RYAN
I wended my way through hallways that felt familiar. I’d followed the same wall-mounted directories eleven years ago, the night I’d dropped off a tiny little girl with big, brown eyes.
It was easy to remember the showdown between the arguing couple, each of them high as a kite. It was impossible to forget the wide-eyed five-year-old I’d found hiding in a closet. I would always recall that she shed no tears, even as I carried her down this hallway on my hip.
Eleven years ago, I turned Bailey Johnson over to the system, not exactly hoping her mother would figure her life out; naively believing Bailey would be adopted quickly into a loving family.
How had it gone so wrong?
I quickly silenced the voice insisting her situation was my fault. I was getting better at turning down the burden of blame. Bill Gallagher had ruthlessly pointed out that my self-pity was helping no one. The only thing that would help was taking action.
Today, I was more than ready for action. I wasn’t leaving until I had assurances Bailey would be placed in a new home. Today.
I imagined she might be shuffled anywhere in the county, depending where social services had an available foster home. And she didn’t have a car, so that probably meant she’d have to quit her job at the Mailboat. By extension then, she’d see less of Tommy—and that was a problem to iron out. I wasn’t sure what had fallen out between them, but I still believed in my gut that he was a key connection somehow.
One thing at a time. First, I just needed to get her away from Bud Weber.
I found the door I was looking for. It pulled me strongly back to that night. I stared at it. Told myself I was finally making restitution. That Bailey’s torment ended today. I pushed it open.
“Can I help you, officer?”
A large, comfortable woman sat behind the desk, wearing a flouncy polka-dot dress. She smiled warmly behind horn-rimmed glasses. Something about her reminded me of my favorite teacher from grade school. The nameplate on the edge of her desk said Betty Evans.
“Yes, I need to speak with the case worker for one of your fosters, Bailey Johnson.”
“Certainly. One moment.” She clacked on her keyboard with bright red manicured nails, her fingers blinged out with oversized rings. After a moment of searching, her face fell. “Oh.” She chewed her lip, looking uncomfortable, as if she’d opened the door to the craft closet, only to find every piece of paper stuck to the wall with glue sticks. “I’m afraid Bailey’s case worker isn’t available. Would you like to speak with our director?”
“All the better.”
The woman rose with a relieved smile. “I’ll see if she’s available. May I ask the purpose of your visit today?”
“Bailey’s foster dad is currently under investigation for some very serious allegations. I’m here to see about getting Bailey rehomed.”
The smile withered, but the woman concealed it with a quick nod. “Wait here, please.”
She vanished down a hall, leaving me to stand, hands on my duty belt, staring at literature about how to become a foster parent. A man, a woman, and a child, bathed in sunlight, laughed joyously from the front of the brochure. I couldn’t help thinking the advertising was off.
And for some reason, I couldn’t help grabbing a copy and tucking it into my pocket.
I went on to study the furniture, the carpet, the adorable ceramic pig on the receptionist’s desk—all while wondering if she was ever coming back. Was it me, or was she taking a long time?
At last, she reappeared, smiling warmly again—maybe because I was happily no longer her problem.
“The director will see you now.”
I fell into step behind the woman, who led me down the hall. The receptionist stopped at a door and knocked brightly, then pushed it open and waved me in.
A tall woman stood from behind her desk, her brown hair piled artfully in carefree waves, her efficient form clad in a blazer and pencil skirt. She reached across the desk to shake my hand. “Good afternoon, Officer. I’m Michelle Stafford.” Her handshake was firm and her manner of speech efficient.
“Thanks for seeing me. I’m Officer Brandt.”
“Have a seat.” She waved me to a chair, then sat and folded her hands on her desk. “I understand you have some concerns about one of our foster homes.”
I settled into the seat offered to me. “Yes. Bud Weber.”
“Would you please elaborate?”
“His foster ward, Bailey Johnson, has had some bruises no one can explain.”
Ms. Stafford turned to her computer and clicked her mouse. “How old is the child?”
“Sixteen.”
“Have you asked her how she came by her bruises?”
I shrugged. “She says she ran into stuff.”
She looked at me over her glasses, her gaze pointed. “You don’t believe her?”
I stopped, jaw slack. Surely she knew that “running into stuff” was the go-to explanation from every victim of domestic violence ever. In a heartbeat, what I’d taken to be a professional conversation had turned antagonistic—and I was the bad guy, or at least the bumbling cop.
She reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, then laid it on the desk in front of me. “If you’d like to file a formal complaint, we’ll look into it.”
I wondered what “looking into it” entailed. I’d already interviewed Bud and Bailey—multiple times—and run a background check on Bud and was currently making him the focus of a full-scale investigation.
And I still had no concrete evidence. In light of that, what would this woman who didn’t believe me accomplish?
I took the sheet, meeting Ms. Stafford’s eye. “I will file a complaint. But the things I’m here to talk about go way past paperwork. Weber is currently under investigation for very serious allegations. We consider Bailey’s safety at risk. I’m here to request she be removed to a new foster home—today.”
“I’m afraid that would be very difficult.”
“Difficult? We suspect Bud Weber of the rape and murder of a female minor.”
She adjusted her glasses, her motion precise and practiced. “Has Mr. Weber been convicted of a felony?”
“No. The investigation is ongoing.”
“Then I’m afraid we don’t have sufficient grounds to revoke his foster care license.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. We take the rights of our foster care providers very seriously.”
“And in the process, you sacrifice the child. How is that right?”
“I’m not paid to decide what’s right, Officer Brandt. I’m paid to provide child protective services within the legal framework as it stands.”
“Ms. Stafford, I am an officer of the law. You won’t even take my word that this home is unsafe?”
“It’s not a matter of whether or not I believe you. It’s a matter of what can be proved.”
I leaned forward and tapped my fingers on the desk. “Technically, it’s your job to determine whether a foster home is safe.”
She smiled coldly and nodded at the document she’d handed me. “If you file the complaint, I promise I’ll look into it.”
“Fine. Yes. I’m submitting the paperwork. But I’m also going to continue my investigation on Weber. And I recommend you let me know what kind of coffee you like, because I’m going to be in this room every day presenting my findings until you have no choice but to care.”
Her eyes turned to ice, her professional demeanor vanishing, the real woman suddenly and violently showing through. “Don’t suggest I don’t care.”
Her outburst left me speechless—not only because of her passion but because I still couldn’t reconcile her statement with the evidence to the contrary.
She composed herself, smoothing down her skirt, then added, “As someone who works at the intersection of the law and human nature, I should think you’d understand. I receive complaints every single day—from biological parents and family members, from adoptive parents, from the children themselves. Most are unfounded. The minute you take a child from their birth family, absolutely no one is happy about it and absolutely no one is civil. The worst kind of accusations ensue from all parties involved. I spend all day trying to sort these out.”
Her position began to run clear. “I’m assuming it would be impractical to move a child temporarily until the investigation was resolved.”
“Yes. For two reasons. One, every time you rehome a child, you only add to their trauma. Two, where am I going to put her? To be frank, there is nowhere for Bailey to go.”
“You don’t have a home waiting for a child? Maybe even some nice couple looking to adopt?” Somehow in my mind, I had pictured dozens of families eager to fall in love with a new kid, especially one as sweet as Bailey.
The director folded her hands patiently. “Officer Brandt, on an average day in Wisconsin, the number of kids in need of a home outnumber foster homes four to one. We are maxed out. As for adoptive parents—not to be a pessimist, but Bailey’s too old. People want babies and toddlers—kids too young to be ‘tainted’ by the system. Teens in foster care have usually been here half their lives. They’re scarred, and they’re working through a lot of trauma. And so, there are rumors. As far as adopters are concerned, Bailey Johnson is more likely to murder them in their sleep than become a natural fit for their family.”
My jaw went slack. “Bailey’s the victim in all this. She’s just a kid—a really good kid.” I tried to forget that one time she looked like she was ready to deck me.
“I’m merely explaining the facts to you as they stand.”
I slumped in my chair and released a heavy sigh. I’d had no idea just how steeply the odds were stacked against Bailey’s favor. No wonder she was still trapped in the system. No wonder she was stuck with Bud Weber. The entire foster care system, in its current desperate state, was a more perfect environment for child predators than for children.
I sighed and rubbed my forehead, trying to wrangle my thoughts. “Okay. All right. I’ll, uh… I’ll file the complaint, and I’ll continue my investigation.” I met her eyes, changing my tone. “And I’ll share with you whatever I find.”
“I can’t revoke a license without good cause,” she said firmly.
“I understand. I’ll do my best.” Meekly, I rose and made for the door.
“Officer.”
Hand on the knob, I turned.
She twisted a pen in her hands, elbows on her desk, her eyes studying me as if she were trying to make up her mind. At last, she sighed and flipped up a palm. “I take tea, not coffee.”
I smiled. That was as much as an invitation as I was going to get, and you better believe I was going to take it. In fact, I was going to try every variety of the best-brewed tea in the county until I figured out which one she liked best.
I left her office, wandered back to the lobby, and scowled at the document I was to fill out. Paperwork. This wasn’t what I’d come here for. Bailey deserved more.
I sat down and poured my soul into that document, stacking every fact I knew and most of what I suspected—everything I could without compromising the investigation. When I was done, I sighed, rose, and approached the receptionist, Betty.
Her smile was genuine but demure, as if she knew what kind of conversation had happened behind the closed door. “Thank you, officer. I’ll pass this back to Ms. Stafford right away.”
“I appreciate that.” I turned to leave.
“Um…”
I paused. Betty was biting the end of a pencil, staring at her desk as if trying to make up her mind. She lifted her eyes, looked at me, then pulled a sheet of paper from the corner of her desk.
“I’m not sure I should do this, but… I made you a list of Bailey’s past case workers.”
I took it eagerly. There were at least a dozen names. “So many?”
“It’s hard to keep them. The work is very… Well, it’s stressful. Most places have a fairly high turnover rate.”
I nodded. It fit the picture that was coming together for me. The train wreck that I was just discovering was the environment these people worked in every day. And this list of names was one more reason why Bailey continued to flounder in foster care. No one knew her story from beginning to end except what they each read in impersonal documentation. It wasn’t the same as walking her journey alongside her, knowing what she needed intuitively.
“Who’s her current case worker?” I asked.
Betty chewed her lip, as she had the first time I asked. “Anna Clapton was the most recent. She left us about a month ago.”
“So who’s her worker now?”
“Technically she’s with Chloe White, just until we fill Anna’s position. But Chloe hasn’t had a chance to meet with Bailey yet, so…” She trailed off.
So Bailey didn’t even have a proper case worker right now. And she hadn’t since I’d crossed paths with her this summer. I decided not to comment. Offloading my frustrations on the receptionist wasn’t going to solve the problems she already seemed well aware of.
I carefully folded the list of names she’d given me. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”
She nodded meekly. She didn’t seem to have the heart to apply more words to the situation.
I left. I was sure I was going to see a lot more of that office. I was sure I was going to feel this same sick, twisted feeling in my gut every time I was there.
I just hoped I could save Bailey in time before anything happened to her. I’d made a promise to her today—a promise to be there when she was adopted into a real family.
But now I understood what she’d known all along: I had promised her something utterly impossible.