It’s All in The Hairline

Some things are just …”off.” Like this guy’s hairline. I nabbed it off of Google Images, and his name is Andrew Napolitano, if that means anything to anyone. It's the best photo I could find that illustrates my story.

Now, take that hair, cut it to about a half inch long all the way around, make his brow one that overhangs, add in a uni-brow, then dye all his hair black and you have the perfect image of this guy I met today.

It took me a long time to quit staring at this guy’s face. How in the world does a hairline grow so low onto a person’s forehead? Did he go overboard with the Rogaine? And, how can there possibly be a shadow over the bridge of his nose?

As if that wasn’t enough, this guy thought he was… Oh, I don’t want to say this but it’s true: He thought he was hot. Cocky as all get-out, especially since he thought he’d been wronged.

“Oh, sorry,” he says looking down at his cell phone. “My wife texted me, wants to know if she can come back here because some man is talking to her in the waiting room and he’s making her nervous.”

Part VIII: Epilogue

Part I: The Call

Part II: The Girl
Part III: The Father
Part IV: Back at the Office
Part V: Interlude
Part VI: The Mother
Part VII: The Pact

I called Becky's assigned public school who insisted that she stay enrolled at the alternative school. I got quite an argument from the alternative school about bringing her back, but it was an argument that I won using the last straw I had to pull out of my hat. It was the law that a child of 14 be in school.

Driving Becky to the school the next day, we chatted about nothing for the most part. When I asked how she felt about returning to school, she just shrugged and changed the subject. Finally, she asked me, "What do I do if that asshole gets in my face again?" We went over the steps to taking a deep breath and thinking through alternatives. She grinned when I told her that by maintaining her cool she would actually win. She was good for her word, and I never heard of any trouble at the school.

I'd meet her after school once a week to run for a donut or just sit and talk in my car. We would talk about what she was covering in school, her friends, and she'd tell me about any situation that came up where she handled it differently than she used to. Best of all, she stopped stinking!

I never met the other caseworker assigned, but talked to him regularly on the phone. He said he made quite a bit of headway getting that apartment cleaned up, and his approach sounded pretty forceful. He also liked Becky, she did what was asked of her. The mother was pretty useless when it came to housekeeping, so it fell on Becky and her older brother to do most of it.

I held onto that case, kept it open and on my list. I was teaching a college psychology course at the time called "Counseling Theory and Ethics" and I used the case to highlight various scenarios for my students. They came to care about Becky as much as I did, and always asked about her. We did a lot of role playing that semester using the various characters in Becky's story while using the various techniques of the counseling theories. It was no surprise that I learned as much from them as they did from me!

Becky's case was still on my list when I left Social Services to teach full time at the community college. I worried for her about returning to the public school when the year started, but she was on solid ground. Our visits had already been fewer and farther in between, so our closure came easily enough.

During the summer of 2000, I worked as an enumerator for the census. I had to call my old unit when I found two very small children alone in a condemned house. My old supervisor updated me about several of my big cases after she took down the particulars of my call. Becky, in particular, was doing very well and was very active in several community efforts as a volunteer. She helped prepare the food for Meals on Wheels, worked at a few soup kitchens and at the food bank. Oh, she was still painting her lips and fingernails black and wearing that spiked dog collar and leather jacket.

Yep, she was still showering and still in school. Whew!

***************

I can't help but wonder about Becky now. I Googled her name and found nothing. Perhaps she married, or maybe she joined one of those aid agencies that help the people in Africa or something. Her face appears in my dreams every now and then, and I can't help but worry about her a little. I sure hope she's OK.

In the beginning, she had my life in her hands, and in the end, I would trust her with my life without a second thought.

Dare I say it? Sure, why not.

The End.

(Would you believe this? I'm crying!)

Part VII: The Pact

Part I: The Call
Part II: The Girl
Part III: The Father
Part IV: Back at the Office
Part V: Interlude
Part VI: The Mother

How things fell together from this point on is fuzzy in my memory. I remember snippets here and there amid all the other cases, old and new, that were added to my case load. The way it was set up, my unit was supposed to get a case, assess what it needed, and move it on within 30 days. The problem with that was that helping agencies usually had a backlog of at least 6 months. I usually held onto my cases for at least three months, counseling them myself, mediating, advocating and getting families to problem-solve and set goals to keep them out of the eye of "the system." These families were already in crisis, and there was no way I would let them go without helping them. Besides, what else is a system for besides bucking it?

Becky's case was a little different in that the 14 year old was now placed away from the documented danger and back with her mother, so by the agency's protocol, I should have closed the case and got it off my list. I held onto it by pointing out that, by law, the girl was required to be in school, something that I insisted wouldn't happen if the home life situation wasn't straightened out. Pulling in more favors, my supervisor got another agency involved and one of their caseworkers assigned to work with the mother on cleaning up that disgusting mess. That left me to work with Becky and getting her back in school. Trust me when I tell you that if I ever went back into that apartment, I don't remember; but I do remember swearing to myself that I never would step into that place again.

I called Linda at work one day and got her permission to pick Becky up to go walk the mall. When I got to the apartment, Becky was outside waiting for me. We talked for awhile standing in the driveway there and once again, I was surprised. She was bubbly, pleasant and after a few minor attempts at intimidating me, to which I didn't react at all, she easily became open and genuine with me. I let her talk about the things she wanted to talk about, and she answered my questions without hesitation.

Becky said she got a kick out of watching people back down from her. She said she would never hurt anyone, but it was fun to scare them into thinking she would. The people at school were especially fun, and her pushing one teacher into the lockers at school happened because the idiot tried to manhandle her. I had her tell me how it all transpired so that we could role play and pick apart the situation and her feelings to identify alternate ways of dealing with the problem. She fell into this little exercise easily, said "but you didn't back down like he did," and her eyes lit up when she saw the benefit of doing things differently than she had been.

Becky was a good kid, intelligent and she had a big heart that hurt a lot. Knowing that her size and appearance separated her from everyone else, she hung out with other 'outcasts' that were supposed to be anarchists, goths, and who all volunteered at the local food bank and senior citizen center. She especially enjoyed the seniors who were always happy to see her. When I asked her about not cleaning herself up, she said it was a personal challenge to see how long she could go without a shower. She had made her goal of 60 days and took a shower the day before. Standing outside talking like that gave the rest of her time to air out before she got into my car.

We were babbling away like old friends when we got in my car to go, and when I looked into my rearview mirror to back up, there was that little, junky white car blocking the end of the driveway. Oh damn, the father. What the hell could he be doing here? He was standing at my door already, so I rolled the window down.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I'm on my way to court, thought I'd stop by to see the kids. Hi, Becky." No answer.

"We were just on our way out."

Some minor chit chat back and forth. I asked what court was about, he said to try to get his guns back.

"Oh, I'm going to show that judge," he said, then he literally ran back to his car, reached behind the front seat and pulled out something long. He came back to my car window.

Before I realized what this long thing was, he unsheathed the sword and pointed it at me.

"See? I'm going to show the judge this sword and tell him that it's all I have left to hunt with when the season opens next week."

What is it with these people always pointing weapons at me? It pissed me off. "Do you really think it's a good idea to try to walk into a court room with a weapon? What, you want to end up in jail? They are not going to let you in there with that sword, and if they find you have a weapon, that will be it for you."

His face fell like I was his mean mommy telling him he could not keep the stray dog he found. It actually looked like he pouted, hanging his head while putting the sword back in its sheath.

"I didn't think about that. Well, I'd better get going or I'll be late," he said, then got in his car and drove off.

Becky had never said a word, and when I started my car, I could see out of the corner of my eye that her legs were relaxing. She was looking straight ahead when I looked at her. Yes, that was fear and now relief. I couldn't read the expression she gave me when she finally returned my look.

It was time to get down to business. I told Becky that she had to be in school, it was the law. We talked about it while we walked the mall and got an ice cream. She talked about how the other kids hated her, how the teachers were stupid and caught them making mistakes all the time, and the principal was an ass. She talked about how all the other caseworkers weren't like me, they were stupid too. She liked trying out alternative perspectives on things. It was new to her, yet she took to it immediately. Good!

We were friends. I truly liked Becky, told her so, and let her know that I was concerned about the path she had chosen for herself, that it would not end well, and how that scared me. That earned me a surprised look, and she hung her head. I asked her if she could behave in school and get back on track. A little flash of defiance, "but it's so fun to scare those stupid people," but she agreed. The look on her face told me that she meant it and I could trust her on her word. I believed her.

*****************

Ah, folks. One more post to tie up the loose ends. OK?

Part VI: The Mother

Part I: The Call
Part II: The Girl
Part III: The Father
Part IV: Back at the Office
Part V: Interlude

I had always made it a point to use my drive home from work as a way of leaving work at work. I'd crank the radio and sing away while swearing at the other drivers to release any residual tension and stress of the day. But not that night. My head was reeling, not from what happened with Becky, but the response from the people back at the office. The Sheriff's had the guns, so what danger could I be in now?

As soon as I could shake off thinking about that, my thoughts returned to Becky. She appeared to be quite the freak of nature, and that had to be tough for any kid, even with the best of a home life. But, take the very large size and unattractive features coupled with extremely bad living situation, and there's no telling when or where her developmental train derailed. Besides home life, there's always peer influences shaping the personality and sense of self, but I had no idea yet how that might be going for her.

By the time I turned in my driveway, I had concluded that, for now at least, Becky was in a safe place, a place that would assess her mental status, and she was out of her father's reach. I slept like a rock that night.

In the morning, again using the drive to work to leave home at home and plan out my course of action, I decided that I would explore more of Becky's current life, find out why she was with her father, get with her mother, and visit with Becky at the MH home. I had also decided that the way to interact with Becky was by using a person-centered approach; meaning I would let her talk and reflect my understanding of what she said back without leading her in any way. I had to build and solidify her trust in me in order to help her.

When I got to the office, I called over to the MH home to announce that I was coming right over to visit with Becky. I was a bit puzzled when I got "Oh, good!" as a response. So, I headed out. It took about 20 minutes to drive there, and I was pleased to find it a very large and pleasant house in a good neighborhood, not a half block from a park.

One of the workers answered the door when I knocked, and another joined us as soon as I came in. The only thing I did was introduce myself, and the two women started filling me in.

Becky was brought there by the Sheriff as planned, and as soon as the officer left, she became defiant and unmanageable. She refused to bathe and change her clothes and she stunk to high heaven. She ate a huge meal one of the workers prepared for her specially since the usual meal had already been served. After she ate, they tried again to get her to shower and change, but she refused, this time slamming her hand down and using threatening body postures. Because she stank so bad, they would not let her sleep in a bed in a room shared with another kid, so they set her up with blankets and pillows to sleep on the couch in the living room.

When I had called, she was just finishing breakfast. By the time I got there, she was gone. Her father had come to pick her up, and since it was a non secure facility and Becky was once again using threatening postures, they let her go. The workers had called my office, but I had already left.

When I got back to the office, my supervisor had tracked down Becky's mother, and I was to call her at work. Linda was called to the phone and she told me that Becky was back at her place. She gave me the address and agreed to meet with me there when she got home from work.

Though I was not happy about not having a mental health assessment done, at least Becky wouldn't be going back to that horrible, disgusting trailer with that creep of a father. Surely the mother's place had to be better than that. Right?

The address given to me was a two story, two apartment home, rentals, and the building looked decent from the outside. Most of the homes on that particular side of town were built back in 1940s and 50s for the Polish and Italian immigrants, and they were built well. That was back in the days of true plaster walls and ceilings and real hardwood floors and woodworking. I parked in the driveway and walked toward the back of the building to the second floor apartment's entrance.

Sniff. Sniff sniff. Oh no. Again, the ripe and raunchy smell of rot met my nose before I got halfway down the side of the house. Where could it be coming from in town? As soon as I opened the door to the stairway up, that question was answered as the stench hit me in the face hard. A pathway up the center of stairs cut through hundreds of piles of dog shit, garbage, rotting food and spills of all sorts. How in the world could all this be in a stairway?

I knocked on the door at the top of the stairs and opened it when I heard "come in." The door opened to a kitchen, with the stove straight ahead. It used to be white. Now it was covered in grime, piled high with pots and pans still with food, old and rotted, in them. The counter tops were covered, the sink piled halfway up to the ceiling with dirty dishes. On the floor were countless Hefty trash bags overflowing their contents onto the floor. Pizza boxes with one or two shriveled pieces of pizza left in them, plates with goo and silverware stuck to them. It was gross, and it stunk the same as the trailer. A path led through the mess to the next room that looked much the same, only with a couch and a chair in it.

Linda stood at the sink, a woman in her early 40s, long stringy hair, coke-bottle glasses, my height and thin except for a huge set of hips. When she turned to look at me through those glasses, both her of eyes moved rapidly back and forth and never stopped. I don't know what she could see with her eyes flying like that. She never made any excuse for the mess.

Once again, a surprise. Linda was pleasant, spoke well and seemed educated. She told me that she and her husband were separated and she had a job that made enough to pay for rent. She was strongly affiliated with a man called Randall Terry, leader of a militant, violent right-to-life group, that she referred to as family. One of her sons volunteered for a local food bank that sent home food with him that helped out quite a bit. When she talked about Becky, she said the girl had been thrown out of the school and the alternative school for fighting and had given her so many problems at home that she let her go live with her father. Linda thanked me for getting Becky back home with her. She had been in that trailer by herself for three weeks. The father's job was so far away that he only came home one or two nights during the week and weekends. She knew there was no electricity, heat or running water to that trailer.

My hopes for Becky died right then and there. It was going to take a lot of work to straighten this mess out. When I got back to the office, I was greeted with many a wrinkled nose. I stunk. I gave my boss a rundown of what I had found and called it a night.

*****************

Well, folks. Reliving this story as I have been to write it, this is where I gave a very heavy sigh, almost of defeat. A few more interesting things happened, and I think I might be able to wrap it up in one more post. Do you think you can handle that? Maybe I should be asking myself if I can handle it!

One more time, to be continued...

Part V: Interlude

I had to refer to my resume to figure out just when the story of Becky took place. It was the fall of 1999. Writing it all out, it's amazing how clear my memory is. I'd say it's pretty well etched in there!

Reflecting on how the story is developing, there's a few things to point out so that you understand a bit more of my frame of reference and perspective.

1999 was pre cell phones. Oh, there were clunky, unreliable cell phones, and I had one. There was no cell phone service where we found Becky.

Working in different units, I didn't know Jane. I passed her in the hallway and we'd exchange hellos, but that was it. I didn't know what to expect from her, though I did expect a bit more self control considering that she was older and had many years of experience as a caseworker!

I had been a caseworker a little over a year, and though everyone in my unit was in the office that day the call came in, my supervisor picked me to go. I have no idea why. She was a by-the-book kind of supervisor and had years of experience, so she knew her stuff. Which doesn't explain why she sent me. I have a feeling it had to do with the fact that I'd tromp through the countryside without a thought, but the others wouldn't.

The thing that has kept me wondering all these years is how differently my reactions were compared to everyone else's. It wasn't until I started writing it out that I realized it was because I was in The Mode. When I'm in The Mode, I set myself up on my left shoulder, all my personal thoughts, feelings, as much of me as I can manage gets put up there to watch, to observe as the rest of me is wide open to empathize, relate, hear and understand as much as possible. In The Mode, I feel more of what the person I'm talking to is feeling than what I am. It's not until much later that I take myself down from my shoulder and process my own feelings. I was tuned into Becky and nothing else.

And that shook Becky up pretty good. I was not afraid of her size or her pushing into my personal space. I never backed up. I didn't react when she tested me further by pointing the gun at my chest. I told her the way it was, stayed real with her, and treated her like an equal. There wasn't much interaction between us, but a bond was forming. She trusted me.

Despite being in The Mode, I was repulsed by the father from the get-go, even before he opened his mouth to talk with that silky, suave voice of his. That's not something that usually happens with me, no matter what the circumstances. And for the life of me, I can't remember his first name! As far as I was concerned his role in what I would do with this case stopped at sperm donor.

I think I can relate to the writers of "24" now, as it's not difficult at all to fill up a lot of space with just one day's worth of happenings! Oh yes, there's more...

Thank you for reading!

Part I: The Call
Part II: The Girl
Part III: The Father
Part IV: Back at the Office

Part IV: Back at the Office

Read Part I: The Call, Part II: The Girl and Part III: The Father.

The drive back to town took forever, especially with Jane's excited voice constantly bouncing off the car's windows. Oh, that voice!

My reaction was different, the opposite of Jane's. My goal was to get Becky out of there, and that happened. But, where she was and where she was going was unknown.

I had to know what brought all this on. How in the world could a kid end up like that, living worse than an animal? There was no question the girl was trouble, and I felt her intelligence. It wouldn't take long to figure out that people, no matter how old or in any power position, would be afraid of this huge, ugly girl. And there was that spark of fear I saw in her when her father arrived.

It never once crossed my mind that Becky would actually shoot that gun at me. Besides, if she did, I wouldn't have survived, and sure as hell couldn't do anything about it. No sense in getting wound up about it.

All I had to do is think of those two Sheriff officers diving behind their car to become furious all over again. I broke into Jane's adrenaline jibber-jabber long enough to ask her about it, and all she said was that was how they're trained. They protect themselves. No sense in having them around then.

Once we pulled into the parking lot, my mind went to how I would write up the case notes. I was dug pretty deeply into my thoughts as we climbed the stairs to the second floor. Ahead of me, Jane pulled open the door to the bull pen and I was startled out of my thinking when the entire room burst into applause. What? I didn't even make it to my cubicle to take off my coat before my supervisor grabbed my arm. What? She dragged me into her office with all three unit supervisors following, and closed the door. Uh oh, what did I do that was so terrible? Boy, was I confused!

"Are you OK? What happened? I talked to the Sheriff's and they told me the girl pulled a gun on you? Are you OK? Do you need to go to the hospital?" What?

I started to give a brief rundown of the chain of events when the Big Boss, who I never met before, came in and asked me if I was OK. Why wouldn't I be OK? I was here, wasn't I? What the hell is the big deal? I started getting pissed again.

"Look, I'm fine. That girl is what's important. She was in horrible, horrible conditions and she needs major help. What can we do for her? Is there emergency placement available for her because I am not sending her back to that place! Where is she? The officer said he was taking her to the station for questioning and didn't know what would happen to her after. I don't want daddy anywhere near her until I find out what's going on."

Quiet. Uh oh. The agency boss stood there looking at me, my supervisor was looking at me, but I couldn't read their faces. Uh oh, I did it this time. I mouthed off to the Big Boss and my ass is grass.

My supervisor said, "There's the juvenile emergency home up at the State Hospital, but I don't know if I could get her in."

"I can. I'll make a call." The Big Boss turned around and left at quite a clip. She was a big woman, and how fast she moved startled me. I had never heard of this program, so I pumped out the questions. It was a non secure place, in a nice, large house outside the State Hospital grounds. Becky would get a controlled, quiet environment, she'll be fed, have a clean bed and clothes, and they'll start intensive counseling.

Big Boss returned, said it was set, the Sheriffs will deliver her there and I could see her tomorrow. Before she finished talking, the head of security came in.

"Until we know what is going on, you will be escorted to and from your car by security. They have your home address and will be patrolling often," said Big Boss. Whatwhatwhat? She stuck out her hand to me and said, "You did a great job today." Then she was gone again. Does she even know my name?

The head of security had a ton of questions to fill in some form, and I kept telling him I wasn't in any danger, that everyone was freaking out for nothing. He tried to tell me of other cases where caseworkers were attacked, but it didn't apply to me.

When I finally got over to my cubicle, the floor was empty and quiet. Everyone had gone home. Laying on my desk and chair were six huge expandable files, all the history of this family the agency had on file.

Well, tomorrow's another day.

Oh, there's more to the story...

Part II: The Girl

Continuation of Part I: The Call

With a half smile on my face, I thought to myself, my, aren't these city folk jumpy. Don't they know about barn swallows? I looked at Jane and saw that she was half crouched with a hand raised and ready to grab my arm.

I walked past Jane and toward the one step out of four that remained to get up on the trailer's entry way. Rotted as they were, the boards were solid under my weight. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see a very old and dirty refrigerator and several pairs of large sized boots and sneakers. When I turned to tell Jane about the shoes, I bumped into her. She had silently followed me up the stairs.

I knocked on the door with "Is anybody home?" Nothing. No sound from inside at all. I reached down for the door handle and it was unlocked, the door opening toward me.

The stench slapped me in the face. Putrid, sour and overwhelming, the smell made my eyes water. It was a bit lighter inside, but all I could see was junk. There was so much junk, piled from floor to ceiling, that it was hard to identify anything in particular. Looking down to see where I could step, I saw a huge jar of pickled eggs.

Looking to the left, my eyes picked out a small stove and a pile of dirty dishes. Turning to the right and taking a step, I noticed a hole in the ceiling of the trailer, the source of the brighter light. When I looked down and under where the light fell, there was a very large head.

Black Hefty garbage bags fell to each side as this very large face on top of this very large and tall body stood up in the little path through all the junk and garbage. It happened so suddenly that I didn't have the time to startle. An even stronger wave of stench hit my face.

I once dated a man that was 6'3, and I used to fit neatly under his armpit. Based on how far I had to tilt my head back, I'd say that this person standing before me had to be much taller than that. The large head was topped with spiked hair. The face was small, it seemed flattened, with just as much chin below as there was forehead above. A black spiked dog collar topped a black leather jacket over a stained and grimy shirt not tucked into stained and grimy jeans. When my eyes returned to the face, a big smile was on it.

"I'm looking for Becky. Do you know where she is?"

"I'm Becky." The voice was girlish, young sounding, and completely at odds with the figure it came out of.

"Would you sit back down, please? My neck hurts like this." When she sat down, she was still taller than me. I introduced myself.

"I'm here because it seems someone's been shooting a gun around here"

"Yeah, that was me. When I get bored, I shoot at rats all the time."

"Where's the gun?"

"Oh, I put it back with the other guns."

"Come outside," one of the officers yelled into the door. Becky followed me closely out the door, and jumped off the porch instead of navigating the one remaining stair. Jane pulled me away as the officers took control.

She fired off one question after another. What did you see? Were there any guns? What's in there? Is she alone? I was listening to the officers asking Becky whether there were any guns in the house, to which she answered that her father kept an old .22 pistol in his room, along with a huge military knife.

"They called her father," Jane said, "He works as a prison guard in a juvenile detention facility in another county. He should be here any minute."

My fury was immediate. How could anyone who lives like this, who makes his daughter live like this, work around kids? Who would be so stupid as to put him in charge there?

As if on cue, a little beat up white car comes crashing through the weeds and brush to stop right in front of the trailer porch.

To be continued...

Part I: The Call

Late one cloudy, cold morning, a report came in to the Adult Protective Unit of Social Services. An old woman close to 90 years old had called in saying that she was frightened because her nephew's daughter was in the yard shooting rats with a gun and she was terrified the girl would shoot her next.

The second floor of the Social Services building housed the Adult Protective, Early Childhood and the unit I worked in, Central Intake. My unit handled the cases that weren't quite severe enough to be taken by the Child Abuse Hotline and the juvenile cases that came in through Family Court. I was in the office writing up case notes the day this call came in, and as usual, had no idea anything out of the ordinary was going on.

My supervisor called me into her office and that's when I noticed that people were flying back and forth between her office and the Adult Protective supervisor's office. She told me what was going on in the one sentence and told me to go with the AP caseworker, Jane. Sheriffs would meet us there.

Jane explained more as she drove. This little old lady lived by herself in the little house that she was born in and recently, her nephew decided to move into the old, abandoned mobile home sitting next to her old barn. It was news to her about the nephew's daughter, but she thought the girl was 14 and way out of control.

Jane turned onto a dirt road that looked like it hadn't seen a car in years. Dried weeds brushed the windows and barren tree branches scraped the car's roof. About a half mile of ruts and scrapes, we see a county Sheriff car and Jane parked behind it. The two officers looked at us, but didn't say anything as we headed toward the tiny house barely visible through the overgrowth.

A little old lady, bright-eyed with white hair carefully pulled up into a bun on the top of her head, sat with an afghan over her lap, her wooden chair next to the potbelly stove in the center of the small room that was her kitchen and living room. Sparse yet clean and warm, there was one other doorway that led to an even smaller room with only a bed in it. She smiled when Jane said her name and asked how she was.

"Oh, I'm fine. Now who are you, dear?" The old lady smiled up at Jane, but hadn't moved in her chair.

"I'm Jane. Do you remember me? I was here a few days ago and took you to the grocery store, remember?"

"Oh, I know a nice lady named Jane. Is that you?"

"Yes, that's me. We're here because you called earlier. Do you remember calling?" Jane, the patient placater to the end.

"Oh yes, I remember. My nephew's daughter was up here this morning with a gun in her hand. She told me she was out there shooting at rats and got bored. Thought she might come up here and shoot me instead!

"That damned nephew of mine. I told him he could live in that old trailer by the barn for a few weeks until he found a place for himself. That was months ago, and now he won't leave. Suddenly, his daughter is with him. She don't go to school or nothing, just does whatever she does all by herself while he's off working. She's no good, I tell you."

The old lady sat and glared at Jane, never once looking my way. But, the floodgates had closed again, and she didn't say anything else.

We told the officers what the old lady had said, and they followed us down a barely visible path, heading toward the roof of a barn we could see through the trees and brush. Turning a corner, the underbrush thinned in front of the barn, and on the right side of it was an old, dilapidated trailer that looked in worse condition than the one in the photo above.

Nothing stirred. It did not look like anyone could possibly be living in that trailer. There were no electric wires running to it. It listed to the side and bent in the middle. It sagged in places that said it wouldn't hold up to another snowfall. The open doorway on the front porch enclosure looked like a deep, dark hole with rotted boards as the welcome mat.

"Is anybody here?" Jane's yell echoed back from the maw of the barn and was answered only by the sudden flurry of bird wings flying through its rafters. A dual rustle of movement behind me made me turn to see that both officers had unsnapped their gun holsters.

To be continued...