The Hunting Ground (Deuce Mora Mystery Series Book 2)

by Jean Heller

  Other medics entered the building. I figured if it was safe for them, it was probably safe for us. I took a chance. Klein and I crossed the barricade line and headed toward the machine shop again. Once again, Colter came out to stop me.

  “Anybody seriously hurt?” I asked.

  “No, not among our people,” he said, “but not because we were smart. We got lucky. The two guys we got in your backyard must’uv set up an ambush.”

  “Aren’t you holding them incognito?” I asked.

  Colter frowned. “Yeah,” he said.

  “So how did they pass the word that you were going to take the building? It had to be somebody else. Did Cross’s informant, Nagi, know about it?”

  “He’s in the wind. This coulda been set up before we took down the two guys in your yard.”

  “Well, somebody knew,” I said. “By the way, I’ll be writing about this.”

  Colter looked alarmed. “The truth? No. Tell your cop shop guys it was a drug bust. Lots of that around here. It’s as good a cover story as any. Deuce, the lives of those eleven children in the mansion depend on you not blowing this op for us.”

  I saw his point. I even agreed with him. I said so.

  “I can’t lie to my editor,” I said, “but I’ll explain the urgency to bend the truth a bit. If the Chicago police tell our cops reporters this was a drug bust, that’s what’ll appear in the paper. You arrange with the Chicago police to release a drug-bust cover story and claim the shooters haven’t been identified.”

  “Yeah,” Colter said. “That should work. Thanks.”

  “Not for nothing,” I continued, “you should know I’m pretty tough on everyone in my column tomorrow. No secrets divulged, but a lot of criticism.”

  “It’s your column,” Colter said.

  “Meanwhile, we’d like to take a look around inside. Seems safe enough now.”

  “There’s another cop hurt in there and two dead perps. The ME is on his way. Let us get the good guy to a bus and let Donato get the dead guys out, then maybe you can look around. It ain’t pretty.”

  “Machine shops rarely are,” I said. “We’d like to go in now. I promise we’ll stay out of the way of the medics taking care of your guy, and we’ll wear those booties you put on when you’re moving around a crime scene. We won’t touch anything, and I promise not to get sick on the perps. I’ve seen dead bodies before.”

  I thought Colter smiled just a little.

  “Lemme check with Cross,” he said.

  The inside of the building stank of cordite and copper, sure signs of a gunfight and blood. Other than the signs of a firefight, the place looked pretty ordinary until I turned a corner and saw a row of cages with thin mattresses on their floors.

  As I got closer, I was assailed by the stench of urine, feces, and vomit. The cages were about the size you’d use to pen up a large dog, or a small child. I was both relieved and horrified that all of them were empty.

  I turned and spotted the body of a man, or what was left of him, lying in a large pool of blood on the concrete, his limbs bent at angles human limbs are not designed for.

  “The other one’s over here,” I heard Colter say.

  I turned and saw a second man in even worse condition. He had been “zippered,” his body opened from groin to throat by a stead stream of automatic weapons fire.

  “Jesus,” I said and turned back to Colter. “When did one to the heart stop being enough?” It sounded harsher than I intended.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be pretty. No photos of the bodies, by the way.”

  “Harry’s going to shoot the cages,” I said. “It’s where they kept children, right? The sick and injured? Just threw them in there until they died and could be buried?”

  Colter was nodding.

  “Food?”

  “Not known.”

  “Water?”

  “Maybe. There’s a cooler in the next room.”

  He got a call on his radio. It was Cross.

  “Both of you stay right here, Deuce,” he said. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  I tried to breathe through my mouth to avoid the collective stench, but all that got me was a horrible taste in my mouth.

  I was trying to imagine the horrors of this place when I heard something behind me.

  I whirled, but there was no one there.

  Suddenly, I very much wanted to be out of this building.

  I turned back to the cages and heard the sound again, this time accompanied by what might have been a soft whimper. The only place it could have come from was a cabinet under a workbench against the wall.

  “Harry,” I called to the photographer. I pointed at the cabinet. “Get ready.”

  Emboldened, I opened a cabinet door.

  And fell to my knees, screaming for help.

  55

  I turned away from the cabinet as I screamed for a medic, hoping to avoid further trauma for the heartbreaking little boy lying inside, curled into a defensive ball, crying without tears. I suspected he was so dehydrated his body had nothing to give to his eyes. I wanted to gather him in my arms and reassure him, but I knew I couldn’t do that. As horrifically pathetic as his gaunt figure was, as much as I wanted to reassure him that I was no threat to him, I was afraid if I lifted him I’d break half the bones in his emaciated body.

  It ran through my head for an instant that this might be Joey Russell, Charles’s little brother. But the skin tone was darker, and this boy looked seven or eight. Joey was six.

  Two SWAT officers, Colter, Cross, and two paramedics were at my side in seconds, though it seemed we waited hours.

  Cross turned to the SWAT leader, his face screwed into a rage.

  “I though you said you cleared this place,” he growled.

  The lead SWAT officer, unable to take his eyes off the boy, shook his head in bewilderment. He knew his team’s oversight could have cost another young life, and he offered no excuses.

  “All you armed guys, get out,” Cross said. “You’re appearance isn’t helping.”

  The men turned and walked away quietly. I turned back to the cabinet where the paramedics were already working. I was grateful to see one was a young woman who was talking soothingly to the boy while caressing his head as her partner worked to find a vein in a withered arm. He had to try twice to hit one, which only caused more pain. The child appeared not to notice. It probably bore no resemblance to what he’d already endured.

  The saline solution began to drip. It seemed agonizingly slow.

  The male EMT seemed to read my mind. He glanced back at me.

  He said, “I wish I could have used a larger gauge to get liquid into him faster, but I was afraid I’d rip the vein apart. This kid’s in trouble.”

  Understatement of the year, I thought, but I didn’t want to hassle the people doing all they could for the boy. I willed him to stay strong and stay alive.

  “What about nutrients?” I asked.

  “Fluids first,” the woman said. “He’s in more danger from dehydration than starvation. We’ll get him to a hospital alive and hope doctors can keep him that way.”

  “Where are you going to take him?”

  “Up to Stroger,” she said. “It’s a straight shot up Western, and they’ve got big trauma experience. We’ll call ahead and have a team waiting for him. Poor little guy.”

  I felt moisture in my eyes.

  “I know you aren’t doctors, but can you tell me, given your experience, what his chances are?” I held my breath waiting for an answer.

  “Depends on his general overall health, and any injuries,” the woman said.

  Her partner interrupted. “I’ve got a broken radius and a scapula that feels wrong, so far. I’m doing triage here. We’ve got to move him.”

  The woman continued. “And his force of will. He’ll need a lot of love and a lot of support.”

  “We don’t even know who he is,” Colter said from behind me.

  I drew a deep breath. “He�
�ll have me,” I said.

  I wasn’t allowed to stay with the boy while he was evaluated. I wouldn’t be allowed to see him even after he was settled in his room. I was devastated. He would feel even more abandoned, psychological blow on top of psychological blow, made worse by the needles and scary instruments of those trying to save his life.

  I called Aidan Coughlin, hoping he would intervene.

  “I heard about the boy,” he said. “I’m headed into a meeting I can’t miss, Deuce. I’ll come over to Stroger as soon as I can break free. Meanwhile, we’ve assigned a psychologist who specializes in trauma in children. She should be showing up any minute.”

  A few minutes later I saw a woman walking toward me talking to a doctor, and I wondered if she was the DCFS shrink. They stopped far enough away that I couldn’t hear what was said. When they finished, the doctor walked away. The woman turned to me and smiled. She walked over and extended her hand.

  “You’re Deuce Mora,” she said. “I recognize you from your picture in the paper and Aidan’s description. He called me a few minutes ago and told me you were here. Normally, we wouldn’t talk to the media about a case like this. But he said you had a vested interest, and if I tried to ignore you, you would make my life hell.”

  I took her hand and laughed. “You have me at a disadvantage,” I said.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Jessanna Barbier, a child psychologist with DCFS.” Her voice had a beautiful lilt with an almost French accent. I jumped to the conclusion that she was Haitian.

  I asked.

  “I am, indeed,” she said, “though I was born in the United States, in South Florida. My family fled the regimes of the Duvaliers and came here because they wanted their children to be born American citizens. Life was hard for immigrants in South Florida, but we were a close family. I remember a lot of it. It gives me empathy with children of that age.”

  “Well, this little boy’s going to need everything you’ve got.”

  She smiled again. “And I assume, again from what Aidan told me, that you want to sign on to help.”

  “I’m the first person he saw when he was rescued. I’ll never forget the look of hope and horror in his eyes. I want to help move him to a place where hope replaces all the horror and then is joined by the joy little kids should feel.”

  “Let’s pray we can do that,” Jessana said.

  An hour later, Mark joined me in the waiting room.

  He kissed me on the cheek and asked, “How is he?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “I’m hoping to hear something soon. There’s a psychologist here from DCFS who’s talking to his medical team. I don’t know how much they know yet.”

  “It would be nice to save one,” Mark said.

  He read something in my face.

  “Deuce, it’s not Joey Russell is it? Could you tell?”

  I shook my head. “I had hoped when I first saw him, but he doesn’t look like the boy in the photo I got from Joey’s foster mom. Everybody thinks this boy is seven or eight. Joey is six.” I paused and took a deep breath. “What difference does it make who he is? He’s a little boy who will grow up horribly damaged, without ever having a childhood, terrified of every stranger he meets. God knows what this abuse could turn him into. An abuser as an adult, giving what he got? That happens, you know.”

  Mark nodded. “I do know. But at his age, if he gets in the right program, maybe somebody can give him back what was taken from him. Maybe working with a shrink, he can forget.”

  “First,” I said. “he’s got to survive.”

  At that moment Jessanna Barbier pushed through a set of swinging doors and walked toward me. Aidan Coughlin was with her. She hesitated a moment when she saw Mark. I introduced everyone.

  “You must be the state arson investigator,” Barbier said. “Aidan told me you hung around Deuce like a dog around its dinner bowl.”

  In another situation I would have laughed.

  “How’s the boy?” I asked.

  “He’s sedated,” Coughlin said. “He’s holding his own. They’ve set the bone in his arm. X-rays showed the damage to the scapula should heal if the shoulder is kept immobile, so that’s been rigged up. There’s nothing to do about the orbital fracture but to let it fix itself.”

  Barbier bit her lip and picked up the report. “I think the worst is the rape. The doctors think there were multiple anal penetrations. He’s torn, and he’s been bleeding. They’re going to clean him up and administer antibiotics against infection.”

  Mark exploded, though his volume was barely above a whisper.

  “Jesus Christ! What sort of sick sonofabitch would do that to a little kid? When they find him, I’m going to request about an hour with him in a locked room. I’ll bring the knife.”

  Coughlin stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “I wouldn’t mind helping you with that,” he told Mark. “This makes me sick.”

  “Is he going to live?” I asked.

  “Unknown,” Coughlin said. “He’s in very critical condition. They’re still resuscitating him from the dehydration. Once that’s complete, they might have to run a feeding tube right into his gut if he needs to remain sedated and can’t eat normally. There’s always worry about organ damage, even brain damage when dehydration is severe. He’s way under weight. The docs estimate he’s about eight and, given his frame, he should weigh at least fifty pounds. He weighs thirty-one.”

  “He must have been enduring the abuse for a long time,” I said.

  Barbier shook her head. “There’s no way to know for sure. But a child doesn’t lose nearly half his body weight overnight.”

  “I don’t understand that,” Mark said. “Why would they allow that to happen? Wouldn’t they want to keep the children healthy so, to put it horribly, they didn’t have to keep replenishing their stable?”

  “Not necessarily,” Coughlin said, his voice beyond angry. “Their regular customers probably want change fairly regularly. After a while, the children go numb. They just take what’s being done to them. They cease reacting to the pain and the terror. For their assailants, they’re no fun any more.”

  Jessanna dropped her head and began to sob.

  56

  The wall clock said it was seven minutes after 2 a.m. when Mark slid into the black molded plastic chair next to mine and handed me a large cardboard cup of tea from the hospital commissary. I thanked him and squirmed a little in my chair. I would have been more comfortable lying on a bed of nails with the pointy ends up.

  Jessanna Barbier had cleared me to see the boy if the doctors approved. But so far, nothing doing. The medical staff suggested several times that I go home and return during visitor hours. But I was haunted by the memory of the face of the boy in the cabinet. I had no plan to leave him until he was sufficiently awake to feel someone holding his hand, stroking his cheek, and kissing his forehead. And Mark wouldn’t leave until I did, so we drank tea and coffee and bemoaned what a mess the world had become.

  “Every time I think of that boy he’s got Charles’s face,” I told Mark. “This story has gotten so personal for me. I shouldn’t have let it happen. It’s unprofessional.”

  Mark reached over and took my hand. “It’s human,” he said. “Part of what we were talking about before is how the world needs more humanity. Well, you’re certainly delivering your share.”

  I squeezed his fingers as a doctor approached.

  “Ms. Mora, I’m Dr. Vihaan Raji. I just looked in on the little boy you found today . . .” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I guess it was yesterday. He’s still in very critical condition, but he’s holding his own. He’s fully hydrated, and we’ve put a direct feeding tube in his stomach so he’s getting nutrition. But he’s unresponsive. And that’s not a good sign.”

  “What do you mean, unresponsive?”

  “He doesn’t seem to know anyone in the room with him. We talk to him, and it’s as if he doesn’t hear . . .”

  “He’s sedated,” I said.
“And for a fact, he doesn’t know anyone in the room with him.”

  “Only lightly sedated. Enough to keep him calm, not catatonic.”

  Mark asked, “What’s the significance?”

  Raji canted his head in a gesture of uncertainty.

  “It could mean he’s brain-damaged. Or it could mean he’s withdrawn from reality. He needs someone to get through to him, and since it was Ms. Mora who found him and rescued him, we were hoping she might try.”

  I stood up so fast I nearly knocked over the tea that was on the floor next to my foot. Mark grabbed it in mid-tip.

  “Of course I’ll try,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Life-giving machinery dwarfed the boy as it beeped and blinked around his bed. Tubes wrapped his body, and I wondered if he was conscious of them, whether they felt like ropes tying him down. I turned to Dr. Raji, who had entered the room behind me.

  “Do you have any idea who he is?”

  Raji shook his head.

  “What do you call him?”

  “John Doe. It’s all we can do.”

  I touched his hand with a single finger, stroking it softly. His body jerked, trying to pull away I suspected. He decided either it wasn’t necessary to flee, or he didn’t have the strength for it because his hand came to rest at his side and stayed there. His face was turned away from me. I had a strong urge to touch his cheek, but I needed to take it slow.

  “Hi, honey,” I said just loud enough to be heard. “I hope you’re feeling better. I’m the lady who found you in the cabinet, and I’ve been very worried about you. Everybody here wants you to get better. Can you turn your face and look at me?”

  Nothing.

  I kept stroking his hand, hoping a gentle touch would get through to him.

  After half an hour, Raji called a halt.