Delayed Justice

by Cara C. Putman

  “Then you’re in deeper denial than I am.” There was a pause, one long enough to become even more uncomfortable than the conversation. “You’re at the Clarendon office.” A statement.

  Chandler shifted, feeling the weight of his gun in the holster at his waistband. Most days he didn’t notice it, the weapon was such a part of him, but in the middle of this conversation, it felt reassuring.

  “If you’d like to set up an appointment, I can meet with you. Usually we start with thirty minutes and expand as needed. If you believe I contributed to your pain, you should come in so we can talk.”

  “You’ll see me.” The man hung up, and Chandler found himself holding a silent phone to his ear.

  After he hung up, he stood and walked to the doorway. From there it was a stone’s throw to the bank of cubicles that held his colleagues. Only two of the six spaces currently held people. He strode toward them, and Allison Ramsey looked up from her monitor. “Did you happen to patch a call to me a few minutes ago?”

  Her green eyes held a dazed look, as though he’d interrupted a deep thought and she was trying to hear his words. “Ummm.” She blinked a couple times, and it was like watching cobwebs clear. “No. Didn’t answer the phone.” She pointed at the earbuds he hadn’t noticed through her dark hair. “Kind of in the zone.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” His attention shifted to Jake Robertson, the other caseworker. The former college basketball star had turned a tour with the military into a counseling career. The man was amazing with kids who adored him despite his large frame.

  Jake shook his head. “Didn’t take the call. We’re the only ones here today. Three of the team are at all-day training at the Pentagon, and Beth called in sick.”

  Chandler nodded at the reminder the agency was running low on staff. “Then he must have my direct number.”

  “Or used the directory. If he knew your name, it’s easy to reach you without going through us.”

  “Good point.” He steered the conversation toward what was on each of their agendas that day even as he did a quick security audit of the facility. While it was attached to the Department of Defense, there weren’t military police or marines stationed outside. Chandler acted as the de facto supervisor, since the man who oversaw the office worked from a second location. Moments like this, he worried their little office was the overlooked stepchild. A little bit of bulletproof glass wouldn’t do much to prevent someone from harming the facility if he wanted to. The challenge with making a threat assessment was that Chandler was missing key information—like who the man was.

  He felt the weight of silence and realized Allison and Jake were watching him, waiting. “All right.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ll just, uh, get back to my office. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Jake turned back to his computer without a word, but Chandler felt Allison’s gaze as he returned to his office.

  Chandler’s tours had heightened his awareness of how danger could rest along the next bend in the road. He’d been attached to a quartermaster unit and focused on moving supplies, which should have been safe. But nothing was safe or easy in a part of the world where the next person could wear a suicide vest, or an IED could be planted in a dirt stretch. It would be easy to start living as if everyone were the enemy. Over the months he’d been stationed in Iraq, he’d developed a sixth sense for danger, but it hadn’t saved his team. Even logistics couldn’t protect them.

  Was the phone call somehow related to that tragedy?

  He’d risen to sergeant and felt cocky about it, if he was honest. There were never any guarantees one could rise in the ranks, and he had. That sense of self-assurance might have carried over to the supply convoy. He’d been prepared to join the convoy when he’d been called back to deal with a fresh-off-the-plane bigwig. He’d sent his team down the road, fully expecting them to return. They shouldn’t have been in danger, since they were the ones who ensured the servicemen and servicewomen had what they needed.

  It was a routine operation, until the lead vehicle hit an IED. Chandler’s nightmares reinforced the realization that everyone was one instant from eternity, and most didn’t anticipate their encounters. They happened when least expected.

  He’d hardly had time to grieve his fallen brother and take care of those who were injured before his unit rotated out, and then he’d been transferred to the Vet Center. While the centers provided over a million counseling sessions a year, he couldn’t tell from the truncated conversation whether this guy needed reentry or bereavement counseling or why he wanted to talk to Chandler in particular.

  Aslan nosed his knee and Chandler froze, having forgotten his companion was there. “Sorry, boy.”

  The dog had an uncanny ability to detect his distress, making him a great barometer for Chandler’s mental state. If Aslan felt the need to intervene, then he needed to step away.

  “Need some air?” The dog looked at him, and Chandler grabbed his leash. “You might not, but a quick walk around the block would help me.” And could be explained as a quick stroll to take care of the dog’s needs, but Allison and Jake would understand. Five minutes was all he needed.

  Aslan’s dark eyes studied him as if to say, Of course it would. It was amazing how many conversations they had when only one of them formed words.

  Aslan stayed relaxed as they walked out the back door, which Chandler tried to tell himself meant all was well. But he couldn’t scratch the feeling of high alert. It was a leftover from his tours and helped him understand what the real heroes had experienced and what they brought back with them.

  His phone buzzed, and he slid it from its holder as he reentered the center. “Chandler.”

  “This is John Walters with Fairfax County. Got your dog?” The man’s tone was abrupt, pulling Chandler’s attention.

  “Aslan’s right here.” The dog’s ears perked up.

  “If you’re still interested, we’re ready to give him a try. We have a little girl coming in who could use a comfort dog.” John’s voice held an urgency that pulled Chandler taller.

  “When do you want us?”

  “The child is on her way in now.”

  Chandler grimaced as he glanced at his watch. “I’ll need at least an hour.”

  “That should work. This is a delicate situation. Little girl needs a careful touch.”

  “Aslan is ready.”

  “I hope you’re right, because we can’t get this one wrong.”

  It must be serious if John was this uptight. The man had been a detective with the Fairfax County police before focusing on providing a safe environment for children to be interviewed. He attended the same church Chandler did, and he’d been intrigued when Chandler mentioned what he was trying to do with Aslan.

  “I want that dog of yours to do well today.”

  “Me too.” After a few more words, Chandler hung up, then reached down to rub Aslan’s ears, the heaviness of the request pressing against him. “You’re going to get your chance, boy, but first I have to clear it with my boss.”

  It only took a phone call to organize a half day off. He’d feel better about being out if there were a couple more people in the office, but he might be doing them all a favor by leaving. Especially if whoever had called meant to do something or come in.

  Chandler prayed for the child even as he grabbed his jacket and hurried Aslan to the car. If a child’s world had been upended, then he would like to be a part of putting it back together. With Aslan’s help he might be able to do exactly that.

  CHAPTER 7

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5

  A little over an hour later, Chandler stood behind the counter at the Fairfax County’s child interview home, Aslan seated next to him. A small two-story bungalow on a mostly residential street, from the outside it looked nothing like a police or investigative facility. That was the point. The facility was designed to make traumatized children feel as safe and comfortable as possible from the moment they arrived, allowing trained investigators to p
iece together events through carefully worded and conducted interviews.

  Brandon Lancaster, his friend who ran a foster care agency called Almost Home, had also told him about this agency and its need for comfort dogs. Some children couldn’t tell their story to an adult, but they opened up to animals.

  The idea had captured Chandler’s attention, and he’d tracked down information on a training program. He knew Aslan understood emotions, and the dog’s eyes contained wells of sympathy. Today was Aslan’s first assignment, and the culmination of untold hours of work—Chandler had quit tallying the time after they’d reached one hundred hours of logged training over the last year. He’d taken Aslan to nursing homes, day cares, elementary schools, even to Vet Center events, looking to acclimate the dog to people in multiple settings. His supervisor had seen the value of what Aslan could do with some of their clients and supported the training as long as it was on Chandler’s own time. They’d agreed to discuss how Chandler could leave when Aslan got calls but hadn’t done it yet. Guess the issue’d been pushed up in priority now.

  The way Chandler saw it, he could stick his head in the sand and deny that children were abused each day, or he could be part of the solution. Denial had never gotten him far, so he’d opted for action. Now all that action would either propel them forward or let him know he’d wasted all those hours.

  When Aslan stood peacefully during the picnic and fireworks for the vets and their families on the Fourth of July, Chandler knew the dog was ready. If he could handle that level of chaos, he was ready to sit quietly with a child who needed a friend.

  Now Aslan waited as patiently as his namesake from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, unfazed by the new setting. Chandler had led him behind the counter that hid a computer and files, feeling it right to be as unobtrusive as possible while maintaining a position where he could see through a one-way mirror into the room where the dog would go to work as soon as the team was ready.

  A young girl, maybe eight, with blond curls rioting around her head, waited in a room that was supposed to look and feel like a playroom. He could barely see her, tucked in a corner, her arms braced against her sweater.

  A woman who looked a little like Mrs. Potts of Beauty and the Beast fame stepped next to Chandler. “That little girl has experienced things no child should, but until she talks there’s little we can do.” She turned and eyed Chandler and then the dog. “Is he up to the task?”

  Chandler nodded. “He’s as ready as I can get him.”

  She nodded. “I’m Detective Jane Thomas.”

  “Chandler Bolton. And this boy is Aslan.”

  “Nice to meet you. Elaine has her hands full keeping the mom under control.” Jane leaned down and let Aslan nose her hand before rubbing his head for a minute. “Two bad there aren’t two of you, one for Ms. Ange and one for her daughter. Are you ready to help Tiffany, Aslan? That little girl needs to know you’ll hear her.”

  Aslan panted, then licked her hand.

  She laughed and wiped the doggie slobber on her pants. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “You’ll need a couple hand signals.” Chandler quickly taught them to her, while keeping an eye on the girl’s mother, who stood across the room from him, a hysterical mess, with a counselor trying to calm her.

  “Ms. Ange, it doesn’t help if Tiffany hears you going on like this.”

  The young woman shook her head and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “The things he did to my baby.” Her voice trailed off in a broken wail, and Chandler quickly turned his attention back to the playroom and away from the mother’s pain.

  The therapy room where the girl waited was wired, and every word and movement could be recorded. Jane opened the door. The fact that she was a decorated detective was cloaked by her warm demeanor and lack of uniform. Chandler released Aslan, who followed Jane into the room, then sat at the hand command as she sank to a chair beside a child-sized table.

  The woman didn’t speak. Didn’t move toward the child.

  Aslan waited.

  The little girl ignored them both. She rocked, tucked against a bookshelf, tears leaking down her cheeks.

  Aslan waited.

  It felt like thirty minutes passed, but when Chandler glanced at his watch, he saw it had only been a few, when Aslan eased to his feet. He approached the girl, then sank to the carpet next to her. He watched her, then gently placed his head in her lap.

  Through it all Jane waited, still and silent, letting the act of empathy unlock some hidden door inside the girl.

  Tiffany sobbed as she wound her hands through Aslan’s thick fur. Then, with the dog’s gentle eyes locked on her face, she began whispering. Her story got louder as the words rolled in a flood. Words so sad, yet necessary. Through each one Aslan listened, not even twitching.

  The girl’s mother wept in the corner away from the one-way window, where Elaine had taken her. “I didn’t have any idea. Not until yesterday.” She nibbled at a cuticle. “What if he won’t stay away?”

  A weariness sloped Elaine’s shoulders, as if a boulder pressed against them as she listened. “A lot will depend on what Tiffany tells us.”

  “But she hasn’t been talking.”

  “Let’s see what the comfort dog can do. I’ve seen them work wonders with other traumatized children.” Elaine placed a hand on the mother’s shoulder. “Tiffany will need help and lots of time. These kinds of events are world altering.”

  “I’ll do anything I have to. Anything she needs. How can I keep her safe if I didn’t see this happening?”

  Chandler shuddered at the pain in Ms. Ange’s voice. It was stark and real and deep. The kind that sliced through normal and left shredded dreams behind. The kind no mother should carry.

  The counselor watched the woman from the corner of her eye, as if trying to discern the veracity of her emotional upheaval. “Ms. Ange, how well did you know the accused?”

  “He was a new boyfriend. I’d known him a few weeks.” She took a deep breath, and her voice was stronger when she continued. “I want him to pay. What do I need to do?”

  “A lot of that depends on Tiffany. Her testimony will be critical to press charges. The final decision rests with the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office.”

  Chandler returned his attention to the room on the other side of the mirror. Aslan suddenly popped to his feet, and Chandler stepped closer to the one-way glass. Before he could whistle a command, Detective Thomas gave a hand command, and Aslan sank back on his haunches. The detective extended her hand to the little girl, and a minute later the two exited the room. The girl hung back from her mother. Interesting. Her face was set in a mask that did not resemble the expressiveness she’d had minutes earlier when sobbing into Aslan’s fur or talking with the investigator. Now Tiffany held herself rigid as if waiting for the next blow.

  Then Ms. Ange knelt in front of her and opened her arms slowly, as if unsure her daughter would come.

  It was only then that Aslan eased through the door as if to slip into freedom. He nudged his nose into Tiffany’s thigh. After another nudge, she hurried into her mother’s arms. Their embrace must have squeezed all the air from the girl, and Chandler sensed the hug would be repeated frequently in the coming days.

  Aslan came and sat in front of him, expectation in the tilt of his head and quirked ears.

  “Come on, boy.” He eased around the mother and child but stopped when the woman spoke to him.

  “Do you own this dog?” After he nodded, she continued. “Can I buy him from you?”

  Chandler startled, then shook his head. “No, ma’am. He’s not for sale.”

  She studied him a second, one hand playing with her daughter’s golden curls. “Thank you for bringing him.”

  “I’m glad we could help.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “In case you need anything else.”

  “I don’t even know what we need.” She took the card but said nothing more as he clipped on his dog’s leash.


  Chandler turned to Elaine and Detective Thomas. “Tell John Walters he can call if he needs anything else.”

  Detective Thomas nodded. “I will. Thanks for responding so quickly.”

  “Glad it worked.”

  He walked away, knowing he hadn’t done anything other than chauffeur his animal, but that was reality in his life. The needs were always bigger than his capability to meet them, so he needed God in big ways. As he let Aslan have a minute to sniff the bushes and water the grass, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. “Bolton.”

  “Aslan’s owner?” The woman’s voice was hesitant.

  “Yes, ma’am.” No mistaking Ms. Ange’s broken voice.

  “Tiffany would like to say good-bye.”

  “We’re still in the yard. We’ll wait until you come out.”

  A moment later the little girl ran outside and flung her arms around Aslan. Her mother walked out more slowly. She was too young to have a burden like this, Chandler thought. She couldn’t be much more than twenty-five, and she seemed even more frail out here than she had inside.

  “Is she going to be okay?” The woman watched her daughter pet Aslan as the animal smiled at the attention.

  Chandler turned toward her. “With help and prayer, she will.”

  “When you said you would help, did you mean it?”

  Chandler hesitated. “If it’s in my power.”

  She bit her lower lip, and her gaze slid to the ground. “The investigator stressed that the police and Commonwealth’s Attorney might not feel there was enough evidence to proceed. Do you know anyone who could help?”

  “You mean an attorney?”

  “Yes.” Her hands fisted at her sides. “I’m over my head, but I have to make sure Tiffany knows I did everything I could.”

  Chandler didn’t want to get involved, not that deeply. It seemed too much like what he did at work—but this Tiffany, the one playing with Aslan, was so different from the broken girl inside the interview room. “Have you talked to a victim’s advocate? The county should have one for you.”