Those Bones Are Not My Child (11 page)

“One sec,” the big-boned sister said, turning the form over.

The woman with the tissues scraped her feet. Zala felt the prodding,
knew she wasn’t handling things well, and was tempted to pick up the pen and goad Judson with it. She was taking a long time to read.

“Has he been in trouble before? Truant from school, shoplifting, vandalism—things that might have brought him to our attention before this?”

“He’s never been in any kind of trouble. That’s why we’re so worried. And why we’re so anxious to get going.” Zala motioned toward the door, but Judson only flipped the form over.

“No history of wandering off? Staying out late without permission? Visiting friends, relatives, neighbors without your knowledge? Spending the night with a friend?… No? Sounds like a model child,” Judson said, not unkindly, but Zala fine-tuned her ears while the woman looked at the map and crimped her lips.

“So.” She looked up. “No history of any kind with juvenile authorities, is that right?”

“Yes, none. I always know where he is. That’s why we think something happened.”

“ ‘Happened.’ ” The woman was studying her. It struck Zala that this was the moment to work in something about the STOP committee, as Mr. Lewis had advised. But Judson cut her off. “You listed three work numbers. You have three jobs and can keep track of three children? We need you down here conducting workshops, Mrs. Spencer.”

It might have been a crack; several heads turned. Someone slamming a file drawer seemed to be doing it to say “Score.”

“I was wondering, Officer Judson, if the special Task Force will conduct the investigation, or does it begin here?” Zala slipped with the “I.” A woman with no “we” didn’t even get served by waiters. But she’d been loud enough. Someone typing by a buzzing phone stopped, reached around, picked the receiver up, and dropped it back in the cradle.

“The officers who came to my house yesterday suggested I take the case to the Task Force. The mothers at STOP suggested that too.” The double lie got a response from Sergeant B. J. Greaves, who looked over. Zala thought she saw her exchange a look with Judson before she stuck her nose back in the folder she was reading, perched half-buns on a desk.

“Can we begin now and talk on the way? The officer last night stressed how important it was to get on it now, before the trail gets
cold.” She hoped there was nothing in the Hall-Eaton report to contradict the statements she’d attributed to them.

“Did the officers explain to you, Mrs. Spencer, that Youth Division cannot conduct a search for a runaway until the court issues a warrant?”

“He’s not a runaway. He’s not a wayward child. He’s not a delinquent. He’s a missing boy.” Zala pressed her shoulders down to get ready; Judson seemed to be about to address her as “dear.”

“Technically, Mrs. Spencer, any minor who spends a night away from his or her legal domicile without express permission from his or her legal guardian is a delinquent, a runaway. Unless”—she arched an eyebrow—“you have reason to believe he was kidnapped. Who has legal custody?” she asked suddenly, running a fingernail down the form.

“I do. His father wouldn’t take him without telling me. He didn’t kidnap him, I mean.”

“Your husband, is he a vet?” And when Zala nodded, Judson leaned closer. “Did a tour overseas?” Zala held up two fingers and raced around in her mind for something to say to get things moving. No one was going to lure her into a discussion on Vietnam vets. She had learned how to skirt that, by keeping her mouth shut.

“He had permission to go,” Zala said quickly, “so he’s not a delinquent.” Did they only look for well-behaved children from two-parent, nonvet homes?

Judson set her elbows on the counter and laced her fingers under her chin. “You say that you expected him home on Sunday for dinner. All right. He had your permission to take the overnight trip on Saturday, but not to stay out on Sunday night. But when the other boys returned Sunday evening, no one had seen … Sundiata, is it? No one had seen him, is that right?”

“That’s correct. So something must have happened to him on Saturday, because he didn’t show up at the outing at all.”

Judson took a long time studying Sonny’s photo, and Zala wondered if something had happened to make the boy familiar to her. There was no fancy equipment in the squad room, nothing to suggest his face might have come “over the wire.” Unidentified boy in traffic accident. Boy found in woods, amnesia victim. Male youth rescued from drowning. Zala was riveted to the flaky lipstick, the crimped mouth like forked pie crust.

“Can you think of any reason why your son might have chosen not to go with the group?” She reached under the counter with one hand and picked up the pen with the other, prepared to make notes on a clean sheet of paper. “Please think back, Mrs. Spencer. Did he have a fight with any of the boys, or a disagreement with one of the staff?”

“Mr. Lewis and I discussed that. There’d been no problems.”

“And at home, Mrs. Spencer. A row with a neighbor, or with your other children? Are they all natural siblings?”

“Natural?”

“They all have the same father? And mother.… All right. How about a row with a boyfriend? One of your personal friends? Nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re an attractive young woman and legally separated, why shouldn’t you enjoy male companionship? It happens like that.” Judson gave a coy shrug. “Separations upset children sometimes. And when Mom takes up with a man friend, young boys have a way of getting in the middle. You know, to get in between. It happens.” She shrugged at the ordinariness of it, arms out, palms up. “It happens,” she repeated, inviting intimate disclosures.

“He gets along fine with all friends of the family,” Zala said carefully, but Judson was holding her pose, adding an encouraging half-smile to lead Zala over the leaves into the pit. “And that’s why so many of us are busy trying to find him.”

Judson nodded and folded her arms on the counter. “Was it a legal separation or an informal agreement to separate?”

“Informal. And cordial. The courts weren’t involved.”

“And Mr. Spencer’s a vet? Any problems there?”

“He contributes what he can, and he visits.” Zala was hoping the footsteps behind her were Spence. But it was the Asian couple getting up. They wandered out into the hall.

“No trouble there, between the boy and his father? Broken dates, forgotten birthdays? Two tours overseas, you say?”

Zala emptied her face and nodded.

“You believe in spanking, Mrs. Spencer?”

“No, we do not, and we make sure their teachers don’t whip them, either.”

“There’ve been … situations at school?”

Can of worms. She had to tread carefully. There’d been a hearing at the district superintendent’s office once. Teachers were too quick with
their hands to suit Zala. She couldn’t remember who they’d made the complaint about. A substitute throwing an eraser at Kofi, or the vice-principal striking Sonny with a ruler, telling her Sonny had threatened the teacher with the window pole. A cafeteria worker had once swatted Sonny on the behind with a metal tray and Spence had gone up there and let it be known that the Spencers didn’t play that shit and didn’t care what kind of punishment the law allowed.

“He has no reason to leave home, or to be afraid to come home,” Zala said, sidestepping the question. “That’s why I hope we can get the court warrant, though I don’t know why it is needed. I mean, it’s not like he’s done anything criminal, so I don’t see what a warrant’s got to do with this.”

“Have you got a family worker, someone who can help you?”

“A family worker?” Zala took a quick inventory. Had she come across as incompetent somehow? Had she forgotten to button her clothes or comb her hair? “You mean a social worker? What would I need with a social worker? I take care of my kids.”

“Mrs. Spencer, you list three work numbers, and you’re the only adult in the home.”

“One of those numbers is my home. I do a lot of work at home.”

“But the other two jobs keep you out of the home. You’ve lost a child, Mrs. Spencer.”

Officer Judson’s face was too close, a moon crowding her, blocking out the light. Pride. Zala wrapped her fingers around the sisal straps and squeezed. Pride. So busy showing she was not lazy, unresourceful, or destitute, she’d put down too much and fallen right into the pit.

“Please.” The straps dug into her shoulder. “I am not a neglectful mother.”

“I’m not saying you are.” Judson leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I’d simply like to refer you to a family service worker. She’s been very effective in cases like this.”

“ ‘Cases like this’?”

Judson leaned back. “I’m trying to be of help here.”

“Then come help me.” Zala tried to lift her arm to indicate the patrol cars parked outside, but her hands were clamped to the straps. The moon face was kindly, but the hands meanwhile were folding the papers in half and running the crease between the hard, lacquered fingernails.

“This woman,” Judson was saying, one hand reaching under the
counter, “can get the ball rolling faster than we can.” She slipped the folded papers into an envelope, flattened it out with the heel of her hand, and began writing on it.

It felt like a brush-off, one of those referrals that turned into a wild goose chase. She should threaten to go directly to the Task Force, or to the newspapers, or to the mayor.

“Let her speak to Captain Sparks.” The voice came from behind Zala. The woman with the tissues. For a moment, she seemed to be walking over to give Zala some backup. But then she threw the wad on the floor and walked out into the hall, muttering.

“Yes, I’d like to see this Sparks person,” Zala said.

“I’m sorry. He’s not in at the moment.” And then Judson raised the hinged panel. But she didn’t come out, as Zala had hoped, or invite her through. She was in fact motioning for Zala to step aside, a gesture as mysterious as a teacher’s asking her to pass out the
Junior Scholastics
just as she, having gotten the courage to raise her hand, was in mid-sentence.

A beefy officer brushed by her from behind, holding the top and bottom of a soaking bag. He edged past Judson and, broken-field-running, rushed toward the end office. Colleagues swiveled around to cheer him on. The bag left a milky trail, which no one moved to wipe up.

“I’ll try and get things started,” Judson said, lowering the hatch. “I’ll have to make a few phone calls. Please have a seat.”

“A seat!” Zala leaned over the counter, calling at the officer’s back, and was not at all surprised to see Judson duck into the U-shaped arrangement of army-green file cabinets. Where a half-eaten muffin was waiting, Zala suspected.

She moved down along the counter, striking the floor hard to get the attention of Sergeant Greaves, who was strolling along parallel, pausing by the window where someone had set a revolving fan. A few officers looked Zala’s way, but not long enough to engage her eyes so she could draw them over to the counter. She was wishing she’d put taps on her shoes.

“Would somebody help me please?”

“Officer Judson will be with you in a minute.” It was Sergeant Greaves, who then turned her back and punched four buttons on the phone. An in-house call. Zala was hopeful; maybe she’d gotten a response.

She strained to listen, but she caught no mention of herself. No wonder there’d been a sit-in. No wonder there’d been eight or more murdered children. These people were not doing their job.

The long hand grated and dropped down. 11:30, and Spence still didn’t show. This was not something she should have to shoulder by herself. She was striking like flint and cursing Spence under her breath when she turned her ankle. A hot current shot up her leg. Her eyes felt scalded.

“Watch it.” The man with the troublesome knees shuffled up from the bench as Zala let herself double over with the pain. Her shoulder banged against the side of the counter, the jolt knocking the breath out of her. She heard chairs being scraped back on the other side of the counter, a phone knocked over, people off the benches now; and even when the pain eased up and the throbbing in her temples subsided, she watched herself, curious, detached, to see if she would throw herself onto the filthy floor to writhe and moan and, without any pride or fight left, be utterly pitiful.

And the knowledge that she was thinking of doing it filled her with such disgust she had trouble straightening up, so she didn’t try; she could see the bottom of her shoe and the tumbled contents of her bag; people brought ice, a glass of water, cologne dabbed on a hankie, a cushion, a chair; hold her head up, get her seated, take her pulse, press her head between her knees, get her a paper bag. If she really let go, she could sleep the first sound sleep in a week. Lying out cold on the floor, she could infect them enough with her desperation to get them mobilized. And maybe God, seeing how things were, pierced through as she was with hot spikes of self-disgust, would take pity and send Sonny home unharmed.

Sun flooded the barbershop through the wide-slat bamboo blinds, its heat quickly dispersed by the standing fan blowing from behind the manicure table, its bleaching brightness subdued by the backs of the chairs the checker players had shoved to that side of the shop. The radio droned low on V103; the TV’s sound had been off for weeks. Those who lounged in the chrome-and-vinyl chairs flipped through
Ebony, Jet
, and some beauty-supply magazines, drifting in and out of the checker players’ conversation and remarking from time to time on the heavy topics
of the past few weeks—the sniping of Vernon Jordan and the hospitalization of Richie Pryor. The gentleman waiting for Zala to attend his nails sat in the high chair inspecting his shoes, lifting them one at a time from the metal footprints of the bootblack stand, turning his ankle, frowning, then fitting his feet back on the wrought-iron treads. Barber Simmons’s customer was preening in the mirror, timing his leisurely flicks with the whisk broom to the
shoosh-shoosh
of Zala’s emery board.

“That sound use to set my teeth on edge,” Zala’s customer said, breaking into her musings. She was at the point of deciding that what she’d taken for laxity in the squad room was nothing more than laid-back professionalism, that what she’d perceived as malevolence on the part of the first woman officer was probably more a reflection of her own panic. She’d been wound tight, on the brink of hysteria. She never wanted to be like that again.