Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green Page 0,53
name.”
“Please tell me your records are computerized,” Tommy said.
“Of course, back fifty years. Before that we’d have to go through the archives.”
“Does your software have a search function?”
Helen nodded. “But I’ve never used it for anything other than searching a name.”
“Could you try? You know how important this is.”
“I do. And not just because your client is on death row. If the dead child isn’t his, then it means some mother and father are out there who’ve spent almost twenty years not knowing what happened to their child. I can’t imagine how agonizing that would be. So, yes, I do want to help you. If it’s possible.”
Thank goodness Helen had answered his initial phone call and not that sourpuss at the front desk. He was sure she’d have given him the brushoff. “Okay, so maybe we start with the year 1990, then narrow down results to where cause of death was leukemia, and then narrow those results to four-year-olds and finally to females. And then do it the next year with five-year-olds. How does that sound?”
Helen had been fiddling with the computer while Tommy spoke. “I think it might work, but it’s going to take some time. If you have some other things to do, I can work on this by myself and give you a call if I find anything.”
Tommy gave her a big smile. “You’re an angel. I owe you for this.”
He wrote his cell-number on the back of his card and handed it to Helen. As he headed out, he passed Anne behind the front counter. “Keep up the good work, sweetheart,” he said and patted her fanny. He could have been wrong, but he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile.
Next stop—Olmsted County Community Services. If Angelina Calhoun had been abandoned in Rochester, Minnesota, someone would have called that agency to take her. Tommy had spoken to a few people there and mostly gotten a runaround. He didn’t expect much more in person. By the time he arrived, the rain had finally tapered to a drizzle. After parking, Tommy walked into the building and scanned the directory for the right office. Five minutes later he sat at the desk of Roger Holmes. Roger looked like a throwback to the hippie generation: washed-out jeans, a T-shirt with a peace symbol on the front, bushy hair down to his shoulders, and a beard that should have been trimmed a decade ago. He couldn’t guess his age under all that hair, but Tommy thought he was in his fifties. The nameplate on his desk had the initials MSW after his name.
Tommy had handed him Calhoun’s signed release and a picture of three-year-old Angelina. Holmes sat staring at it. Finally he looked up. “I don’t know what you expect me to do with this. You have no name of the child or the parents. And my crystal ball is out for repair.”
“Look, I know I’m not asking for something easy. But maybe somebody here remembers a little girl being abandoned at the hospital.”
Roger snorted. “You think that’s unusual? I can’t tell you the number of abandoned children we get. Not that it’s an everyday occurrence but enough so over the years that it’s no longer shocking.”
“This girl would have been different. She had leukemia. The parents left all her medical records with her.”
Roger sat back in his chair and stroked his beard. “Let’s see. Maybe Abby. She’s old enough to have been around back in 1990. No.” He shook his head. “I forgot she transferred here from up North.” He continued stroking his beard, his lips moving silently as he rolled off names in his head. Suddenly his face brightened. “I know just who. She’s not a caseworker, but Alice would know. She’s been secretary to every director who’s gone through these doors since 1979. Keeps track of everything that goes on in the office. If anyone remembers, it’d be Alice.”
“Okay,” Tommy said. “Let’s go ask her.”
Roger looked at the large clock on the adjacent wall: 4:30. He scanned the opposite end of the large open room and saw an empty desk next to the director’s office. “You’ll have to wait for tomorrow. She comes in at 8 and leaves at 4. She’s gone for the day.”
“Damn. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me her home phone number.”
Roger shook his head. “No can do, buddy.”
“How about if you call her?”
“I wouldn’t know her number. We don’t share personal information here.”