Little Lamb Lost

by Margaret Fenton

  Commonly know as GHB, G, Liquid X, or the date rape drug, it was popular with high school kids and clubbers. A lot of kids used it after doing Ecstasy at raves, because GHB brought them down after the manic effects of Ecstasy. When taken, it gave the user sensations similar to being drunk, with decreased motor function, slurred speech, numbness, blackouts, and in the case of overdose, coma and death. It was especially deadly when paired with alcohol, and it wasn’t uncommon for people on GHB to smother if they passed out face down, or to drown in their own vomit. Ugh.

  Only a small amount of GHB, like a capful, was enough to get high. GHB and its analogs, or similar drugs, were made of common chemicals and could be concocted in any kitchen. It exited the system rapidly and was hard to detect in a drug screen. Maybe that’s why Ashley had always tested negative.

  The worst feature of GHB, according to the police officer, was that it was colorless. It had become so rampant in some local high schools that it had prompted administrators to ban students from bringing bottled drinks to school. That didn’t stop them though. GHB could be kept in almost any container, like a fingernail polish bottle. It had a salty taste, and was most often used by placing it into a sweet cocktail, soda, or juice to disguise it.

  My guess was that Michael had woken up sometime early Tuesday morning, thirsty. He drank his juice, which had enough GHB in it to put him in a coma before he stopped breathing. He’d just gone to sleep. A painless death. I wished that was some comfort.

  I refiled the packet of information and, sore from sitting on the floor, stretched and went to change clothes. I pulled on a pair of pink and white flannel boxer shorts and an old “Race for the Cure” T-shirt and went back into the office. I uncovered the computer and plugged it in, intent on further researching GHB and its effects.

  When I hit the blue button on the computer case, the machine made a horrible noise. Sort of a metallic clanking. Nothing at all came on the screen. I turned it off, quickly, then tried again. Same awful noise.

  “Damn,” I muttered, then let loose a few more expletives. I couldn’t live without my computer, and now I had to find time to go get it fixed. And money. Home improvements were sucking every extra cent out of my meager paycheck. Not to mention the new tires. I couldn’t afford any more major expenses right now.

  Back in the bedroom, I changed again, this time to a paintsplattered “Ski Copper Mountain” T-shirt and a pair of cutoffs. As I rolled a small section of sunny yellow paint onto the wall, I felt my stress level ease. Then my cell phone rang.

  “Girl, your agency is in a world of shit, no?”

  Royanne Fayard. We’d been best friends since the fifth grade. Was it six o’clock already? “You watching the news?” I ran into the living room and grabbed the remote.

  “Yeah, channel twelve.”

  I flipped it to the ABC station and both Royanne and I listened. The male reporter was standing in front of the brown brick edifice of the Criminal Justice Center, otherwise known as the jail.

  “Thanks, Dan. A Birmingham Police Department spokesperson today confirmed that Ashley Louise Hennessy has been arrested in conjunction with the death of her twoyear-old son, Michael Alexander Hennessy. The autopsy report showed that the youngster died of an overdose of the drug GHB. Sources tell us that Ms. Hennessy has a history of drug addiction for which she was in treatment. As we reported last evening, it is believed she was under the supervision of the Department of Human Services. Dr. Teresa Pope, DHS’s county director, stated again today they are unwilling to comment on an ongoing investigation, but assured me that should any blame lie with any social worker in her department, harshest disciplinary action would be taken. Tonight, the question remains why this child was left in such a dangerous situation. Back to you, Dan.”

  I sank down onto the sofa, sick. The reporter’s voice played again in my head. Such a dangerous situation. Harshest disciplinary action.

  Royanne said, “Wow, I feel sorry for whoever had that case. You think they’ll get fired?”

  “I can’t talk about it.” My voice was hollow.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I can’t talk about it.”

  “It wasn’t your case, was it?”

  Royanne knew me well enough to interpret my silence.

  “Oh shit. Oh Claire, I’m so sorry.”

  “I really can’t talk about it.”

  “I know. Oh, man.”

  “I guess we’ll have to see what happens.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be.”

  “Do you still want to do lunch tomorrow?”

  Royanne and I had a standing lunch date every Thursday unless some emergency of mine prevented it. I visualized my schedule in my head. No court appearances, just a couple of meetings. And I had to get by the jail to see Ashley. “Sure.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Through the phone I heard the long wail of a child’s cry. It had to be Olivia, Royanne’s twoyear-old daughter. Only she could scream like that. Royanne and her husband, Toby, had two other children, Richard, aged four, and Alicia, aged six. All of them were close to my heart. “Uh-oh. Trouble brewing. Gotta go.”

  “See ya.” I closed my phone. So the witch hunt had begun. I knew it would, but knowing it was coming wasn’t going to lessen the impact. I spent the rest of the evening finishing the office, letting the repetitive motion of the paint roller ease my mind like the physical version of a soothing mantra. I finally collapsed into bed late, exhausted.

  The next morning I went in early to finish case notes and write a quick e-mail to Mac about my slashed tires. Russell moped in at eight, complete with to-go coffee from O’Henry’s Coffee House, his highlighted blond hair still wet from the shower. “You read this?” he asked, holding out a copy of the paper.

  “No. Bad?”

  “Not good.”

  I took the folded paper and found the headline on page one.

  CHILD WELFARE AGENCY LETS CHILD DOWN. The article, written by some idiot named Kirk Mahoney, recounted everything that had happened so far in Ashley’s case, including the fact that Michael had died from a GHB overdose and cited “sources” that confirmed Michael and Ashley were working with DHS. My favorite quote was, “The Department of Human Services has long faced scrutiny for the way that it handles its cases. Years of mismanagement and incompetence may have resulted in another tragic, needless death.”

  I fumed, cursing, and resisted the urge to throw the paper against the wall.“Incompetence? Really! What the hell does that son of a bitch know about anything!”

  “I know.” Russell agreed. “And DHS will insist on your maintaining confidentiality, effectively making it impossible for you to defend yourself. At least in public.”

  “Thanks. You’re really cheering me up.” “Sorry. Can I have my paper back? I want to read the rest of the news.” I gave Russell his paper and gathered my stuff.

  I went to a meeting with a therapist about a client, and by ten was parking next to a meter a block away from the Criminal Justice Center. It was a fifteen-story building with high, horizontal windows, designed to let in minimal light and deny anyone a view of the outside world.

  Security was tight. My purse and briefcase were X-rayed, then I had to leave them, along with my phone and keys, in a locker. The Sheriff ’s Department officer who checked me through pointed to the elevator and directed me to the second floor.

  It seemed like everything in the building was dirty. The elevator walls were marked with smudges and fingerprints, and the whole place had a smell of unwashed bodies, like a gym.

  I stepped off the elevator directly into the visiting room. A row of scratched, wooden cubicles with tall glass windows separated visitors from the inmates. The booths had narrow stools barely large enough to perch on, cemented into the floor. Telephone handsets hung on the side of each cubicle so the visitors and the inmates could talk. A uniformed gua
rd stood at the door that led to the rest of the jail.

  I expected to have to wait for Ashley, but as I stepped off the elevator, I saw her. She was sitting in the last cubicle, wearing a baggy suit of orange stripes, talking on the off-white handset with a guy. I could see his profile as they spoke. He was fortyish, with untamed wiry, dark brown hair and an untrimmed beard. He had on dark blue rugged pants — the ones favored by auto mechanics and other manual laborers — with a short-sleeved burgundy polo shirt over a potbelly.

  I stopped, wondering who he was, not wanting to interrupt their discussion. As I watched, he placed his free hand on the glass. Ashley did the same, in a gesture that was as close as they could get at the moment to an intimate touch. Her expression was one of tenderness I’d seen before, when she looked at Michael. A look of love.

  Her expression changed abruptly when she noticed me. She said something urgently to her visitor and they hung up. He rose off the stool. I tried to read the blue logo on his shirt as he jammed his hands in his pockets and rushed past me to the stairs. I started to say something, but only got as far as “Hey” before he was gone. The heavy metal door boomed as it shut.

  Ashley looked upset. I took the man’s place on the stool and picked up the handset that was still warm. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello.”

  “How are you holding up? Do you need anything?”

  “A one-way ticket to Mexico.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Wish I could smoke.” I remembered it’d been about eighteen hours since her last cigarette. Maybe that accounted for the attitude.

  “Who was that? That just left?”

  I watched her compose the lie, eyes darting back and forth as she hesitated. “Nobody. Just some guy from some church.”

  “Try again.”

  “Look, he said he wanted to pray with me, so we prayed. What was I supposed to do, tell him to go to hell?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, Ashley. That wasn’t some stranger. You know him. Who is he?”

  “I’m done here.” She started to hang up the phone.

  “Wait, wait! Okay, it’s none of my business.”

  “You got that right.”

  “What about Flash? Somebody slashed my tires yesterday. That sounds like something he’d do, doesn’t it? Is he back in the picture?” She wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

  I asked, quietly, “Were you using again?”

  She didn’t say anything. “Ashley, you were always honest with me. I still believe in you. You were doing so well. But I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Her gaze finally met mine, and in her eyes was the deepest sadness I’d ever seen. “You can’t help me. No one can.” She hung up the handset and, head down, approached the guard who buzzed her through to the other side.

  `

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Pondering Ashley’s secretive behavior, I checked out at the security station, retrieved my bags, and walked into the bright summer sun. Cicero’s words were etched above the door of the building: “We are in bondage to the law so that we might be free.” Seeing them reminded me of another of his quotes: “The first duty of a man is the seeking after and the investigation of truth.” What was Ashley’s truth? Was she using again? Or protecting someone? The guy at the jail, maybe? Or Flash, if she was back with him?

  I made a quick pit stop at the ATM and went back to the office to wait for Royanne and our standing lunch date. She and I both work downtown. She’s a loan officer at Birmingham Financial Bank. On Thursdays, we take turns driving to our usual restaurant, and this was her week. I dropped my briefcase in my office and went down to meet her in the lobby.

  I was resting an arm on the tall central desk where our two receptionists, Nancy and Beth, sat. Nancy was telling me about her family’s recent vacation to Disney World when a man walked in. He stopped in front of Beth, who was taking a call, and waited for her to finish. Average height, with spiky black hair, and eyes two shades darker than the light blue dress shirt he was wearing. The shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms. He had a round face and ruddy cheeks. There was something very Irish — and very cute — about him.

  He caught sight of me and smiled. A nice smile. “Hi,” he said with a nod.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You work here?” He squinted at the ID badge hung around my

  neck on a breast cancer awareness lanyard. “Claire?”

  “Yep.”

  “Must be a difficult job.”

  “Some days are better than others.”

  He broke out that charming smile again just as Beth routed her

  call and hung up. He turned to her and said, “I’m Kirk Mahoney. I’ve got an eleven thirty appointment with Teresa Pope.” Mahoney. Shit. My hand went up automatically and covered my ID. Kirk turned to say something to me as Beth called upstairs. He saw the look of fury on my face before I could mask it.

  “What?” he asked. It was too late to hide the contempt. “Read your article this morning.”

  “Oh, I see. Care to make a comment?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then I’ll see what Dr. Pope has to say.” We stood there in awkward silence, with me shooting him dirty looks, until the silver elevator doors opened and Dr. Pope walked out. She was well put together in a suit that complemented her brownish-gray bob. She greeted Kirk with a handshake and all the friendliness in the world. She saw me, and the angry expression on my face, and asked, “Claire, you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She threw me a skeptical glance and cordially invited Kirk up to her office. She pressed the up button and moments later Russell exited the elevator as they entered. I got one last dagger look in before the doors closed.

  “Wow. Who’s the hottie?” Russell asked.

  “Bite your tongue. He’s the guy who wrote the article in the newspaper this morning.”

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “Waiting for Royanne.”

  “That’s right, it’s Thursday.”

  “Want to join us?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t have time.” He glanced at the clock above the front desk. “I’ve got a lunch meeting with one of my clients. See you.”

  Russell walked out through the glass front door, the seal of the State of Alabama painted on it. Five minutes later, Royanne bounced in the same door. With big breasts, wide hips, and blonde hair teased out to the stratosphere, she bounced everywhere. “You ready?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Her minivan, still running, was parked in the fire lane. We settled in and she pulled onto Third Avenue North. A couple of miles later she asked, “You okay?”

  I realized that I hadn’t said a word since we left. A little ember of anger toward the reporter was still burning in my chest. And Ashley’s eyes, laden with such intense misery, haunted me. “It’s that case.”

  “Right. The one you can’t talk about.”

  “You see the paper this morning?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “Some jerk named Kirk is already calling me incompetent. Except he doesn’t know it’s me.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  “I know.”

  “Claire, it’s not like you killed him. His mother did.”

  My ember burned a little hotter, and I jumped to Ashley’s defense. “That’s just it, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, maybe not intentionally.”

  “She was doing really well. I don’t think she would have done anything to hurt her kid. Any more than you’d do something to endanger one of yours.”

  “So, accidents happen.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I feel sorry for the rest of the family. What about his poor grandparents? Can you imagine, having your grandchild die and your daughter locked up for homicide?”

  DHS’s policy was to try to place a child with relative
s first, not foster parents. Two years ago, I’d met with Ashley’s mother, Dee, to ask if she could care for ten-month-old Michael while Ashley got straight. At the time, Dee was in tough shape financially, and I had some concerns as to whether or not she could afford a baby. Dee was hardly the cookie-baking, story-reading type. But it did make me wonder if anyone had called her and her husband. Had Ashley, before she went to jail? I should go out there, I thought, this afternoon, just to see how they were doing.

  “Claire?” Royanne said, bringing me back to the present. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Sure. This will pass, eventually. Her trial and all will be hell, but I’ll be all right.”

  “You think you’ll get fired?”

  “I don’t think so. Not unless something comes up that I didn’t know about.”

  “What would you do if you did? Get fired, I mean?” Good question. For the first time, I thought about it. I’d held other social work positions before this one. I’d done interventions with the homeless, often under bridges and in alleyways, getting substance-abusing vets into treatment centers. Then I’d gone to grad school, gotten my M.S.W., and worked for a short while at a community mental health center before coming to DHS. This job was by far the most stressful. The hours were long and the decisions life-anddeath. At times it could be dangerous. Still, I enjoyed the investigative side of it. Did I really want to give it up?

  “I don’t know.” I wasn’t ready to reevaluate my career choice. The idea was depressing. Too depressing.

  Los Compadres Mexican restaurant was located in a strip mall on a busy corner. It was a popular lunch spot, and groups of diners were already filing in to be seated.

  “Can you go get us a table?” I asked. “I need to make a quick call.” “Sure.”

  I stood outside the car in the heat and, fanning myself with one hand, dialed a number with the other.

  “Brighton,” he answered. He sounded like his mouth was full.

  “Detective, it’s Claire Conover. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

  “Sure.” He swallowed whatever he was eating.

  “I saw Ashley this morning, and I’m worried about her. Is she on suicide watch?”