Little Boy Lost

by Trafford, J. D.

  Neither said a word. They sat on the edges of their chairs. It was as if I were the doctor and they were the patient waiting for the diagnosis, which wasn’t too far from the truth.

  “You haven’t been treated right.” I paused. “If your kid was blond with blue eyes, this would’ve been on the news a long time ago and there would be a real investigation. But now, at last, people are paying attention.” I put my hands together, an unintentional moment of prayer. “You don’t trust the police, and I’m not here to argue with that. As I’ve told the other families, I can’t make any guarantees about finding your son. I’m not a detective. I’m a lawyer. The best thing that I can do is gather your information, and then I’ll make sure that the Saint Louis Police Department is aware and starts really looking for your son.” I paused. “Do you understand that?”

  Deonna nodded. “I’ll do anything to get him back.”

  “I know you would.” I opened her file and read the preliminary information that Emma had gathered. “Your son’s name is Brendon, and it looks like he’s been missing for a year. True?”

  “Yes, sir.” Deonna reached out and took her sister’s hand. The mere fact that somebody was asking her about her son had almost pushed her to tears.

  “You’ve filed a missing person report, but the police haven’t contacted you.”

  Deonna’s face hardened. “Never.” She looked at her sister. “They ain’t never called.”

  “So I have some pictures of the boys that the police haven’t been able to identify.” I paused. “The pictures are the remains. After months, maybe years in the ground, there isn’t much left, but maybe you’d recognize an item of clothing or something else.” I opened a three-ring binder. It was filled with the documents and photographs that I had gotten from Schmitty; each missing boy was separated by a tab. “And I’d like you to look—” I was about to push the open binder across the table but stopped. “You OK?”

  Deonna closed her eyes and gathered herself. “Think so.”

  “I’m doubtful that your son will be in here or that you’d be able to tell by the pictures, but I have to ask you to look.” I handed the binder across the desk to her. “We just need to rule it out.”

  Deonna took the binder, and then she and her sister looked at the first set of pictures. Both shook their heads. Then they turned to the next tab and looked at the second set of photographs. Again, no match.

  Deonna looked up at me. She was struggling. I could tell she wanted one of the pictures to identify her son, Brendon, even though she would never want him to be dead. The need for closure was that great.

  She turned the page, working through the binder, staring at some photographs longer than others. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped onto the laminated pages.

  “Ain’t him.” She closed the binder and looked up. “These ain’t him.”

  I nodded. “Just because you don’t see anything doesn’t mean he hasn’t been found. The police have all their DNA and ran it through the system, but there was nothing on file that matched a name. So the only way we can make an identification is through a family member. We’d like to get a quick sample from you to see if there’s a match. Is that OK?”

  Deonna agreed to provide a sample, and I took the binder back from her, closed it, and put it to the side. “I’ll make an arrangement to do a DNA test. Just to see. It’s pretty quick.”

  I arrived at the self-described Justice Center ten minutes before the front desk clerks left for the day. Instead of going up the elevator to the courtrooms, I went through the metal detectors and took a left down a hallway, through a waiting area, and up to a person sitting behind a window of bulletproof glass.

  “Afternoon.” I removed the thin file from my briefcase, reading the name printed on the top. “Here for . . . Stanley Kantor.” I took out my card as well as a check for the maximum bail amount that can be levied in a DWI case. “My paralegal made arrangements for me to post this bond on his behalf and have him released to me with a court date.”

  The clerk let out a heavy sigh, looking at the clock. “Little late for this, dontchathink?”

  “Apologies.” I slid the paperwork and the cashier’s check through the slot in the window.

  The clerk, being unable to refuse my request, took it. She examined every page, looking for an error. She needed a technicality to give her a basis to reject it, send me on my way, and go home early.

  She found none.

  “Have a seat.” She pointed at the rows of chairs, mostly empty.

  A half hour later, Stanley Kantor was released. He was ecstatic to be out of jail. He couldn’t stop thanking me. He didn’t know that he would have been released the next morning, regardless of whether he had hired me or had any attorney at all.

  The police can only hold somebody for seventy-two hours without charging them, and the prosecutor’s office was so backed up with work that DWIs got a low priority.

  But, with bail money and a private attorney, the Saint Charles businessman didn’t have to spend an extra night in jail. He got to go home to his family, while old Cecil Bates was held. That’s how it worked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was after dinner by the time I got home. The carriage house was dark, but there was life in the main house.

  I found Sammy, my mother, and the Judge sitting around the table eating ice cream from the Clementine’s Creamery on Lafayette Square.

  “Looks good.” I squeezed Sammy’s shoulder and pulled up a chair. “What’s the flavor?”

  “Mine’s the Malted Milk Ball.” Sammy stuffed a spoonful into her mouth. “Grandma and the Judge got the naughty kind.”

  “Bourbon Kentucky Pie.” My mother smiled slyly. “Made with real bourbon. The Judge made me get it.”

  “True.” The Judge laughed. Then he switched to his official voice so he could make a formal declaration. “A good bourbon, frozen and creamed with an appropriate number of pecan pieces, is always a fair and just selection.”

  “And it is so ordered by the court.” I loosened my tie and leaned back. It had been such a busy day, and yet, satisfying. It was as if the black storms had rolled off, just a little bit, and I could see some sunlight in my mind.

  I looked at Sammy. “Get your homework done yet?”

  She stuck another spoonful of ice cream in her mouth and said something at the same time.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, not yet.”

  I nodded, looking at the Judge and my mother and then back at Sammy. “Well that needs to be done before you go to bed tonight.” I pointed at her bowl of ice cream. “Finish that up, and then it’ll be time to go back to our little abode. You can finish your homework, and then I’ll be checking. Don’t be rushing through it.”

  Sammy feigned a pout, but there was a twinkle in her eyes.

  She was happy I cared.

  The Judge, in his younger and harsher days—before he had fully embraced the role of great- grandfather extraordinaire—used to tell my mother, “Rules equal love. If you let your children run the show, then you really don’t love them.”

  Perhaps the Judge was right.

  My mother led me toward the sunroom as Sammy went back to the carriage house to work on her homework. Just as the library was an oasis for the Judge, the sunroom was where my mother spent her time, knitting and simultaneously reading three or four books. She opened the nine-panel French doors and then flipped a switch. The dimmed lights grew brighter, and I followed her to the couch.

  “I’m worried about you and your brother.” She sat down and patted a spot next to her. “Heard from him?”

  I hesitated, thinking about the threat he’d delivered to me and Annie. “Not really,” I said. “I know he’s mad. I know he wants me to step aside, and Buster is helping him out.”

  “Buster.” Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Always willing to do the dirty work. Have you told your father what you’re intending to do?”

  I shook my head. “Should, but I haven�
��t.” I leaned back. “Never asked for the job. Never really wanted it, but when Dad asked me to do it . . .” I got quiet, and I remembered standing next to him as a boy. My father speaking in front of an adoring crowd chanting his name, and me soaking it in. “It felt good to be acknowledged by him, especially since Monica passed and everything sort of fell apart for me.”

  My mother put her hand on my shoulder and I continued.

  “Initially, I thought it’s kinda like that old saying, ‘Don’t want to go, but always nice to be asked to the dance.’ Thought it was an honor to be asked by Pop, and it made me feel proud. But, after a few days of being polite, I’d planned to tell him that Lincoln was the guy he really wanted. Then I kept thinking. Never made the call. And then . . . I don’t know . . . a couple weeks . . . maybe I should.”

  “I talked to your father this morning.” She was looking at me with concern. “He’s officially announcing the retirement in two weeks. Doesn’t want to rush you, but he’s done, Justin. He’s tired. I’m not even sure he’s going to do that lobbying nonsense. He wants to come home. He knows the city is hurting.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t have anything to say.

  My mother rubbed my back, like she used to do when I was a boy. “Maybe I should get Lincoln over here,” she said, “and you two can talk about it, you know, as brothers.”

  I looked up at the dark oak beadboard, studying the hundreds of lines running parallel across the ceiling. Then I stood up. “Maybe,” I said softly. Then I leaned over and kissed my mother on the cheek. “Just give me some more time. Pieces might be starting to fall into place.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It took another week, but I made it through all the Lost Boys interviews. There were no more discussions about running for Congress with my mother or anyone else. Ignoring the topic hadn’t postponed my father’s retirement or made the issue go away, but it was nice to pretend.

  My law practice was actually making real money for the first time in its history. I got Sammy to and from school on time every day, and made sure she did her homework every night. The dark fog that had hovered in my head and slowed my brain for so long lifted a little.

  I woke up with energy on this morning, and after breakfast, I arrived at my office a little after eight thirty. Emma Tadic was already there. The coffee was made, and she had a list of issues and potential clients that she wanted to discuss with me.

  “Need a minute,” she said, “or you want to do this?”

  I sat down at my desk and waved her inside. “Now’s as good a time as ever.”

  Emma nodded and sat down in the chair across from me. “Prosecutors called about Cecil Bates. They want a continuance for the trial. An officer is on vacation and unavailable to be a witness.”

  I shook my head. “Tell them no, unless they release him from jail. Otherwise we’ll go to trial.”

  Emma nodded, and then she started talking about other potential clients.

  She went through brief backgrounds, as well as the charges. We rejected two and kept one. Then Emma turned to the final potential client on her list. “He told me he was beat up by the bouncer pretty bad. Charged with disorderly conduct, so he wants criminal representation on that, but then he also wants to sue the nightclub. Don’t know about the damages, but he sounded pretty good, kind of a two-for-one. Do the criminal for free and then take a cut on the civil.”

  I nodded and then realized something. “When did you talk to him?”

  “Last night. This morning.” Emma thought for a moment. “Called at three or four, whenever they released him from the hospital.”

  “You were here in the office at three in the morning answering the phone?”

  Emma laughed. “No,” she said. “I have the calls forwarded from here to my cell phone in the evening. Otherwise we miss them. They find somebody else.”

  The thought of having a twenty-four-hour answering service had never occurred to me, and I knew nothing about how phone calls could technologically get forwarded from one to another.

  “I think you’re overqualified for this job,” I said.

  “True.” Emma thought for a moment. “My boobs fooled you.” She shrugged. “Not the first man to underestimate me.”

  I nodded, admitting that the tight, short skirts and the big hair were, for lack of a better description, distracting. “I think you also deserve a raise.”

  “You’re right, again.” Emma smiled. “Twice in one morning. Not bad.”

  Schmitty and I had met at the Northside Roastery. I handed the spreadsheets over to him, and he looked at them. After flipping through the first few pages, he looked up. “Been busy.”

  “I know.” A little bell rang at the counter, and Hermes waved at me. I nodded back at him, and then to Schmitty I said, “Cream?”

  “A little.”

  “Keep reading.” I pointed at the spreadsheets, and then I got up and walked to the back of the shop to pick up our drinks. The coffee shop was empty, as usual, but Hermes didn’t seem to mind. He was all smiles.

  “How’s Nikolas?”

  “Better every day, Mr. Glass.” Hermes glanced over his shoulder to the little room where Nikolas did his work. “He’s at the computer again. So that’s good. He says to ask you if you need anything.”

  “I’m good for now.” I placed a few dollars in the tip jar, then picked up the two steaming cups of coffee.

  “Emma working out OK?”

  “You already know the answer to that.” I walked over to a little table with sugar and cream and started to prepare the drinks. “Emma’s been great.”

  Hermes nodded. “She was a good lawyer.”

  I stopped. Emma’s a lawyer. I knew she was more than just a quick learner. Now it made sense.

  “Back home,” Hermes clarified. “In Bosnia, she was a well-known lawyer. Women’s rights. Human rights. My cousin, she was the first that had to leave when the troubles started.”

  “Emma never told me.” I felt bad, when I also realized that I’d never asked.

  “She doesn’t talk about what happened to her.” He paused. “Makes her sad. Makes me sad.” He shook his head. “Nobody recognizes any of our degrees here, but . . .” Hermes went a little distant again and stopped talking, then shrugged. “We’re alive.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Suppose I shouldn’t have,” he said. “It’s not good to brag, but if you can’t brag on family . . . who to brag on?”

  “Exactly.” I picked up the cups of coffee and took them back to the table. I put one down in front of Schmitty and sat down across from him. “See anything?”

  “A little.” He pushed the papers aside and looked up. “More interested in what you see.”

  “Well I’ve interviewed about thirty families. There are more, but we prioritized.”

  Schmitty grinned. “Meaning that you focused on the ones who could pay.”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “But if the family was associated with one of the kids identified and found in the woods, we interviewed those folks, regardless.” I leaned across the table. I found the one-page summary sheet with a star drawn in the corner. “This is the one that just has the information about the known Lost Boys. The ones we know were found with Devon in the woods.”

  Schmitty looked at it.

  “See something in common?” I pointed at the last column on the sheet that identified the boys’ probation officers.

  “Six out of nine.” Schmitty thought for a moment. “Don’t know what the caseloads are like.” He rubbed his chin. “Could be a coincidence. Could be some other explanation, geographic assignment or something.”

  “Could be.” I leaned back. “Or maybe not.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Schmitty set up the meeting for eleven o’clock at Kendrick’s Chili on Broadway. I wasn’t expecting much, but I was curious. I hadn’t ever met someone who was so universally hated.

  According to Schmitty, Jimmy Poles was a wiseass, but not the funny
kind. His face rested in a snarl. He was always on high alert to snap out an insult or release a high-pitched whine when asked to do his job or otherwise exert energy.

  Poles was never asked to go out for a beer after work or invited to lunch by the other probation officers, yet he somehow found out about any such gathering and weaseled his way to the table. That was Jimmy Poles. People couldn’t say his name without shaking their head in dismay.

  He was, however, union. Poles couldn’t get fired for annoying the hell out of everybody. The best his supervisors could do was keep a calendar. The calendar counted down the days until his retirement: 8,478 on the day that I met him.

  Some of my families had never seen or heard of Poles, even though their missing sons were supposed be on intensive supervised probation with him. A high-risk juvenile was to be seen by their probation officer at least once a week. Poles fell far short of that standard.

  To the family members who had actually spoken with him or met him, most didn’t know his name. He was simply a skinny white dude with a crew cut and an attitude.

  One mother had told me, “He walked up in here like he was the master. Didn’t matter that it was my damn house.”

  Twenty minutes late, Poles walked in the door. I recognized him immediately from the descriptions I had heard during the interviews.

  I raised my hand, and he shot me a look. Poles made it clear that his presence was not voluntary. His supervisor had forced him to come, after the supervisor’s supervisor got the call from above.

  He came over to the table and then folded his long body into the chair.

  I held out my hand to introduce myself. “Justin Glass. Thanks for coming.”