Chapter 23
Thursday afternoon
Officer Joy Williams parked her police cruiser in front of the Lighthouse Free Clinic on Central Avenue. She knew that the building was part of a free clinic, but she hadn’t yet met the organizers. She pulled on the entry door and found it locked.
“They don’t open up the door until four,” said a slurred voice from the vacant lot next door. A disheveled black man with white buzz-cut hair stood nearby, leaning heavily on a four-pronged cane. “If you want the boss lady, you need to go around to the back. She’ll be in the kitchen putting our supper out on the line.”
“You may know what I need. Do you know a man called Cap?”
“Ol’ Cap?” He lowered himself back onto a bench built out of two-by-fours and a plank. It didn’t look sturdy enough to support a child, but held the old man’s weight without a flinch. “Everybody knows Ol’ Cap. He’s not too keen to talk to any kind of authority. I don’t know why, but I didn’t ask either. We don’t ask each other many questions here, ma’am.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“Ma’am, he pretty much looks like the rest of us. Rode hard and put away wet.”
“Do you think they might know about him inside?”
“Not sure, ma’am. I haven’t told them anything about me. They don’t ask.”
Joy smiled. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your frankness.” She headed toward the back of the building, walking carefully through the dirt lot that doubled as a waiting area, and stepping carefully between upside down buckets, wooden chairs, and tree stumps. It was haphazard, but neat. No trash and no litter.
She pulled the back door open quietly and Officer Williams stepped inside a bustling commercial kitchen with boiling pots of soup, large trays of roasted chicken quarters, and serving pans filled with mashed potatoes, gravy, and a pastry-covered dessert. The delicious aroma caused Joy’s stomach to growl. It had been a long time since lunch.
“Go around to the front! We’re not ready,” shouted a tiny woman standing on a step stool stirring the large pot of soup and adding salt from an industrial sized container. “You know that’s the rule. It’s on the front door, for pity’s sake.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m not a patron.”
The tiny woman turned her head like a startled bird and looked at Joy from top to toe. “I’m sorry, Officer. You have no idea how many times a day I have to chase folks away. Rules are to be followed exactly . . . to get a meal, a shower, and a bed.” She stepped down from the stool. “Johnny, take over seasoning the soup for me. It’s too bland. I’m going to talk to this lovely woman police officer.”
A thin quiet man, whose leathered skin had seen too many days outdoors, scooted the step stool aside with his foot and took over.
“We can talk in my little office. My name is Wanda.” She raised her eyebrows and led the way to a tidy eight-by-eight office crammed with a desk, a PC, an office chair, a side chair, and two filing cabinets. She sat in the office chair and motioned for Joy to take the side chair. “I’m assuming you want to ask me about one of our clients.”
“Yes. I need to know about—”
Wanda raised her hand in a stop motion when Joy started to speak. “Before we start, let me tell you that we don’t keep records or statistics or ask for any identification from our clients.” She plucked a brochure from the upper left drawer of the desk and handed it to Joy. “This fully explains our mission. In brief, we provide safe, transitional shelter to single, homeless men. We serve up to twenty-five men at any one time. Residents work with staff to set goals, save money, and work toward independent living.” Wanda folded her small hands in front of her on the desk. “Now, with that out of the way, how can I help you?”
Joy cleared her throat and straightened up to sit tall. “I am Officer Joy Williams, reporting to Detective David Parker of the Major Crimes Division.” She made a little production out of taking her pen and notebook from her pocket, opening the notebook and clicking the pen to write. “First, what is your full name and legal designation of this facility?”
Wanda nodded approval. “My name is Wanda Hunt Seine and the full name of this organization is Free Clinic Lighthouse. Yearly financial records are posted on our website and we are managed by a local board of directors.”
After scribbling that information in her notebook, Joy asked, “In particular, I’m trying to determine the whereabouts of a homeless vet called Cap. He may have witnessed an incident at the Dali Museum in the early hours of Monday this week. We need to talk to him urgently.”
“Do you have a description?”
Joy flipped back a few pages of her notebook. “It’s not very specific. Cap is of average height, thin frame, wears ragged camo gear—typical veteran description.”
“That describes more than half our clients.”
Joy sighed deeply and put away her pen and notebook. “Well, that’s a dead end then.”
“Now, now. Don’t give up so easily. Most social workers have been burned by answering seemingly straightforward questions from the police, only to be betrayed. I lost more than one veteran that way.” Wanda reached over and patted Joy on the knee. “I know Ol’ Cap reasonably well. He is an institution here at the Lighthouse. What are the times you need to verify?”
“From about four in the morning to no later than seven. Why?”
Wanda held her head in her hands for a moment as if wrestling with conflicting ethics. “He wouldn’t mind, but I won’t reveal his name. I can confirm to you that during that time he was talking to his sobriety sponsor. The rescue conversation lasted from about three in the morning until nearly eight.”
“How on earth can you confirm that?”
“Their conversation kept me up most of the night. His sobriety sponsor is my husband.”