by R. J. Noonan
“Does she recognize them from the Lost Girls photos? Has she seen the posters?” I was already scrolling through my phone directory for St. Benedict’s number. “I’m calling her right now.”
“You can’t reach her now. I just told you, she’s running the food pantry. If you want to talk to her, you need to go over there.”
“Have the girls been there today?” I stepped into a boot. “What time does the food pantry close?”
“Ask Sister. She didn’t tell me everything. You see? I do pay attention to you. It just doesn’t look like I’m listening.”
“That’s for sure.”
“I told Sister you were with the police now, looking for the Lost Girls, and it made her ask about these three little vagabond girls. You see? God makes good things happen when you go to church.”
If that were true, the churches would be packed. I pulled out a green rain slicker, too rushed to argue with her twisted logic. “I’m heading over there now. Thanks, Mom.”
* * *
“Yes, Laura. I’m glad you’re here.” Sister Mary Grace still had that Boston accent and the authoritative voice I remembered from Sunday school. “You know, these girls have been coming to our pantry twice a week, every Monday and Wednesday, and I’m getting concerned about their welfare.”
“Have they been here yet today?”
“Not yet, but they usually come in the last hour.”
“What do they look like?” I asked, taking out my phone. “Do you remember their skin color, eyes, and hair?”
“It’s hard to tell. All three seem to be white, but their skin is dirty, and they wear beanies that cover their hair. Otherwise, they’re in down outerwear, gunnysack skirt, or army fatigues. It would be hard to tell them apart if one wasn’t so thin and frail. The tallest one, her name is True, she claims that she’s eighteen, but she might just be saying that so they qualify for free groceries.”
I handed over my cell phone to show her the photos on the Lost Girls database. “Do you recognize any of these girls?”
Sister narrowed her eyes to take a careful look. On the second photo, she let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Oh, yes, indeed. This is one of them. That’s the one who goes by True. Those electric blue eyes are unforgettable. Real stunners.”
I glanced at the photo she’d chosen. “Nicki Welsh.” I was glad to be on the right track.
The nun nodded. “She seems to be in charge of the other girls. Maybe the oldest.”
“Where do they live?”
“You know we don’t require addresses. Some of these folks are living in campers in someone’s driveway or in a van, moving from place to place. They say they’re in a small house about a mile from here, but I know this area well. I suspect they really belong to the group of campers in the woods. Which means conditions are only going to get worse for them over the winter months. These girls worry me. The small one seems to be sick, or maybe just malnourished. So I’m glad you’re here. I’ve tried to engage them in conversation, but I don’t want to scare them away. Maybe they’ll talk to you.”
“I’ll wait for them.”
Two frail-looking women had just come in, dripping wet from the rain. A volunteer led them over to the table to register.
“If you’re going to be here, I’ll put you to work.”
Sister had the janitor roll out a mop so that I could wipe up the water people were tracking in. Lingering by the door, mop in hand, was not the way I envisioned ensnaring the Lost Girls. But I mopped and smiled at the people, most of whom were apologetic. “You can’t stop the rain,” I told them.
Around ten minutes before closing, the three girls came in. Two of them wore blue plastic ponchos and one of them was completely soaked from her knit beanie to her olive-green army fatigues. Beautiful girls in rags. My senses jumped to high alert.
“Hello, True. You made it through this terrible rain.” Sister Mary Grace met them at the door. “Have you met Laura?”
Three suspicious sets of eyes turned to me, and I nodded, trying to appear casual. “How’s it going?”
“We need our food, please, Sister,” True said, ignoring me.
Although she refused to meet my eyes, it was easy to identify her. Those cerulean eyes, her high cheekbones, the shape of her chin. This was Nicki Welsh, one of the Lost Girls who had escaped the foster care system in Roseburg.
“Of course, True,” the nun said. “Just put your name on the registration list.”
One of the girls squeezed out of the dripping poncho and held it by the door. “Can I leave this here? It’s totally soaked.”
I nodded, and the other girl removed hers, too. She was the little one Sister Mary Grace had mentioned. Thin as a rail and uncomfortable. These two poncho girls didn’t seem to fit the profile of any of the Lost Girls, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the one who called herself True. She was signing the register now, gesturing for the other girls to follow. I strained to hear as she spoke with the volunteer, a middle-age woman with long, silver hair and solemn eyes. Something about trying to put some meat on the bones of the frail girl named Light, who was truly a girl, more junior high age than high school. Light had a persistent cough and a sunny smile—a female Tiny Tim ambassador of goodwill. With her back to me, True was saying that she could fill her backpack and carry a box and that Melody could carry two bags.
True, Light, and Melody. They sounded like escapees from a ’60s hippy commune.
As the volunteers were handing out cans and boxes for the girls, I approached True. “Hey, there.”
“Hey.” She did not look up from loading cans into her backpack.
“You look familiar. Did you go to school around here?”
“I’m not from here.”
I turned to Light, who was more friendly. “Are you from around here?”
“My sister and I are from Wyoming, the loneliest state in America, and we’re never going back,” Light said.
“Don’t talk to strangers, Light,” True snapped.
Light started to respond, but she lost herself to a round of coughing.
“You’re just bitchy from the rain,” Melody muttered to True.
“Besides,” Light said, “everyone here is a stranger.”
“And this is a church, a safe haven,” I said. “People here want to help others. Sister mentioned that the three of you have been coming on a regular basis. That you seem to be on your own. Maybe there’s more we can do for you than just providing groceries.”
True’s eyes flashed in suspicion. “Are you from social services?”
“No, I’m not, but I want to help you.”
“Really? Like I haven’t heard that before.”
She moved away from me, but I edged along with her. “Look, I can take you to a place where we can talk. Someplace warm and dry. I have a few questions for you.”
True stepped toward me, squaring off, and I could see the exhaustion in her face, the grime on one cheek. “I have some questions, too. Like, what’s your deal? Taking us to some gentleman’s club where we can give full body massages for minimum wage?”
“I would never . . .” I turned back to see if Sister Mary and her volunteers had caught that comment, but Sister was talking with a family that had just arrived, a Hispanic woman with three kids who were hugging the nun.
“Come on, Light. We need to get out of here before this one drugs us and sends us up to Seattle to work as sex slaves. Or maybe ships us off to Asia? We’re not stupid; we know how that works. No one gives you anything without wanting something in exchange.”
“I want to help you . . .” I said, trailing them to the door. “All three of you. I can get you food and clothes and a safe place to live.”
“Don’t bother. We’re fine just the way we are.” True waited at the door while the other two shook out their ponchos. “Just grab them. You can put them on outside,” she said, ushering them out the door.
“They say it stopped raining outside.” Sister Mary smiled up at True and me
.
“This one is leaning on me, sister,” True said, cocking her chin toward me as she shifted the strap of her backpack. “If she’s here next time, we won’t be back.”
“Sometimes we have to trust others, True. I don’t know what your story is, but I promise you, Officer Mori is here to help you.”
“Officer! You’re a cop?” Her blue eyes turned icy as she scowled at me and plunged into the lobby. “It’s the cops,” she shouted backward. “Go! Run!”
I scrambled out behind them, right on True’s heels, but even with her heavy backpack and a box in her arms, she moved at a good clip. “Give me a chance to help!” I yelled at her as she dodged behind a car.
As she got farther away from me, I stopped running and projected my voice. “I know you’re Nicki Welsh, and people are looking for you. People want to help you.”
She slowed at the edge of the parking lot, looking around for the others.
“I’m not trying to arrest you. Please, let’s talk. And then if you still want to go, I won’t stop you.”
Panic seized her as her gaze swept the parking lot. Where had the other two girls gone? I couldn’t imagine that Light could run very fast, considering her strained movements and pale skin.
“Please, just thirty minutes.”
Sneering, she dropped the box of groceries and gave it a kick toward me. It didn’t travel far, but the message was clear. “Leave us the fuck alone.”
“Nicki . . . wait.” I started to run after her as she quickly cut between two boxwoods and plunged into the yard next door. I paused at the break in the hedge, calculating as she ducked behind the neighbor’s shed and disappeared. She knew the lay of the land better than I did; she would slip away from me, if she hadn’t already. Besides, the other two couldn’t have gotten too far.
I turned back and walked the perimeter of St. Benedict’s parking lot. I’d handled that one poorly, but I’d thought the girls would want to confide in me. Rounding a cement staircase that led to the church office, I heard a high-pitched noise. A squeaky hinge? No, a crying girl, collapsed against the foundation of the building. A bag of groceries was spilled on the ground beside Light, who was coughing and cradling one hand. And her face was ghostly pale.
“I scraped my knuckles,” she whimpered with a gasp, and I realized that she was not sobbing but gasping for breath. “I fell and scraped my knuckles, and I told her to go without me.”
“Your sister?”
“I told her to go.” A series of coughs overcame her. “She has to get away. Please, don’t go after her. Don’t arrest her.”
“I’m not arresting anyone right now.” I kneeled beside her. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”
Her face puckered in pain as a series of coughs shook her body. “I used to have leukemia. I think maybe it’s back.”
“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”
“I don’t remember.” She gasped, panting now.
I touched her forehead; she was burning up. “I’m no doctor, Light, but I think you need to see one.” I took out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
20
Omak wanted to get out of the chair and pace or stand or lean against a wall. Anything was preferable to staring at Chief Cribben’s handsome square face and barrel-chested physique with the open door to his infamous “Crappin’” room looming beyond him. But the chief seemed to feel threatened whenever Omak left his seat, and since he’d managed to weasel his way out of the majority of Cribben’s proposed weekly meetings, it was probably best to take a deep breath, utilize the coping skills he’d learned at the VA hospital, and stay seated. Besides, they had gone through every item on Cribben’s written list.
“Looks like we’re done here.” Omak shifted forward in the chair. “Anything else before I get back to work?”
“There is one thing.” The chief tossed the agenda aside and leaned back in his chair. “I understand you were reprimanding Garcia and Brown.”
Omak had sensed that they were the chief’s favorites, but he didn’t see why. Charmless and lazy, those two cops were a liability to the department.
“That’s right. In the past year, they failed to file more than a dozen complaints that were made by residents near Stafford Woods.” Omak shrugged. “They needed to be taken to task for it. All the residents up there deserve to be heard. The Jamesons aren’t the only ones on that hill.”
“So you took Garcia and Brown off the detail?”
“I didn’t think the patrol of a wealthy, famous citizen warranted its own detail. If the Jamesons want personal guards, they can hire them. So the answer is yes. I spoke with Sgt. Joel, and we terminated the detail and reassigned Garcia and Brown to regular patrol duty. From now on, any nine-one-one calls from the Stafford Woods area will be answered by officers on duty.”
“No good.” Cribben leaned forward and flashed an amicable smile. “Listen, Charlie, I’m sorry to step on your toes, but we need Garcia and Brown back on that detail.”
Omak lifted his splayed hands. “What’s the point?”
“The Jamesons are more comfortable having them around.”
“We’re not here to make anyone comfortable, and we don’t have the manpower to spare, even if Kent Jameson did put a few million into the city coffers over the past few years. A man with that kind of money can afford to hire his own security force.”
“You’re missing the beauty of this. We have a situation here that has worked for the last year. Dare I say, an accord that transcends both you and me.” When Omak frowned, the chief nodded. “That’s right, this one comes from a higher authority.”
“You must be talking about God in heaven.” Because Omak knew the mayor was out.
Cribben smiled. “That’s right. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
It was total bullshit. Omak knew that the mayor would never approve a deal that smacked of nepotism and cronyism. But he needed to give Cribben a long enough line to sink his own ship. “It’s hard to justify a detail when there’s no objective we can put in writing.”
“Just do it,” the chief said with a flick of his hand. “And while you’re at it, pull the black cop and the Asian girl off the Jameson compound.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you refer to Officers Frazier and Mori that way.”
“Take the PC stick out of your ass, Omak. You know how this works. The Jamesons deserve to have seasoned cops working on their behalf.”
“Last time I checked, I thought we were working for the victim here—a murdered fifteen-year-old girl.”
“A girl who was inebriated and, shall we say, fucking around.”
Omak struggled to contain the fury that burned inside him, fueled by the chief’s words. A handsome, thick turd like Cribben was used to getting away with snarky jokes behind closed doors. Omak couldn’t afford to show disrespect, but he didn’t have to pretend he liked the locker room scuttlebutt.
“I have two daughters, Chief. And I would hope that if they’re ever in a difficult situation, someone in law enforcement will have their backs.”
“Ah, see that? You’re taking things the wrong way.”
“Am I?”
“Sometimes my jokes go too far, but you can’t blame a guy for trying to keep things light. Just put Garcia and Brown back in Stafford Woods. Better yet, put them on the Kyra Miller case.”
Was this what the chief had been pushing for all along? “To hand over an ongoing investigation at this point would compromise the integrity of the case,” Omak said, watching Cribben for reaction. “I brought Frazier in to work with Mori because he’s an experienced cop. She’s green, but she’s determined, and she has a way with people. They’re a good team, and they will continue to work under my supervision.” He was not backing down on this.
“Fine.” The chief had heard enough. “Just get Garcia and Brown back on the hill, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” It was the lesser of two evils.
* * *
“How you doing there, girl
y girl?” asked the paramedic. “You breathing better?” When Light nodded, the woman patted her hand and checked something on the monitors. “Yeah, your heart rate is looking more like a normal person’s again. It was moving like a jackrabbit before.”
After the EMTs had loaded Light in the ambulance, I was surprised when she had asked for me to come along. I was a stranger, but a familiar stranger at this point, and it meant something that she trusted me. Maybe I hadn’t totally botched things by approaching the three runaways.
It was a relief to see Light in the paramedics’ capable hands as they monitored her vital signs, gave her fluids through an IV line, and put her on oxygen. As we drove at a steady clip toward Evergreen County Hospital, I tried to remain cheerful and stay out of the paramedics’ way.
Once we reached the hospital, Light was seen right away—triaged to determine the level of the emergency—and then moved to a bed that was cordoned off from other patients by a curtain.
“I’m so glad they let you stay with me,” she told me, her brown eyes looking huge in her pale, narrow face.
“Me, too.” The nurse in charge had ordered me to the waiting room until I had flashed my police ID and mentioned Light’s involvement in a case I was investigating. “Sometimes, you just got to flash them your EZ Pass,” Cranston had told me during training. Today, it had worked.
I had kept out of the screening process as the clerk had asked Light’s real name and address. “No address,” she had told the man, admitting that she was homeless. She told him she had lived in Montana, Idaho, California, and Wyoming. The first ten years had been in Sheridan, Wyoming, “but they were the worst years,” she said emphatically. She had no health insurance. “And my parents aren’t going to pay for me, unless they won the lottery while I’ve been gone.” And she was only thirteen years old.
“So I heard you talking to the nurse who was checking you in. You told her your name was Ellie Watson. Is that true?”
She nodded. “I’m Ellie and my sister’s real name is Morgan. We used a few different names since we left home almost two years ago, but we took on Light and Melody when we came here. The Prince names everyone when they come around. He says it’s because we’re creating a whole new world; people should have new names, positive names.”
