12/12/07
088 – School
The little boy couldn’t have been more than seven. He was a cute little guy; with cheeks just plump enough to be cute without being babyish or fat. He had his little Spider-man backpack and his lunchbox had a big picture of an airplane on it.
He was sitting in the back of my squad car, crying softly. I wanted to hug him, but I was supposed to maintain my still policewoman persona, so I hid behind my fly-eye glasses. I did hand him a pack of tissues though, and I talked to him the whole drive: mostly investigative questions – had to follow some kind of procedure – about his family. I could see that he wasn’t a neglected kid and he was well-mannered, so probably not abused, though some you can’t tell. He seemed like he would be a regular happy kid had the mean police officer not pulled up and dragged him off the street.
He told me the name of his school in a quiet voice when I asked him. It was a nice school. Why had the kid been walking alone on the street? Hadn’t the bus noticed that he hadn’t gotten on? It was illegal for kids to walk to school.
The principal was a tall lady with flats. I liked her. Sensible footwear always got a person on my good side. She seemed shocked to see the little boy.
“Gordon?”
Then she hurried to him and knelt down beside him. Didn’t bend over him. Got down on her knees to his eyelevel.
“Why are you here? I thought you had called in sick.”
Gordon was crying again. He had taken off his backpack and was hugging it. Poor little guy. I almost wished that Spider-man were real so that he could save the kid from all his troubles.
“Why is the police woman with you?”
Another point for her. Call me old-fashioned, but I hate the politically correct genderless ‘police officer’ or some other crap like that. She looked at me expectantly. I took off my glasses.
“I found him walking alone on Courtyard Road, miss…”
“I’m sorry. Baley. Felicia Baley.”
“Officer Hood.”
She had a nice last name. I couldn’t wait to get rid of mine. My fiancé has a great last name: Memoire. Bryan Memoire. Mine will be alliterative: Martha Memoire. Whatever. I like it.
I shook the principal’s hand. I think I might have scared her with my handshake. I shake like a man.
“He was on his own, Miss Baley. It’s against the law for children to come to school unaccompanied.”
She nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, yes, I know. Gordan’s mother called in saying he was sick and wouldn’t be in today.” She turned to the little boy. “What happened?”
The words were still a little watery, but Gordon had stopped sobbing.
“Peter said he was going to beat me up if I didn’t go alone. He dared me. And he hit me.”
He pulled up his shirt to reveal a bruise on his ribs. I studied it. It was too small to be any fist but a child’s, but that would have to be one hulk of a kid to leave that kind of a bruise. Then Peter was called to the office and I believed every word Gordon had said.
Stereotyping is one of my weaknesses, I’ll admit it. But anyone who had ever been picked on in school would have recognized this kid as the villain from their nightmares.
The conversation was short. Bullies often back down when threatened and Peter confessed to everything. But I knew that the minute no one was looking, his tyrannical reign would begin again. Then Miss Baley spoke.
“That does it. There’s been too much of this, Peter. You’ve used up your warnings. We’re going to call up your mother. You are expelled.”
I went back to the station happy. As dangerous as the streets might be for a child, sometimes it can be just as dangerous among familiar faces.
