[Abby Kanem - SG 01.0] Suitcase Girl
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“I would ask if you think there’s foul play, but again I’ll remind you, there’s no body.”
Sokolov stopped. He scratched his chin. “Something about this doesn’t feel right. If it wasn’t for the suitcase, we would have left the second Chapman told us there wasn’t a body.”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
“I don’t buy the child-abandonment theory. Seems off. Unlikely.”
“Child abandonment happens all the time, and it’s doesn’t always happen outside of a designated drop-off point like a fire house. Take the McDonald’s incident, for instance.”
“Huh?”
“A mother in San Diego took her little boy, a four-year-old, to McDonald’s. She ordered him a Happy Meal and then sat him down at a birthday party that was taking place. The boy ate his meal, played the games, had cake and ice cream all before the birthday boy’s parents realized they didn’t know this kid. The mother was nowhere to be found.”
Sokolov grunted as they walked back to their vehicle.
“Look, if you want to spend a little time on this, you know, to make sure this really isn’t something other than what it appears to be, it’s not a problem.”
Sokolov glanced at his watch. “Maybe talking to the girl can help me shake this feeling.”
Chapter Three
A woman dressed in blue jeans and a floral blouse walked into the emergency room of Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. She had chestnut-brown hair that reached the middle of her back, an olive complexion, and curvy hips.
The rows of seating in the waiting room were already half filled with people coughing and sniffling and bleeding. She passed a young man on his cell phone, cradling his arm. “I’m pretty sure it’s broken,” she heard him say on her way toward a nurse sitting behind the reception counter.
“Hi. I’m Christine Rosales.” She held her ID card in front of her. “I’m with Child Protection Services. SFPD brought a young girl in this morning.”
The nurse, a Japanese woman dressed in blue scrubs, looked up from her paperwork and smiled. “Christine, you know you don’t have to be formal with me.”
“I know. I just like to keep you on your toes. How are you doing by the way?”
“I’m surviving,” she said with a heavy breath. “The hubby and I are taking a cruise next week to Alaska. I’m just counting the days.”
“Now that sounds like fun.”
“And relaxing,” the nurse added.
Rosales motioned behind her with her head. “Looks like it’s shaping up to be a busy day.”
“It always is,” said the nurse. She ran her finger down a manifest. “The girl you’re looking for is in exam station six. Go right in.”
“Thanks.”
Rosales pushed though the swinging double doors and saw a uniformed officer up ahead tapping at his cell phone as he stood next to one of the draped examination rooms.
On her way toward him, she peeked into one of the rooms and saw an unconscious woman lying on a bed with a nurse leaning over her. “Ms. Heath. Can you hear me?” she heard the nurse say.
The officer was too engrossed with his phone to notice Rosales standing in front of him.
“Excuse me. I’m Christine Rosales. I’m with CPS.”
The officer looked up. “It’s about time. I’ve been babysitting the kid all morning.”
“Traffic,” she responded. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Standard case of child abandonment. She was found outside the Phillip Burton Building early this morning. She’s young, probably between the ages of ten and twelve. No ID and hasn’t said a single word. She’s been in the examination room for an hour or so. The doc insisted on administering a rape kit.”
“Has a missing-persons report been filed?”
“It will be. I’ll run her photo through our database of runaways. But unless the parents come in and claim her, there’s not much we can do from here on out.”
“That’s it?”
“What’s to investigate? There’s no crime. Child abandonment falls under neglect. This is your agency’s responsibility. My guess is she was too much trouble for the parents, and now she’ll become a ward of the state, just like all the other abandoned kids.”
“Your compassion is overwhelming,” she glanced at his badge, “Officer Frank Burke.”
“Look, I don’t mean to come across that way, but we see this all the time. You know this as much as I do. The world is filled with people who have no business procreating.”
Just then the gray curtain was pulled back, revealing a tiny Asian girl dressed in a hospital gown. She sat upright at the edge of the bed with her feet dangling above the floor. A nurse exited the room without saying a word.
Another woman wearing green scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck was busy writing on the girl’s chart.
She looked up. Rosales didn’t recognize her.
“I’m Dr. Sonya Greer. I’m the attending physician here. Which of you do I talk to about the girl?”
Burke pointed at Rosales. “She’s the woman in charge now.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Rosales protested.
“My hands are tied here.” He began walking away.
“But…”
“Get the girl to talk,” he said without looking back. “If anything comes of it, contact us.”
The two watched Burke disappear behind the swinging doors.
Christine reached out a hand and Greer shook it. “I’m Christine Rosales, CPS.”
“We’ll need another hour or so with the girl,” Greer said. “Administering the rape kit takes a while, and then I’m recommending she stay the night for observation.”
“And her condition?”
Greer closed the curtain, cutting the girl off from them.
“By all appearances, she’s healthy. There are no signs of physical trauma on her body that I can see; nothing to indicate a struggle. If she was abandoned, it seems as though she may not have realized it. Visibly it doesn’t look like she was sexually abused, but we’ll see what the rape kit reveals. Of course with the backlog at the crime lab, who knows when that’ll be. She needs a shower, something to eat, but other than that, she’s fine.
“The officer said she hasn’t talked?”
“Not a peep.”
The nurse who left the examination room earlier returned. She handed the doctor a file.
“The results of her blood work,” Greer said. She quickly looked it over while biting her lower lip. “They found traces of propofol. This could explain the lack of struggle, willing to be led wherever, even why she’s not talking. Temporary memory loss is a common side effect. Shock could also be hampering her ability to speak.”
“How long does it last?”
“It depends on the individual. It can be a few hours or a few days. In either case, she should slowly start to recall things.”
“I haven’t seen you here before,” Rosales said.
Greer smiled. “I’m new. Three weeks now.”
“Congratulations. And good luck.” Christine winked.
“So I can expect to see you again?”
“You got that right.”
“It’s been nice meeting you. If there aren’t any other questions, I do have other patients to attend to.”
“Oh, of course. I understand. Um, is it okay if I go inside and talk to the girl?”
“Sure.”
Greer stopped after a few steps. “One more thing. We’ll need to bag all of her clothes as part of the rape kit. She’ll need something to wear when she’s released into your custody.”
Rosales nodded. She opened the curtain and stepped inside the small space, essentially a curtain drawn around a bed.
The girl remained sitting in the same position as she last saw her, except this time she was sipping juice from a carton. She kept her head lowered, eyes on the floor as she slurped.
Rosales slouched a little to try to capture the girl’s gaze. “Hello. My name is Christine Rosales. What’s your name?�
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The girl continued to stare at the floor with her vacant eyes. She eventually hit the last of the juice as she sucked air through the straw. Rosales took the carton from her and tossed it into the small trashcan next to the bed.
“Can you tell me where you live or the name of the school you go to?”
Rosales continued her line of questioning, but each one was met with silence.
“It’s been that way all morning,” the nurse said before she stepped outside the curtain, snapping it shut as she went.
Rosales straightened up. “The doctor wants you to sleep here tonight. Tomorrow morning I’ll come back and take you someplace where you’ll be more comfortable while we look for your mom and dad.”
Rosales placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and gave her gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”
Chapter Four
Rosales checked her cell phone for messages as she exited the examination area. She had none. She hooked the curled tendrils that framed her face behind her ears as she watched nurses enter and exit examination stations.
The double doors swung open, and a large man, nearly filling the width of the doorway, appeared. He had a determined look on his face. Another suited man followed in his footsteps.
More SFPD?
“Where is examination six?” the man said abruptly to no one in general. A nurse nearby pointed.
Rosales waved the men over to where she stood. “Hi. I’m Christine Rosales. I’m with CPS. Are you here for the abandoned girl?”
“I’m Detective Sokolov. This is Detective Bennie,” he said with an accent.
“Are you with missing persons?”
“Homicide.”
A crinkle formed between Rosales’s eyebrows. “Uh, maybe no one told you, but this girl is alive.”
“We heard, there was mix-up, but we thought we would follow up anyway.”
“Oh, well, I’m happy to hear that. The officer who was here earlier said SFPD would be washing their hands of this.”
“He’s probably right,” Sokolov said. “But the suitcase thing bothers me.”
“Suitcase? What suitcase?”
“The girl,” Bennie said. “She was found stuffed inside of one.”
“Really? No one mentioned that to me. The officer gave me the impression she had been left on the front steps with her lunch pail.”
“Far from that.” Bennie clicked his tongue twice.
“Hmm, that explains the propofol. It showed up in her blood work. Either way, I would appreciate any help from SFPD. I would much rather return her to her parents, if it’s possible, than put her into the system.”
“Let us talk to the girl. If we hear anything that merits a criminal investigation, we’ll get the right people involved.”
“Thanks, but a word of warning: she’s not a talker.” Rosales handed her card to Sokolov. “Keep me posted. I’ll be back here tomorrow morning to take her to a shelter.”
Sokolov pocketed the card and entered the examination space. “Hmm.”
“What is it?” Bennie asked.
“She reminds me of someone,” he whispered.
Holding his ID card out to the girl, Sokolov made the introduction. The girl did nothing to acknowledge their presence as she sat on the edge of the bed, kicking her feet back and forth.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “Where are your parents? Why were you in the suitcase?”
Bennie placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Let me give it try.”
Sokolov moved off to the side. Bennie scrunched down a bit.
“My name is Adrian. Can you tell me your name?”
She continued to stare at the floor.
“It’s okay. I know you don’t know us. You’re probably a little scared right now, but everything will be okay. We’re here to help you. We’re worried. It’s not normal to be inside a suitcase, unless you’re playing hide-and-seek. Is that what you were doing? Were you playing a game?”
Nothing but silence. Bennie let out a breath and straightened up. Sokolov removed his cell phone from his pocket. He gently placed two fingers under the girl’s chin, raised her head, and took a photo.
“I wonder if she’s been printed?” Bennie asked as they headed out of the exam room. “I’ll check with Burke. If anything, we can at least make sure she’s filed away properly if anyone comes looking for her.” Bennie glanced over at his partner, who seemed deep in thought. “I see that look on your face. It’s the suitcase, right?”
Sokolov grunted his acknowledgment.
The two detectives emerged from the emergency room and walked back to the Crown Vic.
“You really think there’s something here?” Bennie slipped his shades on.
“Usually when a suitcase is involved, it’s filled with body parts.”
“True, but you know what the captain will say about this.” Bennie pulled open the passenger door. “We’re Homicide.”
Sokolov eased his large frame into the driver seat and adjusted his jacket. “Maybe someone intended for her to be a homicide.”
Chapter Five
From the moment I woke that morning, I knew it would be a great day. I had slept well—I doubted I’d even moved once. When I washed my face, I noticed the whitehead that had bubbled up on my forehead a few days ago had totally disappeared. Not a hint that it had existed. My abs were looking mighty solid, even though I had skipped more workouts than I preferred in the last few weeks due to work. My hulking, Irish father deserves credit for my fast metabolism. I can thank my Chinese mother for my short stature.
And my hair? Talk about cooperation—straight, silky, and frizz free.
Even the black pantsuit I chose for the day seemed to fit me better than usual. I struck a few poses in front of my standing mirror. En fuego, Abby. En fuego.
My steps were light and bouncy as I made my way downstairs. Inside the kitchen, Po Po, my mother in-law, had already started preparing breakfast, but she allowed me to help—a rarity if you know my story.
She was still dressed in her nightgown and shuffled around wearing her house slippers. We were having the usual: silver-dollar pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs.
Ryan, my oldest at eleven, was the first to take a seat at the table. He wore faded jeans and a white polo shirt with the collar popped. His hair was spiked, as usual.
“Load me up. I got a big day ahead of me,” he said.
“Oh?” I forked three silver dollars onto his plate.
“Keep ’em coming,” he said as he slathered butter onto the cakes.
I added two more to the pile. “Bacon?”
“It’s not breakfast without the hog.”
“What’s gotten into you this morning? You sound like you’re gearing up for a cattle run across the Great Plains.” I scooped scrambled eggs onto the growing pile of food on his plate.
“Abby.” He let out a breath. Yes, he calls me Abby. I came into his life at age four, when I married his father. “Did you forget? As a brown belt, Master Wen is allowing me the chance to help with the training of the younger students at the dojo. He said it will help with my advancement to black belt.”
“Of course I remember,” I fibbed.
“And Uncle Kyle said he would also train with me more. He said I have a really good chance to get my black belt before I turn twelve.”
“I’m very proud of you sweetie.” I gave him a kiss on his forehead.
Lucy, my eight-year old, walked in. “What’s Ryan done now?”
“Your brother is training students at the dojo.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
There was a time when Lucy considered her brother to be God. She followed him everywhere. Agreed with everything he said. Essentially worshipped the kid. Not anymore.
Lucy had developed her own group of friends and through these friends, I suspect, began paying more attention to herself, especially the clothes she wore. When it came to dressing, she no longer wanted input from me and Po Po.
Her reasoning was that she and her friends had all agreed to dress in eighties fashion that day. “I made the shirt myself. It’s cute and cool. I understand if you don’t get it,” she said.
Excuse me! I had told her she could dance her butt back upstairs and try again, or else I would introduce her to another popular fashion trend: mom jeans.
I put two silver dollars on her plate.
“Hold the bacon please, just some eggs.” She picked up the glass of orange juice I poured for her, sniffed it, then promptly put it back where she had found it.
“You touched it. You finish it,” I said.
After breakfast, Lucy helped Po Po load the dishwasher. Ryan took the trash out to the curb. Me? Well, I delegated.
We said goodbye to Po Po and got out the door on time. I always drove the kids to school before heading into the office.
I sat behind the wheel of my Charger and turned the key in the ignition. The 370-hp Hemi V8 engine rumbled to life and vibrated my butt cheeks. I loved my balls.
After dropping off the kids, I turned onto Polk Street and caught green lights one after another. It wasn’t even nine yet, and I was already slaying Monday.
I hit speakerphone on my cell and dialed Agent Tracy House. She worked in the Oakland field office and was also one of my closest friends in the bay.
“So next week is Kyle’s one-year anniversary with the Bureau. I thought the three of us, Po Po, and the kids could get together for a celebratory dinner.”
Yes, Detective Kyle Kang of the San Francisco Police Department had become a field agent with the FBI. After working the Chasing Chinatown case together, I convinced him to come over to our side. He did twenty weeks at Quantico, and my supervisor, Scott Reilly, talked to the right people and had him based in San Francisco. We were officially partners.
“Sounds great. Has it been a year already?” she asked.
“I know. It seems like only yesterday that I had to school the little whippersnapper on the fine art of law enforcement.”