“I spoke to Detective Frank and he said that they took the child’s fingerprints, and they are trying to see if they can find him in the system, match him to a missing child. He has been asleep since you saw him last. Apparently, he hasn’t said anything that anyone has been able to understand. What did it sound like to you, Marty?” She questioned him. Marty figured she was referring to the child’s bellow as he ran down the hall.
“I don’t know.” He replayed the moment just before the kid sunk his sharp canines into his thigh. “It sounded like ‘dirty,’ but I could be wrong.”
“Sophie told me that he wasn’t responding to any of her questions at all. She thought that he might be in shock or possibly has a hearing problem, or perhaps he is even autistic.”
Her cellphone buzzed, letting her know she had a text message and she glanced down at it. He knew their lunch was over when she quickly took another bite into her sandwich and washed it down quickly with her diet drink.
“He’s awake; I’m going to go see him now. Do you want to come back with me?”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Marty gathered up the remainder of their meal and deposited it in the wastebasket. If her mother saw what the couple left over, there would be hell to pay.
“These were in the back of the pickup. I figured the kid might need something familiar.” Justin said, as they all gathered in the corridor outside the boy’s room. Jean had joined them and was frantically trying to open a bag of chips she had gotten from one of the vending machines. Marty watched as she used her teeth to tear into it; the bag exploded, scattering chips across the floor. Cussing under her breath, she began to pick them up, but one of the hospital’s orderlies stopped her with a wave of his hand, signaling that he would take care of the mess. She gave him a half-hearted smile, letting him know how grateful she was.
Justin held up a child-sized striped polo shirt and a pair of jeans. The shirt was clean but wrinkled. As Marty took the shirt from the pile in Justin’s hands, he noticed it still had a strong scent of laundry detergent. Stuck to the chest pocket was one of those paper name tags. Written in red marker, in block letters, was a name. TRISTAN.
Marty read the name out loud and watched to see if he got a reaction. The boy was laying curled up in fetal position, both hands curled into a fist. Brown, wavy curls fell, covering what he remembered as his round, deer-like green eyes, but he was still able to see the kid was watching them suspiciously. The moment Marty said the name out loud, the boy’s eyelids closed shut and his facial muscles tightened from clenching his teeth. Marty was pretty sure that the boy had heard him and the question of his having a hearing problem, in his opinion, was now moot.
Justin handed Hope the jeans and then pulled out some paperwork from his pocket and began to read the contents aloud.
“The dead guy, Archie Blakey, aka Fred Blakey, aka Freddie Archman has a rap sheet a mile long. Man was arrested and convicted in 1978 for molesting a seven-year-old boy. Spent one year in prison in the state of Washington. Arrested again in Oregon in 1985, accused of trying to abduct a neighbor’s six-year-old son. He was represented by a court appointed attorney and acquitted on some technicality. He was arrested in New York for soliciting in 1988, and a few more misdemeanors, but there doesn’t appear to be any convictions. A few traffic infractions in 1990 after that, and one domestic dispute arrest in Oregon, but we can’t find anything else.”
He went on.
“The guy in surgery fits the description of the registered owner of the pickup. Troy Blakey; age twenty–eight. Address on record is also Fort Rock, Oregon. No priors. The deceased, Archie Blakey, had some I.D. on his person with the same exact address.”
Marty saw Jean and Hope look at each other. They were engaged in some sort of silent communication being conducted with their eyes. The two of them seemed to know what the other was thinking.
Marty turned and directed his question to Hope. “What? What’s going on? What are you thinking?” he asked her.
She shook her head, but it was Jean that answered his question. “Same address, same last name. I just hope we don’t have another one of those father and son sociopath teams.” she said, taking the report from Justin’s hand.
“Do you think they’re father and son?” Hope asked her.
Then it finally hit Marty, they were both thinking about Dennis and Arnold Maurer, the infamous father and son serial rapists and serial killers.
Jean handed the paper back to Justin. Folding the sheet of paper, he placed it back in his pocket. He started to walk out of the room, but stopped. “They have been searching the system for missing kids that fit this little boy’s description, but so far nada. We don’t have a clue who this kid is.” He turned to face the boy lying on the hospital bed.
Marty could tell this was hitting him personally, just like the rest of them. He had a little boy at home and another one on the way.
“There is no missing juvenile around his age, matching his description with the name of Tristan in the system, nothing even remotely close.” Frustration dotted his words.
“Maybe that’s not his real name.” Jean offered. “Maybe that’s the purpose of the name tag. Maybe these guys were trying to train him to answer to it. Somebody has got to be desperately looking for this kid. We just have to look harder.” She said, glancing over at the boy. He hadn’t moved a muscle. The lids of his eyes were still shut as if he was asleep, although Marty thought he saw them flutter. He had the feeling he was paying very close attention and heard every word they were saying. Marty was pretty sure he saw him cock his head slightly when Justin made mention of ‘the guy in surgery.’ It could have been his imagination, and he could have been mistaken, but he got the strange feeling that he was listening to their conversation for a specific reason.
Marty watched as Hope grabbed the rolling stool from the corner of the room and placed it close to the head of the bed. Now there was no doubt, Marty could see the boy’s eyes flutter underneath his still closed lids.
“Tristan?” She whispered softly. His eyelids flew open and he shifted his bottom and pushed himself, using the heels of his feet until he was flush against the wall, his hands clutched in tight balls, making two fists. Knowing that every reaction she had would determine how the boy related to her, Hope didn’t react at all except to give him a half smile. She gently bit down on the left side of her bottom lip and the corner of her mouth curled just a bit. She watched and waited until his hands seemed to slowly open and his fingers relaxed a bit before she spoke again.
“Tristan, you’re safe here, we aren’t going to let anyone hurt you.” Her smile was warm and she made every movement very slow and deliberate, hoping to gain his trust.
“DIRTY!” The word came out extremely loud and fast; everyone else in the room jumped back at his sudden outburst; but Marty noticed that Hope had the composure not to react. The boy repeated it over and over again. “DIRTY, DIRTY, DIRTY.” He hollered as he shook his head violently, a mass of brown curls whipping around, slapping his own face. His arms and legs, extended, pounded the air.
Marty went to stop her, but controlled his instinct as she took a chance of getting hurt by maneuvering herself so she was able to reach out and grab the boy’s shoulders. Once she had his shoulders secure in her hands, she shook her head and deliberately began mimicking his movements. “No, Tristan, you’re not dirty. You’re safe now; no one’s going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” She told him.
Marty watched as the little boy’s eyes began to focus on Hope and she slowly changed the rhythm of her own head movement. Tristan’s breathing became less frantic and he seemed to follow her lead and his hair stopped whipping around and now he appeared to be imitating Hope’s movements. Eventually, he sat still, staring at her, and then his eyes shifted to the pile of clothes on her lap. With his eyes locked on Hope, he quickly grabbed for the pair of jeans, thrusting the other clothes onto the floor. He started anxiously rummaging through the pockets until he fo
und what he was looking for. His hand came out wrapped around a plastic purple whistle, and without any hesitation, he raised it to his lips and blew as hard as his little lungs would let him. With each blow, he stopped and looked around, as if he was waiting for someone to answer his call, and every time there was no response to his frantic blows, his expression appeared to become more despondent.
She didn’t want to stop him, but the whistle was loud and piercing and they were in a hospital. She put out her arm, her palm facing up. She didn’t come out and ask him for the plastic noisemaker, but he knew what she wanted. Tears now ran down the child’s face, she felt his frustration as he placed the toy in her hand, his big green eyes still fixated on hers. Instead of putting it away, she raised the whistle to her own lips and blew hard. She turned around, facing the door, looking in the direction he had looked after each blow and looked as disappointed as he had when no one new entered the room.
“Tristan, can you tell me how old you are?” Hope asked, trying once again to engage him in a conversation. He responded by staring at her, a blank look in his eyes. She tried another method. “I bet you are eight years old. Yup, I think you are eight!” Nothing.
“Tristan, can you tell me what your last name is?” Nothing.
Someone spoke up. “Maybe he doesn’t speak English.”
Hope tried to engage him in conversation again. “Tristan, are you hungry?” At first he didn’t move and then he slowly opened his mouth and gave a soft grunt. Unless he was reading her lips, there was no question now that he did not have a hearing problem, and there was no language discrepancy. Hope turned to one of the nurses and asked her to get the boy something to eat. She turned back to him. “How about a cheeseburger? Would you like that, Tristan?” Again, he answered with a grunt and a nod of his head.
Hope turned back to the nurse. “Vanessa, can you get Tristan a cheeseburger and some french fries?” Hope looked back to the boy, hoping to see if the mention of the fries got a response. The little boy’s head bobbed up and down twice.
Satisfied, and somewhat elated, she instructed the young nurse to run the errand. “Yes, a cheeseburger and fries.” Just before the nurse left the room, Hope added to the order, “and a large glass of milk please.”
The small group that had huddled in the room was blocking the doorway, but one by one they spread out so Vanessa was able to maneuver her way out the door to get the child some food. The group, consisting of medical and law enforcement, stood there captivated by the child, not quite knowing what to make of him. It was just a few hours ago he was screaming gibberish and running through the hospital trying to escape, and now he was passive and remarkably submissive.
Unlike Michaelah, who was found filthy, her blond hair so matted and dirty everyone thought it was brown; Tristan seemed to be well groomed. His hair looked and smelled as if it recently had been shampooed, and his fingernails, although a little dirty, looked short and well-manicured. There was no apparent bruising on him, except for a few fresh scratches from what Hope thought to be his encounter in the woods and running through it partially undressed. His teeth appeared clean and well maintained, with his right top front tooth slightly overlapping the one next to it. She got the distinct impression that someone had taken great care in his dental hygiene, as she recalled noticing a white filling on one of his molars in the back of his open mouth just before he blew into the whistle.
The appearance and condition of the two children were dramatically different and she wondered why the discrepancy. Was it possible that Tristan was kidnapped just hours earlier? Michaelah had been missing for several months; which would account for her lack of good hygiene. Hope took the polo shirt and the boy now known to them as Tristan allowed her to pull it over his head. He lifted his butt as she pulled up the jeans and zipped them. As she did, she consciously made a list of questions that she wanted to bring to Marty and Jean’s attention, but she did not want to discuss them in front of the boy. So she filed them away in the back of her mind and continued to try and build a rapport with him.
As captivating as the scene was with Hope and the boy, Jean knew she had a homicide to investigate and this boy was most likely their best and only witness. The surviving gunshot victim was still in surgery and the last word she received from the medical staff was that he was critical. If he didn’t make it, the boy and Michaelah may be her only chance to find out what actually happened in the cabin in the woods.
She pulled Marty aside. Normally, Jean would be looking up because of the difference in height, hers reaching five-six and Marty six-foot-three, causing her to strain her neck, but she was still dressed for court and wearing the uncomfortable heels. The extra few inches made a radical difference and she liked the fact it was less of a strain. Now she wondered how the petite Hope did it without getting whiplash or suffering from a host of cervical muscle problems.
“We need to interview this kid, Marty, and we need to do it now while everything is still fresh in his mind. I know you’re technically on ‘family leave,’ but I really would appreciate you helping me out on this one.” Jean knew part of the reason she was requesting his help was to intervene with Hope. She wasn’t too sure how Hope would react to her trying to interrogate the child so soon, and if Marty requested it, she may be less reluctant to say the boy wasn’t ready.
Hope had overheard her and walked over to where Jean and Marty stood. It was Hope that replied to Jean’s request.
“We don’t know if he can even speak, Jean. All he has given us so far is a few grunts. I don’t know how much of this behavior is normal for him, or because of what happened and what he may have witnessed. There is no question that he has been traumatized, and I don’t know how far we can push him without contributing to even more psychological damage. His psyche is most likely very fragile right now, and I think we need to walk a very thin line.”
Feeling slightly embarrassed she was caught trying to manipulate the situation, Jean’s eyebrows raised, her lips turned down, and for a brief moment, her thoughts floated away.
She didn’t realize, but she was staring at Hope. She fixated on her friend’s natural beauty and butter smooth olive complexion and she suddenly became self-conscious of her own appearance. She knew that she was being oversensitive and knew that Hope wasn’t wasting her time doing the same by counting the creases on her friend’s face. She tried to shake off the intimidating thoughts as she realized her thoughts floated off and her mind had gone somewhere else. She realized she hadn’t heard all of Hope’s answer.
“We can try, but let’s keep it simple. I don’t think it would be a good idea to ask him about the shooting,” Hope paused and then added, “not yet.”
At first she thought that Hope had said ‘absolutely not,’ and that questioning the boy was out of the question. It took a moment or two for her to realize that she would be allowed to interview the boy, but she would be limited in what she could ask. Jean was disappointed because she felt not having full control over how and what she could ask would hinder her and possibly could be detrimental in conducting the investigation. She started to verbalize her dissatisfaction with Hope’s decision, and began to argue with the psychiatrist, but she caught herself. Suddenly, her thoughts drifted again and a frivolous thought entered her mind. She reminded herself to ask Hope which skin product she used. She shook her head; feeling embarrassed at her sudden lack of professionalism and childish behavior. She admonished herself for being so self-indulgent that she was thinking of herself instead of doing her job. She couldn’t understand what was going on and why she, suddenly, had become so vain and unfocused.
Jean was just about to go back into the room when the young nurse came back with a plastic cafeteria tray loaded with food. A burger, under a sesame bun, was loaded with cheese, spilling out onto the Styrofoam plate. A pile of french fries covered what was left of the dish, and the overflow went onto the tray itself. A cardboard container of milk and plastic utensils added to the meal.
It smelled
so good that Jean was tempted to grab one of the fries for herself. Her stomach growled, reminding her that the only thing she had had to eat was half a bag of stale chips from the vending machine since last night’s dinner.
“Thanks, Vanessa,” she heard Hope tell the young woman, as she took the tray and turned back to enter the room, leaving Jean to follow behind her.
She wanted to dive right into interrogating the boy even though she knew Hope was right. Heaven knows what that boy had been exposed to, or suffered, while being held captive by those two wackos. Chastising her own selfish thoughts, she gave herself the excuse that her stomach was running her mouth and not her good judgment, and she wasn’t thinking clearly. If it were her daughter, instead of that little boy, she would want someone like Hope to stand up to any cop who might not have the kid’s best interest at heart, even if it meant interfering with an investigation.
She watched as the young boy wolfed down the food; barely chewing it, instead inhaling it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Every once in a while, he would tilt his little face and look around at the small crowd in the room, sheepishly, as if he wasn’t minding his manners. Everyone stood watching silently, in utter awe, as he devoured every last bite.
Someone in the room remarked aloud, “I wish I could get my kid to eat like that.”
Giving the child a few minutes to digest what he ate, Jean signaled to Hope that she wanted to begin her interview. Once she got the go ahead, she grabbed a chair and sat down. Marty moved in closer but stayed behind her.
“Tristan, how are you feeling?” Jean asked, trying to make herself as small as possible so he wouldn’t feel intimidated.
His fingers toyed with the material on the bed sheet, but he remained silent.
“Tristan, that’s your name right?”
Again she was met with silence.
STOLEN Page 5