by James Hunt
Jim shut his eyes, his body language exhausted, though he made sure it didn’t reach his voice. “Take your time.”
The supervisor remained silent for a few minutes, which felt like an eternity over the phone, but Jim perked up when the man finally spoke again.
“Actually, I do remember something,” he said. “There was a big stink about it at the time. Cops were called, everyone was interviewed, pretty scandalous really.”
Jim picked up his pen and pressed it to the notepad on his desk. “What happened?”
“Well, there was this one kid who attended the program every day after school,” he said. “Apparently, the mother of the kid got it in her head that Samuel touched her son.”
Jim couldn’t believe what he was hearing and scribbled as quickly as he could. “You’re saying the child was sexually abused by Samuel?”
“No, I’m saying the mother said he was sexually abused by Samuel,” he answered. “There was an investigation about the allegations, naturally, and it almost ruined Samuel’s reputation. But turned out the mother was a drug addict and even had a history of neglect with the kid herself.”
Jim paused. “What was the mother’s name?”
“Oh, I don’t remember. I’d have to get the file,” he answered.
“I can wait,” Jim said.
The supervisor grunted a noise that made it sound like he was being put out, but after some rustling on the other end of the line, he retrieved the file.
“Okay,” he said, sounding like he was catching his breath. “The mother’s name was Wanda Smerconish. The kid’s name was Donnie Smerconish.”
Jim immediately entered the mother’s name, but there wasn’t much on her in the Washington State database, so he checked the national databases the department had purchased last year. It allowed them to search for criminals by tapping into a pool of databases from other police departments around the country.
Turned out Mrs. Smerconish had done a lot of prison time for possession but never any dealing. There were also some prostitution charges, but that was where her story ended. She was currently on parole with the state of Oregon after her latest drug charge. Jim knew he would be able to look up her information and contact her parole officer to learn more.
“What happened with the investigation?” Jim asked.
“They couldn’t find any evidence Samuel did anything,” the supervisor answered. “The kid, Donnie, even said nothing happened. Said his mother was lying and that she was always lying about stuff.”
Jim found it hard to believe a mother would make up something like that. It wasn’t unheard of for a kid to protect their abuser. Many times a child would think that the abuser would hurt them if they spoke to anyone about what was going on. A skilled predator knew how to manipulate kids, and Samuel struck Jim as a very intelligent creature.
“There was no evidence at all?” Jim asked, knowing that he was already going to follow up with the officer who responded to the call.
“Nothing that I can remember, but I do remember how devastated Samuel was,” he said.
“I bet,” Jim replied, but he could tell the man didn’t pick up on the sarcasm.
“He didn’t stay much longer at the program,” he said. “Even though he was cleared, there was a kind of stigma associated with him. We didn’t put anything bad in his file about it. You know how that sort of thing can follow a person around. We didn’t want his reputation to be tarnished.”
“So you decided to brush it under the rug,” Jim said, disgusted.
“What? No, I didn’t say that,” he said, growing defensive. “There was an investigation. He was cleared. The guy didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Jim said, and then he ended the call.
Jim had grown up dealing with people who cared more about not rocking the boat than making sure justice was served to the people who deserved it. There wasn’t anything more infuriating to Jim than watching a child fall through the cracks in a system that was supposed to help them. It was unconscionable and unforgivable.
But now that Jim had a name to work with and a story to pursue, he immediately located the mother’s parole officer, and after a brief conversation with her, Jim learned that the mother was currently in a rehab facility in Portland.
“She’s been checked in there for forty days,” the parole officer said. “I think she’s really trying to get clean now. She’s trying to turn it around.”
Jim thanked the officer and then asked her about the situation with the YMCA and her son.
“Oh, yeah, I read about that in her file,” the parole officer said.
“Any way I can get the name of the officer in charge of that investigation?” Jim asked.
“Let me see if I can look it up,” she said, and then there was a lot of typing before she found what she was looking for. “Officer Dan Capshaw of Portland City PD.”
“Thanks,” Jim said.
Jim decided to speak with the officer who handled the investigation prior to speaking with the mother. His view was already a little skewed base on how he saw Harry react to Samuel, and he at least wanted to try to stay impartial when he spoke to the officer.
When Jim finally managed to connect with the officer through Portland PD, Jim was greeted with a very curt hello, as if the man didn’t have any time to waste with speaking to Jim.
“My name is Detective Jim North with Seattle PD,” Jim said. “I had some questions about a case you worked five years ago.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Detective North,” the officer said. “I don’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning.”
“It involved a woman named Wanda Smerconish,” Jim answered. “She said that her son was allegedly abused by a former afterschool program teacher.”
“Yeah,” the officer said. “I think I remember that one. Something about the mother being a drug addict, right?”
“The mother is actually in rehab right now, but I was hoping to get your take on the situation before I reached out to her,” Jim said.
“Well, it’s kind of exactly what you said,” the officer said. “Once we did a little more digging into the mother’s past, we realized that she cried wolf quite a bit. And with no hard evidence and even the kid saying nothing happened, there was nothing we could do. Of course, that didn’t stop Mrs. Smerconish from trying to bring a lawsuit against the department. But it fizzled out before it got into court from what I remember.”
“So you don’t think there was any credibility to her allegations?” Jim asked.
“Are you asking me my opinion about the case, or are you asking me about my actions based off of the evidence we found?” the officer asked.
“I’m looking for context,” Jim answered.
“I think it was all bullshit,” the officer said. “I think the mother was looking for a quick score in trying to sue the afterschool program by making those false allegations. She had that look about her, you know?”
“And what about the accused?” Jim asked. “Samuel Collins.”
The officer took his time formulating his reply, giving it a little more thought than what he had done with Mrs. Smerconish. “The guy was a little weird. I’ll admit that. Little too happy, you know what I mean?”
Jim didn’t really know what he meant, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But like I said,” the officer continued, “There was no evidence against the guy, and the kid said nothing happened. Everything we heard about him from his fellow coworkers was exemplary. Nobody had a bad thing to say about this guy.”
“Except for Mrs. Smerconish,” Jim said.
The officer laughed, but Jim didn’t intend to make a joke. “Yeah, except for her.”
Having heard all he needed to, Jim thanked the officer for his time and then hung up. He gathered his notes before he decided to call the rehab facility where Mrs. Smerconish was recovering from her addiction. The only picture Jim had of the woman was a mug shot
from three years ago. She had stringy brown hair and was sporting a black eye at the time. She was incredibly thin, practically emaciated. Hers was one chapter in a never-ending book in the drug epidemic that was sweeping across the nation.
The opioid crisis was causing an overload of crime and disruption within the communities of Seattle. And while some reforms had been passed to help ease the burden of those afflicted with addiction, it wasn’t enough. It was like trying to heal a gunshot wound with a Band-Aid.
“Thank you for calling A Fresh Start. How can I help you?” The receptionist who answered the phone at the rehab facility had a pleasant voice. The type of person who had steady energy that was never too high or too low, probably perfect for a group of people who were always on one end of the extreme spectrum.
Jim introduced himself and explained the situation. Once the receptionist was able to confirm his badge number, she placed him on hold. Jim wasn’t sure if Mrs. Smerconish would speak to him or if the facility would even allow it. He knew that some rehab centers were very strict about outside contact. They didn’t want their patients to experience any interruption during their recovery.
Not to mention all the scams that the dealers ran to try to get the product to their clients who were experiencing some of the worst withdrawals of their life. Jim imagined that the facility received several calls a day from people needing to talk to their friend about an “emergency” situation under the guise to get the drugs.
The hold music continued for about two minutes before the receptionist returned. “Detective North?”
Jim leaned forward, attentive. “I’m still here.”
“I have Wanda with me,” the receptionist said. “Our policy states that I have to remain on the phone with her while she speaks to you. Will that be acceptable for you?”
“That’s fine,” Jim answered.
A few moments later, a rough-sounding voice got on the line. “They told me you’re a cop?”
“Yes,” Jim answered. “I am a detective with the Seattle Police Department.”
“Look, whatever you think I did, it wasn’t me,” Wanda said. “I’ve been here for the past couple of months, trying to get better, and before that, I was in jail.”
“I’m not reaching out to you about any criminal activity,” Jim said. “I am working on a case here in Seattle and was hoping you could provide me some information.”
“Okay?” Wanda said.
She sounded skeptical. Jim didn’t blame her.
“Do you remember five years ago when you accused a man of abusing your son at an afterschool program?” Jim asked.
Wanda didn’t skip a beat when she answered. “Yeah, I remember that son of a bitch.”
Jim repressed a smile and continued with his questioning. “The police report I looked at doesn’t list any substantial evidence against the man you accused.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Wanda said, growing irritated. “The police didn’t care what some junkie mother who couldn’t take care of her own kid had to say. The moment I opened my mouth and started talking, and they saw my face, they immediately dismissed what I was trying to say.”
“I’d like to hear your side of the story firsthand,” Jim said. “Whatever you can remember.”
“Oh, I remember everything,” Wanda said. “My son came home from that after-school program one day, and I could just tell something was wrong. You could call it mother’s intuition, sixth sense, whatever you want, but I knew something bad happened to my boy.”
“The report that was filed stated that your son went on record saying that nothing happened,” Jim said. “He told the police you were lying.”
“He was scared!” Wanda said. “He was afraid that man was going to hurt him or that he was going to be taken away from me. He was only a kid, for Christ’s sake.”
“Did your son ever tell you directly that Samuel abused him?” Jim asked.
“Yeah,” Wanda answered. “He told me. It took some time to finally coax it out of him, but he told me that when they were alone together, the man, Samuel, made him do things. He wouldn’t go into detail with me about what exactly happened, but that was all I needed to hear.”
“Did you ever confront Samuel about this directly?” Jim asked.
“Hell yes, I did,” Wanda answered. “He was the first person I went to. I marched straight into his office and practically grabbed him by the throat. But of course, that wasn’t acceptable behavior. After all was said and done, the little shit decided not to press charges against me out of the kindness of his heart,” she scoffed. “I could see it in his eyes. The guilt. I’ll never forget that expression on his face when nobody was watching him but me. He had gotten away with it, and he knew it.”
Jim jotted down all the notes carefully. “Where is your son now?” Jim asked.
As good as all this testimony was from Wanda, Jim knew that unless he could get the victim to change his official statement, then he wouldn’t be able to build any sort of case against Samuel.
“You want to bring all this up again with him, don’t you?” Wanda asked.
“I’m not trying to cause any more trouble for your son,” Jim answered. “But what he tells me could be the difference between saving another child’s life and bringing a predator to justice.”
Wanda scoffed again. “If you people had just listened to me five years ago, then none of this would have happened.”
“Wanda,” Jim said, his voice pleading, “I need your help. I need your son’s help.” Jim wasn’t sure if appealing to the mother’s better angels would provide him the answers he needed, but Jim was out of options.
Finally, Wanda broke her silence, but she wasn’t happy about it. “My son is staying with my sister in Seattle. I’ll call her and let you know that you’re coming. But I’m warning you. If any of this causes my child any more pain, I will find you when I’m out of this place, Detective North. You can be certain of that.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Jim said. “Thank you, Wanda.”
The call ended, and Jim entered the sister’s address into his GPS. He was forty minutes away. Jim grabbed his jacket and hurried for the door, hoping he could convince this boy to come forward with the truth.
9
Jim made good time on the drive, and he parked in the street outside of a small, single-family home north of the city. He was greeted at the door by Wanda’s sister, Alice, a heavyset woman in her late forties. She was dressed in a business suit and looked as though she had come to meet Jim from her office downtown.
“Wanda told me you would be coming,” Alice said.
“I appreciate your doing this,” Jim said, unsure of how difficult it was for her to leave work.
“How long do you think this is going to take?” Alice asked, impatiently checking the time on her phone.
“I only need a few minutes,” Jim answered. He did his best to sound upbeat and appreciative, but he could tell his limited amount of charm wasn’t getting him very far with Alice. “Is Donnie here?”
Alice took a deep breath and then sighed as she led him to the back of the house. “Donnie wasn’t feeling well this morning, so he stayed home from school. That happens a lot with him. If he weren’t so smart and able to keep up with his homework, I don’t think the principal would have allowed so many absences.”
“Does he have some kind of ailment?” Jim asked.
Alice paused outside of the bedroom door and lowered her voice. “I think it’s more of a depression-type thing. The doctors we’ve taken him to have given him a clean bill of health. They say that most of his problems are probably mental.”
The mental diagnosis was no doubt a symptom of the abuse Donnie had suffered at the hands of Samuel all of those years ago. It was very common for a child to experience mental health issues later in life after being abused at a young age. Especially once they entered their adolescent years, and Donnie had recently turned fourteen.
“Whatever you want to talk to him ab
out,” Alice said, becoming protective of the boy. “Just try to remember that he’s been through a lot in his life. His mother and I both wanted him to have a fresh start here. He’s made good progress, but he still has a long way to go.”
“I’m not here to cause Donnie any more grief,” Jim said. “But I will need to talk to him about his past. If you don’t think that’s a good idea, then I should leave now.”
Jim hoped that the honesty with the woman would buy him some credibility. But he also knew that showing his hand this early in the conversation meant that she could kick him out before he had a chance to learn what Donnie knew.
“Just don’t draw it out,” Alice said.
Alice opened the door and leaned inside while Jim remained in the hallway. He waited there until after Alice had entered and stepped back out. Inside he could hear someone moving around on the bed.
“You have ten minutes,” Alice said.
“Thank you,” Jim said.
Alice stepped aside, and Jim entered the bedroom. He looked back behind him and saw Alice remain in the doorway.
Donnie was on the bed, sitting upright with his back against the wall. The sheets covered him from the waist down, and he wore a baggy Seahawks jersey with Russell Wilson’s number three on the front. He kept his head down and his hands folded in his lap.
Jim pulled the chair from the desk and brought it to the edge of the bed. He positioned it, so his back was to Alice, and he faced Donnie.
“I appreciate you talking to me, Donnie,” Jim said.
“Aunt Alice told me that you talked to my mom,” Donnie said.
“I did,” Jim said. “She said it was all right for me to talk to you about something that happened when you were younger.”
Jim studied Donnie’s physical reaction looking for any signs that the boy was nervous. But Donnie kept his head down and remained completely still.
“You want to know about that incident with Samuel,” Donnie said.
“That’s right,” Jim said. “Would you be willing to talk to me about that?”
