Little Boy Lost



Emma’s list for the afternoon was long. I had spent multiple days working exclusively on the Lost Boys files, and she needed me to make some money. After being presented with the first bill for Sammy’s new school, I also felt the pressure to bring in some revenue. My goal was to pay a quarter of Sammy’s tuition for the first two months and then slowly increase that portion. The Judge had said from the beginning that he didn’t care, and I believed him; but in my mind it was my promise to Sammy and my obligation.

With no leads or clear direction about what was next for the Lost Boys, I put it all on the back burner and met with a new civil client out in Clayton. I spent over an hour returning phone calls and setting up new appointments, and then I walked over to the nearby courthouse for two court appearances before heading back to the office.

Traffic on Forty wasn’t too bad. I took the Jefferson exit off the highway and wound up the off-ramp into the city proper. The ramp dumped me at an intersection that only a traffic engineer could love. It was a tangle of old city streets, highway, service roads, alleys, and some sidewalks that were never used.

I pulled up to a white line and waited while cars and semitrucks zipped past me in all directions. When the light turned green, I was going to take a left, cross back over the highway, and cut across downtown.

The light, however, did not turn green.

It held steady on red as the other traffic lights and arrows cycled, theoretically giving everybody an opportunity for safe passage.

My mind wandered. Then a knock on my car window brought me back. I turned and saw Cecil Bates smiling at me. He held a cardboard sign, obviously panhandling.

I rolled down my window. “How’s it going, Cecil?”

“Not too shabby, Counselor.” His head bobbled, and as Cecil exhaled, the car filled with the odor of cheap whiskey. “Making a little something something, here and there.”

I got my wallet and took out a ten-dollar bill. I held it up but out of reach. “I’m giving this to you, but you gotta promise me first.”

“Promise what?”

“To stay out of trouble,” I said.

Cecil gave me an exaggerated look of great offense. “Absolutely,” he said. “Not breaking any laws.”

“You sure?”

“Cross my heart.” Then Cecil laughed. “Plus I got me my backup plan now.”

“Backup plan?”

“The cameras, man.” Cecil pointed at a pole above us. It had four cameras mounted on the top in each direction. “Don’t do nothing where there ain’t cameras. Videos don’t lie.” Then he winked at me. “Keepin’ it legal.”

“Got it.” I laughed, then looked back up at the cameras. Somebody behind me honked their horn. I looked over at the traffic light, which had turned green—and, at that moment, I had an idea.

“Take this.” I handed Cecil Bates the ten-dollar bill. “You earned it.” Then I pulled away, deciding that I wasn’t going to go straight back to the office.





CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO


It took about eight minutes to get over to the Juvenile Justice Center. I slowed as I drove in front of the building. The protesters camped at the corner of the parking lot had dwindled from a hundred to two dozen, and now to about ten.

I didn’t see anything at first. Then I turned on Bell Avenue and circled it again. Still nothing.

The angles weren’t right, and even driving slowly, I was going too fast. Too excited.

I pulled into the parking lot in front of the Juvenile Justice Center. After grabbing my cell phone, I got out and gave a quick acknowledgment to the remaining protesters. Although Tanisha Walker and Isaac Turner were gone, the people that remained looked familiar. “Talk to you in a minute.” I waved again, then started walking down the sidewalk that ran along the south side of the building.

I knew they had to be there, but I was worried that they wouldn’t be in the right spots.

I walked a little farther, toward the back parking lot. Then I saw it: a little silver box attached to the side of the building.

A camera.

I took a picture of it, and then I stared at it, trying to figure out exactly where it was pointed.

I walked up to the chain-link fence that surrounded the blue vans that were used by probation. There were no cameras on poles here, and no cameras atop the high fence posts, but I found one attached to the back side of the building.

I took a picture of it, getting even more excited. The camera was pointed directly at the vans. If it didn’t capture a face, it would have certainly captured the general physical characteristics and body type of the person who took the van on the night that Isaac Turner’s brother, TeeTee, had disappeared.

I had just taken another picture when a security guard came outside. He was a big guy, probably eighty pounds overweight. The look on his face was one of panic as he ran toward me from the front of the building. Every few yards, he’d stop, wave his hands, and yell at me. “Can’t do that! Can’t do that!” Then he’d double over, head between his legs, trying to catch his breath.




He wanted to confiscate my phone. That much was clear, although it was difficult to understand him. His face was bright red by the time that he’d made it all the way down the block. Sweat ran down his cheeks. Midsentence, he’d stop, take a deep breath, point at my phone, and say, “No.”

“You’re telling me I can’t stand on a public sidewalk and take a picture of a public building?”

“Says you can’t do that.” He was out of breath. “You need to give me your phone.” He pointed at it, bent over, and shook his head.

“Listen.” I tried sounding contrite. “I’m not giving you my phone.” I looked over his shoulder, hoping that somebody rational would arrive. “Why don’t we call Sergeant Schmidt of the Saint Louis Police Department? He can clear things up, tell you who I am.”

This stopped him. He looked at me with suspicion. “Telling me you a cop?”

“No, I’m not a police officer, but I’m working with—”

“Then you need to give me that phone.”

“Why?”

“You know, terrorists. September eleventh.” He wiped more sweat off his forehead. “Against the law to take pictures of a public building.”

“It is not against the law to take pictures of a public building.” I put the phone in my pocket. “Listen, I’m just going to leave now. OK?”

“Not OK.” Now the security guard was pointing at the pocket that held my dangerous cellular device. “You need to leave that with me until I get it cleared.”

“I’m not doing that.” I turned and started to walk away, and then I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Told you that you cannot leave.” The security guard grabbed my wrist. “Going to have to place you under arrest.”

I yanked my hand away from him. “You’re not even a police officer.”

“Sir,” he said, shaking his head. “You need to obey me.”

J.D. Trafford's books