As the Wicked Watch(112)

“I asked her about Brent, of course. Jordan, that dude is the love of her life,” Joey said. He filled me in on his drop-in visit on Louise. By the time he left, he said he was convinced. “There’s something really sick about that relationship.”

“Do you think you can get the wiretap though?”

“Fingers crossed,” he said. “Oh, and I pulled his juvenile file. His full name is Alexander Brent Carter. He spent some time in juvenile detention for stealing a car when he was fourteen. He was found guilty of petty theft a half-dozen times. But his record gets darker. When he was twelve, he was accused of sexually assaulting his eight-year-old foster sister. If he’d been a year older, he probably would have faced charges. Guess who his foster mother was then? Louise Robinson.”

*

In less than twelve hours, police would have no choice but to release Terrence Bankhead, and there was still no sign of Brent Carter.

Adele’s allegations of gross incompetence, malfeasance, violation of civil rights laws, you name it, against the CPD and the state’s attorney’s office burned like a brush fire through the city. Some people were ready to wage all-out war, if necessary, as the boys languished in custody. Peaceful protests turned contentious. How long could the pot boil before steam needed to be let off? If there was anything worth fighting for, it was a child, the righteous justification for whatever would come. Bartlett and O’Brien were in a pot and the heat was on. A news briefing was called to respond.

“There are people who want to try this case in public, but that’s not how this works,” said O’Brien, flanked by Bartlett. “It was irresponsible and unethical for attorney Adele Constanzo to put such severe allegations out in the public square without any evidence to back them up. In my opinion, she should face disciplinary action up to and including disbarment.”

He called Adele by name. The heat wasn’t just on, these guys were on fire.

Joey called me shortly after the news briefing. Although the clock was winding down on the police’s seventy-two-hour hold on Terrence, his many, many years of luck, going back to New Mexico, had finally run out.

“Robin Okoye, sixteen. She was at the studio, office, whatever, that day. Her parents learned she was there and all hell broke loose. Under pressure from them, she fell apart and told them the secret she wasn’t supposed to tell.”

“What?”

“She was dating Terrence, and they were having sex,” he said.

“A kid can’t have sex with an adult! That’s called rape!” I shouted, feeling the acid rise from my stomach. “So now what?”

“He’s being charged with aggravated criminal sexual abuse and criminal sexual assault. He goes before a judge tomorrow.”

“What time’s the hearing?”

“One o’clock.”

“Okay, I’ll be there. Thanks, Joey.”

I texted April: What’s the ETA on the labs? Then Dr. Chan. Are you back?

I’d preemptively sent Dr. Chan my lab results from the hospital with a note: “For comparison.” About an hour later, he called back.

“Jordan, I got your lab results. I’m at the medical examiner’s office. Can you come by?” he asked. His voice captured the seriousness of it all. I knew the answer. I just needed confirmation.

“Give me twenty.”

The building was closed for the day. Dr. Chan waited by the employees’ entrance. I was astounded by his appearance. He was almost unrecognizable. His cheeks were sunken and his skin was grayish.

“Hello, Jordan. It’s good to see you.”

I knew he could tell that I was thinking that he looked awful. He hugged me and patted me twice on the back, something he’d always done. Other than that, he wasn’t himself. Underneath that fleece jacket, I could feel that he was nothing but skin and bone.

“You have questions, I know,” he said. “Let’s go to my office.”

Now I was more worried about Dr. Chan than the lab results. We walked through the quiet corridor to his office, which was startlingly bright and dingy at the same time.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Hiding nothing and not attempting to shield the truth, Dr. Chan revealed he was battling pancreatic cancer.

His words struck me like an avalanche.

How many bad things can happen so close together?

“I was in Switzerland participating in a clinical trial. As you can see, the treatment was harsh, but it’s working. I’m back home for a short period of time and I made you a priority.”

I would have asked Why didn’t you tell me? but I probably would have kept a terrifying diagnosis like that to myself, too.

“You’re going to be okay, though, right?”

“My prognosis is good. Don’t worry about me.”

The air that had been sucked out of the room slowly returned.

“So what’s going on?”

“Good news. I found the sample.”

“Ah, that’s great!”

“It wasn’t lost; it never left. It was misfiled. Stupid bureaucratic error.”

“It was misfiled? So it hasn’t been analyzed?”

I hadn’t felt this type of rage in a long time. Misfiled? How does that even happen? Would that have happened if Masey was a rich White kid? Misfiled?