Angels & Imperfection

by Dan Arnold

  “We understand what you’re saying. We’re hoping she’s realized her mistake, and really does want to come home,” her dad said.

  Parents also hope.

  Love hopes.

  “OK. Here’s the thing. I can find your daughter. I can bring her home to you, but I can’t promise she’ll stay. I can’t promise she’ll be the same girl y’all remember. She may be damaged in ways we can’t predict. She may need professional medical, spiritual and/or psychiatric help. If you understand what I’ve told you, and you’re willing to take the chance, I’ll take the case. But, I repeat, I can’t make any promises about who the girl will be, when I bring her back to Tyler.”

  “She’s our baby girl. What would you do?”

  My mission on earth had prevented me from experiencing the joys and sorrows of being a parent. My time on earth had exposed me to generations of parents.

  “OK, I just wanted to make sure you both understand the implications and complications of this course of action.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “You could just wait. Maybe she will come home on her own.”

  They looked at each other and then down at the floor.

  “She can’t. She told us she wants to come home, but that man won’t let her. He watches her constantly. She’s afraid, I mean really terrified. She sounds awful. She sounds like she’s given up,” her mom said.

  “Have you contacted the Dallas police?”

  “We did. They were very understanding. They said they saw this kind of thing far too often. They promised to look for her, and said they would call us when they found her. That was ten days ago.”

  I nodded, and said, “They have officers who are familiar with the streets and the girls working them. They’ll do what they can. It could take some time. If she’s not still in Dallas, if she’s in Ft. Worth, Arlington, or some other part of the Metroplex, the word may not get out.”

  My first step was to call the Dallas P.D.

  Twenty

  “Sergeant Jacobs here, what can I do for you?”

  “Sergeant, my name is John Wesley Tucker. I’m a Private Investigator here in Tyler. Your name was given to me by your LT. He suggested you might be able to bring me up to speed on a runaway I’m looking for.”

  “OK. What is the subject’s name, sex and age?”

  “Her name is Lori Murphy, she’s just turned sixteen. About three months ago she ran away with her boyfriend. His name is Orlando Cruz. Her parents contacted your department about ten days ago, as soon as they learned of her whereabouts.”

  I could hear fingers flying over computer keys.

  “Yeah, OK, here it is. We have a BOLO on her. Nothing reported so far. What can I do for you?”

  “Have you, or can you crosscheck for ‘Jane Does’ at the morgue.”

  I could hear her fingers flying again, behind her voice.

  “I can tell you… there is no Jane Doe matching her description, in either the Dallas County or the Tarrant County morgues.”

  That was a relief.

  “Do you have any other information I might find useful?”

  “Not really, Mr. Tucker. These girls drift from one area to another. They change their appearance. They get hooked on drugs. Unless we pick her up on drug charges or a soliciting for prostitution charge, we probably won’t find her.”

  “I’ll be coming to Dallas to find her, and return her to her parents. I’m just giving y’all a ‘heads up’ notice.”

  It took me several hours of research, but I found an address for Orlando Cruz. Apparently he didn’t feel any need to hide his identity or his whereabouts.

  Because I didn’t want to be tailed to and from Dallas by a big black SUV, I rented a car for the trip. It was an ugly, little, economy car, with New York license plates. I got the extra insurance.

  Orlando and Lori ‘lived’ in a ratty, little apartment complex in south Oak Cliff, a Dallas suburb.

  At about 2:30 the next morning, I was waiting for them when they got in.

  I had already had a little run-in with the local thugs. After knocking on the door of apartment 221, at about midnight, I was sitting at the top of the stairs on the second floor of the apartment building. Some young guys, who were built like football linemen, but dressed like hip hop artists, took exception to my presence. They indicated they intended to cause me some level of personal discomfort. It was prevented from escalating into a big scene, by me showing them my old DHS credentials and my .45. The credentials were outdated, the .45 wasn’t. I held the high ground, so although there were a lot of harsh words and hand signals, and one of them showed me his gun, they shuffled away acting tough, a couple of them holding their pants up by the crotch, with one hand.

  I continued waiting on the grungy second floor. Most of the families in the building had gone to bed. I knew the thugs were around and probably watching me, but they didn’t feel lucky enough to push the point.

  I had just decided to come back in daylight, when an old beaten up, green, two door sedan drove into the parking lot. I eased back into the deep shadows at the end of the building. Someone had broken out the security light.

  Shortly, Orlando and Lori came staggering up the stairs. It took Orlando a full minute to get the key into the lock and the door open. Apparently the lock kept swimming out of his reach. He and Lori managed to get through the door opening without falling. They didn’t see me coming. I walked in right behind Lori. The stink in there was nearly overpowering.

  I didn’t wait. I hit Orlando with a flat leather sap I was carrying in my pocket. He went down and out, as if someone had let all the air out of him. Lori just stood there staring. She had a kind of vacant look.

  Frisking Orlando, in a pocket I found three hundred dollars, all in tens and twenties. He also had a cheap switchblade and a J-frame, .38 revolver. I stuck the gun behind my waistband and put the knife and cash in my pocket. I grabbed Lori by the arm and directed her out the door and down the stairs. She didn’t resist. It was as if she was used to being pushed and pulled around. We went to the car and I got her buckled into the passenger seat. I had almost made it around to the driver’s side, when the band of hip hop linemen showed up again.

  There were five of them. One had a baseball bat and another was swinging a golf club, so maybe they really were athletes.

  “Where you takin’ da bitch? The spokesman asked. He had a grill of gold over his front teeth. I think one of those teeth had a diamond in it.

  I had seen them coming, so I had the roll of money in my hand.

  “We’re going for a drive if that’s cool with you.”

  “Hell man, you ain’t no kinda fed, that ain’t no police car, and you ain’t goin’ nowhere,” another one said.

  I held up the roll of money.

  “There’s three hundred dollars here, I expect it’ll pay the toll.”

  I handed the first speaker the roll of money. The attention of the others was drawn to the bills as he started counting it. I took the opportunity to duck into the driver’s seat, real quick like. As I started the car, one of them jerked my door open.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere mo…” he stopped speaking, because he was looking into the muzzle of my .45.

  “Step off, or the last thing you ever hear will be a real loud noise, and then the rest of us will all start shooting each other.”

  He took a step back. They were all poised to attack.

  I managed to shift the car into reverse without letting go of my gun, but I had to look away from them for a second to do it. ‘Grill boy’ pulled a gun out of his pants, as the two ‘sportsmen’ started pounding on the car with the bat and the golf club. The windshield on Lori’s side was smashed and crazed, as I stepped on the gas and shot backwards out from between them, managing to turn the car and accelerate backwards toward the street. Gun fire erupted as two or three of them fired rapid shots at us. In the middle of the street now, I turned and continued accelerating backward away from the apartment building.
They came running out into the street, and poured gunfire at us. I heard the occasional bullet hit the car. Within seconds, we were three blocks away. I whipped the car around and took off fast, grateful they had not managed to shoot out the tires.

  I looked over at Lori, concerned she might have been shot. She looked terribly frightened now, but did not appear to be bleeding. A couple of blocks later, I came to a well-lit gas station and pulled in. I jumped out and ran around to the passenger side, pulled open the door and confirmed that Lori had not been hit. Neither had I.

  The car was another story. I could see around and between the cracks in the windshield, but only on my side. The passenger side of the windshield was nearly bashed in and was completely shattered. There was a single bullet hole in it, up high. The driver side headlight was shot out. The side windows were crazed and shattered and there was glass all over the back seat. There were bullet holes high in the driver’s side quarter panels and there were bashes and dents from the bat and the golf club.

  I was as amazed the car was still running, as I was that we were alive. It was grace and mercy for us; those guys were just firing wildly and not aiming. Otherwise, I would surely be dead and Lori might be as well. As I walked around the car, only nine bullet holes could be counted. Some bullets had passed right through the car, doing a lot of body damage. A couple had ricocheted through the roof and the back seat. Other than the one headlight, they had failed to hit the radiator or anything else vital, not even a tire. They must have fired at least twenty five rounds between them.

  I jumped back in the car and took off. I knew there was a pretty good chance they would pursue me in their own vehicle. I was surprised I could hear no sirens or see any cops yet.

  A couple of minutes later, we drove onto I-20 and headed east. As I went under an overpass, I saw the flashing blue and red lights of police cars, flying by overhead. I kept going. Looking at my watch, I was astonished to see less than four minutes had passed since I had put Lori in the passenger seat. Adrenaline had slowed the rest of the world down.

  I cursed myself for a fool. I had nearly gotten myself and Lori killed. What was I thinking? This could have been handled differently.

  It would be a long drive to Tyler, and I was experiencing the let-down of the adrenaline wearing off. I was getting dangerously sleepy, having to force myself to remain alert.

  I couldn’t stop checking the rear-view mirror.

  Twenty-One

  “Where are you taking me?” Lori asked, thickly.

  I looked at her. She was still high or drunk or both, but she was alert enough to be afraid.

  “Home, Lori, I’m taking you back to your family.”

  She considered that for a moment, and then her countenance crumbled. She shook her head.

  “I can never go home again,” she sobbed. “Please turn around.”

  Tears were streaming down her face. She buried her face in her hands.

  “No, Lori, it’ll be OK. Don’t worry. We’ll be in Tyler in a couple of hours.”

  When she looked up again her expression was calculated.

  “Come on baby, if you turn around, I’ll make it worth your while. Whatever you want, just turn around and I’ll do you right here.” She put her hand on my thigh.

  She was trying to look seductive, but her face was somewhat slackened by whatever chemicals she had ingested and her cheap, pink wig was crooked and messed up. Her face was streaked with makeup and tears. Under all of that were the frightened eyes of a barely sixteen year old girl, now hardened and desperate.

  “Stop it,” I snapped.

  She pulled back away from me and sneered.

  “What, you’re gay? You like boys? I can hook you up.”

  “Lori, do you have any idea how much you are loved?”

  She laughed. “Oh, mister, you have no idea how much I’ve been ‘loved’.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  After a few minutes she tried another tactic.

  “If you don’t pull over and let me out, right now, I’ll tell people you raped me.”

  I ignored her.

  “Please mister. Just stop the car and let me out. I’ll be fine.”

  “Why don’t you want to go home, Lori?”

  She looked out the window on her side for a little while. “Look at me. Don’t you get it?” she pleaded.

  I nodded.

  “Doesn’t matter,”

  “You don’t get it. You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done. How can I ever go back to my family or my friends?”

  “You are God’s child, and He loves you.”

  “Oh, you’re a preacher. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord, and pass the offering plate.”

  “Do I look like a preacher?”

  She stared at me for a moment.

  “Are you a cop?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is John Wesley Tucker. Your parents hired me to find you and bring you home. They love you very much. They know what you’ve been through, at least some of it, and they want you home and safe.”

  Her lip quivered and she looked at me intently. “How can I ever be safe? Orlando will come after me. Now my family will be in danger! I don’t know what he’ll do to me!” She wailed.

  “Orlando has no idea where you are. He was asleep on the floor when we left. If his friends describe this car, it has New York license plates. If he does come to Tyler, looking for you, he’ll find me. He won’t like that.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  I looked at her and smiled.

  “Live, Lori. Finish growing up, finish school, have a healthy, normal life.”

  She was quiet for a time.

  “Do you really think I can, mister?”

  I smiled again.

  “I know you can. Your parents will do whatever it takes to help you get it sorted out. So will I.”

  “I just don’t think I can.”

  I nodded. “It’s nearly 3:30 in the morning, you’ve been through hell. You’re beaten down and wiped out. No wonder you don’t think you can. Have a little faith, Lori. If not in yourself, then have faith in God. You’re right, you know, you probably can’t do it by yourself, but you don’t have to. You’ll see. Just relax and watch for the miracle.”

  She shook her head. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  We drove on in silence for a while.

  We got back to Tyler just before 5:00 AM.

  I took Lori directly to her parents. After the initial wake up and shock of having her home, after all the coffee, tears and prayers, I left them with instructions to call me if there was a complication. By “complication” I meant Orlando Cruz.

  It was 6:15 when I got back to my apartment.

  I would have to charge Lori’s parents for two days work.

  When I got to the office, I told Christine about Lori.

  “The poor girl, how will she ever get over something like that?”

  “Earlier this morning, she became a Christian. She’s born again. God will heal her and direct her paths.”

  Christine rolled her eyes.

  “There you go again. ‘God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life’,” She mocked. “Would it be the same loving God who let that jackass take her away from her family and pimp her out? Was that his wonderful plan for her life? Is it the same loving God who causes horrific storms, and earthquakes, destroying thousands of people’s lives? Is it the loving God who unleashes pestilence and disease on his children, or sits by idly watching babies starve to death?”

  “Christine, God doesn’t cause those things. We all live on the same violent planet. This is a fallen and dangerous world. The things you mention are all caused by our separation from God. The sin of man has led to the sickness of the whole creation. In this case, Lori put herself in a bad situation. Yes, God let her do it. He lets us all make our own choices, and we get to live with the consequences of our choices. He also forgives His children when we sin.
He sent a Redeemer to pay the ultimate and final penalty, His only son. How much more loving can He be?”

  She shook her head.

  “You Christians believe you are the only ones this ‘loving God’ of yours will let into heaven. Everyone else gets sent to hell.”

  “Not exactly, Christine, God doesn’t desire that anyone should go to hell. Hell is meant for the enemies of God, those who oppose Him. Some people think all people are God’s children. That is simply not the case. God’s children are those who acknowledge Him as their father in heaven. He simply offers the gift of salvation through Jesus to anyone and everyone who will receive it. People get to choose, to accept the gift or to reject it. Anyone may come to Him and be adopted as His child. Anyone may choose not to come to Him. Heaven or hell, they get to choose the destination for themselves.”

  “It isn’t fair John. Why do the innocent suffer? Why do the wicked prosper? If your God is such a good guy, why does he sit around and do nothing, as decent people waste away to cancer, and let us kill each other, while we poison the planet?”

  I nodded. I felt the same pain. There is horror all around us.

  “If there is no God, as you seem to presume, then everything in life is random. If there is a God, by definition, He is different from us. He is more than we are capable of understanding, well beyond our judgment, or our limitations. You expect fairness, according to your definition. He won’t fit into any box made by any ordinary human being. Why do you think you have a right to be the one to judge a holy God?”

  “Well, you seem to think you have God all figured out. You are the only one who ‘gets him’.”

  “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve known Him a long time. The only thing I’m sure of is I don’t ‘get’ Him. I’m not capable of it. He constantly surprises me. He does things in ways that are hard for me to understand. That’s my limitation, not His error. I fail to hear His voice sometimes. Should He yell louder, so I can hear Him?”

  She stared at me for a moment.