Laying Down the Paw (34 page)

“Could he have gotten back into drugs?” I asked.

“I guess anything is possible,” Wes said, “but I don't see how. We kept pretty close tabs on him and I searched his room regularly. He didn't know about that, of course. Or at least I assume he didn't. But he never exhibited any of the usual symptoms. He wasn't unusually moody or tired or glassy-eyed or anything like that. And he seemed very motivated.”

The detective chimed in again. “Did you ever hear back from CPS?”

Wes nodded. “We've checked in with them several times. The social worker called all of Dub's extended family back in Memphis. None of them have heard from him. They said that his mother had a falling-out with them years ago and the family is estranged.”

“So the assumption is the Memphis story was a fabrication,” Jackson said, “a cover-up.”

“It looks that way,” Trent said, “but we don't know for what.”

The detective leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You can't identify an incident that might have upset him? Triggered something in him?”

“No,” the two men said in unison.

I cocked my head, thinking. “Is it possible something happened at school? Something you didn't know about?”

“I suppose it's possible,” Wes said, “but we tried to create an open and nonjudgmental environment for him. We encouraged him to be honest with us, just as we were with him.”

Trent reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone and charger. “This was Dub's phone. It shows his call history. I don't know if that will be helpful or not. We tried all of the numbers in his contacts after he left, hoping we might find him at a friend's house but we didn't have any luck.”

Wes, who'd been gnawing his lip, spoke up again now. “There's something else, too.” He and Trent exchanged another glance. “A few nights before he ran away, I dropped him off at another boy's house, a kid named Mark Stallworth who rode the same bus and lives a couple of blocks over. Dub said they were going to study for their history test together. After Dub disappeared, I went by to speak with Mark. He said Dub came inside that night, but only long enough to ask him what chapters they were supposed to read for homework. When I picked Dub up later that night, he was waiting out in front of Mark's house, not inside. He seemed nervous, but when I asked him about it he said he was only worried about the upcoming test.”

The detective and I exchanged another glance.

“What night was that?” she asked.

“Sunday, February eighth.”

The night Samuelson had been beaten to death in Forest Park, which lay only a mile or two to the west of Fairmount, within easy walking distance.

The detective asked them if they had any other information to share, but they said they'd told us all they knew. The detective stood and we all exchanged handshakes again.

“Thanks, gentlemen,” Jackson said, walking them to her door. “If we find Wade we'll let you know.”

Once the men had gone, Jackson called Melinda on the intercom. “I need a juvenile record ASAP. The name is Wade Chandler Mayhew. M-A-Y-H-E-W.” She turned to me. “While Melinda's rounding up the records, let's you and me go see Michelle Prentiss.”

She grabbed her blazer from the back of her chair and the two of us headed out, Brigit trotting along with us.

At the hospital, I left Brigit in the cruiser with Duckie, knowing our visit would be short.

As expected, Michelle Prentiss identified the boy as the person who'd assaulted her husband. “He looks younger in the photo,” she said, “but I suppose everyone looks older with a gun in their hand. That's the hoodie, though, for sure. And he's even got the cowlick.”

While I was glad that we had a firm suspect now, part of me still felt like something was off. Then again, maybe I just didn't want to think a fifteen-year-old was capable of this kind of violence.

As we returned to the car, Jackson received a text from Melinda, informing her that she'd sent Dub's juvenile and CPS records to Jackson via e-mail. Jackson forwarded a copy to me.

We sat in the car for nearly an hour, reading through the records and taking notes. My heart squirmed in my chest and it was all I could do not to cry.

The kid never stood a chance.

Wade's mother, Katrina, was an on-again, off-again meth-head. Wade had first been removed from his mother's care due to neglect at the tender age of three, but was returned to her at age five after she completed a rehab program and passed a series of blood tests. This process was repeated again a couple of years later.

Wade was treated for physical injuries including a black eye and belt marks on his buttocks at age nine. Katrina claimed the injuries had been caused by an unknown intruder, but the social worker doubted her story. Who whips a kid they don't know? Wade lived with a foster family for a year before being returned to his mother again.

At age twelve, Wade was taken into custody when he bought a packet of meth at a house that was under surveillance. Wade said his mother's boyfriend had given him the money and told him what to do. He also identified the boyfriend as a man named Andro. Katrina claimed she had no boyfriend and that her son was lying to implicate her and protect himself. More drugs were found at the residence. Katrina was convicted of possession and served two months in jail. The family dog, a pit bull mix named Velvet, had been taken to animal control. After a short stint at a juvenile facility, Wade was sent to live with Katrina's relatives in Memphis, but was returned to his mother without the knowledge or consent of Child Protective Services.

At age thirteen, he was taken into custody after burglarizing a neighbor's home. Again, he claimed that he'd acted only on the orders of a man named Andro whom he now identified as his suspected biological father. He didn't know Andro's last name. Again Katrina claimed that her son was lying to protect himself and that no such person as “Andro” existed. When questioned about the identity of Wade's father, she claimed she was uncertain, that he was the result of a single night of indiscretion with a stranger she'd met at a bar. She explained the bruises and lacerations on her son's body as the result of street fights.

At age fourteen, Wade was arrested again in connection with two burglaries. His story was the same. He'd been knocked about and forced to commit the crimes by his alleged father. Again his mother said there was no father in the picture. It was at that time that Wade was placed at the state school in Gainesville. He'd spent a year at the school, another six months at the McFadden Ranch halfway house, and three months with Trent and Wes before disappearing.

“What do you think?” I asked the detective when we'd finished reading the reports. “You think Andro is real and that he's back? That he and Wade might have worked together on the burglaries?” The Harringtons' neighbor had mentioned seeing at least two men at their house.

“I think it's a distinct possibility,” Jackson said, “and I think we need to pay a visit to Katrina Mayhew.”

I looked up Katrina's driver's license record, and we drove to the address listed. The place was a four-plex, with two units in front and two in back. We went to Unit C. A pink cardboard heart that said
BE MINE
hung on the door, having yet to be taken down after the Valentine's holiday. We rang the bell and knocked repeatedly, but got no answer.

Eventually, a person in the unit next door poked his head out the door. “You looking for Emily?”

“No,” Jackson said. “We're looking for Katrina Mayhew.”

The man's nose quirked in disgust and he stepped outside now. “Katrina was evicted from that unit a year ago.”

“Any idea where she lives now?” I asked.

“None,” he said. “Frankly, I was glad to see her go. I'd had enough of her and her scuzzy boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” the detective said. “You remember his name?”

The man looked up in thought. “Andrew, I think. Or Andy. He was a total ass, pardon my French.”

I fought the urge to tell him that the word “ass” was not French, but English. Then again, I supposed if it were English, it should be “arse.”

“How was he an ass?” Jackson asked.

“He'd get angry and call her all kinds of names. Whore. Bitch. Slut. I think he might've beat her, too. She always seemed to have bruises on her face or arms when he was around.”

“Can we get the name of your landlord?” the detective asked.

“Sure.”

While we waited on his porch, the man went into his unit, returning a moment later with a name and phone number written on a napkin.

“Thanks,” Jackson said, taking the napkin from him.

We returned to the cruiser, where Jackson promptly placed a call to the landlord. “No forwarding address?” she said, cutting a glance my way. “All right. Thanks.” She ended the call. “The landlord has no idea where Katrina went after she was evicted.”

Damn.

I logged on to my laptop and tried to find a current address for Katrina Mayhew. There was no motor vehicle registration in her name, no voter's registration, either. No account in her name with any city utility. She didn't even seem to have a Facebook page. I wondered what she would have listed as her “status.”
High on meth? Beaten? It's horrifying?

“Try the arrest records,” Jackson suggested. “Maybe she got busted again recently.”

I ran the search. “Nothing. Should I try the police reports?”

“Couldn't hurt.”

Bingo.
A report popped up, a recent one dated Friday night. “We got something. Officers Mackey and Spalding responded to a domestic violence call at the same apartment complex where Gallegos and Duong live.” That explained how Dub had met his fellow looters. “The report says Katrina claimed her son had beaten her. He'd been hiding on the balcony but jumped into the pool and ran off. The officers couldn't locate him.”

Jackson harrumphed. “What kind of kid beats his own mother?”

One who'd seen his father do the same thing, maybe. Still, given Katrina Mayhew's history of questionable reports, I wasn't yet convinced that her story was true.

We drove to the apartment complex and parked. I let Brigit out of her enclosure to stretch her legs and tinkle. When she'd relieved herself, the three of us made our way up the stairs to the apartment.

“You think there's any chance he could be here now?” I asked.

“I think we'd be smart to be prepared for anything,” the detective said.

Jackson went to put her finger on the doorbell, apparently noticed what I did—that there was no button, only an empty hole with an exposed wire—and opted to knock instead. While we waited with our hands hovering near our holsters, Brigit sniffed around the door, her tail whipping side to side in excitement. If she thought she'd get another beef jerky treat, she was sadly mistaken.

It took three rounds of knocking to finally bring Katrina Mayhew to the door. She wore a pair of grungy pajamas and one pink sock. Her lip bore a thick scab where it had split and was healing over. A similar-sized scar next to it told me the punch that had landed last Friday had not been the first.

The woman looked totally strung out, gaunt with dull eyes. When she spoke, the condition of her teeth pegged her as a methamphetamine user. The chemicals in the drug were particularly hard on tooth enamel, and users were prone to grinding, as well.

“Why are you here?” she asked us.

“We'd like to speak to you about your son Wade,” Jackson said. “May we come inside?”

“I suppose so.” Katrina backed away from the door to let us in.

The place had too few furniture pieces to feel homey and smelled of dirty dishes left too long in the sink. Flies darted about in the kitchen, feasting on the remains of a half-eaten burrito left sitting on the counter. Brigit pulled her leash out as far as it would go and sniffed around on the carpet and walls, her tail continuing to wag.
Sniff-sniff, sniff-sniff.

Jackson got right to the point. “Your son is a suspect in a burglary and shooting that took place Saturday night in Park Hill. You know anything about that?”

Katrina's dull eyes flared in alarm. “Was anyone killed?”

“Too soon to tell,” Jackson said. “We've got a victim clinging to life in the hospital, another in serious condition.”

Katrina's posture slumped and she put a hand to her forehead. “That's not good.”

Jackson cast me a look that said
no shit, lady.
She returned her focus to Katrina. “Have you seen your son since the incident Friday night?”

Katrina shook her head. “No.”

“How about your boyfriend Andro?” I asked.

Katrina's eyes flared again. “I … I don't … I don't have a boyfriend.”

“Who's Andro?” I'm nothing if not persistent, huh? “And where is he now?”

She hesitated just a moment too long. “I have no idea who you are talking about.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “He's the one who gave you that fat lip.”

Jackson tossed me a cautionary look, but didn't stop me.

Katrina shook her head. “My son did this.”

Again, I had trouble visualizing the young man who'd been so kind to Brigit beating someone. And, like the social worker, I surmised his mother might not be the most truthful person on the planet.

“Andro is your son's father.” I didn't ask her this time. I told her. “We know that.”

“I'm not talking to you anymore,” she said, stepping back to the door. “I don't know anything and … and I'm through talking to you. I'd like you to leave.”

Jackson raised her palms. “Whatever you say, ma'am.”

As we walked out the door, I looked Katrina in the eye. A big part of me felt sorry for the woman, another part of me wanted to throttle her myself.