Loose Change: The Case Files of a Homeless Investigator

by Sean Huxter

  “Yeah.”

  “Got caught up on it at briefing this morning,” he said.

  “So you know about it?”

  “A little.”

  “What was the kid's deal?”

  “Well, I probably can't tell you everything, but he was deeply disturbed. Been in and out of trouble. He's a messed up kid. Court ordered therapy at the Day Center. Supposed to keep him out of prison for breaking and entering. A plea bargain. First conviction.”

  “Known to be violent?” I asked.

  “From outbursts in court, yeah. No priors for violent crime other than the one B&E.”

  “I don't even know the kid's name.”

  “Trevor Billings. Lived in Dorchester with his sister until last year.”

  “Sister got a name?”

  “Sharon, I think.”

  “Wow. When you get briefed,” I started.

  “...we get briefed,” he finished for me.

  Dorchester. Fuck. I hate Dorchester.

  Chapter 5 I was walking down Draper Street in Dorchester looking for a particular house. Did some searching at the Boston Public Library computers and found a Sharon Billings on Draper. Isn't the internet wonderful? I walked right up to her house, right to her door and rang the bell.

  I waited. Nothing. No sign of habitation. The house was run down, hinge off the front screen door, screen torn, windows filthy, cracked. The house hadn't been painted in years and was long overdue.

  “She ain’t' here.”

  I turned. An elderly woman was walking past on faulty hips. “Sorry?” I prompted.

  “Sharon ain't here. She workin'.”

  “Ah. Are you a neighbor?”

  “Been livin' here since I was a kid,” said the woman. “That's a

  long spell, let me tell you.”

  “Any idea when she'll be back?”

  “You a collections worker? Or a social worker?”

  “Do I look like one?” I smiled.

  She smiled back. “Not as I can tell,” she laughed.

  Clearly I wasn't anyone official, not with my appearance. Hey, I

  try, but sometimes it's hard out here on the street. At least I was relatively clean-shaven... as of two days ago.

  “She be back after midnight. She work in a bar a few streets over.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure, handsome,” she said, her eye twinkling as she creaked away persistently on her hips.

  Handsome. Me?

  “I'm looking for her brother, actually.”

  She stopped and turned.

  “Poor kid. Poor kid,” she repeated. “Poor Trevor. Never had much of a chance, that one.”

  “Oh?”

  I knew a woman who liked to tell a story when I met one, and this woman was bursting at the seams.

  “Yeah, their daddy went off before he was born. She was five I guess. He just disappeared one day. Their mother wasn't much for homin'. She was always out late herself. Left Sharon alone a lot of the time. I used to look in on her, make sure she was ok, fed, stuff like that.

  “But when she turned eighteen and the boy was only twelve that woman went off herself. Just disappeared like her old man. Left Sharon with Trevor to look after and she couldn't even look after herself.”

  “And Sharon had to play mother to Trevor?”

  “Well, you might say that, but she wasn't right either. Had a hard time copin' with herself, let alone her brother. But he came to see her as his only mom and that was that.

  “Social workers showed up, sure, but as she was family, and said they were doin' fine they left it at that.

  “She was legal age, kid was alive and fed. Not much they could do. Puttin' him in the system when he had adult family sounded like a bad idea. Wish they would'a. He might have had a better shot.”

  I stood there with the lady, trying not to look voracious for information. Turns out it wouldn't have mattered. She was a talker. And she went on...

  Chapter 6 Doctor Parmal recognized me when I knocked on her office door. In her late forties like me, she was a lovely woman of Indian descent with that perfect mocha skin you only see in magazines after hours of Photoshopping. Hers was natural. She had a lilting accent that always calmed me.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to know more about the kid – Trevor Billings.” “Oh, you know I can't tell you anything about him. Doctor-patient

  confidentiality.”

  “Well what about his sister?”

  “Sorry... related to his case. I can't really talk about her. All I can

  say is he was regular with his appointments and I think we were seeing real progress.”

  “Until yesterday.”

  “Until yesterday, yes. I'm as shocked as anyone.”

  “And what about Marnie.”

  “Poor, poor girl. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a tragic loss.”

  “Why was she at the wrong place at the wrong time? I know she wasn't usually here after six. She was here unsupervised. Some volunteers and case workers were coming in at six thirty to prep for their seven o-clocks when they walked in on the attack.”

  “I know. She wasn't supposed to be here alone. Policy. I don't know why she was.”

  I thanked Doctor Parmal. She smiled at me and closed her office door as I left.

  I walked down the hall, passing an open door. “Hold up,” a voice said.

  I stopped and turned. One of the volunteers from the other night – one of the burly men holding the kid down – was sitting in a dim room at a desk with a bright desk light, typing on a laptop.

  “Come in,” he invited.

  I walked in.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  I did. Warily.

  He looked about, listened for noises in adjoining offices and finding none, spoke:

  “I can tell you some things about Trevor Billings.”

  “Isn't that breaking Doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “Not my patient. But I hear things.”

  “Ah.” Blessed loophole.

  “I came in just in time to see him slashing at Marnie with a longbladed kitchen knife. We do keep a kitchen but it's down the hall a ways. It's supposed to be locked, but people aren't always as diligent about things like that. No one could have predicted...”

  “Sure,” I said, prompting him to continue.

  “Trevor was abused as a kid.”

  I wished that would have come as a surprise, but alas, no. It was in his eyes.

  “First his mother beat him savagely. Social Workers were there couple times a year. Never found real proof so they couldn't remove him from the home.

  “Then when his mother ran off he was left with his sister, just turned eighteen. Just old enough to be an adult, and being family and willing, was the best bet for his upbringing. Or so the conventional wisdom went.”

  “Social Workers check in on them after that?”

  “From time to time, yes. All looked well on the outside, but Trevor still had bruises. Broke a couple bones. Every time it was just excused as an active boy skateboarding, playing on the streets, getting into fights. Typical kid, you know?

  “But I sometimes hear Doctor Parmal dictating her notes. When she's not with a patient she sometimes leaves the door open and not realizing anyone's around she talks into that recorder she has for later typing by one of the volunteers.”

  He stopped, looking like an infantryman psyching himself up for the storming of the beaches. I let him. He charged.

  “The sister was savage. Like she learned from the best. Beat him, starved him, yelled at him. He was just a kid, and this is how he saw parenting to be. Hell, she broke one of his forearms once by placing it between two wooden chairs and kneeling on it until it snapped. For coming home from school late. That one was a bike accident, apparently.”

  “Jesus.” Why had the old neighbor lady not mentioned anything? She couldn't possibly be unaware. In almost any close neighborhood this stuf
f's never a secret.

  “The kid's life was rough, but he grew up, you know? Got a bit older. He came to realize that what was going on wasn't right. He was also getting bigger.

  “One day she went to stab him with a butter knife in the chest – enough to hurt, not enough to break the skin – and he snapped. Took her hand with knife in mid-stab and twisted it. Broke

  her wrist. Walked away from the house and never went back.”

  I nodded. “So he hit the streets.”

  “Yup. Felt safer on the streets, but man, he was fucked up beyond repair when he got out there.”

  “Yeah, I seen him around but I avoided him. I could tell he was volatile.”

  “But he'd been steadily keeping his court-mandated appointments with Doctor Parmal and I think they were really getting along. Until last night.”

  “So what happened last night?”

  “You tell me.” He looked at me.

  Perhaps I would.

  That meant another walk to Dorchester. Lovely.

  Chapter 7 It was dusk by the time I got there not knowing if I had any hope of seeing Sharon Billings. I did see the elderly lady I had talked to earlier, sitting on her porch across the street. She waved.

  “She'll be back. She ain't workin' tonight. She went to the store.” I thanked her and stood waiting.

  “Some porch to spare, ya know,” she invited. Rather than standing around for who knew how long I took her up on her offer and sat next to her on her porch on a six dollar drug-store plastic patio chair.

  “So she was abusing her kid brother,” I began. That sort of took the glory out of the sunset for the lady.

  “You know then,” she said, with less of a smile in her voice now.

  “I know. Why didn't you mention that earlier when I was here?”

  “Nobody's business but theirs is how I see it. 'Sides. No proof. Just what ya hear, ya know?”

  Not her fault, and here I was ready to take it out on her. Rather than do that, I started asking her about her life her on a Dorchester street. She had stories to tell and I listened. When it came time to tell mine, I left out the parts that were too painful to talk about and pretended none of it had happened. I answered all of her questions as if it were over a decade ago. If she'd guessed I was lying she didn't let on, bless her heart.

  A bashed up car drove in to the driveway across the street and a woman got out with a few plastic bags of groceries and went inside her house before I could get up to intervene.

  I said goodnight to my companion and she smiled a goodnight back at me.

  I crossed the street and knocked on the door.

  The door opened and I was staring at the face of Marnie Steward.

  “Yes?” she said.

  No. Not Marnie Steward. But she could be her twin. Not tall, slim, short dark hair. If I were to have met her on the street I would have mistaken her for Marnie. I didn't know what to say.

  I stared at her for just that much too long until I finally muttered: “Sorry. Wrong address.”

  I turned for my long walk back to Public Alley 437 off Arlington Street. I had nothing to say to this child abuser. Nothing that would ever help anyone.

  Chapter 8 I sat on the low wall of the Common under the street lights that night thinking.

  So no one would probably ever know for sure why Marnie was there late, but the Day Center was about a ten minute walk from the Green Line. Probably just forgot her purse and when she got to the stop she noticed it and returned.

  As for Trevor, he probably just got an early train or had some time to spare so he just showed up early. Happens. No devious plot. No cunning plan.

  Just two random paths that should never have crossed but cross they did.

  And while he's hanging out maybe he goes to the kitchen to raid the fridge, maybe see if anyone didn't eat their lunch today.

  Meanwhile Marnie comes in again to get her purse from the locker room and hears noises in the kitchen and goes to see what's going on. No one is supposed to be there except the custodial staff of one. She goes to make sure.

  Maybe she sees Trevor in the kitchen and he turns and sees her.

  Suddenly the kid is staring face to face with his sister, or so he would naturally think. The sister who had brutally beaten and abused him for years. The sister he ran away to the street to get away from.

  And now suddenly she's here, maybe to force him to come back home. Here she is. His nightmare. Coming to reclaim him.

  Maybe he reaches for a long-bladed knife on the counter and attacks.

  Marnie runs. She makes it almost to the main entrance foyer but he's faster. He strikes. Over and over. And that's when the volunteers show up, see what's going on and tackle the kid.

  Too late for Marnie.

  Sometimes there is no plot. No plan.

  Sometimes there are no winners. No victors. No crime to solve.

  Sometimes things just happen.

  Sometimes everyone just loses.

  3274 days sober

  Chapter 1 It was a beautiful August night on Boston Common. Old Fernie had his radio up to his ear listening to the Red Sox game, calling out the scores every few minutes and sometimes the more interesting plays as tourists wandered by. They loved it when he did that and filled his torn Dunkin Donuts cup with cash.

  “Red Sox off to a bad start to the Rays. Again.” He shook his head as he called it. They'd lost last night and it didn't look good for tonight.

  Joanie Jones sidled past us. A middle-aged woman who's been on the street for a long time. Mental illness. “Don't let go of the cablecar!” she shouted at us. She's known mostly for constantly yelling that the Boston Public Library steps are haunted by the ghosts of those killed in the Boston Massacre. She continued on past to the Tremont entrance.

  We were sitting on a low wall around the middle of the Common, Fernie calling out the scores and me selling copies of

  Loose Change , the Boston-Cambridge newspaper published by the homeless. The sun was dusking behind the trees of the Public Garden and the magic light of golden hour hit the buildings surrounding us. The gleam of the State House was glaring in my eyes and I had to look away.

  As I turned I saw T-Bill walking our way from the T Station buildings. T-Bill's been on the street since 2008, a casualty of war from when we almost entered the Second Great Depression. No jumping from a high building for T-Bill. He lost his job as a trader in the Financial District, tried to struggle along for a year or so, but without his lavish income he soon collapsed into insolvency and sure as I'm sitting here on cold stone, he was out on the street.

  Old Fernie one might have sympathy for. He's been out here for well over a decade with no way to crawl his way up to success, whatever form that might take. But T-Bill, well, not many people were sympathetic to the cogs in the financial machine right now. Funny thing since Reagan gave so much to the rich with the vague idea that some of it may trickle down... nothing trickled down to us. And who wants to get trickled on anyway? Seems this country is all about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, except when you're down they take away your boots too.

  “Isn't it a gorgeous day?” T-Bill shouted jovially. He seemed to be a few sheets to the wind. I've been sober for thirty two hundred and seventy four days. And still every time I see someone drunk I feel a deep, deep, itching envy.

  “It is,” I said. “You ok, T-Bill?”

  “Ok? I'm swimming in it!” he laughed. He looked like he had just run a marathon and was still on an adrenaline high. He sat hard on the stone. I moved a bit to make some room between Fernie and myself.

  “Swimming in it!” he said, handing me a twenty dollar bill. “Just like the old days,” he said. He laughed, but I swear for a moment it sounded like he was crying. He quickly checked himself and started laughing again, patting me on the back.

  I accepted the twenty graciously and asked, “What's this for?”

  “For my friends,” he said. “All my friends gonna live high on the hog tonight!” He
shoved a crisp twenty into Fernie's torn cup.

  “Hold on, T-Bill. I ain't takin' yer money,” Fernie said, handing the twenty back.

  “You're my friend, you're gonna take it!” he insisted. “I got plenty!” He showed us a paper bag filled with flat, crisp twenties. “Just came back from the bank. Certified check, baby. Can't fake those! I know!”

  “Whoa!” I said, glancing around protectively. It wouldn't be good for certain eyes to see this stack of cash. Miko and his skateboard bunch were thrashing not far away. The mere scent of crisp bills would likely perk their noses up. And there's worse around too.

  Fernie serioused up. “T-Bill. Where did you get this?”

  “It's all legit if that's what you're asking.” He looked around, wondering who to give his next few twenties to. The way he was going he'd be at this a long time before that stack dwindled down to nothing.

  “T-Bill,” I said. “Not that we don't appreciate it, bud, but think of yourself! You got some cash there. Use it wisely. Get yourself a room. Clean up. Get outta here.” I knew T-Bill's problems were mainly fortune-related, or rather, lack-of-fortune-related. He wasn't here for the same reasons I was, or Fernie. T-Bill could apply himself and get himself back in the game. It was far too late for Fernie and me.

  “I'm having a big party first,” he said. “Then I'll take the rest and get myself a new job on Federal Street.”

  His laughing slowed a bit as he stopped to breathe for the first time since he arrived. I heard some wheezing in his breathing. T-Bill was a bit overweight, maybe asthmatic, and probably should not be overdoing it. Sweat was pouring from his brow and his skin looked a bit gray for my liking.

  “Yup. Gonna get straight, guys. Gonna leave all this,” he said, waving his arms majestically around him, “behind. And your sorry asses too!” He patted us both hard on the back and started laughing again.

  The laughing stopped for a bit as he caught his breath again. His smile faded to a look of pain and he breathed hard in, then out. In, then out. He leaned over and held his chest a bit.

  “Calm down, T-Bill. You'll have a heart attack,” I said.

  No sooner had I said it than T-Bill was off the stone wall and on his knees. His two hands hit the cobbled walkway, his bag of bills falling to one side.