"Why do these places always seem so drab and demeaning?" Caitlin asked, looking around. She and Dave sat in the waiting room of Children’s Services; a room at once seeming filthy and sterile, immediately recognizable as a government office. The sense of sterility had to come from the fact that the room was totally devoid of any positive feedback; so much so that it was depressing. It took little imagination to visualize the suffering that this room had seen.
"I don’t know," replied Dave, "but I’d take a real good guess that they are an accurate reflection of the people who work in them. Bureaucrats don’t seem to be long on personality or imagination."
"Even if they did, this place would take it out of them in a hurry. It’s so depressing." It had been a week since Mitzi’s death, and they had managed to get custody of Carolyn thou Children’s Services. Cait had become a different woman in that week, fussing over the baby as if she were their own. There had been a light in her eyes that Dave had never seen before, and it had not taken long for the discussion to turn to adoption. It had taken even less time after that for it to be put into prayer, and now they were here to make the application.
Dave had talked to his long-time friend, Juvenile Judge Harry Weinstein, who not only encouraged Dave, but also offered to do anything possible to clear the way for an adoption. He assured Dave that it would be nothing more than going through the legal rituals and formalities: paperwork and time.
As he sat uncomfortably in a chair designed for a person a foot shorter than his 6’6" frame, waiting to see John White, Children’s Services Director, he was happy with their decision, even if he was suffering many of the doubts every man goes through at the prospect of becoming a father for the first time: was he really capable of being a good father? Would he be able to feed another mouth? Would he be able to devote the time necessary to such an enormous undertaking? Yet, at 28, he felt he was ready to be a parent, and he had no doubts that Cait would be an excellent mother/ She was far more mature than most twenty-two year old women’ and her commitment to Jesus was unquestionable. With that combination of factors, he knew they could overcome any problems that could arise.
"Rev. and Mrs. Randall?" John White stood before them. "I apologize for the delay, but it’s been a busy morning, and we just had a small crisis that had to be handled." They followed ho, into his office and took seats. "Judge Weinstein asked that I handle your case personally to see that it goes as smoothly as possible."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sheriff Sean Mirage stepped onto the porch of a sleazy, darkened house. The night was dark and there were no lights on the porch to help him see; not even any leaking from the building’s interior. The windows had been painted black to prevent light from escaping, and possibly giving an outsider a view of those inside. Mirage knocked on an incongruously heavy metal door and, after a moment, a peephole appeared.
"Open the door, Phil," Mirage said t the eyes looking through the slot. Recognizing Mirage, Phil wasted no time complying with the order. As the door opened, the sounds of a crowd enjoying itself could be heard over a jukebox wailing country music in the background.
"Double zero. No winners."
"Eight makes the point."
He stepped into the house, which had had all its inner walls removed to leave a single large room filled with gambling paraphernalia of all types. Ceiling Jacks were placed where needed for support. There were a number of people feverishly attending the tables and slot machines, whether for the house or in desperate attempts to recoup the evening’s losses.
Mirage slapped Phil of the shoulder as he passed, and several others, both workers and patrons, shouted greetings to him. Unlike many modern sheriffs whose work clothing is a business suit, Mirage preferred to wear his uniform, but it caused no alarm or surprise as he moved to a table in the back.
"Howya doin’, Jack?" he said to the bald man sitting at the table.
"Fine, Sean. How's it shakin' for you?"
"No problems." He sat and looked around for a moment, "Looks like business is pretty good tonight." A young, but used and hardened waitress brought a drink to set before him. Neither spoke, but he slapped her backside as she walked away.
"Yeah, we’ve got a real good crowd tonight. In fact, it’s been real good all week. I don’t think you’ll be able to pack it all out yourself tonight. Must be close to two hundred grand for the week."
"Got anyone that can help?"
"No problem. We’ve also got a big winner tonight." As Mirage raised his eyebrows in question Jack nodded toward the craps table. "Big tow-headed boy over there. He’s into us for ten grand."
"We can’t have that, now can we? Got a name?"
"Billy Bowman. They call him Billy the Kid. He’s driving an ‘89 Toyota. White. One of the sporty jobs."
"I’ll find it. Call Phil and let me get going." The pair rose and went to the cashier’s cage.
Forty minutes later, Mirage sat in his cruiser as two of his deputies walked toward him in the dark. He was parked half a block from the casino where he could see if Bowman left before help arrived.
"What’s up, Sean?" asked one of them. He could barely see Mirage’s face in the shadows. Only his huge nose and the tremendous handlebar mustache beneath it could be distinguished clearly. Older deputies commented behind Mirage’s back that Mirage had the biggest nose since Jimmy Durante, while the younger deputies wondered who Jimmy Durante was.
"That white Toyota over there belongs to a kid named Billy Bowman. He won some big money tonight. Take care of it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The early traces of dawn were barely extending their dainty fingers over the horizon as Billy the Kid drove east on US 52, half a mile from the turn off to his home. He looked nervously into his rear view mirror at the sheriff’s cruise that had been following him since he had left the city limits. He didn’t realize that it had been following since he left the casino. He hadn’t given it much thought at first, but as the miles rolled by, he began to wonder why he was obviously being followed. He wasn’t speeding and he never drank when he gambled, so he knew he wasn’t giving off the signals of a drunk driver. It had to be obvious to them by now that he was not going to give them a reason to pull him over; that he knew they were there and was taking care to avoid any infraction. After twelve miles he had to realize that. So why were they still following him?
He pulled off onto the gravel road that would take him home. The cruiser followed him and immediately, its flashers come on. Billy realized at once that he was in trouble. There were only two houses in the next three miles, and here he was with just over eleven thousand dollars in his pocket. It crossed his mind that he had seen a cruiser down the street from the casino, and he realized he had been set up.
He didn’t like the idea, but he quickly decided to give them the money. It wasn’t worth dying for.
A deputy was approaching the car from each side. "Get out of the car, boy!" said the one on the driver’s side. "Put your hands on top of the car." Billy slowly opened the door and got out, starting to comply with the order. However, as he stood and turned, the impact of three bullets in his chest slammed him into the opened car door. There was no pain, just a terrible hammering as they struck. He could tell that the deputies were now at his side, even though his vision was nearly gone.
"Good. He’s not dead yet. That’ll allow the drugs to circulate in his system." He could feel his arm being lifted, then a sharp jab as a needle pierced the flesh inside his elbow. A warm glow began to spread rapidly through his body.
As this happened, one deputy was pulling the wad of hundred dollar bills from his pocket while the other was planting drugs in the car. A moment later he could barely feel something being placed into his hand. There were several loud noises and he felt his hand jump just before his body began shutting down.
"That should take care of everything," said the second deputy as he kicked away the gun that had been fired from Billy’s hand. "I guess we can call the meat wagon now. He’ll be dead by the time they get here."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Look, I know my Billy. He did a lot of things, but he wasn’t into drugs: using or selling." Maria Bowman’s voice was impassioned as she spoke about her late husband.
Griff Smith sat back, appraising the pallid dime store blonde sitting on the other side of his desk. From her thin, stringy hair to the drooped shoulders and the hint of long desperation and lost hope in her eyes it was obvious that she had been raised on welfare; very likely second or third generation. There was more than the pain of her present loss in her demeanor. There was also the desperate and demoralizing realization that her best chance of escaping the cycle of poverty that had been so much of her life was gone; that there remained little for her except more of the bone and soul crushing misery that had been her life before marrying Billy.
Griff had seen much of that in this rural Ohio county; those who could be readily identified from the loss of self-respect that showed physically as well as in their dress and demeanor: people ground down by the gristmill of desperation until they could no longer even conceive a reason to strive for a better life. Many, especially those third and fourth generation recipients were so totally dependent upon the system for everything that they would never have the first thought that a better way of life could exist for them. They had settled for being a government created underclass.
"Then how do you explain the fact that he was shot up on heroin? Or the extra stash of it in the glove box? Or the cocaine they found?" He could sympathize with Maria’s grief, but he did not want to accept what she was saying, even though his instincts from thirty years as a reporter heard the ring of truth in her words.
Accepting her statements as truth would force
Griff to make a choice he did not want to make. He couldn’t accept her story and do nothing, but doing something would create a major uproar in the community. That Griff was not willing to do.
"I don’t know about that, Mr. Smith. What I do know is that Billy’s best friend in high school died of an overdose, and Billy’s been dead set against drugs ever since.
A couple of years ago he caught his younger brother doing a little dealing and like to beat him to death. He told Bobby he’d finish the job if he ever found out he was dealing or using again. He told their sister the same thing."
Griff sighed. "Let me see what I can find out," he told her. His stomach lurched as he saw the glimmer of hope in her eyes, because he knew he was going to do nothing that would matter in the least. He tried to excuse his attitude by telling himself that he had a busy day ahead of him, and investigation this wasn’t going to make any difference. The boy was going to stay dead either way.
He knew that her desperation would grow as she realized that neither he nor anyone else was actually going to do anything, and that that desperation would take her ever more rapidly down into the mire from which she had so nearly escaped.
He also knew that all the excuses he fed himself were worthless. He couldn’t even fool himself.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Maggie!" Mirage thundered at his secretary, who was in the outer office. She poked her head through the door. "Get Tim Wilson for me. Tell him I want to see him in an hour. I’m going to Steele’s office." He jammed his hat on his head, stormed out the private door to his office and into the hall, his rawboned figure enough to cause others to jump out of his path.
The myriad lines and creases in his weather beaten face made him look like a hard working cowboy, an image he liked and cultivated. His gruff manner of dealing with people came in handy dealing with perps, and he had found that while his manner did not win him any friends in the normal world, it did generally get him what he wanted.
Steele was at his desk with his head down, busy, and did not see or hear Mirage quietly move through the outer office like a silent tornado. Steele’s staff knew from experience not to stand in Mirage’s way. Steele’s first realization of Mirage’s presence was when the door to his office slammed shut hard enough to rattle the glass. Steele jumped.
"Geez! Don’t you ever knock? Or even enter a room normally?" Steele asked irritably. Mirage’s only answer was a glare. Steele sighed. "All right. What’s got your wind up this time?"
"I just got a call from Griff Smith over at the Eagle. Seems Billy Bowman’s widow has been over there cryin’ about how her husband was murdered by those wicked old deputies and how her poor dead Billy would never use or sell drugs; that it was all a setup."
"Did Griff buy her story?"
"Enough to ask questions, but he wanted the answers I gave him, so I think we’re all right. I offered to send him copies of the deputies’ reports and the coroner’s report. Between the two it should be enough."
"Sounds to me like you’ve got it covered. Any chance she might try to go somewhere else to cause trouble?"
"I’m gonna have Tim Wilson pay her a visit tonight to convince her it wouldn’t be a good idea."
"Sounds reasonable to me. By the way, tell your boys they did a good job of providing themselves cover on that one. It was real smooth."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Bobby Bowman pulled into the driveway beside his late brother’s trailer. It was late, but he felt that he had to keep an eye on Maria; to make sure she was all right. Billy’s death was really hard on her, and the return call from Griff Smith had upset her even more than the reports.
Bobby and Maria had been close friends in high school, and he had been very happy to see her and Billy get together. That friendship, combined with her marriage to his brother left him feeling somewhat responsible for her.
Even as he turned into the driveway something felt wrong. When he pulled around to the front of the trailer, he saw light streaming out the front door, which was hanging open. He reached over the seat and grasped the baseball bat he always carried, taking it with him as he approached the trailer. As he entered he saw Maria crumpled on the floor, desperately clutching the rags that had been her clothing around her in an attempt to cover herself.
"Maria! What happened?" he cried as he knelt by her side. She jerked away and started to scream before she recognized him. The she fell sobbing into his arms. Dried blood traced lines from her nose and both lips, and the left side of her face was puffy and beginning to discolor. A tooth lay on the floor. She wailed pitifully and hysterically for a few minutes. When she settled down, he started to rise.
"We’ve got to get you to the hospital," he said. Maria jerked away from him, screaming.
"No! No! They’ll kill me if I do!"
"Who’ll kill you? Who did this?"
She shook her head. "I didn’t know him, but he was a sheriff’s deputy. He said this was a warning to keep my mouth shut, and if I said anything about this or anything else about Billy they’d come back and kill me. Oh! God! Bobby! I ‘m scared!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Don Partlow sat looking out the window of his Cincinnati office. A thunderstorm was brewing, and he could see the flashes of lightning in the west. It would strike the downtown area in a matter of minutes. The hope that the raid would be enough to end the dry spell they had been having crossed his mind before he turned back to the business at hand.
"Having that kind of money on him would be enough reason for murder, all right. The problem is proving he had it. Do you have any evidence that he did?"
"I thought proving it was your job," Bobby replied.
"It is. That was a poor choice of words. Will the person who told you talk to us?"
"Not likely. He’s not the type to appreciate cops. Besides, people are a little scared around Portsmouth. These people have already raped and beat up my sister-in-law for trying to get an investigation started."
"Nut you’re willing to testify about the drug dealings you had with Steele and Mirage?"
"As long as you give me immunity."
"That’s not a problem. We’ll put you into the witness protection program if you want."
"Nah, I’m not a helpless woman like Maria. I can take care of myself, and I won’t let them sneak up on me like Billy did." Partlow shook his head.
"All right. Let’s go downstairs and get your testimony on tape. Then we’ll get the local agent working on it." He paused. "You realize this will probably take a couple of months?"
"Yeah. I’ll be all right."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
FBI agent Kerry Monroe was disgusted. Mirage and Steele were supposed to have this thing covered, and now it had been dropped in his lap. At least the fool kid hadn’t been smart enough to go into witness protection. That would really have complicated an already bad situation. He decided that even though he should probably call Steele directly, he would contact Wise instead. He wasn’t entirely sure Steele had been told about him, and it might just be better to have no direct contact anyway. Let Wise do that.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thing were going smoothly in the center tonight, and Dave was content to just sit and watch as the street kids were enjoying the music from the live band. Trying to talk to someone while the performance was going on was an effort in futility anyway. Beside that, he had learned to let the kids come to him when they wanted to talk. If he tried to approach them it always felt like he was scalp hunting; keeping track for his own gratification. Those efforts seldom produced anything of lasting value; unlike when he waited for the Lord to bring them to him when they were ready.
Once the band broke, Jeff Claus sat at his table. He had talked to the thirteen-year-old boy several times and was beginning to have a good rapport with him. "What’s happening, Jeff?" How do you like the band?"
"They’re super, but I’ve got a question."
"Shoot."
"Ah, I just don’t know if I did the right thing or not, and I thought maybe you could tell me."
"You’ve got my full attention."
"This guy in a van tried to pick me up. He offered me seventy five bucks if I would go to a hotel room with him and let him take pictures of me doing things to myself." Dave sat upright in his chair. "I felt kind of funny about it, so I told him ‘No,’ but now I’m wondering if I did the right thing. After all, all the other guys are doing it, and it’s good money."
"All the other guys? Has this been going on for a while?"
"Oh, yeah. Eddie has been doing it for a couple of years. He got Jerry and Tom started, too, but this is the first time the guy has tried to pick me up."
"Do you know who he is?"
"Sure. He runs the pizza shop where everyone used to hang out until you opened this place. He used to pick up guys there, but I guess now he had to look for them." Dave sat for a moment, stunned. He was horrified to learn that this could be going on in the small town he had grown up in; a town of less than twenty five thousand people.
"Jeff, this really upsets me. Would you be willing to tell someone else about this?"
"A cop? I don’t know."
"Not a cop. The director of Children’s Services." Jeff thought about it for a moment.
"Yeah, I guess so."
"What about the other guys?"
"They might. I’ll ask them. You’d have to guarantee that they wouldn’t get into any trouble."
"I think I can do that. See if you can get them all here around noon tomorrow, OK?"