Bless the Child (9 page)

She grabbed her coat from the hall closet and ran toward the police station.

T
he Sixth Precinct house was located on West Tenth Street between Bleecker and Hudson streets. Maggie raced up the steps trying to stay calm enough to sound coherent.

The desk sergeant was stocky and dark complected, with what looked like five o’clock shadow, long out of control by 7:00 P.M. He cut her off halfway through her explanation, with a practiced gesture.

“No point telling me your whole story, ma’am. What you need is a detective,” he pronounced. “I’ll see who’s available.” He motioned to a wooden bench against the wall, but Maggie was too agitated to sit down. The desk sergeant finished his paperwork, before picking up the phone.

Finally, a big, lethargic-looking man beckoned her from the doorway; he was gray all over, hair and eyes, pants and tie—even his sallow skin had the grayish tinge of one who never sees sunlight. Maggie groaned inwardly as she followed him through the rabbit warren offices; he had the look of a man who isn’t happy in his work. Detective Hillyer motioned her to a seat, then ignored her for a full five minutes while he took two phone calls and dialed another.

“Okay,” he said finally, glancing at the paper the desk sergeant had filled out. “You’ve got a drug addict kid who’s causing you problems, right? Just like everybody else in New York.”

Maggie felt herself bristle and tried to stay calm. She began the tangled story, careful not to sound like an overprotective grandma. She referred to her notebook for dates and times. Hillyer leaned back in his chair without comment, took three more telephone calls in a row, forcing Maggie to backtrack in her story each time for continuity. Finally, he held up his hand to stop the rush of words that was becoming progressively more urgent.

“Look, Mrs. . . . O’Connor,” he referred to the paper to refresh his memory of her name. “This isn’t a police matter. You’ve got no crime, no victim. What you’ve got here is a family that disagrees about how to raise a baby. What you need is maybe a counselor . . .”

“Have you heard a word I’ve said, Detective?” Maggie asked tautly. “Or were you too busy on the phone to hear me? In the last twenty minutes, you’ve talked to everyone in New York but your bookie, while I’ve been trying to tell you there’s a three-year old child in grave danger, who just might need your help, and all you can tell me is to see a counselor?” Her voice had risen loud enough to attract other ears in the immediate vicinity.

“Listen, Mrs. O’Connor, you come in here with a story about a kid, who’s living in the lap of luxury in Greenwich yet—not even in this precinct—and you expect me to pull some kind of rabbit out of a hat . . .”

“What I
expect
you to do is listen to what I have to say, and give me some sensible advice, Detective. I expect you to care that a baby may be in danger. You’re a policeman for God’s sake! Aren’t you supposed to help people in trouble?”

Eyes all over the precinct house were now riveted on Maggie, as if E.F. Hutton had spoken. Hillyer opened his mouth to reply, when a male voice interrupted. “Hank,” it said with quiet authority, “how about letting me take this one?” Startled, Maggie looked up at the source of the voice.

A tall, lanky man in shirtsleeves stood behind her in the doorway. He looked tired and Irish. Maggie’s temper and frustration level were now running neck and neck; she was in no mood to be pleasant. She took a long controlled breath and said tightly, “I think I can tell this story just
one more time
before I explode. But after that, the first three rows damned well better step back!”

Hillyer pushed his chair aside and exchanged a glance with the newcomer that said, “This one’s a real nut case.” Then he left, handing over a small folder as he did so. The new arrival looked slightly amused which further infuriated Maggie.

“Look, Detective . . .”

“Devlin,” he said. “Lieutenant Malachy Devlin.”

“Lieutenant Devlin, then,” she said sharply. “As I have just told the patently uninterested Detective Hillyer, I have a granddaughter who, I think, is in danger.” She caught Devlin’s obvious surprise at her being a grandmother, but paid it no mind. “I came here hoping somebody, somewhere, might help me find out what I can do to save her.” He heard the tears beneath the taut control and any semblance of amusement faded.

“I don’t know what to do—and God knows, I’m scared to death that the system doesn’t know either. Lieutenant—but unless I can find a way to help her, there’s a three-year-old little girl I love, who may not see four . . .”

Devlin reached over and pushed the door shut. He sat on the edge of the desk near Maggie and put the folder down deliberately. She saw that the six-foot-one-inch body moved with a certain confident strength, despite the fatigue she sensed in it.

“Look, I overheard enough of your story to want to help,” he said, “but not enough to know how, yet. I hate to ask you to take it from the top, Mrs. O’Connor, but if you’re willing to give it one more try, I can at least promise you my undivided attention, and my best shot at advice.” He paused, as if willing to wait until she’d reached a decision on the offer, and Maggie saw him clearly for the first time, as he watched her.

There was something about his eyes that inspired confidence. They were gray, flecked with a gold that didn’t quite belong in human eyes, but they were in an intuitive surprise in an otherwise craggy Irish face that seemed to have weathered it all, the good, the bad, and especially the hard knocks. They looked at you straight on, and straight through.

Maggie’s anger receded a little, but she was dismayed to find that when it did, she was very close to tears. She took a deep breath and told her story one more time.

Devlin’s interruptions were few, and intelligent; the probing was not to ascertain the state of her mental health, but the facts of her story.

“The world’s a sorry place sometimes, isn’t it, Mrs. O’Connor?” he said unexpectedly, in a voice that suggested he’d seen too much and been hurt by most of it. “Let me give you an idea of what you’re up against here.” He took a long eloquent breath, and began.

“What you’re telling me is not out of the question in the least. Bad people hurt little children every day of the week in this city. And presumably in Greenwich, too. Sometimes the bad people are rich enough, so nobody does a damned thing about it. I hate to tell you this, but the law is not going to give you a hell of a lot of latitude here. You see, you daughter’s rights are going to be protected before your granddaughter’s.

“First off, let’s take the heroin addiction . . . even if you could prove it—which you probably can’t, because your daughter’s an adult and you can’t force her to take a drug test against her will—but even if you could, heroin addiction by itself doesn’t make her an unfit mother in the eyes of the law.”

Maggie started to protest, but he stayed her words with a gesture. “We’re talking
law
here, Mrs. O’Connor. Nobody said anything about right or wrong, or justice, for that matter. Just law.” His voice was compassionate; she could hear his own anger at the inequities of the system.

“As to Satanism . . . I’ll bet the isn’t a single statute on the books in New York City that would say a Satanist can’t raise a kid in his own religion. In fact, you’d probably have the ACLU all over you like molasses if you even tried to get custody on those grounds. Freedom of religion, even if it is Satanism, is a cornerstone of our system. For instance, I can tell you for a fact that there’s a satanic bible given to the chaplains at West Point, so their constituents in the army can get equal religious counseling. Nutty as that sounds, it’s the God’s honest truth.

“So, let’s just look at what you’ve got here. First, you’d have to be able to
prove
—not allege, mind you—
prove
that Cody’s being neglected or abused. And I just don’t see how you’re going to do that. This Vannier guy is rich and he’s a lawyer, to boot. The kid is cared for by a professional nanny,
and
by her mother, in her own home. There’s food, clothes, toys, training—even if the training doesn’t ring your bells—so no neglect. As to abuse . . . how are you ever going to prove abuse? Are there marks on the child’s body that you’ve seen? If there are, will they still be there by the time the Bureau of Child Welfare sorts through its paperwork and get its ass in gear?”

“But what about her mind?” Maggie interjected, exhausted by the unrelenting unfairness. “They’re brainwashing her somehow. She’s like a zombie around that nanny creature, and she’s absolutely terrified.”

“Mrs. O’Connor, I have seen the children of drug addicts . . . and I’ve seen enough child abuse to make Saint Francis of Assisi question God, so believe me, I’m on your side in this. But let’s look at it from the court’s point of view. Cody’s three years old. What psychiatrist, who never saw her when you had her, is going to swear that these people are altering her mind? Altering the behavior of three-year-olds is considered normal parenting.”

Maggie put up her hands in a gesture of defeat; she knew he was right.

“What if I just take her away, Lieutenant Devlin?” she asked desperately. “What if I just leave the city, and take her to somewhere,
anywhere
to protect her.”

“You’ll be arrested for kidnapping,” he said succinctly. “That’s federal, Mrs. O’Connor. FBI. Jail time. Remember the lady who said her husband was molesting her kid and she shipped the child off to God knows where. That lady did
two years
in jail before the President pardoned her. You might not get so lucky . . . then where does that leave Cody, if you’re in jail? Then she’s got nobody on her side.”

Maggie bent her head to her chest, too close to tears to speak. Devlin watched her struggle for control, knowing instinctively she wouldn’t give up, no matter what he told her. It touched him.

“How far are you willing to take this, Mrs. O’Connor?” he asked quietly. “This kind of thing could eat up your life, with very little hope of it turning out the way you want.”

She looked up at him for a full ten seconds before she said very clearly, “Whatever it takes Lieutenant.”

Devlin stood with his hands in his pockets, watching her closely for a moment. It was apparent the interview was at an end, so Maggie rose to go.

“You’re Irish, too. Mrs. O’Connor,” he said in a curious non sequitur, and she nodded.” Then you know about the Christophers? Do you remember their motto by any chance?”

Maggie looked at him quizzically, then quoted, “’It’s better to light one candle that to curse the darkness.’”

Devlin smiled. “I can’t do anything for you officially, Mrs. O’Connor, but unofficially . . . one Irishman to another . . .” He paused significantly. “I’ll see if I can find you some kind of candle, here. Okay? Maybe, I can at least find out whether this Maa Kheru business is real or not. You’ll hear from me, one way or the other.”

He handed her a card with the precinct number, and scribbled in his direct line beside it.

Maggie thanked him and left. Devlin watched her retreating figure, out the window of the dingy office, thinking this was the last thing he needed right now. He had a caseload up to his ass, and a boss who would think he’d lost his marbles if he even brought up a kid in Greenwich. But there was something . . . maybe he’d do a little checking. He sighed. All the nuts in the world lived in the Sixth Precinct.

But instinct said she wasn’t that. Devlin admired dignity and courage in the face of the odds, and Maggie O’Connor appeared to have both. He wondered if that had anything at all to do with his wanting to see here again.

Thoroughly
unnerved, Maggie went home. She couldn’t work on the taxes, so she pushed them, disgustedly, into a pile on the couch and sat staring into the fireplace. She had no idea what to do next.