All The Hidden Pieces

by Jillian Thomadsen

  “How did John say the accident happened?” Weaver asked.

  Adams thumbed to the next page. “He said he had a skateboarding accident.”

  “Huh,” Weaver said drily. “Well…anyone want to take a wager on whether John Brock ever owned a skateboard?”

  They were all quiet again. Hobbs stared down at her notepad and felt as though she were hanging her head – an accomplice to the news of a prejudicial system.

  Adams eventually broke the silence by coughing. “Hey, there’s just one more thing I wanted to read about John’s injuries. The report says that he had a superficial stab wound in his neck. John said that he fell on something…but someone wrote in the file that it’s the type of injury usually caused by small sharp edge such as a box cutter or pocketknife. According to this, the puncture penetrated the scalene muscles and missed the internal jugular vein by about one millimeter. Any closer and John would’ve bled to death.”

  Martinez and Weaver gasped while Hobbs jumped up and left the room. She stood outside, closed her eyes and caught her breath. Her pulse was racing and the contents of her stomach felt liquid. She could hear Adams say from inside the room, “What? What does that mean?”

  And she could hear Martinez respond in an even voice, “It’s a professional hit, a calling card…”

  Hobbs couldn’t stay and hear any more. She had never been a regular smoker but she needed a cigarette – something to soothe her nerves. She could feel her pulse coursing through her, a current of emotion and stress. Summoning the strength to walk outside, she caught sight of Rochelle – the station’s newest officer – just in front of the door. Small, red-haired, and ever-eager, Rochelle frowned when she saw Hobbs. “Detective…is everything okay?”

  Hobbs gave Rochelle a nod and walked outside. The fresh air felt tremendous, as though it was breathing new life into her. She leaned against the concrete post and inhaled deeply. Rochelle joined her.

  “Is everything okay?” the rookie repeated. “Do you need anything?”

  “Just…do you happen to have a cigarette?” Hobbs asked. She was surprised at how weak and tinny her voice sounded.

  “No, sorry, I don’t smoke. I could run to the corner gas station and buy you a pack…”

  “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  Ray Martinez joined them outside. “Hey Rochelle, can you give us a minute?” he asked. Rochelle nodded at him and went back inside.

  “You okay?” Martinez asked her.

  Hobbs looked at him and smiled. He was just a few inches taller than she was, but built like a wrestler – a dense mass of muscle. He had closely cropped dark hair, light brown skin and the faintest hint of an accent. He reached for her but she shied away. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “The Captain was asking me what happened in there. I wasn’t sure what to say.”

  She and Ray Martinez had been partners for so long, she couldn’t remember what he knew about her and what information she had shielded from him. He looked at her so knowingly right then that she was certain she must have said something to him at some point.

  “Well, I can’t be on this case anymore, Ray. You understand, right? I just can’t be on it.”

  “Roberta…”

  At that moment Rochelle reappeared with a cigarette and a lighter. “Found one,” Rochelle said. She lit the cigarette for Hobbs and then went back into the building.

  “You smoke?” Martinez asked.

  “No,” Hobbs said, just as she took a long deep drag and felt it hit her lungs.

  “Well, you can’t be off this case. There’s no one else who can take your place. And Weaver will want to know why and then you’ll have to explain it all to him. And I’m not even sure I understand the full story myself.”

  Hobbs took another inhale and felt her whole body slacken. “This case is too close to home for me. Do you hear me? I can’t do it. Adams can do it. He’s young but Weaver loves him.”

  Then, as if he’d been summoned, Adams appeared. He looked younger than usual, Hobbs thought. His beard a bit more shaved than usual, his hair a bit longer on the top.

  “I’m going to go,” Martinez said, and he patted Hobbs on the shoulder before he walked inside.

  Hobbs puffed a few more times and almost laughed. They’re dealing with me in shifts, she thought. Like I’m a mental patient.

  “Roberta, is everything alright? Why’d you run out? What happened?” Adams asked.

  “Nothing,” Hobbs said.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? After you left, Captain Weaver said that this was the calling card of a professional and that there was really only one guy in Vetta Park who could be behind it. He said the guy’s name was…I think…Steven Vance. And I want to know why—”

  Hobbs didn’t give him a chance to finish his question. She finished the cigarette, stamped it under her heel a few times, and walked back inside the building.

  Chapter Fourteen

  October 15, 2009

  Everyone was waiting for Greta. She could feel the tension in the courtroom and then the air conditioning whirred on, the forced air splitting the silence.

  It had been an uncharacteristically warm day – both outside and in the courtroom. Greta glanced at Marcia Brock, sitting in her chair, using a bookmark to fan herself. Marcia typically looked smug but at that moment she looked distant – unsmiling, unsatisfied, almost bored – as though waiting for a show to begin.

  “We’re all ready, Ms. Brock,” the judge prodded and Greta smiled in response. It was an involuntary reflex – the friendly smile to get out of an uncomfortable situation.

  “I know,” Greta said softly and she looked down at her hands. There was no way to frame her words so they shielded what she had to say, no way to spin it so she looked better.

  “I was learning to read…and write…in that timeframe,” Greta finally said. She knew that she was speaking too haltingly, too quietly, and that she was going to be asked to raise her voice. It was as though they wanted her to stand up and loudly proclaim her childhood illiteracy – a lifelong secret now bellowed, preacher-style, to the waiting masses.

  “You say you were learning to read and write during those afternoons to yourself?” Griffin’s lawyer repeated.

  “Yes,” Greta said. “It took me two years but I was able to teach myself.”

  The courtroom was silent again and the lawyer actually looked mildly surprised. Greta figured he had been in the market for a different kind of bombshell – prostitution, opioid addiction, illegal trafficking or maybe religious radicalism. Still, while illiteracy wasn’t an issue with the law, Greta still found it embarrassing to confess it to the courtroom, and she knew that Griffin’s lawyer would find a way to exploit her situation to his advantage.

  “Tell us again how far you got in school before dropping out?” the lawyer asked.

  “I completed ninth grade.”

  “Please tell the court…how on earth did you make it to ninth grade without learning how to read and write?” He seemed incensed – although Greta wasn’t sure whether his irritation was directed at her or the school system.

  “It was pretty easy when I was younger. I had a good memory so I could memorize those little books after I’d heard them a few times. I learned and memorized some sight words too. It wasn’t until I was…”

  Greta stopped mid-sentence and looked down. Not until she was ten years old – John’s age – did she realize something was terribly, wretchedly wrong. In fourth grade, the class went ahead with different subjects – the thirteen colonies, the solar system, fractions and European paintings – and it was suddenly impossible keep pace with everyone else. The other kids somehow had a base knowledge that had eluded her. She struggled with everything.

  Late nights involved tantrums at the dining room table and fights with her mother. Try harder! Do more! She didn’t know how to explain why she couldn’t learn. In the meantime, the years passed and she got further and further behind – still physically
present in the classroom but with a mind that absorbed nothing. She felt like a ghost merely going through the motions – a stupid, illiterate ghost.

  By ninth grade – high school – Greta was officially lost in the cracks. With few friends and no literacy – a schedule of study halls and below average classes that bored her and were primarily focused on containing the behaviors of her classmates – she dropped out.

  Her mother was furious, but Greta learned to stick it out in the tiny house they shared in Southwest Missouri for two more years. She lied about her age and got a waitressing job to fill her time. Then, once she turned sixteen, she packed her suitcase after a particularly bad argument. Tears streaming down her face, a few crumpled fifty-dollar bills in her pocket, she turned away from that house, boarded a bus to St. Louis, and never looked back.

  “Ms. Brock, you’ve told the courtroom that you used to be a waitress at a diner near the Wash U campus in St. Louis, is that correct?” Griffin’s lawyer asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, how were you able to wait tables if you couldn’t read or write?” he asked. His voice cracked as it inflected – an expression of bewilderment.

  “All of the food and drink items on the menu had numbers. So I just memorized which numbers went along with which items customers ordered and wrote the numbers down for the kitchen staff.”

  “I see. So are you…were you…dyslexic?”

  Greta shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been officially diagnosed with anything. I mean, I’ve never been tested for anything.” Greta felt angry every time she thought of the elementary school she’d attended in rural Missouri – a flat, orange-brick structure that boasted useless platitudes on its marquee: Strive for Success and Effort = Achievement.

  At least John had a chance. He’d been tested and diagnosed; he was being singled out, he was getting personal instruction and he had an IEP. At least he had the chance to learn that she never had.

  “And what worked for you as a teenager that didn’t work for you beforehand? Why were you finally able to teach yourself?”

  “I guess effort, patience and the wherewithal to sit down and learn, for hours every day. I didn’t have the focus when I was in school…but by the time I was sixteen, seventeen years old, I was really motivated. I could sit at a desk for hours and repeat drills until I got it. I wouldn’t let myself get up until I’d written a bunch of sentences that were completely legible. It helped that I didn’t have anyone hovering over my shoulder, telling me what an idiot I was, telling me I needed to try harder or work faster. It was just me and that took the pressure off…so I finally learned.”

  “Hmm, I see.” The lawyer finished questioning her – even gave her a smile as she stood up from the witness stand – but when it came time to wrap up the case before the judge, he was unsparing. He mentioned her childhood illiteracy as though it were a disease she’d brought upon herself. He brought up her status as a runaway teen and her life with the notorious Steven Vance.

  Then he presented a portrait of his own client, Griffin Brock. Griffin had graduated from Washington University in St. Louis with honors, had worked steadily in real estate for years. Griffin was solid and reliable, with the financial means to provide for John in a way that Greta couldn’t or wouldn’t.

  Greta listened to the lawyer and tried not to think too deeply about it. The man was just doing his job, presenting her in the worst possible light on behalf of his client. The argument was technically true, but this layering of statistics and salaries and degrees earned missed the deep conversations, the affections and attachment – which in her view was the very nucleus of parenting. When Griffin’s lawyer sat down, Greta prayed that Lance Garcia could persuade the judge to see what was most important.

  Lance stood up and put forth a decent effort, although not impassioned as Greta would have liked. He stated quite plainly – blinking in the courtroom’s yellow-orange lights – that Greta was a good mother, reliable and loving, and that Griffin parented from afar.

  Greta wanted to jump up from the bunch, to echo his words with a thousand Amens, to cite specifics – dates and times when Griffin had been physically or emotionally unavailable to John. But instead she stayed silent and watched her lawyer reason on her behalf.

  When Lance stepped down, the judge thanked both parties, mentioned a conference he was going to attend in another city, and said he would need to take a few days to make a decision. He then stood up and left the courtroom.

  Almost immediately, a crescendo of murmurs swelled up as people chatted to each other while leaving the courtroom. Greta’s case wasn’t the only one heard that day, and the smattering of visitors in the back reflected the diversity of the docket.

  Greta waited for everyone to clear out and then told her lawyer she needed some water. She didn’t make it to the water fountain though. There was a bench along the way that called out to her, and as she sunk into the uncomfortable wooden frame, she could feel her whole body release. She felt as though she’d spent the last few hours in the courtroom tensed up – a tightly coiled wad of skin and muscle.

  With the emancipation of her body came the reveries of her mind, to places she didn’t even want to explore. She could lose custody of John. She might lose custody. Was she likely to lose custody? It was impossible to know. Now she had to wait a few days for the judge to leave town, come back and make a decision. Now she had to act as if the most momentous decision in her life wasn’t both outside her control and swaying against her.

  ***

  A few hours later, Greta and Tuck were sitting together on the bleachers at John’s soccer practice. The warm weather had given way to a cool breeze, and the couple huddled close together while they watched John chase down balls at the other end of a grassy field. It had been a muted, dismal evening while they searched for topics that didn’t involve the custody hearing.

  It was an impossible task. “We’re losing the case,” Greta said after a long period of silence, her words materializing from the air.

  Tuck responded quickly. “Greta, we’re not losing…”

  “Tuck, make no mistake. We are losing. Griffin looks like a Boy Scout and I look like an illiterate former runaway who hangs out with drug dealers.”

  “I’m sure the judge will see…” Tuck started, but his voice trailed off.

  Greta thought about the judge. Who knew what he was able to see? She looked ahead into the outfield and saw the sinewy silhouette of her son, a baseball cap pulled down over the top of his face, catching bugs in the cool air while he waited for a soccer ball to come his way. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “I can’t let Griffin have full custody over John,” she said. “Griffin has no idea how to care for John; he never even sees him. I’d sooner run away with John – to Mexico maybe. Or South America.”

  Tuck frowned and shook his head. “Greta, now you’re just talking crazy.”

  “I’m not talking crazy, Tuck. I can’t lose him. I could do it, you know? I know people who could help me do it.” She didn’t explicitly say it but he knew which people she was referring to: Steven Vance. Steven Vance could help her vanish with John.

  “I’m not going to entertain this,” Tuck said. He stood up and moved to the other side of the stands.

  Greta stayed on the bleachers for the rest of the practice, watching John. Occasionally she looked over at Tuck, who was perched against a silver fence, looking at the players instead of in her direction.

  For the first time in their romance, Greta felt a pang of anger towards Tuck. He could remain analytical because John wasn’t his child. And just as Greta had promised herself that she’d never adopt an us-vs.-them attitude about she and John facing down the world, she had to admit that she sometimes felt that way.

  Even after years of self-discipline and self-education, Greta still occasionally struggled. There were words that interposed themselves in her mind, words that couldn’t completely form no matter how long she stared at them. No one in her
life could understand that but John. And no one could better explain it to him than her. The words united and untied were still tricking her to this day, reserved and reversed.

  And there were two words that she knew would always evade the both of them – two simple, one-syllable kindergarten-level words that brought her back to exercises she used to repeat over and over at her little desk in Steven Vance’s apartment, to no avail.

  I was.

  I saw.

  I saw.

  I was.

  I was.

  I saw.

  ***

  Greta knew she had precious little time before the court reconvened. The next day was October 16, a Friday. It was still warm for autumn – the sun shining down in a cloudless sky, the air still thick with the last vestiges of summer.

  Greta dropped John off at school and drove thirty minutes into downtown St. Louis. She found the building without difficulty – a tall glass tower with reflective windows. The lobby was modern and elegant. There was a coffee bodega, a koi pond and a quiet waterfall. Greta leaned over and looked at the fish. They clustered in front of her, bobbing and gaping, as if begging for food.

  A security officer walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Greta said with a smile. “I’m here to meet with Colt Bundy.”

  The officer looked confused so she added, “He works for St. Louis Investigations.”

  “Ah right.” The offer nodded. “Floor ten.”

  Greta took the elevator up and met a young man in the reception area. He was a few inches shorter than her – dark eyes, tan skin and facial scruff. He smiled broadly when she got off the elevator.

  “Greta Brock?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She shook his hand.

  “I’m Colt Bundy. St. Louis Investigations. Please follow me.”