The Innocent

Gerald Dixon lived in a two-story duplex in a lousy neighborhood. When Robie knocked on the door it took a long time to get a response, and he heard noises inside that bespoke of frenzied activity. When the guy finally opened the door Robie noted the crimson patches on his cheeks, the bloodshot eyes, and the smell of breath freshener that shot like a cannonball from his mouth.

The idiot’s been slapping himself to get sober and sucking on Listerine to hide the booze smell. The foster care standards must be plummeting in this country.

“Yeah?” the man said in an unfriendly tone.

“Gerald Dixon?”

“Who wants to know?”

Robie flashed his badge. “I’m with D.C. Internal Affairs.”

Dixon took a step back. He was an inch shorter than Robie but unhealthily thin. Most of his hair was gone, though he couldn’t have been much over forty. He had the pale, translucent skin and jerky manner of someone whose body and mind had been substance-abused to the point of no return.

“Internal Affairs. Ain’t that for cops?”

“It’s for a lot of things,” said Robie. “Including your situation. May I come in?”

“Why?”

“To talk about Julie.” It was Robie’s gut instinct that the girl had used her real first name.

Dixon’s face screwed up. “If you find her you tell her she better get her butt back here. If she ain’t here I don’t get paid.”

“So she’s gone missing?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I come in?”

Dixon looked put out, but he nodded, stepped back, and let Robie pass through.

The inside of the house looked no better than the outside. They sat on tattered chairs. Baskets of dirty laundry were piled everywhere, but Robie had a notion that before he knocked on the door all the clothes had been strewn on the floor. He also noted papers and the edge of a beer can sticking out from under a chair. He wondered what else was under there. His seat was very hard. He didn’t think it was the cushion.

A small, curvy woman wearing tight jeans and an even tighter blouse came out of the back, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She looked to be at most thirty. She had mousy brown hair, a heavily made up face, and the air of someone who was totally disconnected from reality. She lit up a cigarette and eyed Robie.

“Who’s he?”

“Some dude from Internal Affairs,” growled Dixon.

Robie flipped open his badge. “I’m here to talk about Julie. And smoking around our children is prohibited,” he added.

The woman quickly stubbed the cigarette out on a tabletop. “Sorry,” she said without sounding sorry in the least.

The woman snapped, “She’s gone. Run off. Little shit never appreciated what we gave her.”

“And you are?” asked Robie.

“Patty. Gerry and me are married.”

“How many foster kids do you have currently?”

“Two not counting that shit Julie,” said Patty.

“I would prefer if you wouldn’t refer to one of the children under our responsibility as a shit,” Robie said firmly.

Patty glanced at her husband. “Is he with the foster care people?”

“He told me Internal Affairs,” said Gerald, looking betrayed.

“I’m with the government,” said Robie. “That’s all you two need to know. So where are the other kids?”

Patty adopted a loving matronly tone. “In school,” she said, smiling. “We send those little angels to school every day, just like we’re supposed to.”

Robie heard a sound from upstairs. “You have kids of your own?” he asked, glancing upward.

Gerald and Patty exchanged a nervous glance. He said, “We got two of our own, little ones. Don’t go to school yet. That’s them up there probably reading. They’re real advanced for their ages.”

“Right. Now about Julie.” He opened a notebook he drew from his jacket. Gerald Dixon’s eyes widened as he saw the revealed weapon. “You’re carrying a gun.”

“That’s right,” said Robie.

“I thought this was about foster care,” said Patty.

“This is about what I say it’s about. And if you two want to stay out of serious trouble I suggest you cooperate fully.”

Robie had decided he was done playing nice with these idiots. He didn’t have the time or the desire.

Gerald sat up straighter and Patty sat down next to him.

Robie said, “Tell me about Julie.”

“Is she in trouble?” asked Gerald.

“Tell me about her,” repeated Robie firmly. “Full name, background, how she came to be here. Everything.”

“Don’t you already know that?” asked Patty.

Robie looked at her with a face of granite. “I’m here to confirm the information we already have, Mrs. Dixon. And please keep in mind the request I made for cooperation and then focus on the possible consequences of not cooperating.”

Gerald sharply elbowed his wife and snapped, “Just shut up and let me handle this.” He turned back to Robie. “Her name is Julie Getty. She came here, oh, about three weeks ago.”

“Age?”

“Fourteen.”

“Why was she placed in foster care?”

“Her parents couldn’t take care of her.”

“Yeah, that I get. Why couldn’t they care for her? Were they dead?”

“No, don’t think so. See, the agency people don’t really tell you that much about that stuff. They just give you kids and you take care of them.”

Patty added quickly, “Just like they were our own.”