A tall white-haired man in a dark blue blazer sat down next to the boy.
“It’s closing time, pal,” the man said. “We need to find your parents.”
The man had a kind voice.
The boy looked up. “I know,” he said quietly.
“My name’s Ken Johnson,” the man said. He held out his hand to the boy, who shook it.
“I’m a docent at the museum,” the man explained. “I help people. The security guard said you’ve been sitting here for quite a while. I’m sure your parents are worried.”
The boy turned and looked at the famous sculpture by Edgar Degas—a young dancer sculpted in wax, her eyes closed and chin lifted, her hands entwined behind her back. The boy didn’t respond. He didn’t have the words to respond.
“Do you know where your parents are?” Johnson asked. His voice was calm and reassuring.
“No,” the boy said. His eyes never left the sculpture.
“Tell you what,” said Johnson. “Give me your name, and we’ll track them down for you, okay?”
“My name?”
“Yes,” said Johnson, “your name?”
The boy turned and looked at him. “I don’t know my name.”
The boy sat in a chair and stared at a TV on a beat-up credenza. The office was small and hot. He could hear air whistling through a vent in the ceiling. One of the detectives had brought him to the room ten minutes or so ago and asked him to wait. There was little to do other than sit and stare at the television. SpongeBob SquarePants was dancing around silently on the screen. The boy had muted the TV. He wasn’t in the mood for SpongeBob’s annoying laugh.
A social worker had picked up the boy at the museum and taken him to the hospital. The doctor in the emergency room had been nice—he spoke with a soft Jamaican accent and had thick dreadlocks. He had asked a lot of questions, but the boy had few answers. He felt bad about that, but he just didn’t remember anything. He had no idea when he had arrived at the museum, why he was there, who he was, who his parents were, or where he lived. The doctor had checked for any sign of a blow to the head or some other injury that might explain the memory loss. Nothing. Another doctor—a thin, bald man who seemed in a hurry—had come in and spoken with the boy briefly. He wasn’t nearly as nice as the doctor with the Jamaican accent and dreadlocks. The new doctor was a neurologist—a brain doctor, the nice doctor had explained. The new doctor—the not-so-nice one—had diagnosed him with a type of amnesia caused by a traumatic event. The nice doctor had told him there was not much they could do for him—that his memory would return when he was ready for it to return. The nice doctor had given him a pat on the shoulder, told him to hang in there, and then left.
Patrick Star had now joined SpongeBob on the screen. They danced silently around the bottom of the ocean on the TV.
Despite the almost oppressive heat in the room, the boy didn’t remove his jacket. It was all he had—a blue zip-up he had been wearing when he was found. Written on the tag on the inside of the jacket was the name Arthur. The people at the hospital had asked if that was his name, but the boy didn’t know. The name didn’t sound familiar to him. The jacket could have been a hand-me-down or someone else’s jacket that he had borrowed or picked up along the way.
There was a knock on the door, and a woman with dark, shortly cropped hair stuck her head inside. She had a pair of glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
“My name’s Detective Evans,” she said. “May I come in?”
The boy simply nodded. It wasn’t as if he could say no.
The detective pulled over a chair from the other side of the small office and sat down directly in front of the boy. She placed a folder in her lap and opened it. He could see his photo stapled on the inside of the file along with the report from the emergency room. And even though the folder was upside down, he could also see the word “runaway” and a question mark written in dark ink across the inside cover. The detective caught him looking at the file and quickly closed it.
“I’ve been asked to sit down and talk with you a bit,” the detective said. She seemed nice enough, but he could see that she was watching him closely.
“Any luck remembering your name?” she asked.
The boy shook his head. “No.”
“My son has blond hair and green eyes just like you,” she said. “I sure would miss him if he disappeared. Do you know where your parents are?”
“No,” the boy responded.
The detective’s eyes never left his face.
“Do you know their names?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do you know your address?”
“No.”
“Do you live in Washington, DC?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old are you?”
The boy paused. That was a good question.
“Twelve—I think,” he replied. “But I’m not sure.”
“Do you know how you got to the museum?”
The boy mulled over the question.
“No,” he finally replied. “I was just there.”
The detective gestured toward the TV. “Whatcha watching?” she asked.
“SpongeBob SquarePants.”
“My son loves that show,” she said. “I think it’s kind of silly. Do you like it?”
“It’s okay,” the boy responded.
“You remember SpongeBob, but you can’t remember your name?”
The boy shook his head. “I can’t,” he said apologetically.
The detective put on her glasses, opened the folder, and scribbled a few notes.
“Can I ask you a question?” the boy asked.
“Of course.” The detective looked up from the file.
“Do you think I’m telling the truth?”
The detective closed the folder and leaned back in her chair.
“I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “The chief detective asked me to interview you because . . . well . . . I’m really good at getting to the truth. I read people. I look for the little signs that someone isn’t telling the truth—lack of eye contact, too much blinking, hand movements, shifting in the seat—stuff people don’t even realize they’re doing.”
“Did you read me?” the boy asked.
“I did,” replied the detective.
She paused.
“I think you’re telling the truth,” she finally said. “And I’m going to do everything I can do to help you find out who you are.”
The boy nodded. He liked Detective Evans.
Mary Sullivan checked in with the duty officer and then took a seat in the waiting room of the police station. She had learned long ago that patience was an absolute requirement for being a foster parent. Her job—she was a senior editor for a book publisher in New York—afforded her a certain level of flexibility. She always had plenty of work to do, but her job gave her the ability to work from home and on a schedule largely of her choosing—even if that meant poring over a manuscript at two in the morning.
She was used to the late-night calls and the sudden need for the temporary placement of a child. The children ultimately moved on to relatives or long-term placement in another community. Mary had developed a reputation for handling difficult situations—children with severe physical disabilities, children who had suffered abuse at the hands of a parent, children who had simply been abandoned under the worst of circumstances. This situation, however, was unlike any she had ever encountered.
She had been on the way to pick up her daughter when she received the call from social services. Another lesson she had learned long ago: calls always came when she least expected them. They had asked if she could pick up a child who needed temporary placement. She had initially declined—she had a pile of manuscripts on her desk at home that were screaming to be reviewed, and Christmas was less than two weeks away. But the social worker had explained the situation and begged her to help. Mary had reluctantly agreed.
The door leading into the back offices of the police station opened, and out walked Detective Brooke Evans. She was accompanied by a boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years of age, with shaggy blond hair and green eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” said Detective Evans. “It’s good to see you again.”
Mary looked the boy directly in his eyes. He was every bit as tall as she was. “Happy to be here,” she replied to the detective. Extending her hand to the boy, she said, “I’m Mary Sullivan.”
The boy took her hand and shook it. “Am I going home with you, Ms. Sullivan?” he asked.
Mary smiled. The boy seemed well mannered, which was a good sign. “Yes,” she said. “And please, call me Mary.”
The boy nodded. “I don’t have any clothes,” he said. “Or a toothbrush. I really should brush my teeth. It’s getting late.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mary. “I think I can handle a toothbrush and a clean set of clothes.” She turned to Detective Evans. “Any leads?”
The detective shook her head. “Not yet. According to the security tape at the museum, he had been sitting in that room for most of the day. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. Being this close to Christmas, I suspect his parents will show up soon.”
Detective Evans turned to the boy and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Be good for Mary,” she said.
“I will,” the boy assured her.
Detective Evans watched as the boy and Mary left the precinct.
The whole situation was odd.
There was, of course, the possibility that the boy was faking. She couldn’t discount it entirely. She had been wrong before—every detective makes mistakes. But everything about the boy suggested that he was telling the truth.
It was as if he had just appeared out of thin air in the National Gallery of Art.