by Andrew Mayne
“I don’t think so, either. I try my best to keep track of them.”
“I’m sure you do. Kids are lucky to have someone like you looking after them.”
I look around the colorful room, and my eyes fall upon the back wall filled with children’s drawings. I walk over to have a closer look.
There’s the typical illustrations of crudely drawn superheroes. Lots of green for the Hulk. Giant robots and loving renditions of dogs and cats. A number of them show idealized versions of family life with everyone holding hands.
One drawing stands out among all the rest. It’s an all-black figure with a bag of toys. It reminds me of a bizarro Santa Claus. I lean in for a closer look.
“Oh, you know Latroy’s work,” says the woman.
“Pardon me?”
“Latroy drew that. It’s a little urban legend; I guess you’d call it that.”
“What urban legend is that?”
“The Toy Man. He’s supposed to drive a big Cadillac around and give toys to the good boys and girls.”
“That sounds pleasant enough.”
“Yes. It does. I wouldn’t let Latroy put the other drawing up.”
“Why is that?”
“It was … disturbing. It shows what the Toy Man does to the bad boys and girls.”
I don’t know how long I stood there before she asked me if I needed help.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIGNAL
The assistant principal of Garvin Elementary School guides me down the hall and points to the school library. “We have a wonderful tutoring program here. Kids from UCLA come in and work with the children on their schoolwork.”
“That’s great,” I reply, peering into the library and pretending to be interested. Children sit around tables as a teacher reads to them from a book.
Ms. Dawson is a nice woman, proud of her school and the impact they have on students coming from challenging backgrounds. “You said your daughter is in the fourth grade? Transferring midyear can be difficult, but we handle a lot of transient students here. She’ll be able to make friends quickly.”
“I hope so. Gracie has had some difficulties. Nothing behavioral.”
Dawson nods, understanding that I’m telling her my imaginary daughter might be a problem learner. “Let me show you our achievers program. We’re able to help kids get fast-tracked into regular curriculum.”
We head down another hallway, passing more classrooms. I peek through the windows, looking for drawings like the one in the after-care program.
Most appear to be schoolwork related, none resembling the free-form art I saw before. My hope was that a school that focused on first-generation immigrant children and served problem learners might be a vector for more Toy Man drawings.
It’s a real long shot, but the fact that Latroy, a kid who hadn’t even made it into Corman’s files, was making such creepy drawings has my curiosity piqued.
If the children weren’t abducted by a complete stranger, then it may have been someone who knew them or interacted with them prior to their abduction. The way in which these kids were targeted suggests that he had some knowledge about their family life. One way to find that out is to ask. Another is to have access to their records, which might reveal that he works in one of the schools or public services that look after children.
It sounds paranoid, but Ted Bundy worked next to a former police officer at a crisis hotline who described him as kind and empathetic. This is the same man who in one night attacked five separate women, killing two of them.
The school district here has had no shortage of monsters preying upon students. The scary part is that several of them, teachers who abused and molested their students, had complaints going back decades. The most egregious involved a teacher whose students were primarily the children of illegal aliens too afraid to say anything.
Besides having a large number of potentially at-risk children, Garvin is where Latroy went to school. I want to find out if any of his classmates also had experiences with the Toy Man.
“Here’s our achievers class,” says Dawson. “It looks like Mrs. Valdez has taken the kids to the activity field.”
At the back of the room is a wall full of drawings. Too far away for me to see in detail.
“Can I take a look?”
“Uh, sure.” Dawson holds open the door for me. I catch a slightly suspicious look in her eye. “What did you say the name of your company was, Mr. Gray?”
“I didn’t. I work from home. I’m a software analyst.”
I couldn’t exactly walk into the head office and tell them I was some concerned citizen who wanted to inspect their school for evidence of a fourth-grade Freddy Krueger.
“Right. And what does Mrs. Gray do?”
“She’s a waitress,” I reply as I make a beeline through the tiny tables and chairs toward the drawings in the back of the classroom.
There’s the same collection of animals, families, and things kids see on television. Dawson is trying to figure me out as I scrutinize the pictures. I get the sense she’s suddenly afraid that I’m not who I say I am.
“I have to take a phone call; we should be heading back to the office.”
“Of course.” I don’t move. I’m trying to process the kids’ sketches. They’re a little abstract.
Far to one side, I see a slender man in black with a bag of toys. I point it out to her. “Do you know what this is?” The name at the bottom says Rico, not Latroy.
She bends down for a closer look. “A black Santa Claus?”
“One of my daughter’s friends mentioned something about the Toy Man. Have you heard that?”
“No. I think we should be going.”
“Of course. Let me text her mom and ask.” I pull out my phone and take a photo.
“Mr. Gray, I can’t allow you to take photos in here.”
“I’m sorry.” I drop my phone to my side and spot the teacher’s open planner on her desk. “Let’s get you back to the office.”
She turns to the door, and I head straight to the desk.
“Mr. Gray?”
“I need to spit out my gum.” With my back to her, I take a photo of all the student names.
“All right. I’m calling school security.” She’s got the walkie-talkie from her hip at her mouth in a blink of an eye.
“Great.” I stare her down. “Ask them what happened to Latroy.”
She freezes. “Pardon me?”
“Latroy Edmunds. He went missing a month ago.” I point to the drawing on the wall in the back. “He was drawing pictures of the Toy Man, too.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You need to leave before I call the police.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m here to help.”
“Did anybody ask you to?”
“The father of another missing child.”
She’s trying to decide how to wrap her head around what I said. On one hand, I’ve acted like a suspicious asshole; on the other, I’m talking about missing children and parents trying to find out what happened.
Finally she says, “If you have any questions, then you need to take them up with our principal. In the meantime, I have to ask you to leave our campus.”
It’s a tense walk back to my car as she follows me closely, trying to decide if I’m a threat or just some lunatic she let wander around the school.
It’s a valid question, one that I’m not sure even I can answer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EMERGENCY CONTACT
Deciding how far I’m willing to go to track down the origins of the Toy Man means deciding how far out of bounds I’m willing to step. Right now I only have two drawings—one from a missing kid, the other from a child who is presumably not missing. I haven’t asked William yet, because I want to make sure I’m not going to send his already-stressed mind down another blind alley.
Tracking down the artist behind the second drawing, fourth-grader Rico Caldwell, may be more difficult than ge
tting the LAPD records.
I can’t exactly call up Ms. Dawson at the elementary school and ask if she’ll give me Rico’s home address. Standing outside the school when class lets out and yelling “Rico” as kids get onto their school buses isn’t exactly a great idea, either.
One option is to use a piece of phishing software, pretending to be the district IT department and calling someone in the school office and instructing them to click on something—a criminal tactic with a frightening success rate. The problem with that approach is that it’s a federal crime. I’d rather find an approach that won’t have me doing time.
There’s another approach that’s risky in its own right but could get me an answer in hours. Although it would be slightly more hazardous to my health.
One of the side benefits of consulting for intelligence agencies is that you get access to all kinds of interesting workshops. I took one on social engineering because my own natural skills were nonexistent. Besides learning the typical ways that nefarious people can convince you to load virus software or talk their way through to the head of a company, I learned a remarkably easy way to get access to secure buildings.
After parking my car down the street, I walk around the back of the LA Unified School District administration building until I identify the area at the edge of the parking lot that’s the highest point of vulnerability: where people go take their smoke breaks.
I see two women and a man dressed in semicasual business attire, all three puffing away under a tree the appropriate distance away from the building according to California code.
With my ID on my hip but “accidentally” facing in, I pull my just-bought pack of Camels out, give them a friendly nod, and light up as I join them.
“Look, a new guy,” says the man. He’s Hispanic and about my height, with a full head of hair and a cheery expression.
“I figured this is where the bad kids hang out.”
“I’m Corrine,” says the black woman to my left, giving me a polite nod. “This is Jackie and Raul.” She indicates the other black woman. “Who the hell are you?” she asks with a smile.
“Jeff. Here from the governor’s office for a meeting that I’ve been in for two hours and still couldn’t tell you what it’s about.”
“Sacramento?” asks Jackie.
“And Los Angeles. I commute.”
“More importantly,” says Corrine, “single? Straight? We’re suffering a Y-chromosome shortage around here.”
“Divorced. Adjusting to single life.”
The women look at each other and share a smile as they both say, “Pauline.”
“Oh, buddy,” Raul sighs. “You have no idea what you just walked into.”
Likewise.
I carry on for the next ten minutes with my newfound friends, feeling slightly dirty. When it’s time to stub out our cigarettes and head back inside, I start a conversation with Corrine as Raul swipes his badge on the sensor and lets us all through.
“Do you remember where you’re headed?” asks Raul as we make our way to a bank of elevators.
“The conference room with all the sleeping people.”
“Floor two. You’ll have to take your pick,” he says as we step into the elevator.
As I get off on the next floor, Corrine points to me. “Stop by the fourth floor afterward. We have someone we want you to meet.”
Raul rolls his eyes as the doors close.
And, just like that, I’m inside the school district’s administration building and have a prospective date—all because I signaled to a group of people ostracized for a particular habit that I am one of them. The hardest part was not coughing as I pretended to smoke.
Although I’m in a building full of records, my goal isn’t to try to get access to a computer or riffle through their files. What I actually need is an open phone.
I walk down the hallway, looking through the windows of conference rooms until I find a small, unused one. I drop down into a chair, spread out some papers from the folder I brought with me, and make it look like I own the place.
Satisfied that nobody is about to boot me, I pick up the phone and call Garvin Elementary, hoping that Ms. Dawson won’t be the one to pick up.
“Garvin Elementary, how may I direct your call?”
“Hello, this is Showalter from Unified records. We’re trying to process a parent emergency-contact form from one of your students and having trouble reading it. I was wondering if someone there can clarify the information.”
“I can do that. What’s the name?”
“Rico Caldwell.”
“Okay. I can’t give you that information over the phone, but I can clarify it for you if you want to read what you have.”
I was expecting this. “Unfortunately the image is too pixelated. But I can give you my extension here if you want to confirm.”
“That will work as long as it’s at the 818-434 number.”
I check the number on the phone. “Yes. Extension 3874. Just ask for Showalter if I don’t pick up.”
“It should only be a second.”
Actually, it takes twelve.
“Showalter,” I answer.
“Sorry about that. Sometimes they check to make sure we’re not giving out student information. I think we already had a call about Rico. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I think so. Do you know who called?”
“Three days ago someone from his pediatrician’s office called, but they didn’t leave a return number.”
Well, that’s interesting. I wonder if someone was circling Rico?
“Have a pen?” she asks and then gives me Rico’s home address, the name of his mother, and everything else on the contact form.
I thank her and then get out of the building as quickly as possible.
While following up with Corrine and company on the fourth floor could make future access easier, it also runs the risk of them mentioning the guy from the governor’s office to somebody who knows better.
While the chances are almost zero that anyone would care, they’re not nonzero. And more importantly, I need to make sure that Rico isn’t in harm’s way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
OUTREACH
Rico lives in an apartment complex called Lincoln Gardens—a string of two-story yellow buildings with chipped paint surrounding a park showing more brown than green.
Black kids are bouncing a basketball around while Hispanic teens chase a soccer ball out in the spotty field—reinforcing every stereotype already in my head.
Mothers stand outside trading gossip while men lean on cars talking to one another in Spanish and English.
Rico’s apartment is toward the back of the complex, and I make my way there, never getting as much as a second glance from anyone.
I can hear a television set blaring through an open door on the second floor. When I get to the top of the steps, there’s a little girl, maybe two or three, playing with a broken doll and a saucepan lid.
Inside are two teenage boys, both around thirteen, draped over the couch, watching a movie involving cars racing through streets.
I knock on the open door. “Hello?”
The boys glance at me for a moment, then turn back to their television.
“Is your mother home?” I ask.
One of them shouts, “¡Vete, gringo tonto!”
I shout back at him, “Bájate del sofá, cucaracha perezosa.” This gets his attention. But only enough to flip me off.
I knock on the door again, hoping to get the attention of an adult.
Frustrated that he can’t hear the sound of the cars revving, the brat yells into the other room, “¡Abuela! ¡Hay un maricón en la puerta!”
An old woman no more than five feet tall comes waddling toward the door in a housecoat. “¿Qué?” she says, looking up at me.
I show her my ID, hoping it conveys some kind of token credibility. “¿Dónde está Rico?”
The woman shouts into the house. “Rico! Rico!”
&n
bsp; A small boy wanders into the room and stares at me skeptically. Wearing only a pair of shorts, he looks a little too skinny for his age.
“Rico?” I ask.
The boy nods.
“¿Hablas Inglés?”
“Yes?”
He gives me a wary look, then steps closer, still under the protection of his grandmother. I kneel so I can be eye to eye and get a friendly smile from the little girl who had been playing at my feet.
I pull the printout I made of his drawing out of my pocket and unfold it. “Did you draw this?”
He stares at it for a moment, not sure if I’m going to get him in trouble.
“It’s fine. I just wanted to know.”
The two teens from the couch have suddenly become interested and crowd the doorway behind Rico.
“Yes,” says Rico.
“Do you know who that is?”
He nods.
“What’s his name?”
Suddenly there’s fear in the boy’s eyes. Not at the drawing. Not at my question, but of me.
He runs through the others and back into the house. The two teens start laughing.
“Hombre de juguete is going to get you!” one of them yells at him in broken English.
I stand up. “You know who this is?”
“Sí,” says the other. “Toy Man. Everybody knows who he is.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Sí,” he says, stealing a glance at the other boy.
“Where?”
“Guzman Park. He’s there all the time.”
“White man?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “El negro.”
“Do you know when he’ll be there?”
“He’s there right now.”
There’s an earnestness in the way that he replies without even conferring with his friend that tells me he’s certain of that. Everything else, I’m not so sure about.
While I’d like to press little Rico for more answers, I get the feeling he’s in no mood to talk to me. The kid went white as a sheet when I brought up the Toy Man. His older friends thought it was a joke but seem very convinced of where he is.
“Thank you.” I give their confused grandmother a smile. The little girl waves to me as I walk back down the steps.