“Ms. Taylor?” I asked the plump thirty-ish woman shifting from foot to foot in the school office. When she nodded, I stuck out my hand.
Despite her strong grip, Lorraine Taylor looked ready to fall apart. Dark circles weighted her light eyes. Her brown hair appeared uncombed. Her open coat revealed wrinkled blue scrubs. Tattoos covered her arms and even her hands and neck. A quick scan did not reveal any related to gangs or prison.
Being a school resource officer did not mean that I was a glorified security guard, as some people thought. I was a sworn Portland police officer, covering the Wilson cluster: Wilson High, the two middle schools, and five elementaries that fed into it. With the younger kids, by and large it was the parents I needed to concern myself with. The older students got, the more likely it was that they were the ones getting into trouble. At Wilson, I dealt with theft, assaults, drugs, suicide attempts. Every now and then, even a student who might be thinking about shooting up the school.
And then there were extracurriculars. Community meetings. Bike fairs. We were currently working on a talent show for all of Portland Public Schools. I did whatever I could to build relationships with students and parents.
The irony was that I was close to so many kids. Just not my own son.
But that was a problem for another day. And today a student was missing.
“I need to talk to you about my daughter, Savannah,” Ms. Taylor began. “She never came—”
I raised my hand, glancing meaningfully at the three students waiting in the office. They were all listening, and I knew they would be whispering about it as soon as they were back out in the hallways. Before lunch period, rumors about Savannah would be flying all over school. I motioned Ms. Taylor to follow me back to my tiny office.
Once we were behind a closed door, I said, “I understand your daughter didn’t come home last night.” I’d never heard of Savannah Taylor before today, but Wilson was a big school. The secretary had told me that Savannah had transferred in from out of state and that so far, she was getting good grades. And that this was the first time she had missed school.
“No, she didn’t come home.” Ms. Taylor blinked rapidly. “I was really hoping she might have come to school this morning, but when I called the office, they said she didn’t show up. I’m afraid she might have run away.”
I pulled out my notebook, thinking about the many times I’d had this conversation with parents over the years. Give it a day, maybe two, and with luck, this would all be over and the girl would be home, not much worse for wear.
But if it wasn’t, things would probably get worse for Savannah Taylor. Runaways had to sustain themselves, and typically they had no money or skills at doing so. She would need a place to sleep. She needed to eat. If Savannah had left without her school-supplied transit pass, she needed a way to get around. Even if she was currently couch-surfing at a friend’s, eventually she would be forced to go someplace else. Making her even more vulnerable to anyone who would want to take advantage of a teenage girl.
“Has she done this before?” I asked.
“Never.”
A first-time runner. One who never skipped school. A smart girl, but maybe not the kind with street smarts.
“Does she have a boyfriend or a girlfriend she might be staying with?” At this age, a lot of family arguments were about sex or sexual orientation.
Ms. Taylor shook her head. “I don’t think she’s made a lot of friends here yet.”
“Have you tried calling her?”
“She left her phone behind. And I can’t see who she calls or texts or anything because it has a pass code and I don’t know it.” She paused, looked down at the tattoos on her knuckles. They read BABY DOLL. “I guess she had a fight with my boyfriend just before she left.”
Left her phone. Fight with my boyfriend. My attention sharpened. Had we just gone from runaway to missing person? Or even from runaway to victim? “Were you not at home when this happened?”
“I work swing shift, and Tim—that’s my boyfriend—he works days. I guess they had this … argument while I was at work.”
“So Tim lives with you?”
“Actually, we live with him. We moved here about seven months ago.”
“Have he and Savannah argued before?”
“This was the first time. They normally get along fine.” As she spoke, she looked away. Had Savannah left because she didn’t feel safe? Because it was in no sense “home”? Was she being abused?
“What’s Tim’s last name? Where does he work?”
“Hixon. And he works at Schillers Auto Repair.” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “Does all that really matter?”
I kept on as if she hadn’t protested. “How about Savannah’s father? Could she be with him?”
“Last I heard, he was living in Texas. Savannah hasn’t had any contact with him since she was two.” She grimaced as if her mouth tasted sour. “And she knows that he’s never paid child support.”
“Is there any chance she could be suicidal?” New in town, no friends that the mom could name, father figures she couldn’t trust—it wouldn’t be a complete shock.
“No. Never.” But Ms. Taylor’s breath shook.
“Tell me more about what happened,” I said.
“After she and Tim had their … argument, my daughter went to her kung fu class, but she never came back. And I know she was there, because I talked to the instructor this morning.”
I blinked. “Kung fu? Is this the class taught by Sifu Terry?” Daniel loved Sifu Terry. He was always talking about him and about what they had learned in class. Some of the moves Daniel showed me were ones I’d tried to teach him before, but of course it wasn’t as interesting when your own dad was the instructor.
Her eyes widened. “How do you know about that school?”
“Because my son Daniel takes classes there, too.”
Her eyes went to the nameplate on my desk and then back to my face. “You’re Daniel Diaz’s father?”
“Yes.” Something inside me went still. Waiting. Waiting for the rest of it.
“Sifu told me that he left while they were still mopping the floor.”
“While who was?”
“My daughter and your son. Savannah and Daniel. The last time anyone saw her, she was with Daniel.”