by Kate Flora
He wondered what they'd learn. Dr. Lee was awfully good at spotting things others might miss, sometimes things that proved essential to their investigations. And he made a great witness in court.
It was always one of the ironies—and underpinnings—of their investigations, that they had to act rapidly, in the moment, to respond to the case as it changed, yet always kept an eye on what they needed to preserve for what would come down the road. Chain of custody. Extreme caution in the collection of evidence. Detailed reports. Names and address and dates of birth. Photo and video of the scene and subsequent searches. Being alert and aware in the present and documenting that alertness and awareness for the future. It only took one heartbreaking loss because of carelessness to sear that awareness into a detective's mind forever. A good detective. Some people rolled over the screwups like they were just bumps in the road.
He'd brought the bloody handkerchief with Ismail's DNA. Was hoping for a match. Hoping for something, that was for sure.
Dani's hand left his shoulder as she shifted her conversation to Prentiss. "So is Sage really your first name?"
"It is."
"I've never met anyone named Sage before. Where did your parents come up with that?"
As Burgess had already learned, and Dani was about to, Prentiss was an extremely taciturn man.
"Mother's maiden name," he said, in a monotone that suggested the conversation was over.
Dani got the message. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
* * *
They were late. Despite Burgess's best efforts, the last part of the trip was on local roads, and the other drivers seemed to be conspiring to keep him from making any time. When he finally pulled into the lot and shoved the Explorer into park, he was ready to call it a day, when, if history was any guide, his day was barely beginning.
Dr. Lee was waiting for them impatiently, jittering slightly from foot to foot as he acknowledged Dani and then Burgess introduced Prentiss. Dani had moved immediately to the baby. They already had his clothes but she wanted to get hand and footprints and take some pictures before Lee went to work.
Burgess watched her face as she worked, bottom lip caught between her teeth, her gloved hands as gentle as though the baby were still alive. She moved him, turned him, and photographed so they'd have a complete record of the baby before Dr. Lee got out his scalpel.
He was surprised to find Lee standing beside him. "Be sure you get a good close-up of his navel," Lee said. "And of his penis. I'll put it in my report, but it helps to have a good picture as well."
"A picture of what?" Burgess asked.
"That hack job of a circumcision, for one thing. And a cord that wasn't properly cared for and probably got infected. I don't know what the circumstances were, but I'm certain this baby wasn't delivered in any hospital."
It made sense, Burgess thought. Given the girl's age, and the evidence that someone had used restraints on her, whoever had had custody of her and delivered this baby would not have wanted her in a hospital, out of his control and in a place where she might tell her story or ask for help.
Dani took her pictures, lowered the camera, and stepped back. "I'm done," she said.
She looked done. She looked as troubled as they all felt, and diminished, wilting like an unwatered flower in her already too-large jumpsuit. She bent and stowed some gear in her bag and he saw her swipe at her face, trying to keep them from seeing her tears.
They gathered around the table as Lee moved in and began his dictation, noting that they were looking at an undernourished, unnamed male infant appearing to be partly African-American, who looked to be about three weeks old. Younger than Burgess had thought. There appeared to be no external signs of injury but Lee noted a distended abdomen, botched circumcision, and the condition of the navel.
Then he picked up his scalpel and there was a moment's hesitation.
Normally, Lee did autopsies at twice the speed of any other pathologist Burgess had ever seen, always moving like he had somewhere else to be, was on a deadline, or was trying to beat his own personal best. Today, he moved more slowly, and Burgess remembered something Lee had said to him once. A remark that had surprised him at the time because of the ME's unflappable manner. As they were getting in their cars after an autopsy on a child, Lee had said, "I hate doing kids."
It was a sentiment Burgess could completely relate to.
Finally, Lee took a breath and made the first cut.
Burgess checked on his team. Prentiss seemed to be doing okay. Dani less so, but she was holding herself together because she never wanted to be thought less tough than the others just because she was small and female.
As Lee moved through the now-familiar steps of the autopsy, his face tightened. He was clearly troubled by what he was seeing. Burgess watched the gloved hands move slowly along the bowel until they came to a stop and Lee nodded. "Just as I expected. This baby has... had a bowel obstruction that would have required surgery. If the smoke hadn't killed him, as it did, this would have unless his parents... or someone... had taken him to a hospital. And this wasn't a sudden thing. The infant had been suffering for some time."
He looked down at his hands, still holding the twisted bowel. "And I do mean suffering. Unable to eat. Which probably accounts for his being malnourished. He couldn't digest his food. What kind of parent could watch that and do nothing?"
The ME raised his eyes from the baby to Burgess. "What do we know about this baby's family? Because someone should be charged—"
"Not much," Burgess said.
He had never seen Lee like this. The man was as cool and clinical as a human could be. "He and his mother—a girl who looks to be, at best, fourteen—were found locked in a closet in a burning building. She was screaming for help. She's still in the hospital, being treated for the smoke she inhaled. She's in rotten shape. Abused. Exhausted. Malnourished herself. Beyond that, we know nothing about her. She had no ID of any kind. So far, no one has come forward to claim her or the baby."
He hesitated, wondering what else might be helpful for Lee to know. "When she was told that her baby had died, she went into some kind of catatonic or fugue state. They're getting a psych consult today. We know she can speak, because she was screaming for help in that closet. Since then, she's never said a single word. About all we know is that she's way too young to be a mother, that she was found in a mosque and was wearing a headscarf, and that someone had been restraining her with handcuffs that were brutally tight."
Lee shook his head. "To keep her from seeking help for her child, maybe?"
"Maybe."
"Every time you think nothing can surprise you," Lee said, and went back to work.
There were no more significant findings, and Lee finished with his usual alacrity, retreating into silence except for his dictation, as though he regretted any display of emotion.
Since Lee's discovery and explanation of its meaning, Sage Prentiss had been growing steadily greener. When the green turned to grayish white, Burgess nodded at Dani. "Take him out."
It was only when Dani took him by the elbow and led him out of the room that Burgess remembered. Prentiss had a newborn son at home. A bad choice as his second for today's autopsy. He should have brought someone from his team after all.
But that was the job. When duty called, you went places you never wanted to go and saw unimaginable things, and you didn't get to wimp out because it was painful or horrifying or ugly beyond belief. You just took what the job dished out.
"I miss your regular team, Joe," Lee said. "Wink Devlin never turns green."
Burgess shrugged. "Guy's got a baby about this age at home. You know how that is."
"I do," Lee said. "So I'm hoping that even with the B team, you're going to arrest some people for this atrocity. Atrocities."
He began to put the baby back together, deft as a card shark. "I'm assuming that the fire was no accident?"
He stepped back from the table and nodded to his silent assistant, w
ho moved in to finish. "Meant to finish off the baby and ensure that the mother caused no further trouble?"
Burgess considered that and shook his head. "I just don't know," he said, "but despite the carelessness and the cruelty, I think someone wanted that baby. The mother didn't matter but the baby did. My gut tells me I may have two unrelated events here that happened to coincide. One involving controlling the mother and baby, a holding place until someone could figure out what to do with them. The other involving a need to destroy the building, or a dispute about the building. A right hand and a left hand not communicating, maybe?"
Lee raised his eyebrows. Normally, neither of them was this talkative. Sometimes, he and the ME weren't on the same page. But Burgess felt something in the room. Now that Prentiss and Dani were gone, he and Lee could let their professional masks slip a little. Beyond the clinical coldness of the metal surfaces and washable tiles, and the sharp, utilitarian tools, there was heat in the room, an anger that shimmered off both of them at people who used other people like they didn't matter. At the senseless suffering and loss of this tiny child.
Burgess remembered the feeling of his mystery girl's hand in his and imaged that hand trying to sooth this baby.
"It was a Somali mosque, and no one in that community is willing to talk to us. Yet."
"Yet?"
"You know me," Burgess said. "Ever the optimist."
"And if I believe that, you've got a bridge to sell me?"
Burgess didn't deal in bridges. Like Lee, he dealt in lives lost. "I'll find a way in."
They stood side by side as the assistant began to sew up the incisions.
"Seriously. Are you going to get these people, Joe?"
He'd never known Dr. Lee to care like this.
"Just so helpless," Lee said. "All he could do was cry, and pull his little legs up to try and ease the pain. How anyone could watch that and—"
He shook his head. "The poor little guy. An awful life. An awful death. And he doesn't even have a name."
Abruptly, he turned and walked out of the room.
Chapter 16
On the drive back to Portland, Prentiss kept apologizing. Even after Burgess told him it was okay, he understood, it happened and it was no big deal, Prentiss took a while before he shut up. So much for taciturn.
Burgess wished he was alone in the car. Alone was when he did his best thinking, when he could use the transitions between events to analyze what he knew and decide where to go next. He couldn't do that over Prentiss's defensive apologies and Dani's calming murmur.
His anger hadn't subsided. He wasn't mad at them, but he wanted to stop and tell them to get out. Leave them standing beside the road while he drove on, letting the trails of story simmer in his brain until they began to connect, to make sense, to link up or show him the potential for linkage. Despite the time they'd put in on this case, they had very little that was solid. He hoped by the time he got back to 109 and sat down with Kyle and Perry, their days would have been productive and he'd have something to work with. Maybe Press Devlin would have a line on Butcher Flaherty.
The grass in the median was beginning to green up, and an optimistic woodchuck had come out to see what he could eat. Along the roadsides, the trees were beginning to furze with the first explosion of soft yellow green. He wished he could grab this hopeful promise of renewed life and possibility and wrap it around himself, smothering what felt like deep blackness inside. He'd jokingly described himself as an optimist. What he really was was a deep pessimist with remnants of a Catholic education crossed with a bulldozer.
He needed to make things happen because people depended on him. His mystery girl and his little lost baby. Kids like Jason that life had kicked to the curb. So if he sometimes had to bulldoze his way through piles of crap, forgetting the curtsey Captain Cote was always urging, and worrying Lieutenant Melia, that was just how it was. Always a challenge. Harder, these days, because of the tail of tin cans his newfound domestic life tied to his bumper. Chris said that being home for family dinner was very important, his presence an important part of integrating their complicated family. A case like this meant dinner might not happen at all, but it added people with a new set of expectations to his already long list.
He sighed and called Kyle, got the usual crisp, "Kyle."
"Burgess," he said. "Getting anything?"
"I remember when that question was kind of a fun one to be asked."
"And today?"
"Squat. My source is nowhere to be found."
"Lotta people playing hard to get today," Burgess said, jerking the wheel to avoid a senior citizen in a Corolla who had drifted into his lane. Stan Perry, who sometimes lacked the milk of human kindness, called them Q-tips, because often all that was visible was a little tuft of white hair behind the steering wheel.
"Maybe young Stanley has had some luck," Kyle said.
"What about our translator?"
"More nothing," Kyle said. "Meet back at 109?" Before Burgess could respond, Kyle said, "Oh fuck!"
"What?"
"Soccer game."
"When you gotta go," Burgess said. "Hope she has a good day."
"Be nice if someone did. See you when?"
"What works for you?"
"I'm new to all this," Kyle said. "How long do these things take?"
"Soccer game? An hour, maybe," Burgess said. "Let's aim for six."
"Family dinner," Kyle said. "How about seven thirty? You learn anything from the autopsy?"
"Kid had a kink in his gut. Needed surgery. Would have been screaming his little head off. We might start asking about whether the Imam's neighbors have been hearing a baby cry."
"Ouch," Kyle said. "Think there will ever be some good news?"
"Wishing and hoping," Burgess said. He disconnected and called Perry.
"Stan Perry." Perry managed to get a paragraph of sullen into those two words.
"Anything?" Burgess said.
"Lotta people done a disappearing act today," Perry said. "The translator. His girlfriend, or whoever the woman is who owns the car that picked him up last night. Her name's Rihanna Daud. Everyone at the Imam's place, unless they've just forgotten that a knock on the door means someone is out there who wants to come in. I'm about ready to start kicking in some doors."
"Some folks back at 109 who might not agree with that approach."
"So maybe we should go sit in their offices, sharpen our pencils and straighten our papers, and they can go out and try to talk to this city full of know-nothings."
"Great idea, Stan. We're getting together at seven thirty to talk about the case, and you should definitely suggest that."
"Can't do seven thirty. I promised my girl I'd—"
Burgess felt a twinge of anger. "I thought we were personal crimes police," he said. "But it sounds like everybody's too busy doing happy domestic thingys to bother with investigation."
"Screw that, Sarge. I'm not feeling happy or domestic."
"She know we're working a dead baby?"
"She only wants to talk about a live baby."
"See what you can do, Stan. I need you there."
"I know that."
"What about that robbery at the mall? Computer stuff?"
"Just grabbed a guy from property. We're heading out there now. Hoping those serial numbers will help."
Perry disconnected.
"Sage," Burgess said, "I need your help."
He filled the young detective in on the problems they were having getting any cooperation from the Imam or his household. "Love it if you could drop by and see if you have any better luck than we've had. If speaking the language helps. And there's a teenager, Ali Ibrahim, probably at the high school. Maybe if you spoke to him away from the house you might get a better response. We get back to 109, I'll give you some names and details."
"Happy to try," Prentiss said. "I'd like to contribute something to this investigation." He started in on another apology, but Burgess cut him off. The best kind of ap
ology was good results.
"You've seen the baby. You know what this is about. We really could use a break somewhere in this thing."
They made the rest of the trip in silence.
Burgess stifled an impulse to drive slowly, knowing what was waiting for him. Melia pacing, Cote snappish because he had no reports. The press breathing down their necks, frustrated by the lack of instant, newsworthy results. A sea of pink message slips, none of which would offer anything in the way of a lead or useful information. He just hoped he wouldn't find any more bodies on his desk. He had a bad feeling about their translator's disappearance.
He sorted through what was in process, looking for a silver lining. Maybe tomorrow, Jason would have something for him, something that would let him put a plan in place about how to have a safe conversation with a Somali girl. Maybe he'd take Sage along as a second pair of eyes and ears.
Maybe Rocky had finished sorting through the corporate maze and they would have a landlord's name and address. Rocky was good, but he was just one person, and they needed a lot of information. It was time to get the AG's office involved, get a warrant for the mosque's records, the Imam's records, see if they could find checks or a lease or other paper trail. With luck, Perry might learn something on his trip to the mall.
He knew the importance of patience. Of nose-to-the-grindstone plodding. No sense in telling his guys to get themselves under control unless he could do the same.
* * *
After he'd given the information to Sage, he went to see his lieutenant. The office was peaceful, neat, and quiet, but the impeccable Vince Melia looked like someone had been chewing on him and it had left him frayed. Burgess, being a detective, could figure out who that was. But after he'd dropped into the guest chair and studied his boss more closely, he realized this was different. Melia looked worried and defeated in a way that Cote's persistent nagging didn't usually produce.
"Something wrong with one of the twins?" he said.
Melia looked startled, then nodded. "Lucas. He hasn't been himself. Lethargic. Always getting sick. Like Gina said, kids are always getting sick, but this wasn't normal kid sick. Docs are doing a workup. Best case, mono. Maybe chronic fatigue. Worst case?" He faltered, looked down at his hands, then back at Burgess, his voice almost a whisper. "Leukemia."
