STOLEN (6 page)

As
captivating as the scene was with Hope and the
boy, Jean knew she had a homicide to investigate and this boy was most likely
their best and only witness. The surviving gunshot victim was still in surgery
and the last word she received from the medical staff was that he was critical.
If he didn’t make it, the boy and Michaelah may be her only chance to find out
what actually happened in the cabin in the woods.

She pulled Marty aside. Normally, Jean would be looking up because
of the difference in height, hers reaching five-six and Marty six-foot-three,
causing her to strain her neck, but she was still dressed for court and wearing
the uncomfortable heels. The extra few inches made a radical difference and she
liked the fact it was less of a strain. Now she wondered how the petite Hope
did it without getting whiplash or suffering from a host of cervical muscle
problems.

“We need to interview this kid, Marty, and we need to do it
now while everything is still fresh in his mind. I know you’re technically on ‘family
leave,’ but I really would appreciate you helping me out on this one.” Jean
knew part of the reason she was requesting his help was to intervene with Hope.
She wasn’t too sure how Hope would react to her trying to interrogate the child
so soon, and if Marty requested it, she may be less reluctant to say the boy
wasn’t ready.

Hope had overheard her and walked over to where Jean and
Marty stood. It was Hope that replied to Jean’s request.

“We don’t know if he can even speak, Jean. All he has given
us so far is a few grunts. I don’t know how much of this behavior is normal for
him, or because of what happened and what he may have witnessed. There is no
question that he has been traumatized, and I don’t know how far we can push him
without contributing to even more psychological damage. His psyche is most
likely very fragile right now, and I think we need to walk a very thin line.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed she was caught trying to
manipulate the situation, Jean’s eyebrows raised, her lips turned down, and for
a brief moment, her thoughts floated away.

She didn’t realize, but she was staring at Hope. She fixated
on her friend’s natural beauty and butter smooth olive complexion and she
suddenly became self-conscious of her own appearance. She knew that she was
being oversensitive and knew that Hope wasn’t wasting her time doing the same
by counting the creases on her friend’s face. She tried to shake off the
intimidating thoughts as she realized her thoughts floated off and her mind had
gone somewhere else. She realized she hadn’t heard all of Hope’s answer.

“We can try, but let’s keep it simple. I don’t think it
would be a good idea to ask him about the shooting,” Hope paused and then
added, “not yet.”

At first she thought that Hope had said ‘absolutely not,’
and that questioning the boy was out of the question. It took a moment or two
for her to realize that she would be allowed to interview the boy, but she
would be limited in what she could ask. Jean was disappointed because she felt
not having full control over how and what she could ask would hinder her and
possibly could be detrimental in conducting the investigation. She started to
verbalize her dissatisfaction with Hope’s decision, and began to argue with the
psychiatrist, but she caught herself. Suddenly, her thoughts drifted again and
a frivolous thought entered her mind. She reminded herself to ask Hope which
skin product she used. She shook her head; feeling embarrassed at her sudden lack
of professionalism and childish behavior. She admonished herself for being so
self-indulgent that she was thinking of herself instead of doing her job. She
couldn’t understand what was going on and why she, suddenly, had become so vain
and unfocused.

Jean was just about to go back into the room when the young
nurse came back with a plastic cafeteria tray loaded with food. A burger, under
a sesame bun, was loaded with cheese, spilling out onto the Styrofoam plate. A
pile of french fries covered what was left of the dish, and the overflow went
onto the tray itself. A cardboard container of milk and plastic utensils added
to the meal.

It smelled so good that Jean was tempted to grab one of the fries
for herself. Her stomach growled, reminding her that the only thing she had had
to eat was half a bag of stale chips from the vending machine since last
night’s dinner.

“Thanks, Vanessa,” she heard Hope tell the young woman, as
she took the tray and turned back to enter the room, leaving Jean to follow
behind her.

She wanted to dive right into interrogating the boy even
though she knew Hope was right. Heaven knows what that boy had been exposed to,
or suffered, while being held captive by those two wackos. Chastising her own
selfish thoughts, she gave herself the excuse that her stomach was running her
mouth and not her good judgment, and she wasn’t thinking clearly. If it were
her daughter, instead of that little boy, she would want someone like Hope to
stand up to any cop who might not have the kid’s best interest at heart, even
if it meant interfering with an investigation.

She watched as the young boy woofed down the food; barely
chewing it, instead inhaling it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Every once in a
while, he would tilt his little face and look around at the small crowd in the
room, sheepishly, as if he wasn’t minding his manners. Everyone stood watching
silently, in utter awe, as he devoured every last bite.

Someone in the room remarked aloud, “I wish I could get my
kid to eat like that.”

Giving the child a few minutes to digest what he ate, Jean
signaled to Hope that she wanted to begin her interview. Once she got the go
ahead, she grabbed a chair and sat down. Marty moved in closer but stayed behind
her.

“Tristan, how are you feeling?” Jean asked, trying to make
herself as small as possible so he wouldn’t feel intimidated.

His fingers toyed with the material on the bed sheet, but he
remained silent.

“Tristan, that’s your name right?”

Again she was met with silence.

Jean smiled at him. “My name is Jean, Tristan. I know you
must be very frightened, Tristan, but you’re safe now.”

Nothing. The boy just stared back at her, his face void of
expression. Frustrated by the lack of progress, and now trying to ignore a
sudden rise in temperature in the room, she looked around at the others to get
their take on the sudden climate change. No one else appeared to be bothered.

Turning to Marty with a look of despair, she shrugged her
shoulders and offered him the chair, surrendering the interview to her partner.

“You try.” She relented, abandoning the stool to Marty.

Marty made no more progress than Jean. No matter the
question or how it was delivered, the child remained steadfast. He was either
unable, or unwilling, to tell them anything about anything, much less give them
details of what had occurred in that cabin. He gave them no answer when they
asked him “Were you there when the men were shot? Do you know the men that were
shot?” or “Who shot them?” or even “Who was he?” and “How did he get in the
woods?”

She turned to Justin who had positioned himself in front of
the entrance to the room. “Did they test him for gunshot residue?”

“Yes, but it came back negative,” he told her.

If that were true, they would have to eliminate the boy as a
suspect. She had flirted with the thought that the kid may not be a witness at
all, but he was the shooter. Not that she would blame him.

“Well, if this kid isn’t the shooter, then where the hell is
that other gun then? There had to be a third person in that cabin. We find the
third person, we find that missing gun. Then another thought crossed her mind, “unless
maybe the kid hid it.” she said, as if an afterthought, turning back to look at
the small boy.

She reached out her arm and laid her hand on Marty’s
shoulder.

“Thanks, Marty. I guess we’re done here for now, tell the
Captain I hope he has a speedy recovery.” She selfishly wanted to ask him to
come back to work, now that the Captain was out of surgery, but thought better
of it.

“I’m going to go back to the station, see what the techs
found. Maybe Frank found something on the video that will give us some
answers.”

She smiled at Hope. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Her first task would be to see what she could drum up on the
dead guy, Fred Blakey, or whatever his real name was, and find out exactly who
the guy in surgery was and how the two were connected. Maybe, by doing a little
old-fashioned detective work, she would be able to connect the dots. She
resigned herself to the fact that this kid couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them who
he was, so she would have to do it for him. Somewhere out there was a mother
and father probably going insane not knowing what has happened to their little
boy, devastated by the thought they possibly were never going to see their
child again. Her professional persona took a sudden nosedive, as she found
herself almost in tears at the thought, as another wave of intense heat
traveled through her entire body.

He
knew he should be upstairs with his family
standing vigil over his father’s bedside, but there was something about this kid
that captivated him. The most obvious was that he physically looked like he
could have been Hope’s son. His eyes were the same shade of green, his hair the
same dark chocolate brown.

The medical team that examined him determined that Tristan
wasn’t out in the weather for too long, because they found no signs of exposure
or injuries. A few bruises and scratches here and there scattered around were
just the signs of a very active little boy. Justin handed Marty a small pair of
sneakers and he sat down in front of Tristan, who was sitting up now, his legs
dangling over the side of the bed. Marty grabbed Tristan’s ankle and lifted his
right leg onto his own right knee and maneuvered the canvas shoe onto his foot.
Marty started to lace it up, but Tristan leaned over and grunted, pushing Marty’s
hand away and taking possession of the shoe string; he proceeded to make a bow
out of one side of the lace and then a second bow and tie it into a knot. He
looked up at Marty with a smile so wide, as if he was so proud of what he had
accomplished. Marty put the second sneaker on his other foot and adjusted the
tongue, and then he leaned back, allowing Tristan to do the same with the
second sneaker.

Marty thought they were getting along fine so he was caught
off guard when it happened. Marty turned his back for just a second when Tristan
jumped off the bed and took off, only this time the wall he ran into was
wearing a skirt. The social worker, Sophie Harris, stood blocking the door. Tristan
turned back to Marty and Marty could swear he was able to read the look in his
eyes. Tristan was hoping that Marty would be an accomplice, and help him
escape. Marty was tempted to tell Sophie to let him go, he wanted to follow, to
see where he would lead them. Maybe he was not running aimlessly, after all. But
he knew there were procedures that had to be followed and now it was in the
hands of the social worker. Besides, Marty had a very ill parent, his only
parent, who was in a room upstairs and had just come out of a very delicate
surgery. He had priorities. Family first.

Marty picked him up and placed him back on the bed. Tristan
tightened his muscles and they became stiff in defiance, yet he didn’t fight him.

“What’s going to happen to him, Sophie?” Marty asked her,
keeping his hands firmly on either side of the child’s narrow hips, preventing
any further attempt at escape.

She moved in closer, also expecting the kid to try and take
off again.

“We have our entire department, and yours, looking for his
parents. So far, he doesn’t match any of the children reported or listed in the
National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

It was at that moment that Tristan leaned over, put his
little hands on Marty’s shoulders and whispered in his left ear. “Dirty.”

Marty looked deep into his eyes as he struggled against his
arms to get back down from the bed. This time Marty let him go. Sophie went to
stop him, but Marty shook his head. Tristan ran out the door and made his way
down the corridor to the elevator. He got there just as the car landed on the
floor and the doors opened. He slid in between two orderlies as they were getting
out and several people followed him. Hope, Sophie, and Justin and an intern
made it just before the doors shut and they watched him as he pushed the white button
marked
4
. He was headed back to the fourth floor. The same floor he was
running down when Marty first grabbed him. The same floor Marty’s father now was
recuperating in. Coincidently on the same floor, and very close to his dad’s
room, was the man they found in the cabin with the gunshot wounds. He was just
out of surgery and was placed in the recovery room, his condition now listed as
guarded.

As soon as the elevator arrived at the fourth floor, and the
door opened, Tristan found himself standing directly in front of a replica of
the thigh he sank his teeth into just a few hours earlier. Looking up, his eyes
following the long legs and well-built torso before him, he appeared stunned when
his eyes reached the face of the owner. It was Marty’s face. He was looking
directly into the eyes of Marty’s identical twin brother, Tommy.

His head twisted back and forth, from Tommy to Marty and
then back again, his mouth opened wide in awe. Suddenly, he broke into a giggle
so infectious everyone started to laugh. Then, as if something magical happened,
he took Marty’s hand in his and pulled him further into the corridor. As he
approached each opened doorway, he drew back the curtains frantically as he
poked his head in, looking to see who occupied each bed.

In a huff, the biggest female Marty had ever seen, attired
in nurse’s scrubs, came running after them. The I.C.U. nurse began to voice her
objections to all of the activity and began to yell at them, though the
decibels in her voice were barely raised above a whisper.

“He can’t be in here! None of you can be here. It’s not
visiting hours!” She yelled and whispered at the same time. It was Hope that placed
herself in front of the tree trunk in white, staring the huge woman down, as if
she was David facing the giant. The rest of the entourage just ignored her as they
watched as the kid disappeared into one of the cubicles. As he physically
disappeared from Marty’s view, he stepped up his pace and followed him. Tristan
stopped at the foot of the patient’s bed and his mouth opened wide, and as if
there was a time delay, the word finally came out of him. It wasn’t a scream,
but it was loud. “DIRTY.”

Marty grabbed him just before he went to grab the breathing
tube that was taped down to the man’s mouth. He had reached him just in time,
as he barely touched the man they believed they had correctly identified as Troy
Blakey. The man was attached to wires and medical apparatuses that beeped and
gave off sucking noises in a hypnotic pattern. His chest area and stomach were
covered in gauze and his chest inflated and deflated along with the rhythm of
the respirator that had been inserted down his throat.

The nurse whose name tag appropriately read ‘Ms. Grande,’ had
somehow gotten past Hope and pushed her way into the room, made an attempt to grab
Tristan by the crook of his arm. You had to give the kid credit; he was slick,
Marty thought. He was lightning fast. He slipped out from her grasp and made
his way over to the end of the bed, barely managing not to tear out the wires that
were keeping the man alive. Tristan situated himself on the other side of
Blakey and started to tug at the unconscious man’s shoulders. Marty could tell he
was getting angry when he got no reaction, because his shaking became
increasingly more violent and Marty was concerned that something would come loose,
so Marty gently grabbed him and pulled him away. Marty stooped down so he was
on his knees and was able to make eye contact with Tristan, trying hard not to
appear threatening. It was something he had learned observing Hope with her
patients.

“Hey, kid, this man is very sick. We can’t bother him.” He
looked at Marty, his expression so intense and hurt as if Marty had slapped
him. His eyes drifted back to the man lying in the bed, glaring at him as if he
was willing him to wake up. Marty couldn’t tell if the boy was trying to wake
up the man because he was angry with him or because he needed him. He couldn’t
understand why he had this feeling that Tristan was worried about the man that
had kidnapped him and possibly performed and exposed him to “Dirty” things. But
that wasn’t Marty’s field of expertise, it was Hope’s, and by the look on her
face, Marty got the impression that she was as clueless as he was.

Marty grabbed Tristan’s hand, the little boy’s fingers were
sweaty and curled up into his palm in a loose fist and as Marty got up from his
kneeling position he felt and heard his right knee crack. Marty thought the kid
thought he farted, because he crinkled up his nose, as if he had been exposed
to a rank scent, and once again broke out in that infectious giggle. It was
that giggle that made Marty think that everything was going to be all right. He
no longer was aware of the beeping of the machines, or the sucking sounds of
the respirator, and suddenly his worries about his father had faded from his
mind and for a brief moment all that was wrong in the world was swallowed up in
the little boy’s laughter.

With his attention momentarily diverted from the man in the
bed, Marty walked him out, but that didn’t stop Tristan from taking a long last
look. Taking a cue from him, Marty walked him past his own father’s room and
took a quick look. Marty’s sister was on the phone in the corner and he nodded
to her. Satisfied that his dad was sleeping and comfortable, he kept on walking
towards the elevator at the end of the floor with the child until he could turn
him over to the social worker.

It took a bit of cohering and cajoling, because Tristan kept
on grabbing his hand and insisting he wasn’t leaving without him. Marty finally
convinced him he would be fine and he would see him tomorrow. The little boy
finally, but reluctantly, left the hospital with Sophie Harris from social
services. She informed Hope and Marty she was able to find a temporary home for
him and although Marty was skeptical, he had known the woman for years and trusted
her to take care of the boy. Before they left, he made Sophie give him the
address and phone number of the family that agreed to take him in.