by Ray Flynt
When they looked up, he asked in a husky whisper, “Are you police?”
They moved to directly below the window to his room. “No,” Sharon said. “Why?”
“My brother’s missing,” Tony said. “I was hoping you was police.”
“Did he run away from here?” Sharon asked.
Tony shook his head. “No. Home. Mom’s worried. He left for work one day and ain’t come back.”
“What’s your brother’s name?” Brad asked.
“Tim. Tim Shaw.”
“Omigod,” Sharon said, turning to Brad. “That’s why Tony looked so familiar to me. That was his brother I worked with five years ago.”
Chapter Four
As Brad entered his office the next morning he found Sharon facing the fifty-inch TV mounted above the fireplace, watching the porn video featuring Jeremy Young.
Well, sort of watching it.
She’d muted the sound and taped a beige linen napkin from the dining room to the middle of the screen—like a giant loin cloth—to block her view of most of the sex. She sat with a notebook in her lap, and occasionally paused the action to scribble notes.
“See anything interesting?”
“Oh,” Sharon froze the video. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Pointing at the screen she said, “I’m doing what you suggested. Trying to figure out where this was filmed.”
Brad had yet to view the DVD, and though he questioned the usefulness of her approach, Sharon seemed to understand the need to hunt for clues even if she couldn’t stand the idea of watching porn.
Brad sat behind his desk and turned on his computer. “I was surprised at Maple Grove that we didn’t see more people of color.”
“They draw primarily from a rural area,” Sharon said. “But I’m guessing their population is fifteen percent non-white.”
“What about the staff?” Brad asked.
“I don’t know about now, but they used to have one black couple as cottage parents.” Sharon stared at the ceiling as she thought. “One Latino couple and a mixed Japanese/American couple.”
Not exactly the United Nations.
“Since they’re a private institution, can they reject a court placement?” Brad asked.
Sharon nodded. “But that wouldn’t be based on racial profiling, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Brad was skeptical, and Sharon must have sensed it, since she added, “They’d be more interested in keeping out students who have a mental illness or are borderline mentally challenged, and concentrate on those with a history of delinquent behavior. It’s the multiple problems, for example delinquency and mental illness, which are the tough ones to place. State institutions don’t have any choice.”
“Does the committing county pay for their stay?”
“Usually. But if a kid comes from a well-off environment, the parents might be asked to pay… at least part.”
Brad thought about his own upbringing.
“What’s it cost?”
“I could check with Oliver on the current rate, but back when I worked for Bucks County they were billing at $295 a day.”
Brad whistled.
“You should see how much more the State facilities charge.”
Brad opened his desktop calendar to check his appointments and “To Do” items. “Were you able to arrange a meeting with Tim Shaw’s mother?”
“Yeah. I called the number Tony gave us, and talked with her last night. She remembered me, and I have an appointment with her before noon. I plan to leave shortly.”
“If Tim had been on that video you’d have recognized him, right?”
Sharon nodded. “He wasn’t. It was only Jeremy and the woman. The whole video is less than a half hour.”
“I don’t know if Jeremy and Tim’s disappearance are related, but before you leave, let me capture an image of the woman in the video and then you can show it to Tim’s mom to see if she recognizes her.”
“Sure,” Sharon said, sounding eager to stop the video. She ejected the disk and handed it to Brad who put it on his computer’s DVD drive.
He would watch the complete video after Sharon left, but for the moment he brought it to life on his computer screen and fast forwarded to a scene where he could clearly see the woman’s face. When he reached a promising segment, he froze the frame, then advanced it slowly to find the best image. One showed her with her eyes shut, and Brad feared it would look like a photograph from an autopsy table, while in another her mouth hung open with her tongue at the corner of her lips in a slutty pose. Sharon looked impatient sitting in front of his desk. It took a few more seconds but he finally got the picture he wanted. The full screen capture included the woman’s abundant cleavage, so he pasted the image into Photoshop and cropped out the boobs. The perfect picture of a thirty-something, brown haired, green-eyed porn star. He hit print.
Handing the photograph to Sharon he said, “What do you think?”
Sharon studied the photo, cocking her head to the left as she looked at it. She sighed. “It’s sad really, that a pretty woman has to make a living like this.”
Brad couldn’t argue with that.
“Now that I’ve isolated this digital image, I’ll send it to Oliver Reynolds to see if anyone from his office might recognize her. And it was never clear how much of her Derek Young saw from watching—”
“Or if he even noticed her face,” Sharon interrupted, rolling her eyes.
“I’ll send him a copy, and print a few more so that you can have them with you.”
“That’s a good idea. On the way to see Tim’s mom, I thought I might stop by the Bucks County Juvenile Probation office. Maybe they’ll recognize her.” Sharon stood, checked herself in the mirror near the door, and plucked a piece of lint from her short-sleeved navy blue sweater. “Time to hit the road.”
“Was Tim Shaw ever committed to Maple Grove?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I’m just wondering about connections,” Brad said. “Maybe there isn’t one between Tim and Jeremy, but since one lives in Chester County and the other Bucks, Maple Grove might be the point of contact. I think I’ll send Carolyn Whiting an e-mail with this picture and see if any bells go off. While you’re gone, I plan to watch the complete video.”
“Yeah, well, try to keep it in your pants.”
Brad feigned shock. “There’s no respect in the workplace anymore.”
Chapter Five
I climbed into my Civic, which seemed shabby after riding around in Brad’s Mercedes with its custom chocolate and beige-colored leather trim. I shifted easily into fourth and took the ramp for I-76 en route to the Turnpike and the forty-minute trip to Doylestown.
When Brad asked me to meet with Tim and Tony’s family I had no idea how much the experience would conjure up old times or how relationships had changed in the five years since I’d left the Bucks County Juvenile Probation office.
Bucks is an affluent county, with less than 4% of its population living below the poverty line, one of whom is Wanda Shaw; at least that was the name by which I knew her when Tim Shaw was on my caseload. Her son Tony’s last name is Damico, a surname name I didn’t recognize. I was in Juvenile Probation long enough to appreciate the correlation between several factors—poverty, dysfunctional family, educational achievement—and delinquency. Tim and Tony had all three strikes against them.
Wanda lived in a trailer park off of Limekiln Road north of Doylestown. Just the thought of visiting her evoked a strong emotional memory developed during so many contentious sessions. I felt my stomach tighten and palms get sweaty as I contemplated seeing her again. The stale odor of cigarette smoke and kibble that permeated Wanda’s cramped trailer used to make me sick to my stomach. And there was her damned Scottish terrier with the high-pitched yip. He’d run up to my feet and bark a few times, and the next thing I knew he was humping my leg; while she’d just sit there and mutter, “Ralphy, stop doing that.” Who names a dog Ralphy? Once I threatened to call animal c
ontrol, and thereafter she’d leave the dog tied on a leash outside during my scheduled visits.
Her ineffectualness in controlling the dog mirrored how she handled Tim and, apparently, her second son, Tony. Tim wasn’t the “sharpest knife in the drawer,” but with a combination of good looks and social skills he managed to skate through school. He had made no secret of his intentions to drop out when he turned sixteen.
Avoiding the inevitable for a few more minutes, I first stopped by my old haunts at the Bucks County Courthouse. None of the guards recognized me, and as they groped their way through my purse I longed for the days when I could flash my employee badge, smile at the officer on duty, and be waved through security. Patience is not one of my virtues; a trait Brad and I share.
I grabbed the first available elevator to the sixth floor juvenile probation office, where once more I felt like a stranger in familiar territory. I explained to the receptionist that I used to work there, which drew about as much interest as if I’d identified myself as a Mary Kay Cosmetics rep. “Is Dawn Gerson available?”
I could tell by the look on her face that she’d never heard of Dawn, and quickly asked, “Or how about Marlene Apodaka?”
I was rewarded with another blank stare. “Dan Collins?” I ventured. There had been at least thirty probation officers when I worked there, but the department head from my time had retired, and I was running out of names of people I’d been close to.
A svelte black woman in a burgundy suit and white blouse rounded the corner headed toward the receptionist. Her shiny black hair was braided into cornrows, then gathered into a pony tail at the back of her head. The woman glanced in my direction. “Sharon,” she shrieked.
I studied her face. Oh great, someone finally recognizes me, and I don’t have a clue.
“Oh hi,” I improvised, forcing a smile.
“Girl, look at you. How have you been?” Her familiar phrases and warm tones triggered my memory. Omigod it’s Natalie.
“Natalie, you look great.” I wanted to add, what happened? The last time I’d seen her she’d been big as a refrigerator.
She raised her arms triumphantly and spun around. “I had gastric bypass surgery two years ago. I’ve lost a hundred and sixty-five pounds.”
“Wow, you look great,” I repeated.
She leaned in to say, “I’d like to lose another thirty. What brings you here? You want your old job back?”
That thought gave me the willies. My life had changed, and I wasn’t ready to trade in my job with Brad Frame, even if little things about him got on my nerves. The receptionist buffed her nails, and glared at me because I was blocking her view. I said to Natalie, “Do you have time to talk?”
“Girl, I always have time for you.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a client coming in twenty minutes, but let’s go back to my office.”
I followed her down the hall, and settled into a chair across from her desk. A name plate identified Natalie Miles as a supervisor now, and she had a window, even if it only provided a glimpse of the parking garage. She’d already worked there fifteen years when I started. Our offices had been across the hall from one another; she eagerly shared tips, and I picked up a lot just from overhearing portions of her conversations with clients. She cultivated a streetwise style that I couldn’t hope to duplicate, but listening to her in action was a great learning experience.
After her weight loss, I thought Natalie looked ten years younger than I remembered, and told her so. I caught her up on my work with Brad Frame, our trip to Maple Grove to learn more about why Jeremy Young might have run away, how another missing person—a former client—had prompted my visit, and mentioned the names of PO’s I had asked to see.
“We’ve had quite a bit of turnover, especially the young ones like you,” Natalie added, with a deep guttural laugh, “I’m too old to change jobs.”
“Do you know who handles Tony Damico’s case?”
She drew her arms across her chest. “Oh, that’s a State secret?” She winked. “But let me check.” Natalie tapped a few keys on her computer. “Scott Wintner has that case. Scott works for me, but unfortunately, his father passed away and he’s off a few days for the funeral.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I knew the family when I worked with Tim Shaw. I’m seeing his mother later this morning.” I suppressed a sigh. I reached into my purse and withdrew the picture Brad had printed of the woman from the adult video. After filling Natalie in on the porn video’s connection to our missing person case, I handed her the photograph.
“Hmmm.” She studied the picture. “Not as skanky looking as a lot of porn stars.”
I wouldn’t know. I bobbed my head.
“Wayne has a collection,” she said, lowering her voice. “I don’t really mind, since he doesn’t neglect me.” Her eyes suddenly grew wider, and a light bulb nearly materialized above her head. “You mentioned Maple Grove. Was Karen Matthews a cottage parent at Maple Grove when you worked for us?”
After a few moments I remembered. “Yes. Karen and Bob Matthews.”
“Yeah, well, they split, and Karen joined our staff earlier this summer.” Natalie looked at her wrist watch. “She’s at a court hearing right now.” Natalie picked up a business card from a holder on her desk, and scribbled on the back. “Here’s Karen’s e-mail and phone extension. You might want to give her a call for the inside scoop about Maple Grove.” Natalie handed me the card.
“Has she had complaints?”
“Well, I haven’t had extensive discussions with her, but my impression is that the staff and administration go out of their way to contain any negative news.”
Doesn’t everyone? “Thanks, I’ll do that.”
Natalie stole another glance at the photo, shook her head and said, “She’s no one I know.”
“Would you mind showing that to your colleagues and see if anyone recognizes her?”
“Sure. We have a staff meeting tomorrow morning. I’ll pass it around and call you if anyone knows who she is.”
“Great,” I said, handing her my business card.
Natalie’s intercom buzzed twice.
“That’ll be my eleven o’clock,” she said. “You’ll have to come and see us in a couple more years. We’re going to be in a new courthouse.”
“I hadn’t heard,” I said.
“They broke ground just last month. It’ll be over near the old Armory.”
Natalie and I stood and hugged. “Great to see you again,” I said, over her shoulder.
She followed me into the hallway where I saw a young girl, her father in tow, heading for Natalie’s office.
Natalie motioned toward them and shouted, “Hurry up, Tania, I don’t have all day.” Turning to me she confided, “Gotta let ‘em know who’s boss.”
As I got back in my car and headed north for the fifteen minute drive to Wanda Shaw’s trailer, I thought about my conversation with Natalie. Her nonchalance on the topic of porn surprised me, and I thought about my own viscerally negative reaction. A different emotional memory colored the way I felt about pornography. As a college freshman, I became best friends with Cathy Tinsdell. She fell madly in love with a senior theatre major. After graduation, Craig moved to the West Coast to pursue a movie career and wanted Cathy to go with him. I urged her to stay and continue her education. She visited him in California a few times over that summer, but did return for her sophomore year. Then over Thanksgiving break she dropped out and headed for Hollywood.
We stayed in touch. Sweet love carried their relationship for a few weeks, but then during one of our phone calls I could tell things weren’t right. I pressed to find out what had happened, and Cathy confessed that Craig hadn’t found any steady work, but he’d taken a job in a porn movie to help pay their bills. That scenario pissed me off, and I told her what I thought—after that she stopped all contact. I’d leave messages and get no return calls.
The following Spring I called her mother just to find out how Cathy was doing. She b
egan to cry and told me that Cathy had returned home the previous month and wouldn’t talk about what happened. Except for knowing that Cathy and Craig had split up, her mother was in the dark. I arranged to meet with Cathy, and learned that Craig had developed gonorrhea. Because he couldn’t work anymore, he tried to talk her into the adult movie trade. She freaked, left him, and returned to the Philadelphia area.
Shit. I’d missed the entry for the trailer park, so I turned around and then slowed to make the left turn.
I pulled next to the trailer, put on the parking brake. Wanda Shaw was watching me from the screen door. She wore a ratty pair of jeans and a faded Hooters T-shirt. I hadn’t expected a Harvard shirt, but Hooters?! A cigarette hung from her lips. I didn’t see the dog, and braced myself for his greeting. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my khakis, muttered help me Lord, and got out of the car. One thing for sure had changed in the last five years, her son was no longer in my charge, nor did my words carry the authority of the Bucks County Juvenile Court. I needed her help, and prepared to ingratiate myself.
“Hi, Mrs. Shaw.” I bounded up the pre-fab stairs.
She pushed the screen door open and admitted me. “It’s good to see you again,” I lied.
“Come in,” she grumbled, the cigarette still dangling in her mouth, adding, “I remember you now from your curly hair.” A wall-mounted air conditioner droned at the other end of the room, but she left the kitchen door open.
I braced myself and scanned the space for the dog. Wanda must have figured out what I was doing, and said, “We had to put Ralphy down last year.”
“Aww. I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t.
The place still smelled of smoke and dog kibble—may he rest in peace—but in the middle of the living room was a playpen with a young child, who couldn’t have been more than 18 months old, batting at a colorful mobile. “And who’s this?” I babbled, leaning down and offering the kid a quick coochy coo. And what’s your daddy’s last name?
