Little Boy Lost

by Trafford, J. D.

He hesitated, staring at my hand for a moment. I could tell that he was contemplating whether he should touch it at all. He decided to shake my hand and said, “I know who you are.”

  Smiling, I tried to soften the mood. “Could be good or could be bad, depending on what you know.”

  His eyes narrowed, and then he looked off to the side with a smirk. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t share it with me.

  We sat for a moment in silence. Poles drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Then he said, “Well let’s get on with it.” He looked at me flat. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  Poles didn’t say anything, and then he barked, “We on a date?”

  “No, but right now I think you know some things about all these missing kids.” I leaned forward, holding his stare. “So I’m hoping you can help me out. Being a prick isn’t really going to benefit you much in this situation.”

  Poles lifted his hand, making it clear that I should stop talking. “I’m here because my boss told me I had to come.” He shrugged. “Didn’t say anything about talking about my life or being Mr. Warm and Fuzzy.”

  “Wasn’t expecting Mr. Warm and Fuzzy.” I leaned back. “Just hoping for smart.” I signaled to the waitress from across the room. She came over and I ordered a chili dog, a bag of chips, and a Diet Coke. She turned to Poles, and he shook his head, refusing to order. Then she walked away.

  “So”—I turned back to Poles—“you want to talk about these kids, or let me assume the worst about you?”

  I opened my folder and then pushed the photographs of all the young men who had been assigned to Poles and were now missing.

  Poles quickly flipped through the stack. “Don’t have much to say,” he said. “I got a big caseload, and they all pretty much look the same. Don’t leave much of an impression, you know, other than they’re a waste of everybody’s time.”

  “Lost causes?”

  Poles laughed. “Beyond lost causes.” He pointed at me, getting angry. “You all expect us to be miracle workers. We’re not. None of these kids want to change. None of their families want to change.”

  “None?” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying there’s never been a kid who wanted a better life.”

  Poles got silent. Then he said, “No.” He shook his head. “Not that I met. Not really.”

  The rest of the interview wasn’t any more helpful than the start. Poles offered no real information related to any of the Lost Boys. He claimed ignorance, and part of me believed him. The other part, however, wondered whether he was really the one.

  He fit the profile: loner, angry, narcissistic, and knowledgeable about police procedures and DNA. There was also something about his attitude. Although he was combative, he had this look in his eye. It was like he might’ve been enjoying himself.

  Poles knew I wasn’t a cop. He knew he wasn’t in any real danger. So why not play with me?

  Neither Poles nor the chili dog was sitting with me very well as I returned to my car. As I pulled out into the street, my telephone rang. I looked down at the tiny screen and saw that it was Emma.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Downtown.” I stopped for a red light and watched as a half dozen cars paraded by. “Just finished my meeting.”

  “Good,” Emma said. “Stay down there. You’ve got court in an hour, and then I’ve got two more clients you need to meet at the jail and post bail for them.”

  “Court?” The car behind me honked. The light had turned green. I acknowledged them with a wave and then jerked the car forward. “I didn’t think I had any appearances today.”

  “Well now you do,” Emma said. “The crazy one.”

  I paused, thinking. “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “Bates.”

  “Cecil?”

  “That’s the one,” Emma said. “Emergency motion for a continuance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Judge Saul Polansky called our case last. He wanted to make me wait. Punishment for clogging up his calendar.

  The judge’s personality had changed since the last time we’d seen each other. He didn’t want to chitchat and gossip. He was irritated. He wanted to go home and didn’t appreciate an “emergency” motion being added to his calendar.

  I sat in the back of the courtroom for two hours. The law factory processed a half dozen misdemeanors and a couple of gross misdemeanors as my cell phone buzzed. I knew better than to answer my phone. There was a clear “no cell phone” policy in the courts. The judge was already annoyed with Cecil Bates, and I didn’t want to give him another reason to yell at me or my client.

  At four o’clock, Cecil Bates was led into the courtroom. He was thinner than when we had last seen each other. His face was drawn, and Cecil looked even smaller than usual as he stood next to the large bailiff sporting a bulletproof vest under his uniform.

  The judge pointed at the prosecutor. “It’s your motion.”

  The prosecutor nodded. “Yes.” Then she looked at me and my client. “As you know, Your Honor, Mr. Bates has refused to plead guilty.”

  Bates bolted straight. “’Cuz I ain’t guilty.” He pointed at the judge. “And I ain’t pleading guilty to nothing I didn’t do.”

  Judge Polansky’s face turned red. “Mr. Bates, you will remain quiet and not interrupt these proceedings, or I will find you in contempt.”

  I put my hand on Cecil’s shoulder, trying to calm him down.

  “Understood?” The judge cocked his head to the side.

  The judge waited, and eventually Cecil nodded his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” The judge turned back to the prosecutor. “Go on.”

  “Mr. Bates has asked for a speedy trial. The court has granted that speedy trial request and set a date. Unfortunately, Your Honor, our office learned recently that the arresting police officer will be on a family vacation and out of state during the scheduled trial.”

  “And?” Judge Polansky was getting bored.

  “And, we promptly asked counsel for Mr. Bates for a continuance, and he refused.”

  The judge turned to me.

  “That’s not exactly accurate, Your Honor.” As a lawyer-actor, I offered a dramatic sigh before continuing. “I agreed to the continuance if the State would agree to let my client out of jail pending trial. They refused that request, and so I refused to agree to the continuance.”

  The muscles in the judge’s neck visibly tightened, and his hands balled into tight little fists. Then he closed his eyes. Judge Polansky asked, almost in a whisper, “What is wrong with you two?” When neither the prosecutor nor I responded, the judge continued. “Last time I checked, this case is about drinking alcohol in a park.” He opened his eyes and stared at the prosecutor. “Not exactly the crime of the century. You’d agree?”

  The prosecutor stammered, mumbling something about Cecil Bates’s failure to appear at the last hearing and the quality of life in downtown Saint Louis.

  “And you”—Judge Polansky turned to me—“you can’t negotiate a plea, can’t control your client, can’t find a resolution to a simple motion for a continuance.” He picked up his gavel and slammed it down on the bench.

  The sound echoed throughout the courtroom. I thought, for a second, that the gavel may snap in half.

  “I’m done with this.” Judge Polansky stood up. As he left the courtroom, he said, “Motion for continuance granted. The defendant is released pending trial. That’s it for me today. I’m going home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It took until mid-September for the sporadic shooting pain and tenderness to be completely gone. Life was busy but falling into a routine. A late-night phone call from Schmitty, however, changed the rhythm that Sammy and I had developed. I had to figure out how to balance everything, and I decided to wake her earlier than normal, holding off as long as possible. It wasn’t ideal, but there wasn’t much choice.

  I
opened the door to her room. “Sweetie.” I walked over to the window and lifted the shade. The sun was rising, but still low in the sky. Then I walked to the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Daddy needs you to wake up now.”

  Sammy rolled over but didn’t show many other signs of life.

  I tried rubbing her back, which only elicited a groan. “Come on now.” I returned to the door and flipped the light switch. Sammy pulled the sheet over her head. “I need you up so we can talk.”

  Then she stated the obvious. “I’m tired.”

  “I am, too,” I said, “but I have to go. Are you listening?”

  Another groan came from under the sheets.

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “You know that case I’ve been working on? The case with the missing boys.” I paused, waiting for Sammy to say something in response or acknowledge that I was not simply talking to a lump of bedding. “They found something, and I have to go help them figure it out.”

  This got Sammy’s attention. She slowly pulled the sheets down, so that I could see her face. With eyes half-closed, she asked, “Right now?”

  I nodded. “Need you to be a big girl and get ready and take the bus this morning.” I thought about all our progress and that it was about to unravel, but I didn’t have a choice. “I can’t drive you today.”

  Sammy looked away. She was calculating. “When are you coming back?”

  “Tonight.” I reached out and found her hand. “You’ll do fine. You’ve been doing great.” It sounded more like I was trying to convince myself more than her. “Your mama would be proud of you.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve already talked to Grandma. She’s going to have a big breakfast for you at the main house and make sure you get off OK. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I leaned over and kissed her on the head, then I checked my watch. “Gotta go now, but I’m not leaving until I see those feet on the floor.” Then I stood up and walked over to the doorway. “Come on now. You can do it.”

  Another groan, and then she said, “Fine.” Sammy pulled her sheets down and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Good enough?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.” I smiled. “Need to see you standing on the floor and walking in the general direction of the bathroom or your dresser.”

  “Dad.” Sammy was exasperated, but was also milking it a little now, enjoying the attention. “OK.” She stood fully, took a few steps away from her bed, and held out her arms. “Happy?”

  I laughed. “Totally.”

  Castlewood State Park was just over forty minutes outside the city, depending on traffic. It was easy to see the park’s large trees and a distant rolling hill from Highway 44, but it took some effort to figure out how to get to it. The interstate, built for trucks, speed, and sprawl, offered no logical exit ramp for the park, and then, once I’d left the highway, the roads followed the terrain rather than anything resembling a logical grid.

  At last I drove in a large loop over the Meramec River to Big Bend Road, then wound back along Kiefer Creek to the meeting site, where the road ended in a large trailhead parking lot. Police had put up a wooden barricade at the entrance. A highway patrolman stood in front.

  The Highway Patrol is the most formal of all law enforcement agencies. He addressed me as sir. He confirmed my identity and reason for being there, then pulled the barricade aside.

  Schmitty and three cops stood around a picnic table examining something. As I approached, Schmitty noticed and gestured for me to join them. I squeezed between him and one of the other officers and looked down. There was a large map of the park. It had two marks. The first mark was the location of the original crime scene. Somebody had written the number nine next to it, representing the number of bodies recovered, including Devon Walker’s.

  The second mark was still in the park but across the river, not too far from where we now stood. There was no number written next to this mark yet.

  “How many?” I asked.

  They turned. No one answered my question, deferring to Schmitty.

  “Three more, at least.” Schmitty put his hand on my shoulder. “Justin Glass, let me introduce you to officers Johnson, Cole, and Bilcik.”

  “Morning.” I nodded. “Sorry to hear about this.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Schmitty said, gesturing for me to follow him away from the others. He walked toward the trailhead and then onto a path leading into the woods. “Techs are still working the scene. They think that they’ve located another body, so that would bring it up to four, but nobody knows whether this site is as compact as the other one or whether the other bone fragments belong to a deer or another animal.”

  I followed him farther into a grove of oak and hickory, and Schmitty continued. “When I heard about the first one being found by the construction crew, I was hoping it was an old, unmarked native gravesite—not too uncommon around the river—but when they pulled the second and third one up, figured it wasn’t a coincidence, not with how close we are to the other site.” Schmitty stopped when we got to a line of yellow police tape. “Then, when I saw the bodies”—he took a breath and spoke on the long exhale—“knew for sure it was the same deal.”

  “Hands behind the back with plastic ties.”

  Schmitty pointed at me. “Bingo.”

  We ducked under the police tape, and he led me farther into the woods. “Little farther.” Schmitty pointed. “Construction guys were building a couple yurts out here. Kind of a new thing. Not quite camping, but not as expensive as the traditional cabins, either. Construction crews were digging holes for the footings and a pit toilet. That’s when they found it.”

  We entered a clearing. There was an ATV and a small trailer loaded with building materials, as well as a yellow Bobcat excavator. Two crime scene techs circled the site taking photographs, and I noticed a couple of mounds of dirt with little orange flags sticking up.

  “So this is a nice field trip and all,” I said, “and I mean no offense here, Schmitty, but why do I need to see all this?”

  “Didn’t need you here only to see.” He put his hand on my shoulder and guided me over to the excavator. “I needed you here to talk.” Standing on the other side of the Bobcat was the Saint Louis chief of police, Max Wilson.

  “Justin Glass,” Chief Wilson said, holding out his hand. “We haven’t met, but of course I know who you are. Thanks for coming.”

  We shook. “Long way for me to come for a conversation.”

  The chief shook his head. “Too many eyes and ears in the city.” Chief Wilson gave me a look. “You already know that.”

  It was the way he held my eye that gave me pause. It was like he knew things. Maybe he was referring to Sammy, or maybe to me and the mayor, but the chief wasn’t going to say it. Perhaps it was all in my head—or maybe not.

  “OK.” I put my hands on my hips. “You got me in the woods. Now what?”

  “You know that family you talked with and got the DNA sample?”

  “Deonna Villa?”

  “That’s it.” Chief Wilson nodded. “Came back a match.”

  Schmitty picked up where Chief Wilson was headed. “Now with these.” He looked at the mounds of dirt and orange flags. “It’ll hit the news again, and you’ll have more families coming out of the woodwork. I want to get DNA swabs of everybody who’s come to your door, even the ones that you reject.”

  “Why don’t you get them yourself?”

  “Because they’re not coming to us. They’re still coming to you,” Schmitty said.

  “They trust you,” added Chief Wilson. “I saw the spreadsheet. It was nice work. Better than anything we’ve got.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “But I don’t have the time to do your job.” A dozen kids had disappeared, and the police hadn’t lifted a finger. Even now I wasn’t sure what they were doing, except hoping that people would get tired of the story and forget it. “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “
My heart breaks for these families, but I need paying work. I’ve already sunk too much into this.”

  “Come on,” Schmitty said. “It’ll be good for you. A favor for us.”

  “A favor, huh?” I looked at them, skeptical. “More like favors, plural, and I want to know if you have any other suspects besides Jimmy Poles.”

  “You know, officially, I can’t tell you that.” Chief Wilson looked at Schmitty and then back at me. “But we still don’t have much.”

  “We got a dozen dead kids, and you don’t have much.” The challenge went unanswered. “So how hard are you actually looking?”

  “We’re looking hard,” Chief Wilson said. “But it’s a tough case.”

  “Right.” I turned and walked a few feet away from them. Part of me wanted to be done with them, let the whole thing go, but I knew that the families would come regardless of what I told Chief Wilson or Schmitty.

  Chief Wilson allowed for some space and silence, then walked over to me. “We could be very helpful to you and whatever endeavors you may pursue. You want more legal work? We can make that happen. You want to run for something? I’ve got a thousand people, between the officers and civilian support staff under my command. They’ll put up those signs, make those calls, and attend a rally in the rain if I tell them to do it.”

  I rolled my eyes, hopefully reminding Chief Wilson who I was and who was in control. “If I help, it’s because it is the right thing to do. And if I were to do it, and I do mean if, you’d need to have the tech there at my office during the initial response. If you want these families to call and make an appointment, it’s not going to happen. It needs to be right there or maybe train my paralegal, Emma, how to get the DNA sample.”

  Both Schmitty and the chief smiled.

  Schmitty clapped his hands together. “Good. We can do that.”

  “And I want to know what you’re doing. You need to tell me how you’re following up on the information that I give you.”

  Schmitty looked at Chief Wilson, who nodded, and then looked back at me. “Done.”

  “Good.” I checked the time. It was still relatively early, and I’d be able to make it to the office and get some real work done. “Then that’s it.”