure anything had the power to do that.”
“Trust me, plenty of things do that. Abject poverty, nuclear holocaust, bubonic plague, a Democrat in the White House…”
“Huh. Just out of curiosity, which part of that list includes me?”
“Well, you’re not a Democrat in the White House….”
She let the sentence trail off into a leading silence and he simply grinned. Damn, he looked good. Lounging in her doorway, shoulder snug against the doorjamb, ankles crossed, he sported a casual gray sports jacket over a collarless white shirt and well-worn khakis. The outfit should have looked sloppy and careless. On his powerful build, chest stretching the shirt tight, it simply looked impressive. One lock of black hair dangling over his forehead, five o’clock shadow staining his cheeks. The only way he’d look better would be naked in her bed.
Sandra set down her pen sharply. Mike took that as an invitation and strode into her office.
“Anything good on the radio?” he asked, jerking his head toward the scanner as he picked up her stapler and idly ran his thumb across the back.
“Quiet night.” She forced her gaze away from his callused finger, then away from his hard-muscled chest, then away from his lean waist. The ink blotter. That seemed safe enough.
“Get the letter done?” Mike asked.
“Hardest thing I’ve ever written, even with Dr. Mayes’s help,” she said honestly. “It’ll appear in tomorrow’s paper.”
“I’m sure it’ll be good.”
“I don’t know anything about thirteen-year-old boys, Mike.”
“Yeah, Sandy, but you always were a quick study.”
He set down the stapler. The silence promptly grew tense. Sandra could smell his cologne—spicy, the way she liked it. She could feel the warmth radiating from his large body, and realized for the first time that she’d been cold. The office seemed too small with him in it, the space too quiet, the police department too deserted. It was easy to believe they were the only two people in the building and that, she discovered, was a dangerous thought.
“How’d it go this afternoon?” she asked finally, valiantly trying to keep her tone professional.
“Long.” Mike sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Turnover at a city hospital is too high. We only found one doctor who’d been around longer than a year, and she didn’t remember a gunshot wound to the face in that time frame. For some reason the hospital doesn’t want to hand over all its patients’ records, particularly without a date in mind. Tomorrow we’ll go with your advice and try the plastic surgeons and orthodontists. Hopefully we’ll get luckier there.”
“It’s amazing how easy it is for one child to slip through the system,” Sandra murmured. “No wonder he feels he has no identity.”
“I have to say, this case isn’t going as easy as planned. But don’t worry. Koontz and I always get our man.” Mike slid his hip onto the edge of her desk and, changing gears, gazed at her frankly.
“You look tired,” he stated flatly.
“Long day.” She couldn’t help herself; she started rubbing her neck. Her shoulder muscles were ungodly tight. She hadn’t realized just how long she’d been hunched over her desk until now. And, she realized an instant later, that was why she was reacting to her ex-husband so strongly. She was stressed, feeling as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. Mike had always been wonderfully inventive about coming up with ways of easing that tension. For one brief year, he had been her shelter from the storm.