a divorcee with no children it housed the only family I have left in the world. To get from the psychiatric tower to the emergency department I took an elevator down three floors and walked what felt like a mile.
“Thank you for coming down, Madeline,” Dr. Soto said, greeting me. He was tall and slender. A dark-skinned man, with neatly trimmed silver hair and a matching mustache. At six-feet tall he and I, in my one-inch heels, were the same height. “I’ll take you to see Cora and her parents,” he said. “Cora is heavily sedated right now but if you can just say a few words to the mother and father about the resources available to them, I know it will be helpful.”
“Of course,” I agreed. Once assessed, each patient in the emergency room has a private room that shields them from the craziness of the ER. Behind the sliding Plexiglas door was a preteen girl lying in the hospital bed. Her facial wounds were hidden beneath swaths of gauze, but even so, I could see that significant damage had been done.
“We didn’t dare try to stitch her up,” Dr. Soto told me. “If there ever is a case for a plastic surgeon, this is it. All we are doing at this point is treating her collapsed lung and giving her antibiotics. My biggest concern is saving her left eye. They’ll be taking her to surgery momentarily. Frankly, I’m very worried about the parents. The mother is understandably distraught but the father is incredibly angry.” Dr. Soto paused as if hesitating to speak further.
“Anger is understandable,” I said, feeling like a voyeur. Through the glass door, the mother sat next to the bedside holding her daughter’s hand, weeping. The father stood with his back against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. Not a tall man, he was broad-chested, powerfully built and looked ready to leap from his skin.
“Do they know who did this to her yet?” I asked and Dr. Soto shook his head. “Are the parents suspects?” I hated to ask, but had to. I’d seen too many children hurt in too many ways to count by the people who are supposed to love them most in the world. Dr. Soto didn’t know. Didn’t know much more than the little girl had been viciously attacked.
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go find out if and how I can help.”
Case #92-10945
Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry
Oct. 31, 2017
In social studies class Mr. Dover assigned us a really cool project. At first I thought he was going to tell us we were going to have to write the same old Halloween essay like we do every year. Instead of writing about our favorite candy or the best costume ever, Mr. Dover is having us work with partners on a research project.
He came into the classroom yesterday dressed as some guy from the olden times. He had on a white shirt and vest, these short pants, long socks and shoes with buckles on them. He even had on one of those hats they wore back during Colonial times. Mr. Dover carried a lantern and a silver cup. By now we all knew that he wasn’t going to just tell us what he was up to, so after we stopped laughing Andrew shouted, “Hey, it’s George Washington.” And Gabe said, “No, it’s Alexander Hamilton!” and then started rapping a song from the musical.
Jordyn laughed real loud like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She and Gabe were going out last year but he must have figured out what Jordyn is really like because now Gabe pretty much ignores her. Gabe is one of those guys who can get away with acting like a show-off. All the kids think he’s cool because he plays baseball and can play three different instruments and sing. He also always wears one of those old-fashioned hats with the brim around it, which manages to look cool on him. If anyone else wore it they’d just look stupid. Plus, he’s cute. The teachers like him because he knows when to stop.
And Gabe did stop singing as soon as Mr. Dover raised his eyebrows at him. “Right century,” Mr. Dover said once it was quiet. “Let me give you another hint.” He set the lantern on top of his desk, put one leg up on a chair and in a deep voice said, “Listen, my children, and you shall hear