Splintered (3 page)

Detective Wallace never admitted to thinking the worst of Lily. Instead, he changed the subject, asking her for the names and phone numbers of anyone who might be helpful to contact about Maddy’s attempted abduction. Lily grabbed her address book, then brought it and her coffee mug over to the table. She sat and relayed the information while Detective Wallace wrote in his notebook.

Lily noticed his pen. “Makes for lovely notes,” she said.

“What?”

“The purple ink you’re writing with. It gives your notes some panache.”

The wrinkles in Wallace’s brow line softened. Smiling, he answered, “The kids love to play practical jokes on me. Most of the time, I find Little People figurines in my shoes. They can hardly contain their giggles when they watch as I pull on each shoe only to realize my foot doesn’t fit. This morning, one of them got creative—my usual pen was replaced with this one. I didn’t even notice until I got to here.”

Wallace’s last statement seemed to remind him of the task at hand. Lily watched as his smile faded.

“What do you do for a living, Mrs. Eastin?”

I used to paint breathtaking portraits.

“I’m a manager at Michaels, the chain store specializing in arts and crafts. Nothing fancy, but it pays the bills.”

“Must be hard. Lots of hours, working weekends and holidays?”

Lily nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.

“Is Maddy active in any sports or extracurriculars?”

Cop talk for, “Does she have something to keep her busy while I’m at work?”

“She used to be on the middle school volleyball team, but she didn’t make the high school team. She talked about starting club ball but . . . well, that never happened. She plays clarinet though.”

“Did Maddy switch schools when you moved?”

“No. She’s still a sophomore at King High School. We were renting a nicer house over on Leon Avenue when the family was together. I chose this place because of its proximity to our old one. I wanted to find something in the general vicinity so Maddy wouldn’t feel completely uprooted. So she’d be close enough to visit her friends. However, Maddy’s been so upset lately, she hasn’t brought anyone over. Truth be told, I think she’s ashamed of the place. Once the divorce is settled, hopefully the child support will help us move somewhere better.”

Lily watched Detective Wallace take another drink of his coffee. Hers still sat untouched as she tried unsuccessfully to draw the heat away from the mug and into her hands.

“I can see what you’re doing, detective.”

“What do you mean?”

“All these questions. You’re painting a dismal picture of my daughter’s life. An unhappy girl, left home alone while her soon-to-be divorced mom works long hours. But I can tell you, Maddy wouldn’t make up a story like this. She wouldn’t invent two fictitious kidnappers. My daughter may have been acting out lately, but she’s a good girl. She’d never take anything this far.”

“Not even to get the attention she craves from a father who, by all accounts, has tossed her aside?”

Terrance Wallace thought he’d found an ally in Lily Eastin. She seemed angry at the treatment her daughter had dished out. Yet it didn’t take long before she started backpedaling, playing mama bear to protect her child. But then, Terrance had been on the police force for almost twenty years and had seen it all. There were plenty of times he’d watched mothers listen to their children admit to gruesome crimes only to defend them, and sometimes even create false alibis.

A parent’s job was a lot like a cop’s—to protect and to serve. Terrance knew it was difficult to let children make their own mistakes. Though he didn’t have any biological ones, he understood the parental bond created during the simple acts of changing diapers, late-night feedings, and reading a book to a little one more interested in the whiskers on his face than the words he read aloud.

Terrance and his wife were on the front lines of the foster system, serving as emergency-placement foster parents. They took in kids who needed a safe environment immediately. Even though the children were only in the Wallaces’ care briefly—anywhere from one to forty-five days—strong bonds formed quickly.

Kids would show up at their door shell-shocked, many having been traumatized by a family implosion just hours earlier. Often Terrance would be at work, so his wife, Trudy, offered triage, bandaging the kids’ wounded psyches as best she could. It was her calling, one she’d discovered as a volunteer in the Guardian ad Litem program, a legal advocacy program for children in the system.

Sometimes the state would send the kids back to their parents or a close relative; other times they’d move on to a more permanent foster family. Even though the children only stayed a short time, Terrance understood the instinct to protect them at all costs. Lily Eastin was simply doing the same for her daughter. Yet, as the woman had stood in front of him pleading her daughter’s case, he couldn’t tell who she was trying to convince more—him, or herself.

Lily and Maddy had followed Detective Wallace back to City Hall, driving in their own car. They met up on the third floor, where the detectives’ offices were. Maddy had worked with an officer to create a facial composite of the man who’d almost abducted her. The process had been painful for both of them. She gave so many contradictory descriptions, the muddled image came out looking like an angry Cheech Marin circa 1978. Except he had a scraggly beard instead of a thick mustache.

Wallace’s immediate supervisor, Corporal Rhodes, walked into Wallace’s cubicle after Lily and Maddy finally left. He eased into the extra chair.

“Back still bothering you?” Wallace asked him.

Rhodes shrugged almost imperceptibly, like he was trying to avoid any extra movement. “Some days worse than others. I see the girl and her mother are gone.”

“Yeah, they left about ten minutes ago.”

“What are you thinking on this one?”

“Don’t know yet. The girl seems pretty upset, but is it because of the attempted abduction or because Daddy walked out on her? I’m not sure. Her story lacks serious credibility. Not only did it change every time she opened her mouth, it had too many specifics. You know how it goes. During an attack, victims are so pumped full of adrenaline the details are usually a blur. This Eastin girl told me how the guy grabbed her left wrist and held her around the ribs with his right arm. It sounded more like a book report than an account of a supposed abduction.”

Wallace grabbed a pen off the desk and started tapping his knee with it. “But it’s too soon to make a judgment call. The patrol officer canvassing the Eastins’ neighborhood didn’t come up with any witnesses yet. However, half of the block was away at work, so I’m going back out there this evening.”

“What about the bus driver?”

“Nothing.” Wallace grabbed a copy of the report Officer Santos had given him. “Says here, at approximately six thirty a.m. the driver reported seeing Maddy Eastin run down the middle of the street, waving her arms to make him stop. As the driver exited the bus, he said Maddy babbled hysterically. He finally figured out that a guy had tried pulling her into a van. The bus driver never saw the supposed vehicle.”

“I’ve already started fielding calls about this from newspapers.” Rhodes pointed at the suspect drawing on Wallace’s desk. “Do you want to let them run the picture along with the story?”

Wallace thought about it, chewing on the pen’s cap.

When Wallace didn’t answer, Rhodes said, “Man, that Demir case really screwed you up. I’ve never known you to second-guess yourself like this.”

You’re not the only one.

Amani Demir, a sixteen-year-old Muslim girl, had reported an attempted rape a few months back. Wallace remembered how he’d fallen hard for the girl’s story. It had gotten all the way to court before the defense presented a completely different version of events—as it turned out, the true version.

Amani had been getting into trouble, and her mother had threatened to send her back to Turkey to live with relatives if she didn’t change her American ways. In their Muslim faith, it was forbidden for a female to be alone in a room with a male that wasn’t a relative. When Amani’s mother came home early one day to find Amani with her shirt ripped and a man grabbing her by the arm, the girl cried rape. Come to find out, Amani had been dating the nineteen-year-old boy, but had tried to break it off numerous times. He’d shown up at Amani’s house, but when she wouldn’t take him back, he got rough with her. The guy ended up almost doing time because he couldn’t take a hint. And because Wallace didn’t do his job.

Even though this guy had lied through every interrogation, the suspect’s stupidity still hadn’t gotten Wallace off the hook with his peers and supervisors. He’d lost their respect. Worse, he hadn’t been able to shake the self-doubt created by the whole fiasco.

“Let’s hold off on running the picture in the paper. At least for now.” Wallace adjusted his tie clip, a thirtieth birthday present from his mama. The woman had a loving heart but a wicked hand. Growing up, she’d never been afraid to use it if she thought he was screwing up.

Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

“Be sure and get me your preliminary report ASAP,” Rhodes said. “I need to figure out what to tell the press.”

Wallace wondered how the story would read, and whether it would turn out to be another complete work of fiction.

The song playing out from Hank Fry’s cell phone tore his thoughts away from his dad’s old barn, bringing that terrified sixteen-year-old firmly back into his thirty-one-year-old body. He looked down at his blanched knuckles and forced himself to let go of the hammer. He dropped it back in his tool belt and dug the persistent phone out of his pocket.

“I need to take this,” Hank said to his buddy working beside him on the bridge embankment.

Hank walked down the hill, away from the work site. He was about three weeks into the job of widening the I-75 bridge that crossed Fletcher Avenue. The ringtone continued belting out “Gangnam Style,” giving him the heads-up that his younger brother Daniel was calling. Hank grimaced at the frantic beat. He couldn’t understand why Daniel liked the song so much. The boy couldn’t even pronounce half the words, opting to create his own instead of singing the difficult Korean lyrics. But it never failed, every time Daniel heard the song on the radio he’d jump up, laughing and clapping, and would plead for Hank to turn up the music.

Last week, Hank had finally given in and assigned the ringtone to Daniel. He couldn’t help but give in since the song made Daniel so happy every time he heard it. Daniel had the matching ringtone programmed to sing out whenever Hank called him, something Hank tried to do at least once a day.

“Hey, Small Fry. This had better be good. You know you can’t call me at the job site this time of day.” Though Hank felt aggravated, he didn’t let his voice show it. He kept a lightness in it because Daniel was overly sensitive to anger directed toward him.

“Is this Hank Fry?” a deep voice asked.

“Who the hell is this? How did you get my brother’s phone?”

“Sir, this is Chad Topher of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office. Am I speaking to Hank Fry?”

“Yes.” Hank put a hand over his ear, trying to block out the traffic noise rushing by him on the interstate.

“Sir, I picked up your brother, Daniel Fry, for indecent exposure. He claims it’s all a misunderstanding, but the woman he exposed himself to gives another story. Your brother has no priors, but when I interviewed him it became apparent he is mentally challenged. Would that be accurate, sir?”

“Yes. Daniel suffered a brain injury as a kid. What’s going to happen to him?”

“It all depends on the complainant. She has twenty days to file the paperwork. After that, the State Attorney will decide whether to press charges. For now, though, I think it’s best to release him to a family member. Can you pick him up?”

After the cop told him where they were, Hank rushed to clear the time off with his boss. He had to promise overtime off the books, but the important thing was to get to Daniel quickly. His brother had the mental capacity of a ten-year-old, and there was no telling what would come out of his mouth if left with a cop too long.

Shit! I can’t believe Daniel got caught this time.

Hank parked next to a police cruiser in a lot in front of the entrance to the Takomah Trail Park. Daniel stood next to the police officer, his head down, kicking at some rocks—until he heard Hank’s voice.

“Are you okay, Daniel?”

“Please don’t be mad, Hank. I keep saying it was all a mistake. I told that lady I was just trying to find a place to pee. I had to go real bad, Hank. I can’t help she ran by when I was peeing.”

Standing there pleading his case, Daniel looked younger than his twenty-six years. It was almost like his facial features had stopped maturing when his brain did. He had rusty, brown-colored hair that he kept short on the sides and back, but longer on top. It always looked mussed up—he usually forgot to comb it before going out.

Hank laid a soothing hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I’m not mad. Next time though, make sure you us a public restroom or remember to take a leak before you leave home.”

“I did, but the Mountain Dew went right through me. I’m sorry.”

“Where’s the lady who called 911?” Hank craned his neck, looking around the parking lot.

“She left,” Officer Topher said. “Like I relayed on the phone, she has twenty days to file her complaint, but I doubt she will. I explained that your brother obviously has limited mental capacity. My nephew has Down syndrome, so I understand how a simple act can turn into a big misunderstanding.”

“I appreciate your help, officer.” Hank shook hands with the man. “Daniel’s never done nothing like this before.”

Hank saw his little brother open his mouth. He moved the hand resting on Daniel’s shoulder down his brother’s arm and squeezed his elbow. Daniel got the hint and kept quiet. Continuing to hold him by the arm, Hank walked Daniel over to the passenger-side door of his work van and opened it.