A Child is Torn: Innocence Lost (9 page)

“How is he doing?” She got right to the point.

I got the feeling that the question was more personal, than official. For one thing, her partner was not with her, and her whole demeanor was different than when I had seen her in the hospital. She seemed more relaxed, more comfortable.

“Is this an official request, or off the record?” I asked her.

Our conversation was interrupted when the waitress came over with my soda and took our orders. Apparently I wasn’t the only one for a fondness for their Shepherd’s pie. After she left, Jean continued.

“A little bit of both, Doc. I don’t know what to make out of it. You know, I’ve been at this job for seven years, five in homicide. I’ve never encountered a scene like this, with a suspect as young as this.”

I watched her face as she spoke, and immediately felt some sort of connection with her. She looked tired and brokenhearted, as if it were her child we were discussing.

“Suspect? Do you still consider him a suspect? I thought there was no question he did this. He did admit to doing it.” I squeezed the slice of lemon that came with my cola into the glass.

“I just can’t get it out of my head that he’s covering for someone. I’m having a hard time convincing myself that he is physically capable of doing that much damage. This was the work of someone that was furious, angry. This was personal. I just can’t see this boy…” She hesitated. “He just doesn’t look—”

I interrupted her. “Detective—”

“Please, call me Jean.”

“Jean,” I continued. “In one sense I understand what you’re saying. I look at Brad, and I can’t imagine him getting so violent or even being capable of producing this type of damage. So far, he isn’t talking. He doesn’t appear to have been abused physically, but more often than not, we find abuse is more emotional than physical. Some parents, or and I know I am not exactly being professional here, should I say monsters, know how to hide the marks. Years can go by before anybody notices, and by then the child could be traumatized past recovery.”

I got a whiff of my lunch just then. Trina was behind me with our meals. She placed them in front of us, topped off our drinks, and left us to finish our conversation. Within seconds she was flirting with a few of the men in blue that were in a booth a few feet away.

“What can you tell me about his family?” I asked her. “I have an appointment to meet with them this evening. His grandmother seems sincerely concerned about Brad, and Brad and his Uncle Eddie seem to have a strong bond.”

“They claim Brad was well taken care of and loved. We can’t find evidence of anything that disputes that. I went back to the house yesterday. Boy had his own room, toys galore. House was clean, neat, plenty of food in the refrigerator and pantry. It looks like that little boy lacked for nothing. It just boggles my mind. I think something’s missing, Doc.”

“Hope. I guess we can refrain from the formalities. I read the pediatrician’s report,” I continued, “and there are no signs of sexual abuse, or any past physical abuse for that matter. Brad did above average in school. His demeanor is contrary to everything that would make me believe he did this as well. But, I have seen children do some pretty crazy things without being provoked. I ordered some blood work to see if he has some chemical imbalance that may answer some questions.”

“Do you think someone could have convinced him to do this? I know this is farfetched but, you know, like what happened with the Manson family. Could there be some psychological intimidation of some sort?”

“By whom?” I asked. “And why?”

“I don’t know Hope. I’m just trying to figure this out. I have some calls out to see if there is any insurance or money involved. The parents seemed to have been very comfortable, but not filthy rich. What’s your opinion about the uncle?”

“Honestly, I can’t give you an opinion one way or another. I just had a few minutes with him, not enough to give you a reliable answer. I’m meeting with the family this evening though. I may be able to give you a better assessment after tonight.”

“Do you have kids, Hope?”

I shook my head.

“I do. I have an eighteen-year-old boy and my daughter, Bethany, is twelve. She’s only two years older than this boy. She’s twelve, going on sixteen. I know girls mature faster than boys, but she seems so much older than Brad.”

I took a forkful of my Shepherd’s pie, savoring the taste for a few moments before I continued. “Age ten through twelve is a very awkward and confusing time for kids. Girls do seem to go through puberty earlier than boys, but I have my suspicions that boys may be going through changes that are not as obvious, before they go through the physical changes. They seem to be more apt to fantasize and tell stories. I wonder if something is going on chemically in their brains around that time that we just haven’t discovered yet. Brad is obviously very small for his age, but his parents were above average height. I suppose he’ll go through one of those growth spurts that we see so often.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Jean asked.

“Too early to tell. We have kids that stay in the system forever. Go from a juvenile facility to an adult facility without ever being able to live a normal life. I call them the state’s orphans. Some kids go back to their families, and the dysfunction continues; sometimes they end up in the criminal system. Sometimes we’re successful, get them medicated properly, and they go on to live full and successful lives, but that’s rare. Honestly, I haven’t been at it long enough to tell you my long-term experience, but I do have hope that one day we’ll figure it all out.”

“What about this kid? Do you have a feeling of what’s in store for him?”

“Well, that depends. We have to find out why he did it, if he did it; what happened to him that caused this incredible wrath. I agree with you that he doesn’t appear to have some hidden, inner rage. Usually we see that fairly early. They get angry when you ask questions. They act impatient. Brad is very docile, quiet. He’s very respectful. Could he have been manipulated? Possibly, anything is possible. I’m still trying to find out. Right now, he isn’t making it easy.”

Jean finished the last of her drink and pushed her plate away.

“That was so good.”

I nodded in agreement. When the bill came I offered to pay my half but she waved me off.

“I appreciate your honesty and candidness, Hope. If you get any answers, will you let me know? As a mother, it breaks my heart to see what’s happened to this child. I can’t get his face out of my mind. He looked—broken.”

“Unfortunately, there are so many of them out there. My job is to try and pick up the broken pieces and somehow put them back together. Let’s just hope I can find the right glue for the job.”

We shook hands and said our goodbyes. I decided there was still time to run some errands before my next therapy session. I thought about finding a gift for my mother’s birthday. Maybe I could call my travel agent and buy her a one-way ticket to Israel. She’d always wanted to go to Israel.
No, that wouldn’t work
, I told myself. They have phone service there. A cruise? Yeah, a cruise. She wouldn’t call from a ship. That would be a gift I would enjoy as well; I’m sure my brother’s wife would love to chip in. Yes, I made up my mind. I was going to call my sister-in-law, Paula. I didn’t doubt that Paula would jump at the chance to get Mom as far away as possible for a few weeks. I would call her tonight when I got back from meeting the Ginns family.

I buckled my seatbelt and headed out relieved that I found a solution that would make my whole family happy.

Chapter Five

Jean

When Jean got back to the Squad room, only a handful of the officers were there. Moran was at his desk on the phone. She walked over just as he was hanging up.

“Where is everybody?”

He looked up.

“Some sort of ruckus at St.Mary’s school. Baseball team players got into a fight with the wannabe-gangers. Couple of kids got hurt.” He watched as her face went pale and knew that Jean was on the verge of going into mama-bear mode. Before she had a chance to react he continued. “Relax, Bethany is fine. I radioed Hennessey to find her and have her call here. I answered the call, she wasn’t anywhere near it.”

She sat down letting out a loud sigh. “Thanks Moran. Sometimes you do show signs of having a heart.” With the knot in her stomach starting to untie, she sat down at her desk.

“What the hell is going on Moran? What’s the matter with these kids today? I miss the good old days when busting a kid for stealing a bike was a big deal.”

“You got me kiddo. Oh yeah, speaking of stealing, I checked into the uncle.”

That caught her attention and she looked up.

“Brad’s uncle? Ginns?”

“Yeah. He has a juvenile record, it’s sealed. Remember when his mother brought up the time he was fifteen? He blew it off, said it was kid stuff, remember?”

She sat up, intrigued.

“Ginns lied. Detective Novak was in Juvenile around then. I asked him if Ginns’s name sounded familiar. Novak said that Eddie Ginns and his two friends stole a car. They took it for a joy ride. They got into a wreck; all three were ejected from the vehicle. One kid sustained massive head injuries and died a few days later. Ginns and the other surviving kid sustained minor injuries. Ginns and his friend swore up and down that the kid that died was driving and that they didn’t know it was stolen. DA couldn’t prove otherwise and both boys got a slap on the wrist. A couple of months later, Ginns and the same other kid were picked up for breaking into that abandoned building. He got another slap on the wrist but had to do a few hours of community service Seems his friend’s father had some political pull.

“I told you there is something off about him.”

“Jean, it could be nothing. He was fifteen years old. He’s a married man with a kid. It doesn’t mean he had anything to do with this. There’s nothing remotely linking him. Maybe the stolen car incident just slipped his mind.

“Was there insurance? A will?”

“Yes, an $800,000 policy. Ginns is the beneficiary and he gets custody of Brad if something happens to the kid’s parents.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that first, Moran? That’s motive, a damn good motive.”

He raised his coffee mug to his lips, took a sip. “Because Jean, it’s all circumstantial. The kid admits it. His fingerprints are all over the bat. You’re like a dog with a bone. Let it go.”

“I can’t. I see that little boy’s face and I look at those crime scene photos, and I just can’t put it together. I’ll tell you something, though. I got a weird feeling from the paternal grandparents. Something’s off there, too.”

“Now you’re reaching,” he admonished her. “They were hundreds of miles away.”

“Maybe.”

The phone rang and Moran answered. He listened intently to the person on the other end and hung up. Getting up, he grabbed his jacket.

“Come on,” he told her. “We got a call. Hiker found a body in Jackson Woods. May be the woman who was missing from the nursing home.”

For the next few hours Jean was able to concentrate on something other than Brad’s case—but every once in a while a new idea would creep into her thoughts. Moran was right about one thing; she was like a dog with a bone. And she was going to keep on chewing until she got to the truth.

Marty

By the time his shift ended, Marty was ready to just go home. It took him fifteen minutes to beg off Justin’s request to join him at the Liars’ Den for a few beers. Justin’s latest lady friend had had enough of his charming ways and dumped him. Experience told him that his friend didn’t want a shoulder to cry on, but a wingman to help him attract a replacement. Justin never let the other side of his bed stay empty for long. Experience also told him when Justin was the dumpee instead of the dumper, his taste in women got lower. Marty wasn’t in the mood for small talk tonight, and he was relieved when Justin gave up.

“Okay, Marty. But you owe me,” he said as he saw Paul and took off to hound him instead. Feeling relieved, Marty got into his car, started the ignition, and made his way home.

The Captain was on the phone when he walked into the house, so waving a welcome he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a half-gallon of milk from the refrigerator.

“You know, there’s a cabinet full of clean glasses. You don’t have to drink from the container.” He grimaced as Marty took a swig straight from the jug.

Milk dribbled out the side of his mouth and he wiped it with his sleeve. “It tastes better this way, Pop.”

The captain just shook his head and turned the fire off under a large pot of stew.

“How’d it go with the monkey? Was the kid happy to get his friend back?”

“Guess so. I saw Gabby, he said to say hello.” Leaning over his dad’s arm, he picked up a wooden spoon and tasted what was in the pot. “Mmmmm. Good.”

“How’s Gabby?”

“He’s looking good. That kid seems to have developed some sort of relationship with him. Latched onto him. Apparently they both have a fondness for pirates.”

The Captain grabbed two bowls from the counter and placed them on the table; he had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Pop. Hey Pop, hello?”

Coming back to reality, the Captain became aware that Marty was talking to him.

“Where did you go?” Marty asked him, his voice filled with concern.

“I’m sorry, son. I guess I was daydreaming.”

“Everything okay?” The Captain was usually more attentive.

“Yes, Marty. Everything’s fine. How’s the stew?”

“Good. What were you daydreaming about?”

“Marty, how much do you remember about your mother?”

Marty put down his spoon and looked at his dad—really looked. The Captain was looking older, tired.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“Yes, Marty, I’m fine. I was just curious. I was thinking about your mom; you were about that boy’s age when your mom passed. I was just wondering how much you remember her.”

Marty reflected for a moment. He leaned back in the chair, bringing the front two legs a few inches off the ground.

“Sometimes I get confused about what’s a real memory and what I remember from hearing stories or watching old family videos. I mostly remember her being sick. I remember being angry with her. When I think of Mom, I can’t get the picture of her lying in that hospital bed out of my mind—the tubes and wires going from her to the machines. Her breathing mask getting clouded up when she tried to talk. I used to get mad at you for making me go there. I know you thought you were doing the right thing, but I wish I hadn’t been in the room that day she died. Most of my memories of Mom, the ones I know are real, are bad ones.” He dropped the chair back in place.

“I remember one of the times she came back home from the hospital, Tommy and I were horsing around in the living room. I think you were at work, and Mary was in charge. She told us to be quiet, Mom needed some rest. I—God, I remember mouthing off to Mary, telling her I wished Mom would go back to the hospital so I could have some fun. Mary turned around and walloped me across the face—so hard. And I remember she yelled at me, ‘Martin Sean Keal, don’t you ever talk that way again!’ I was so ashamed and angry. I think I locked myself in the bathroom until you came home. I don’t think Mary ever told you, did she?”

The Captain smiled. “That’s my Mary,” he said with pride. “No Marty, she never did tell me.”

“She may have been a pain-in-the-ass-big sister, but she knew when to run blabbing to you and when to keep a secret. I wish,” he hesitated, “I wish I could tell you I have wonderful memories of Mom. I know the older kids do, but Tom and me—and I know Danny especially—we mostly remember her being sick.”

“That’s okay, Marty.” His father stood up. He walked over to his son and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “You three were young. You didn’t get the best of your mom.”

“Maybe not Dad, but we got the best of you.” He grabbed his father’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

His dad squeezed back. Letting go, he picked up Marty’s empty bowl and asked, “Want some more?”

“No thanks, Dad. I think I’m going to do some studying. I am just curious, though. What brought this up?”

His father didn’t turn around. He started filling the dishwasher.

“I was just thinking this kid who killed his parents is just a little bit older than you were when your mom passed. I was just wondering how much of it he’s going to remember. Are his memories of his parents going to be of those last moments? Will his memories be like yours, with the sad memories dominant while the happy ones are just one-dimensional? Not quite knowing if his memories of them are real, or just images that have played on home movies?”

“Well he’s in the best place he can be right now. You can tell they really care about those kids. Gabby is there, and you know how good he is with kids. And his doctor, well, she’s a really pretty woman, and seems to be very kind hearted. I think he is in good hands.”

“Pretty lady? Is that why you go there so often?”

“Dad!”

“Is she married?”

“Dad, go watch the ball game. Yankees may pull it off. Maybe we can cop tickets to the playoffs.”

“Marty. Did you ever wish your mom would just go ahead and die?”

Holding back tears, refusing to let them slide from the corner of his eyes, Marty turned his back on his father.

“Yes, I guess I did. It was so sad around here those last few years. I didn’t know whether to be mad at you, or Mom, or God. I just wished it would all go away. So yes, there were times I wished she would die.”

“Do you think that’s why this kid is troubling you so much? Because it could have been you? Not that I think you could have done something like that, but I did see you get so angry sometimes. Do you remember the time you and Tommy got into a fight over what TV show to watch? You threw a fit, grabbed one of your prized model airplanes and threw it against the wall, broke it into pieces—do you remember that? You were crying so hard I had to hold you down, and you fought until you were exhausted.”

“How can I forget? Tommy insists to this day it was his plane I broke. I don’t know, you may be right. I just want to take this kid home, give him to you. Whatever ails him, you would be the cure, Pop.”

The Captain finished drying the pots and leaned against the sink, stretching his arms out behind him on the counter.

“I would get mad at her too, Marty. Sometimes I still am. Mad at Mom for leaving us. Mad at God for letting her. But I still have my blessings. I have you kids, and Theresa would be so proud of you all. I miss her Marty. I still miss her so much.”

Throwing his arm over his dad’s shoulder he walked him out of the kitchen.

“I know, Pop. The heck with studying. Let’s see if the Yankees can put a hammer down on the Red Sox. You find the station, and I’ll get out of these work clothes. Boy’s night. Just you and me.”

He slapped him gently on the back and walked out of the room.

Hope

My meeting with Brad’s grandparents and uncle left me more confused than ever. They seemed to be genuinely sincere in their concern for Brad; his grandmother refusing to believe that her grandchild was capable of hurting his parents. She was adamant that someone else must have done it.

“Do you know if there is any mental illness in your family, Mrs. Ginns?”

She shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not. My family were all professional, well-educated people. Never got into trouble with the law.” She stopped, quickly glanced at her son Eddie and just as quickly turned away, keeping her face averted from me.