that, sure. But Michael turned weird too fast. The first few visits were sweet, like he was our guardian angel, you know? Then he started coming around three or four times a week."
I closed my eyes, trying to remember the details. "I looked at the complaints. I thought your mom reported him right away."
She shook her head. "My mom told the cops that she'd asked him to leave the second or third time he came around, but she hadn't. She said it after the fact to reinforce the complaint. He must've shown up a dozen times before she called it in."
"How long before your mom told him to leave the two of you alone?"
"A month, maybe? Then a week or two more before she made a complaint."
"Why wait?"
"She wasn't sure what to do. I mean, you report a cop to the cops and what happens? If you're lucky, they blow it off. If you're not, he hears about it and takes it out on you, right? But a friend convinced her that filing a complaint was what she had to do."
"So he had six weeks around you and your mom and your house before anyone even thought of slapping his hand."
"Yes."
"He ever come by when it was just you?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"His partner was with him most of the time, but sometimes he came by himself."
"Who was his partner?"
She thought about it. "You know, I can barely recall. A real tall guy. He'd always stay with the car, leaning against the door." She shook her head. "That's it. I only ever paid attention to Michael."
A December breeze kicked up and slipped an icy hand inside my collar. I hunched my shoulders and shoved my fists deeper into my pockets. "It was my case, after all, so I already know, or think I know, but I have to ask."
"He didn't molest me."
"And the next question is?"
"Yes, I'm sure. And, no, I'm not suppressing. I've been in therapy since I was twelve, Marty. It would've come out. All I remember was Michael being kind, being good. He made me a local celebrity with the other kids, coming to the house in his uniform, or bringing other cops around to show off. There always seemed to be a police car outside our place. No, if I blocked anything out, it was later, when Mom yelled at him, telling him to stay away. I hated her for that. I wanted her to like him. In retrospect, I know he was using me to get to her, but at the time I thought she was being a bitch."
"So how does this bring us to what's going on now?"
She sighed. "Michael came by a lot more often than Mom knew, since she was at work all the time. After he started scaring her, she sent me straight to the Jansen's, next door. Even the night she was…she was killed, I was at the Jansen's. But for weeks before that he would come by after school."
I blinked, surprised, but didn't say anything. She continued, staring ahead but looking into the past.
"He would leave me these white flowers, tiny things. I would find them on the porch or stuck in the front gate. I thought they were roses. What did I know? They were just carnations. He probably bought them at a grocery store or something, ten for a dollar."
"What did you do with them?"
"I was careful to hide or trash most of them, but I kept one or two in my room. Mom found them and asked me where they'd come from, but I was embarrassed. I lied and told her they were from a boy at school. She thought it was cute."
"What about after your mom reported him?"
She made a face. "He came by a few times before Mom got really paranoid, then I didn't see him for…well, never. But even after she chased him off, I'd find flowers on the back porch or one in the basket of my bike. He got sneaky and would spread the petals on the sidewalk. The worst was when I found one on my pillow, a few days before…before it happened."
Even twelve years later, I felt sick. Brenda Lane's complaints should've been enough to save her life. They hadn't because they'd been dismissed with a shrug and a so what? But if you add obsessive pedophiliac tendencies to Wheeler's profile, somebody at MPDC would've paid attention. The
I closed my eyes, trying to remember the details. "I looked at the complaints. I thought your mom reported him right away."
She shook her head. "My mom told the cops that she'd asked him to leave the second or third time he came around, but she hadn't. She said it after the fact to reinforce the complaint. He must've shown up a dozen times before she called it in."
"How long before your mom told him to leave the two of you alone?"
"A month, maybe? Then a week or two more before she made a complaint."
"Why wait?"
"She wasn't sure what to do. I mean, you report a cop to the cops and what happens? If you're lucky, they blow it off. If you're not, he hears about it and takes it out on you, right? But a friend convinced her that filing a complaint was what she had to do."
"So he had six weeks around you and your mom and your house before anyone even thought of slapping his hand."
"Yes."
"He ever come by when it was just you?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"His partner was with him most of the time, but sometimes he came by himself."
"Who was his partner?"
She thought about it. "You know, I can barely recall. A real tall guy. He'd always stay with the car, leaning against the door." She shook her head. "That's it. I only ever paid attention to Michael."
A December breeze kicked up and slipped an icy hand inside my collar. I hunched my shoulders and shoved my fists deeper into my pockets. "It was my case, after all, so I already know, or think I know, but I have to ask."
"He didn't molest me."
"And the next question is?"
"Yes, I'm sure. And, no, I'm not suppressing. I've been in therapy since I was twelve, Marty. It would've come out. All I remember was Michael being kind, being good. He made me a local celebrity with the other kids, coming to the house in his uniform, or bringing other cops around to show off. There always seemed to be a police car outside our place. No, if I blocked anything out, it was later, when Mom yelled at him, telling him to stay away. I hated her for that. I wanted her to like him. In retrospect, I know he was using me to get to her, but at the time I thought she was being a bitch."
"So how does this bring us to what's going on now?"
She sighed. "Michael came by a lot more often than Mom knew, since she was at work all the time. After he started scaring her, she sent me straight to the Jansen's, next door. Even the night she was…she was killed, I was at the Jansen's. But for weeks before that he would come by after school."
I blinked, surprised, but didn't say anything. She continued, staring ahead but looking into the past.
"He would leave me these white flowers, tiny things. I would find them on the porch or stuck in the front gate. I thought they were roses. What did I know? They were just carnations. He probably bought them at a grocery store or something, ten for a dollar."
"What did you do with them?"
"I was careful to hide or trash most of them, but I kept one or two in my room. Mom found them and asked me where they'd come from, but I was embarrassed. I lied and told her they were from a boy at school. She thought it was cute."
"What about after your mom reported him?"
She made a face. "He came by a few times before Mom got really paranoid, then I didn't see him for…well, never. But even after she chased him off, I'd find flowers on the back porch or one in the basket of my bike. He got sneaky and would spread the petals on the sidewalk. The worst was when I found one on my pillow, a few days before…before it happened."
Even twelve years later, I felt sick. Brenda Lane's complaints should've been enough to save her life. They hadn't because they'd been dismissed with a shrug and a so what? But if you add obsessive pedophiliac tendencies to Wheeler's profile, somebody at MPDC would've paid attention. The
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