“This is horrible,” Lennox muttered.
As the cops clung to Harriet’s husband, the EMTs looked on, heavy and helpless. Finally, Terry slumped in the arms of the men and women surrounding him, defeated.
“This is just…” Lennox’s voice held a tremor. “They should send everybody home. What are we doing here? They’ve got everyone confined to their offices.”
“They’re interviewing us,” Bobbi said. “Rachel is in now with that one detective, Nelson.”
“Yeah – but we’re together.” Lennox glanced at the one uniformed officer in the room with them.
“I don’t know,” Bobbi said. “Maybe because we were already talking in the parking lot. Or because, you know, I… I looked and the tent opened up…”
“What are we supposed to say? Do we need lawyers?”
“Just answer their questions. They’re probably trying to get a picture of where everyone was, form their timeline, whatever. They’re getting statements.”
“You sound like you know a little bit about it.”
She shrugged then stepped away from Lennox, closer to the window. Terry was outside the crime scene tape now, lowered onto his knees, head bowed. The local cop standing beside him kept a hand on his shoulder. Bobbi had only met Terry once, when he’d come to the office for a brief visit, but suspected he and Harriet were one of those rare, happy couples whose marriage had not only held up but flourished with time. She couldn’t imagine what he was going through. There was really no longer any doubt that Harriet was inside her car.
Lennox spoke in a soft voice. “Shouldn’t the on-call mortuary service be taking her away? Jesus – before any TV crews get here at least?”
“That’s the coroner out there now,” Bobbi said. “Maybe they’re getting an outside medical examiner or something.” She let go of a shuddering breath, thinking of the blood-splashed windscreen.
She turned away, looked over the quiet waiting room with the lone cop standing there, then through the glass partition at the front-desk worker who sat staring at nothing.
A door opened in the hallway and Rachel emerged from one of the rooms. Her color was high, her eyes wet and shining.
“They asked for you next,” she said, drawing near to Bobbi.
“You okay?”
Rachel stuck out her chin, but it wobbled, her eyes welled up, and she lowered her head. They embraced and Rachel sobbed silently against Bobbi. The APS worker dug her fingers into Bobbi’s back and clung so tight it was hard to breathe.
Bobbi whispered, “Don’t look out there anymore, okay? Sit and talk with Lennox.”
Lennox overheard, pried Rachel from Bobbi, and led her away. Rachel wiped her nose and snuffled. “Look at me. What a mess.”
Lennox spoke softly to her and they sat down, facing away from the window. Outside, Terry was on his feet again, nodding, wiping his eyes. The dark tent rippled with a gust of wind.
Beyond it all, the first TV news van turned down the access road, blocked by a police barricade. A reporter jumped out, started talking to the state troopers. Someone had either made a phone call before turning it in, or the media had been alerted by all the emergency vehicles.
“Ms. Noelle?”
It was her turn to be interviewed.
* * *
Bobbi entered the room, which was the office of Yari Fennel, a man who worked in the Medicaid Unit. She hadn’t seen Yari yet that morning.
Investigator Nelson was seated at Yari’s desk. A woman in a pantsuit closed the door and offered Bobbi a seat.
Nelson nodded at a device beside him on the desk. “We’re recording this, is that alright with you?”
Bobbi nodded and took her seat by the window. The woman leaned against the wall and folded her arms. She wore her hair in a kind of face-framing blowout that made her look younger than the experience in her eyes.
“So, you’ve met me,” Nelson began. “This is Detective Lena Overton, with the Lake Haven Police Department. And I’m with the New York State Police. We’re working together on this.”
“Okay.”
“You’re Roberta June Noelle,” Nelson said. “Is that right?”
“Right. Yes.”
“That’s a nice name. Different.”
“Thank you.” Bobbi’s lips felt numb, the words foreign. She glanced at Overton, who stared back impassively.
“I’ve heard some people call you Bobbi,” Nelson said. “Is it alright if I do?”
“Sure.”
“Great. And I’m Mike, okay?” He had a nice smile. He faced her directly and crossed his legs, folded his hands over his knee. “After we talk for a bit I’m going to have you fill out some paperwork. It’s critical we get as much information as we can right now, while it’s fresh. And there’s a lot of people here, a lot of different departments. Can you tell me a little bit about yourself and what you do?”
“I’m new, ah… I started six months ago. I work in Child Protective Services as a caseworker. DSS also has a Medicaid Unit, nutritional services… um… a temporary assistance program, housing assistance – that’s called HEAP…” She realized she was a bit nervous and rambling.
Mike gave a nod. “Your co-worker Lennox Palmer works in child support, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“He helps to track down absent parents, establish paternity, helps single parents get financial support, things like that?”
“Right.” She wondered why they were asking about Lennox.
“And what exactly do you do? If you could be specific.”
“What I do is help children who are in unhealthy or unsafe environments. We try to keep families together whenever possible, but if a child is at risk, we’re going to get the child somewhere safe.” It was a well-rehearsed spiel; there were plenty of people who viewed what she did as invasive and intent on destroying families, civil liberty, that sort of thing.
Nelson, or Mike, consulted his notes beside him. “And that’s what Harriet Fogarty was doing last night? Getting a child somewhere safe?”
Bobbi nodded. “Yes, right. There was an emergency placement. Rita – ah, Harriet – had to do it because I was home sick.”
Mike glanced at Detective Overton and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to speak.
“Lake Haven Police raided the Fullers’ apartment yesterday at 3 p.m.,” Overton said. “In the process of executing the warrant, we discovered Grayson Fuller was in his room, appeared unwashed and malnourished, and we called CPS. This is your case, Ms. Noelle. What can you tell us about the Fullers?”
Bobbi felt her nerves start to crawl. “I’m sorry, I… It’s privileged. I mean… I understand that…”
“We contacted DSS about a month ago,” Overton said, more to Mike than to Bobbi, or perhaps for the benefit of the recording. “The Fullers had already gotten in trouble – the father was arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge, then about two days later a neighbor reported the mother leaving Grayson alone in the backyard of the apartment building for an hour. Ms. Noelle first visited the Fullers shortly after. Grayson was evaluated by someone from County Mental Health. CPS recommended several programs to the parents to help them keep their son, but they never showed or participated. And then this happened.”
A silence developed, and Bobbi could hear the soft murmur of voices drifting from the waiting room. She wondered if the press had been allowed any closer; if Harriet’s body was going to be on TV; how far and wide the news would spread. Bobbi’s parents would be worried sick by the whole thing.
Overton spoke again, still leaning against the wall. “When you were considering potential placement for Grayson, what were your options?”
Bobbi drew in a breath, deciding how much she could say. “Ordinarily, if we can find some other family member – grandparents, maybe an aunt or something – they can claim the child, but there was no one for Grayson. So we put him on the list for foster placement.” She looked between the officers. “And you have his parents in custody, is that right?”