Hush Little Baby

by Alex Gates

  So, what was the truth?

  And why hadn’t I helped her when I had the chance?

  Something had scared Hannah. Something so terrible and dark it pushed her to the only safety she remembered—the comfort of heroin.

  What made her run?

  I searched the bed, the window, the built-in desk. She left no clues for us, no indication of where she’d gone or why. Then again, the facility had pitched everything, even the supplies in the drawer. For all I knew, they’d tossed any message Hannah might have left behind.

  Strange though. Dust bunnies littered the floor behind the desk. The window was smudged with handprints. Near the door, boot scuffs marred the linoleum. Muddy. They hadn’t mopped yet. Hell, even the lights flickered, in desperate need of a new lightbulb.

  How quickly had they torn apart Hannah’s room? They’d rushed, almost desperate to open the space. They took her things, but they hadn’t cleaned.

  “Detective.” Patricia’s impatience strained her voice. “Let’s continue our conversation in my office. Please leave this floor. The girls deserve privacy.”

  Not yet.

  The desk had stayed. The bookshelf.

  But a new mattress, removed from the plastic but still new, rested in the frame. They didn’t mop, didn’t change the lightbulbs, but they purchased a new mattress? How often did they make that expense? Between students? Once the springs wore out?

  Or only when it was necessary?

  “Detective.”

  Then I saw it—the smudge on the wall. Streaked, as if a cloth had run through it. Hardly noticeable, except to me.

  Blood.

  Hastily cleaned up blood, splashed across the wall behind the bed.

  As much as I loathed the thought of a teenage addict struggling with sobriety and threatening suicide out on the streets, I now prayed Hannah had escaped the facility without harm.

  Guilt tasted an awful lot like bile. No wonder Hannah had fought so hard against the administrators. No wonder she’d called me in a blind, terrified panic.

  She’d been hurt.

  First Amber. Now Hannah?

  How many others suffered in Grayson House?

  “My office is this way.” Patricia gestured into the hall. Was she that eager to be rid of me, or did she just want me out of Hannah’s room? “I’ll give you the number for the JPO. He handles our runaway cases and settles the situation with family court.”

  I doubted the JPO could give me the answers I needed. I had quite a few questions for Patricia, most of which she’d prefer to address with a lawyer present.

  “Your JPO sounds busy—do many residents decide to leave?” I asked.

  “Some children do not want to be helped. The resist our methods, and they choose to leave.”

  “Against court orders?”

  She led me downstairs and through a secondary hall leading to an administrative area. “If they’d cared about the consequences of their actions, the law would not have placed them here.”

  A gentle bell sounded—the pleasant chime a school might use. I slowed as a group of three teenage girls exited a classroom, shouldering their bookbags. All regulation, all uniform. Polo and slacks.

  The two brunettes didn’t look up, their eyes glued to the ground. An African American girl braved a quick glance from me to Patricia.

  Was it fear that furrowed her features?

  Patricia held her office door open. Suddenly, I wasn’t as interested in talking to the administration. I called to the girls instead.

  “Are any of you friends with Hannah Beaumont?” Just her name stilled all three of them. They froze, one clutching her books, one twisting her fingers into her shirt, and the last staring only at the floor tiles. “Could you tell me where she’s gone?”

  “Detective, please do not harass our residents. I will not warn you again.” Patricia waved to the girls. “To your classes. Now.”

  “Wait.” I stepped into their path. “My name is Detective London McKenna. Hannah Beaumont is a friend of mine. I’m concerned something has happened to her. I need to find her before she gets hurt. If you know where she might have gone, please tell me.”

  One of the brunettes shook her head. Too quickly. “Don’t know. She just left.”

  “When did she leave?”

  No answer, just a quick glance at Patricia. I didn’t like that.

  I bled a bit of authority into my voice. “She might be in trouble. If you know anything, you have to tell me.”

  The brunette twisted, shrugging until she nearly faded into the wall. “I guess she left two nights ago. I…I didn’t see her leave.”

  Patricia edged her way between us.

  “Thank you, girls. Off you go.” Her eyes narrowed on me. “There’s no need to upset these children with the problems of a wayward, bad influence. They’re struggling enough with their own problems and concerns. They don’t need to carry Hannah’s burdens as well.”

  The teenagers hurried down the hall, eyes averted. They didn’t giggle. Didn’t talk. Their resigned submission twisted my gut. Those weren’t the behaviors of normal teenagers.

  Either Grayson House had invented a breakthrough behavioral rehabilitation program for troubled youth, or something far more sinister threatened the girls and demanded their unquestioned obedience.

  Only one way to find out. “Tell me about Amber Reynolds. She was a resident here a few months ago.”

  “I’m not familiar with that name.”

  Yes, she was, or she wouldn’t have answered so quickly. “She was another girl who absconded from the facility.”

  “As I said, not all of our residents are prepared for the responsibility of recovery.”

  “How many of them go missing, Ms. Carson?”

  “Just what are you insinuating, Detective?”

  “Teenage girls in trouble? Most come from broken homes or the foster system with no other hope or opportunity. They’re alone, desperate, and scared, with a lot of problems and no real solutions…” I shrugged. “Why would they leave such a compassionate, successful program?”

  “We house troubled children. Many of them suffer from mental illnesses combined with substance abuse problems. They’re emotionally immature, maladjusted, and occasionally a danger to themselves and others. We do what we can to help, but some children are beyond the scope of even our expertise.” Her smile revealed more sadism than sincerity. “You can’t help them, Detective, no matter your persistence.”

  “I can handle a few wayward teenage girls. I’ll require a brief interview with each resident. Surely, someone knows what happened to Hannah Beaumont.”

  “I apologize, Detective. But, as the administrator of the facility and a legal custodian of the residents, I must deny your request.”

  “Oh?”

  “You must realize that those within these walls have been traumatized by their previous experiences with law enforcement.”

  “And what better way to reintroduce them to society than by demonstrating how the law is written to protect them?”

  “I am more than capable of answering any questions you may have regarding Hannah Beaumont.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Why don’t you follow me back to the station? We’ll make a formal statement regarding this incident.”

  Patricia smirked. “I hardly believe that’s necessary. This facility requires my undivided attention. I’m afraid this distraction has already cost me too much time this morning. Certainly, we can resolve this issue some other way?”

  She was so goddamned slimy, I wondered how she didn’t slip over the tiles. Didn’t matter. I’d get what I needed with or without her. “Let’s compromise. I’ll begin my report at the station, and I’ll email you any questions I may have.”

  “Excellent, Detective.”

  “Of course, I’d hate to bother you again and again with silly questions. Why don’t you send me a copy of Grayson House’s resident records—for the past five years? I’ll also need a listing of all the current and
past employees and staff.”

  A hesitation? “I’m afraid that information is privileged, Detective.”

  I flashed a smile. “Oh, of course. If you’d like, I’ll provide a court order to shield you from any potential liability. I’d hate to wait for information that might protect Hannah from any potential danger, especially as her disappearance wasn’t immediately notified to the police.”

  If looks could kill, Patricia would have resuscitated me just to strike again. “I’ll provide the material this afternoon.”

  As if I could trust anything that woman would offer, but at least I’d have some names and dates to match against both Amber and Hannah’s cases. “Fantastic. I know you’re busy. I’ll show myself out.”

  Patricia didn’t follow, but I didn’t linger in the facility. I retraced my steps to the exit, noting each security camera that followed my path. I’d need to request whatever footage they had the night of Hannah’s disappearance.

  If Patricia could provide it.

  The blood stain on Hannah’s wall might have been innocent. Hell, maybe even self-inflicted, given her mental state.

  Or something worse might have happened.

  If Hannah had escaped, she’d run fast and far. Problem was, it was hard enough to locate a teenager who didn’t want to be found. Most times they had a good home and reliable transportation. They’d eventually settle somewhere safe. But a girl like Hannah, without a family and struggling with her addictions?

  I hoped I’d find her in the station’s holding cell rather than OD’d in a hospital morgue.

  I recovered my badge and gun from the guard at the visitor’s entrance, but a girl called to me before I stepped into the yard.

  The black teenager from the hall hurried to greet me, her smile fake and broad as she brandished a copy of a flyer that matched the few on the walls.

  “Detective, we wanted you to have this.”

  The flyer promoted a Grayson House dinner, specially prepared by the residents of the facility. One of the life-skills events, an opportunity to teach the kids how to prepare healthy meals for themselves while introducing them to a potential culinary career.

  The girl absently rubbed her arm, the long sleeves pushing upwards. Pale scars dotted her dark skin. A cutter? No. The slices were too violent, too thick. The hallmarks of a past abuse.

  But how long ago?

  “I hope you can come back for this.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t lose her plastic smile. “Hannah would have wanted you to see it.”

  I flipped the flyer, quick and discreet. The girl had scrawled handwritten words over the back.

  “Please, Detective,” she whispered. “It would mean so much to all of us.”

  Noted. I nodded, but the girl turned, retreating into the facility before drawing an undue attention. I gripped the flyer, hiding it in my hand until I’d reached the safety of my car—away from any cameras or prying eyes.

  The message ached in my chest.

  Other girls are missing too.

  We need help.

  9

  “Are you scared?

  Or are you just curious?”

  -Him

  Fifteen girls had gone missing from Grayson House in the past five years.

  The number terrified me.

  Each of the cases had gone under or unreported. Fifteen girls between the ages of fourteen and eighteen with serious substance abuse issues absconded from their sentences at Grayson House.

  Each of them had vanished without a trace.

  And no one seemed to care. No one had looked for them. No one had given a damn about the kids who deserved the chance to rehabilitate their bodies and their lives through a program designed to save them from a failing system.

  My desk wasn’t big enough for this case. Instead, I worked in a spare interview room, layering pictures of the fifteen missing girls over the available space on the walls. I shouldered bookcases full of old manuals and leftover DARE material out of my way. The printers and broken chairs could stay. I pitched the junk into the corner.

  The girls stared at me from their pictures. I’d wallpapered the room with fifteen tales of addiction, desperation, and regret. No matter how different the girls looked—some blonde, some brunette, some tattooed, some scared—their stories had all ended the same.

  But I’d find out what happened to them. I was good at my job, and I had a great record of finding my Missing and bringing them back safely.

  If any of these girls were still alive.

  When did I lose that optimism? At some point, hope had become my own addiction. Worse than any real drug since it didn’t give me enough of a high to protect from the inevitable crash.

  I sat cross-legged on the conference table, surrounded with broken telephones and dusty boxes full of old, unsorted paperwork. A knuckled rapped the door. I didn’t bother getting up.

  “Here, McKenna.” Riley dropped a folder onto the table. “Don’t you got any work of your own? What the hell are you doing checking our uncleared cases?”

  “Is that it?”

  Riley snorted. He sounded less like a grunting pig when he did a favor for me. “Yeah. Pulled the name you wanted. Not exactly light reading.”

  I didn’t reach for the folder yet. If it stayed closed, the girl on the wall stayed alive, if only for a few more seconds. “I left my Cosmo at home. Ten Ways To Please Your Lover With A Finger Print Duster.”

  “I figured Novak to be a handcuff type of guy.”

  “Gotta spice it up every once in a while.”

  I ran my finger over the edge of the folder. The corners were wrinkled, but that was it. No dirt. No coffee cup rings on the back. Just a clean folder with only a couple pages tucked inside. Hardly looked like anyone had worked on it at all, though I wasn’t about to tell Riley how to do his job.

  “What exactly are you searching for?” Riley asked. “It’s after seven. Don’t you go home?”

  “James is in DC. Working on a book proposal for a case he solved a couple years ago.”

  “No shit?”

  “People love a good horror story.” Or so I’d been told. “I’ve got time to work.”

  “Got time to eat dinner? Sleep?” He eyed the rows of pictures. “You know, act like a functional human?”

  No sense delaying it. I flipped the folder open, bracing against the gut punch. Sure enough, the girl from the juvenile mug shot was the same woman pictured on the morgue’s table.

  “Damn,” I whispered. “What happened to you?”

  I hopped off the table, taking a sharpie to the mugshot of Maria Washington. I scribbled the date of her death under the picture and sighed. “Fourteen to go.”

  “Morbid hobby you’ve got there, McKenna.”

  I tossed the folder onto the table and pointed at the pictures posted around the room. “These are the mugshots of fifteen girls who once attended court-mandated rehab at Grayson House. Each of these girls, apparently, ran away. I’ve got records from the facility.” Laughably incomplete thanks to a computer server failure three years ago. “They reported that each of these girls voluntarily left the program—more importantly, they absconded in the middle of the night.”

  Riley only shrugged. “Troubled kids run away all the time.”

  “And go where? I’ve spent the afternoon researching each girl on this wall. They’re all products of broken homes and the foster system. Once they left the facility, they vanished. No known addresses. No family members or guardians.”

  “Do all the kids at this facility have the same story?”

  “No. Some are from wealthier families who had the political sway to place them there. But the others? Hell. Most of these kids developed their addictions before they were old enough todrive. Most are abused. The rest have no actual familial structure. They probably came from poverty with one or more family members also incarcerated.” I pointed to the photos. “Each of these girls was arrested for a serious crime, but nothing violent. They were sentenced to Grayson House for
treatment. It was supposed to break them free of the cycle.”

  “Well, if I don’t have their files, maybe they’re alive,” he said. I knew better. Riley’s glass wasn’t half-empty, it was leaking like a sieve. “Or maybe they moved out of the city or state. Buried six foot under in New York or some shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you want to find them?”

  “I want to make sure they’re okay.”

  “You’re doing welfare checks on teenage criminals and junkies who escaped from a court-mandated treatment facility?”

  “Yeah.”

  Riley leaned against the wall, snickering. “All right, McKenna. Enlighten me. I’m in the mood for something batshit crazy. Hit me.”

  If he wasn’t lucky, I’d take the request literally. “I think Amber Reynolds was raped at Grayson House.”

  “That lunatic baby-momma?”

  She wasn’t a lunatic, just terrified and alone. “And I think the rape is the reason she abandoned the baby.”

  “Adamski’s gonna kick your ass if you reopen that case.”

  He didn’t worry me. Amber did.

  “Someone threatened Amber, and I’m willing to bet it’s the man who sexually assaulted her. She hid the pregnancy and tried to give birth in secret so she could hide the baby from him. But, once it hit the news, she panicked. Tried to kidnap the baby to protect her from the rapist.”

  “Is this a child abduction or a subplot to Days of our Lives?”

  This was serious. “I had a friend at Grayson House. Hannah Beaumont. She called me two weeks ago, terrified. Potentially suicidal.” Guilt still tore through my guts. “I went back to check on her, to ask if she knew anything about what had happened to Amber. But she wasn’t there. The administration said she ran away.”

  I pointed to the last picture on the wall. Hannah had smiled in her mug shot—not out of spite or mockery, but because she thought she was always supposed to smile for a photograph.

  “Now she’s hanging there with the others,” I said. “And I have no idea where she is.”