Cry Me a River (16 page)

“Hell,” Captain Perry said. “Why didn’t she tell us in the office? Did she forget?”

“No clue,” Grace said. “She’s going out of her mind.”

“Do we need to send someone from Psych out there?”

“That might be a good idea. We have to make her talk to us. Find out how severe it is. How often his doses are administered.”

“Don’t they have pumps nowadays?”

“No pump. She’s got a pile of diabetic needles, those little ones.” Grace had a lot of first-aid training, and she’d seen such needles before. “We’ll get an inventory, see if all his insulin’s here. He also has an inhaler. As in asthma.”

Captain Perry grunted.

“We’ll get as much as we can and then I’ll talk to his pediatrician.” Grace puffed air out of her cheeks. “Why’s it all got to be about kids all of a sudden?”

“Don’t ask me, sister-woman,” Kate said. “Any signs of forced entry? A struggle?”

“Not so far. We just got here.”

“I’m sending a paramedic and the rest of the team over and I’ll get you an APB. Let’s see if Kendra Burke will help us out on this one.”

“Copy that,” Grace bit off. She hung up and went back inside the room. Ham had his notebook out, but Mrs. Catlett was still in orbit.

“Mrs. Catlett, you need to help us. Forrest needs you. Can you tell us if he took any of his insulin with him?” Grace asked.

She kept crying.

Grace shrugged at Ham—
Sorry, man—
and headed back out of the room and went outside, into the storm, and walked the perimeter of the house. No one had asked about Mr. Catlett. Grace hadn’t gotten the impression
that they were divorced, but then again, she also hadn’t known that Forrest really did have a medical condition. Ham was probably finding out about Mr. Catlett now. He was a good partner.

Within seconds, she was soaked to the skin. She didn’t notice until suddenly, the rain wasn’t touching her. It was as if an invisible umbrella had opened above her head.

“Earl? Is that you?” she asked. There was no answer.

    Mr. Catlett was in Houston on business; he was catching the next flight back. Rhetta had found some latent prints on the wall—man-sized, maybe they were Dad’s and maybe they were Hannibal Lector’s—and there were streak marks and rope fibers embedded in the windowsill consistent with someone dragging something heavy out of the house. Restraints, a kid goofing, who knew? Rhetta was doing her tests.

Turned out Forrest’s denim jacket was missing. Grace was very proud of Mrs. Catlett for getting her act together sufficiently to notice. Unfortunately, Mrs. Catlett couldn’t remember if he’d been wearing it the last time she’d seen him. They couldn’t get anywhere with her after that, and she asked for and received a tranq. Butch and Bobby stayed on the home front while Grace and Ham took to the field.

The partners drove to Forrest’s pediatrician’s office in Grace’s Porsche. Ham had to move aside some fast-food bags, and he sat on a squeaky toy she’d bought for Gus. It was still raining and the wind was brutal. A storm by any other name … Oklahoma had more tornadoes than any other state in the Union. There had to be some kind of price to pay for living in God’s country, she supposed.

They got to the pediatrician’s office. There were cartoon giraffes and lions on the walls—had to embarrass
a young teenage boy—and Grace remembered Clay telling her that Forrest had a thing for snow leopards. She felt as if she understood him a little better—the sad, pale boy with the enmeshed mother.

Bobby called to tell her that he’d checked in with the pharmacy where Mrs. Catlett got Forrest’s insulin. She purchased a month’s supply at a time. The school had some on hand. She was missing a little over a quarter of her stash. A week’s worth. And more than enough syringes to deliver it. That was cause for celebration.

“Look for prints on the remaining syringes,” Grace advised.

His doctor was an older man, maybe sixty, with very silvery gray hair, named Dr. Salzman. He ushered them into his office—drawings by kids on the walls, comfy leather chairs, a big wooden desk with lots of files and a computer.

Grace filled him in quickly. “Some insulin is missing from the house. More than a quarter of the total. So we’re going on the assumption that it’s with Forrest. So that gives us a week, right?”

“Which kind?” the doctor asked. Grace blinked. She looked over at Ham, who shrugged.

“Forrest takes two kinds of insulin. Most children with Type One diabetes need a sort of foundational insulin that keeps their blood sugar levels low on a constant basis. Then they take a bolus insulin—something that acts fast—to lower blood sugar levels when they eat.”

Grace took that in. Bobby hadn’t differentiated the prescription, but he would know to ask. If he said a week, he meant a week.

“I’ll write down his standard dosages for you, and you can compare them with what’s in the house. Another factor is what he eats. The more carbohydrates he eats, the greater his need for insulin.”

“Okay, yes, please do that,” Grace said, handing him her notebook.

“I’ll call Bobby and put him on the line,” Ham said.

Grace turned her attention back to Dr. Salzman. “We’re trying to determine if Forrest was taken, or if he ran away,” she informed him.

“I see.” He sounded guarded.

“Do you have an opinion about that?”

Turned out he did. Even with the diabetes and a confirmed diagnosis of celiac disease, he agreed that Mrs. Catlett held on too tightly.

“Once we knew it was celiac—an inability to absorb nutrients—we could work with that through his diet. And he’s a great candidate for an infusion pump,” Salzman told her. “It would make him more independent. I’ve told Roberta numerous times that I thought he
should
have one. But she was scared that it would fail. They’re simple to monitor; we’d know right away if there was a problem—”

“What about at school?” Grace asked, wandering over to a bookcase featuring pamphlets covering just about every childhood illness and malady known to man. Lice … yup. Pinworms … yup. She remembered them both from Clay’s childhood years.

Diabetes for Teens
. “Does he have to get any injections at school? He eats lunch, needs the mealtime injection, right? The second kind of insulin?”

Grace became aware of his silence. She turned and looked at him. He smiled grimly.

Grace was boggled. “His mother
goes to school
to give him his injections.”

“I’m afraid so. There’s a trained caregiver there. She could monitor him giving himself an injection. We recommend that diabetic patients take over their injections at fourteen. Many do it younger.”

“He’s fourteen,” Ham said, covering the phone. “If
the other kids know his mother sticks him in the butt with a needle every lunch period …”

“He was using his thigh. And Forrest was positive that no one knew,” Salzman said. “They thought his diet and occasional hypoglycemic symptoms were from the celiac disease. On the other hand, sometimes the friends of diabetics protect their secret.”

Grace opened the pamphlet. Happy, smiling teenagers. Something about Planet D. Special summer camps. “Did Forrest ever confide in you, tell you how he felt about all this?”

“Forrest Catlett is still in my care. I need to honor doctor–patient confidentiality.” He hesitated. “But diabetics as a group have a higher incidence of depression than the general population.”

“If I had a chronic illness, I’d be depressed, too,” Grace said. She didn’t think Bobby was, though. But he was a grown-up, used to having diabetes.

A chime sounded, and Dr. Salzman pulled out his cell phone.

“You’ve got a patient,” Grace guessed.

“I have time for you.” He sounded very kind. She liked him.

“Glucagon,” Grace said, holding up the pamphlet. “Give him sugar asap. May I take this?”

“Take whatever you like.” The doctor cleared his throat. “It’s been a bit of a vicious cycle. She’s afraid for him to take part in many activities. So she hovers.”

“Helicopter parent,” Grace said.

The doctor inclined his head. “Exactly. Forrest feels uncomfortable. As a result, he’s dropped out of most of his activities. He used to be in Little League. He got hit pretty hard with a ball and she went cra—she got very upset. There’ve been fewer and fewer things he’s been interested in.”

“Depression,” Ham said. He pointed to the phone.
“Bobby says about a quarter of the Lantus was missing, too.”

“That’s the basal insulin.” Salzman nodded. “So you were right. You’ve got about a week.”

Good. Good, good, good
.

“Do you think Forrest was uncomfortable enough to run away from home?” Ham asked.

The doctor looked uneasy. “That’s hard to say. He was private with me. I did suggest therapy.”

“For him? Or for his mother?” Grace wasn’t big on it, herself.

“Both, but it didn’t happen.” He looked down at his desk. Grace traded looks with Ham. They both fell silent. Silence bothered some people.

They both waited.

“Forrest had an older sibling. The baby died of SIDS when he was about a month old.”

“Crib death,” Ham said. “Yeah, I had a friend who lost a kid that way.” He glanced at Grace. “Friend of Darlene’s,” he amended.

“Whoa.” Grace processed that. Not the bit about Darlene and Ham’s friend—although that was too bad—but somehow, she’d imagined that Forrest’s brother had died later, like in a car accident or something. It continually surprised her how many preconceived notions she had about things—assumptions she didn’t even know she’d made.

“That would make me clingy,” Ham said.

You’re clingy to start with
, Grace thought, taking her notebook back and jotting notes. “So SIDS, no other cause of death?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I wasn’t their pediatrician back then,” Salzman said. “They moved here from Texas after their first child died. There’s a good support group called Empty Cradle. They have meetings all over the country. I mentioned it a couple of times. I don’t think
she’s ever gotten over the death of that child.” He grimaced. “If something happens to Forrest …”

Grace currently couldn’t care about Mrs. Catlett. She didn’t have enough bandwidth. Maybe an angel could do it.

But she was no angel.

“We’re going to ask the media to run a piece on this,” Grace said. “Would you be willing to be interviewed? We want to broadcast information about his treatment and care. What to do if he goes or is found unconscious.”

“Yes, of course.”

“We’ll have them call you, if that’s all right,” Grace said.

He inclined his head. “I’ll do anything to help.”

Except tell his mother she has to step out of the picture and let him man up
.

As they left, she whipped out her phone and called Butch. “Kendra’s gotta sell this to her producers,” she said. “Or you gotta cut her off, man.”

There was another drive-by that afternoon, but for once it wasn’t a kid. It was Carlos Santander, head of the Cholos Ricos. Before his body was cold, the CRs had retaliated against the 13X Boyz, and the Briscombes’ block was on fire—collateral damage, as they lived in 13X Boyz territory.

Grace’s firefighter brother Leo was working the fire; during a break for hydration, he called Grace and told her that everything the Briscombes had owned was gone.

Jamal would never go back to his grandfather’s apartment again.

Two hours after the fire started, someone had dangled a noose from the limbs of the Survivor Tree. Attached to the noose was a sign:

Two hours after that, someone tagged Emmanuel Synagogue on Northwest 47th Street, one of the oldest Jewish communities in Oklahoma City, with a row of swastikas six feet tall.

All within the space of about five hours.

Meanwhile, Rhetta said the scrapes on Forrest’s bedroom window were consistent with hauling a weight of approximately 130 pounds out the window.

According to Dr. Salzman, Forrest weighed 128 pounds at his last doctor visit. So had he been knocked out and dragged away? A kid could have climbed out the window without a rope. Why not just lift him up and hand him off to a confederate—unless someone had been working alone, and didn’t want to hurt him or call attention to themselves by pushing him out the window and letting him land in the grass?

Now Rhetta was running the handprint through IAFIS to look for a match. There were fifty-five million prints in the international database. There were over three hundred million people in the United States alone.

Grace was worn out and overextended. Her knees were scabbing up and the skin pulled tight, a reminder of her vow to Haleem to find his killer and bring him to justice. Poor Haleem; he was farther down on the list than ever. If she could just get one case closed …

“So how’s it going in here?” Grace asked Rhetta as she came through the door of the Crime Lab. Grace had just gotten word that Kendra was going to do the piece at the top of the news hour. Dr. Salzman would go on the air with her.

Rhetta was radiant. She had little piles of evidence in tidy rows all over her table and she twirled in a little circle and curtsied like a ballerina.

“I am amazing,” she crowed. “You will never guess what I found.”

“A cure for Type One diabetes,” Grace said.

“Well, no,” Rhetta said, the wind temporarily knocked out of her sails. “But I did find a bullet on that rooftop. That had not been shot.” She did a little balletic hop. “And guess what was on the casing.”

Following her train of thought, Grace also made a little ballerina circle and a bow. “Oh, dear God, tell me it was a fingerprint.”

Rhetta leaned her head back. “I am so awesome.”

“You are.” They high-fived. “So how do you figure? Jammed in the chamber, so the shooter knocked it out?”

“That’s how I figure. And I got a great print, Grace.” She took off her glasses and set them on the crown of her head. “I’m running it through now. No match yet, but we can hope.”

“And save it for later. Those sons of bitches jaywalk, I’m printing every last one of them.”

Rhetta kissed Grace’s cheek. “Down, girl. By the rules, remember? We want everything to go well in a court of law.”