“Usually. They can withhold it. They’re certainly going to want it withheld from the alleged perp, but the name is recorded by the hotline staff.”
He crossed his arms, looked down at the spread of files on the table. “But I bet the perpetrator often figures out who reported anyway. Or has suspicions.”
She leaned back, looking thoughtful. “I see where you’re going – someone angry with whoever reported the suspected abuse or neglect; they’re pissed off someone rang the bell on them.”
“Just thinking, if I was upset someone came in and took my kid, I’d be just as likely to be upset by the person who made the call initiating the investigation as I would be anyone else. Maybe we factor that in. Maybe our guy found out who called it in, harassed them, something, and there’s a report.”
“Okay, but by that token, we might as well be looking at everyone involved – cops, lawyers, judges, other social workers. I think we need to keep this narrowed to caseworkers. If we don’t come up with anything, then we widen out.”
“I can go with that.”
“We’ll be looking at police reports if anything piques our interest, and we can cross-reference to hotline data…” She touched her lip a moment, lost in thought. “But, I have another question, something we never addressed.”
“Shoot.”
“If this is something that happened ten to fifteen years ago, when both Harriet and Lavoie were working here together – why does the perp wait all this time to go after them?”
“Because he’s in jail.” Mike took a seat beside her. “That’s the whole thing. Someone gets investigated for child abuse, neglect – something – and goes to jail. Meanwhile their kid goes into placement, gets adopted, who knows. When the parent is released, years later, he goes after the caseworkers.”
“Well we’re back to the same problem. This hypothetical parent might just as likely blame the complainant – or why not the cops? Or the judge who sentenced them? And anyway, in most of these cases, the parent doesn’t go to jail. They get parenting classes, counseling, drug rehab…”
“But what we have is one dead caseworker and one missing caseworker. We don’t have any dead judges or cops. The complainant could be anonymous – cops, forget it – judges probably hard to get to, too. The caseworkers are the most vulnerable.”
“You mean mostly women,” she said.
“Yeah. That might be part of it. This guy’s a coward. Probably has some history of violence toward women…” Mike thought about Jameson Rentz for a moment, then he put it out of his mind. Same problem – Rentz didn’t connect to Lavoie.
Lena turned back to the files, her expression grave. “Alright, here’s a brush-up for us both: Once a call is placed to the hotline, then they forward it to the local CPS, where it gets assigned the caseworker. Okay? Assignments are handed out based on current caseload, or on rotation – who’s on call at the time a new case comes in. There might be an initial person who responds at first to the emergency, if there is one, but then another could be assigned after that for various reasons. So, this is why the records aren’t kept by caseworker.”
“Understood.”
“Once a person is assigned to a part of the work, their name, any credentials, and the date, should be on every piece of paperwork. Getting back to an emergency case, though – if the report is an emergency and happens at night on a weekend, let’s say, the state register puts them through to the police, and the police dispatcher notifies the caseworker on call. So, like I said, we can cross-reference with police records.”
“The good news is,” Mike said, surveying the pile of files, “we can focus on the three-year overlap.”
But Lena was shaking her head. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. As a supervisor, Harriet can still be directly involved. We need to look at everything from 2003 to 2008. So that means getting into the next five-year cabinet section. And this is all presuming that our perp is reacting off something that specifically had to do with both of them, and that, even if it did involve both of them, Harriet’s name is even going to show up. Sometimes her role is just to offer guidance, and she’s not going to be on any paperwork.”
Mike let his eyelids droop and stared at her.
“Get to work,” Lena said.
Sixteen
The kids jumped around and chased each other. They were just eighteen months apart in age and made good playmates. They climbed a hill beside the house, sometimes disappearing, but still within earshot as Bobbi spoke to Anita Richardson in the garden.
Anita was stoic as she pulled weeds around the tomato plants. “People don’t change,” she said. “You think she’s gonna stay clean? No way. Huh-uh.”
Carrie hadn’t returned since the cops warned her off the night before.
“Well, she’s taking full advantage of our services,” Bobbi said carefully. “She’s been to see the judge, and she’s about to start parenting classes.”
“Good for her. See right there? I’ve got an infestation of voles.”
Bobbi looked where Anita was pointing at some holes in the soil.
“They make tunnels,” Anita said. “They ate all my radish tops, chewed off my cucumber leaves before they even got started.”
“Anita, it’s my duty to inform you that Carrie’s aim is to get full custody of the children. And as her parental rights were never terminated, she has that option, provided she meets all requirements.”
Anita didn’t respond, moved on from the tomatoes to the peppers. For a woman in her late sixties, she was nimble. And for a grandmother who’d been watching the children for over a year, the whole thing had to be heartbreaking. Their father Roy was an alcoholic and sporadically showed up, usually to take something from the property and try to hawk it.
Bobbi said, “I also wanted to add that Carrie is incredibly grateful to you. But she shouldn’t have just shown up like that, and she knows it.”
Finally, Anita stood, hands pressed against the small of her back, and looked off where the children were taking turns rolling down the hill, their bright laughter filling the air.
“Would I get visitation?” Anita asked.
“Oh, I think absolutely, that’s a strong possibility. And… Mrs. Richardson, this is a ways off. Carrie has a lot of work to do. And my first responsibility is to those kids. I know they’re happy here. With you.”
Anita snapped a look at Bobbi and said, “You’re still a kid yourself.”
She pushed out of the garden gate and called to the children that it was time for lunch. They came along willingly, bounding up the porch steps.
Bobbi slowly left the garden, feeling stung by Anita’s remark but trying for compassion to transcend ego. It was tough. All of these situations, though, when you looked right at it, were tough. There was never a time someone didn’t get hurt. Her job was to serve the best interests of the kids. If that meant having a healthy, stable mother in their life, then that was what it meant.
Still, driving back to Lake Haven, she felt like shit.
She moped a little back in her office, the mental funk clinging when the IT guy came in to work on her computer. DSS was still dealing with the addition of several offices, and computer networking had needed a massive overhaul. The whole thing was a major inconvenience on top of everything else. She left him sitting at her desk, his hands flying over the keys.
She needed to get a cup of coffee, have a talk with Lennox, get her mind off the morning. The whole dilemma with Connor and Jolyon remained playing like background noise in her mind: keep going, feeling anxious about her role in the life of a six-year-old, motherless boy? Or confront it?
She was never one to run from confrontation.
* * *