his desk was piled with papers and empty coffee cups, Dave Brubeck playing softly on the stereo in the corner. The electronic twiddle of his phone caught him by surprise. He'd told Joan he wasn't supposed to be disturbed. She knew how much he hated handling the paperwork.
"Hi Joan," he said absently. "What's up?"
"You've got a call from Detective Russell," Joan said.
"Oh, great," he said with a groan. "Can you ask him if I'm under arrest again?"
"I don't think they can arrest you over the phone," Joan said.
"Maybe. Wouldn't put it past him."
"He's on three," she said.
"Hey Steve," Joe said as he took the call. "This isn't a great time."
"Sorry, Joe," Steve said. "I wouldn't normally call you, but it's Stephanie, the girl you found last week."
"She okay?" Joe asked.
"You're kidding, right? She's a mess. We need to talk to her, though. She liked you. You think you can come by and maybe keep her calm enough to get us some answers?"
"Do you think it's a good idea to put her through that after what happened?" Joe wasn't actually sure what happened, but nobody ended up with that much blood on them because of something good.
"It's a crap idea, Joe", Steve said. His voice sounded tired. "But some nutcase sliced up her mom, brother, and sister. He's still out there somewhere, and odds are he'll do this again."
“Uh… Sliced?” The word made Joe’s stomach lurch a little. There had been a lot of blood on Stephanie when he’d found her.
“Yeah. It was bad. You don’t want to know how bad. She’s our only witness, and we need to find out what she saw before it happens again. Maybe it won’t help, but we need something. We can’t let this happen again.”
It made sense, but Joe wasn't comfortable being involved in questioning her. It was probably going to be traumatic, and he didn't want to be responsible for that. He wasn’t even sure how much help he’d be. "Don't you have psychologists for this?" he asked.
"And social workers, and Chris who's usually good with kids, but she goes into a shrieking fit when we try. I know it isn't fun, but we don't have anything else to go on yet, and she really responded to you. Please?"
Joe sighed. He knew Steve was right, and he sounded near-desperate. "Fine," he agreed. "I'll come, if you think it'll help."
"Thanks, Joe," Steve said. "We'll take anything at this point."
"Where should I meet you?"
"Group home. 415 Maple, a few streets down from the restaurant we had lunch at last week."
Joe shuddered at the memory. "If I could survive that place, this ought to be a piece of cake."
"That's the spirit," Steve said.
Joe hung up the phone. He grabbed his suit jacket and took one last swig of his cold coffee.
"I've gotta go," he told Joan as he left his office. "Probably won't be back."
"Guess they can arrest you over the phone," she said with a smirk.
"Don't start," he said. "Just… don't."
* * *
Chris stood in the foyer of the group home, looking out through the grime that covered the tiny safety glass window. A few beat-up cars rattled by, punctuated by the thump of tires catching a pothole. Across the street was a row of two story brick storefronts. Most of them were empty, save for a scruffy pawn shop and a bar on the corner. Even this early in the day it was open, a Budweiser sign flickering on and off over the door.
The whole area radiated the sort of grey malaise that settled into your bones and ate away at your soul. Chris could feel it, could see the effect it had on the people who slouched by. He knew half of them by name, and some he probably knew better than whatever might be left of their
"Hi Joan," he said absently. "What's up?"
"You've got a call from Detective Russell," Joan said.
"Oh, great," he said with a groan. "Can you ask him if I'm under arrest again?"
"I don't think they can arrest you over the phone," Joan said.
"Maybe. Wouldn't put it past him."
"He's on three," she said.
"Hey Steve," Joe said as he took the call. "This isn't a great time."
"Sorry, Joe," Steve said. "I wouldn't normally call you, but it's Stephanie, the girl you found last week."
"She okay?" Joe asked.
"You're kidding, right? She's a mess. We need to talk to her, though. She liked you. You think you can come by and maybe keep her calm enough to get us some answers?"
"Do you think it's a good idea to put her through that after what happened?" Joe wasn't actually sure what happened, but nobody ended up with that much blood on them because of something good.
"It's a crap idea, Joe", Steve said. His voice sounded tired. "But some nutcase sliced up her mom, brother, and sister. He's still out there somewhere, and odds are he'll do this again."
“Uh… Sliced?” The word made Joe’s stomach lurch a little. There had been a lot of blood on Stephanie when he’d found her.
“Yeah. It was bad. You don’t want to know how bad. She’s our only witness, and we need to find out what she saw before it happens again. Maybe it won’t help, but we need something. We can’t let this happen again.”
It made sense, but Joe wasn't comfortable being involved in questioning her. It was probably going to be traumatic, and he didn't want to be responsible for that. He wasn’t even sure how much help he’d be. "Don't you have psychologists for this?" he asked.
"And social workers, and Chris who's usually good with kids, but she goes into a shrieking fit when we try. I know it isn't fun, but we don't have anything else to go on yet, and she really responded to you. Please?"
Joe sighed. He knew Steve was right, and he sounded near-desperate. "Fine," he agreed. "I'll come, if you think it'll help."
"Thanks, Joe," Steve said. "We'll take anything at this point."
"Where should I meet you?"
"Group home. 415 Maple, a few streets down from the restaurant we had lunch at last week."
Joe shuddered at the memory. "If I could survive that place, this ought to be a piece of cake."
"That's the spirit," Steve said.
Joe hung up the phone. He grabbed his suit jacket and took one last swig of his cold coffee.
"I've gotta go," he told Joan as he left his office. "Probably won't be back."
"Guess they can arrest you over the phone," she said with a smirk.
"Don't start," he said. "Just… don't."
* * *
Chris stood in the foyer of the group home, looking out through the grime that covered the tiny safety glass window. A few beat-up cars rattled by, punctuated by the thump of tires catching a pothole. Across the street was a row of two story brick storefronts. Most of them were empty, save for a scruffy pawn shop and a bar on the corner. Even this early in the day it was open, a Budweiser sign flickering on and off over the door.
The whole area radiated the sort of grey malaise that settled into your bones and ate away at your soul. Chris could feel it, could see the effect it had on the people who slouched by. He knew half of them by name, and some he probably knew better than whatever might be left of their
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