deaths, and he wanted to walk right into a Seattle precinct to turn in a lost child? No way.
“You aren’t listening to me!” Wade spat at Sergeant Ben Cordova of Precinct Seventeen in west Seattle. “He hasn’t been beaten. He lives with his father and his father’s girlfriend. They leave him alone for days at a time, with no food in the house. No one’s ever changed his bedsheets as far back as he can remember. He hasn’t attended any school. They don’t wash his clothes.”
Sergeant Cordova looked back with the eyes of a dead fish. “Are there any physical marks of abuse?”
“How about malnutrition, you stupid fuck?”
Oh, great, there it went. I’d been standing in the back of a crowded police office, watching Wade argue with this dispassionate sergeant for nearly twenty minutes. The more intensely bored Cordova appeared, the higher Wade’s voice rose. And now he was swearing.
“There’s no need for that, sir. This falls between social services and the boy’s father.”
“No, you can’t send him back home for a few days. Not for five minutes.”
I moved up behind them. “Leave the boy here. They’ll know what to do.”
“They don’t. That’s the point. The minute we walk out that door, this joker’s going to call his father.” He whirled back to Cordova. “Get your captain out here.”
“He’s not available, sir.”
“Get him out here, now!”
“Is there a problem?” a deep voice asked from behind me. I turned to see an enormous man wearing a suit and tie.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Wade snapped. “Your sergeant has his head up his ass.”
“I’m Captain Baker. Can I help you?”
“No, you can help this boy. He needs a clean place to sleep.”
“And you are?”
Until that point, my angry friend had avoided discussing himself, even though Cordova had asked for ID three times. “My name is Dr. Wade Sheffield. I’ve been the staff psychologist at Captain Joseph McNickel’s Eighth Precinct in Portland, Oregon, for the past four years. If you like, we can call him at home and wake him up for verification.”
That sounded dangerous to me since Wade had resigned under such odd circumstances, but maybe McNickel would back him up.
Captain Baker crouched down and smiled at Raymond, who pulled deeper into Wade’s chest. “And how much do you know about this little guy?”
“Not much. His name is Raymond Olson. His father’s name is Robert Olson. They live somewhere in Kirkland at an apartment complex called Greenwich Village—at least that’s what the sign out front says. He’s been starved and neglected . . . He can’t even talk.”
“How did you become involved?”
“I found him in the park a few hours ago.”
The captain’s brow wrinkled. “So how did you learn this much information if he can’t speak?”
Wonderful. This kept getting better by the moment. Not only was Wade irrational, but he’d just backed himself into a corner. “Please, just check my story without sending him home. If you have any pity at all.”
The room fell quiet for a moment. Then Baker said, “A friend of mine—well, my wife—works for social services. Let me go call her and have her come down.”
Wade looked into the man’s eyes for a few seconds, and then he relaxed. Turning to me, he nodded and said, “It’s okay. He’s not lying.”
I’d never seen him like this, not quite this worked up. In all other aspects of his own self-image, he was sometimes unsure, often timid. But when it came to trusting his psychic ability, he exuded a confidence that made other people listen. Was he even aware how angry, how aggressive, he sounded?
We waited quietly together on a bench for nearly an hour—Wade still holding Raymond in his lap—until a middle-aged woman who looked overworked, underpaid, and slightly frazzled walked in. I didn’t have to be psychic to figure out she was Baker’s wife.
She spotted us in a hurry and flashed a tired smile. Wade’s tight muscles unclenched. Even with her hair flying all over, this woman had kind eyes and a tough expression. Good combination.
I pulled back to let her speak alone with Wade. He took her phone number, said a few words to Raymond, and then handed him to Mrs. Baker. There was a moment of panic on the boy’s part, but it passed. He was probably so lost by then that up from down didn’t matter.
As we walked back outside to our car, Wade still didn’t look happy. “I feel bad leaving him there.”
“There’s nothing else you can do. He’s got even less chance with us