This was not surprising news and it happened far more often than most people knew, or could grasp if they did know. This was a facet of life people had to reject in order to carry on. For most people out there living their daily grind, waiting in line for a shot of caffeine in the mornings, working and eating and having relationships, the knowledge that someone else…perhaps someone behind them in that coffee line…sold children for sex, wasn’t something they could carry around in their heads. It had to be rejected and forgotten, which meant it kept happening. No one could stop what they wouldn’t even admit was happening.
There was nothing Melody could say that would make him feel better about the situation, so she said nothing, settling for a quick squeeze on his shoulder before letting go. They carried this burden of knowledge, but they didn’t have to carry it alone. Her touch told him that.
Opening space between them, he shook off the gloom and eyed the empty desks arrayed around their unit. “Where is everyone? Who’s doing what?”
Melody stepped over to the desk, examining the many yellow sticky notes all over the surface. She had always been a big fan of the sticky note. At home, her refrigerator was almost covered in them.
“Manning and Whitehurst are still processing the scene, or overseeing it anyway. Can’t afford a single mistake and they’re the best at scene work. They’ll also keep everyone at the scene quiet. I don’t want news drones showing up because of someone’s call home on a sponsored phone line.”
Paul nodded absently, in complete agreement. Both of those detectives had been borrowed from another unit during a previous operation and were as meticulous as was humanly possible. Teasing them about OCD tendencies had quickly become habit.
“What about Charter and Goodfellow?” he asked, tapping a stiff finger on the desk next to him. It was Goodfellow’s desk, which meant it was covered in piles of papers so deep it was a fire hazard.
“Still with the other uniforms at the hospital. They’re trying to figure out who is who. Social services is helping, but I’m not sure anyone but them would call it helping. Social workers want to make contact with family as quickly as possible.”
“Not listening…again. I probably shouldn’t ask, but they have been informed that some of those girls’ families probably know exactly what’s been happening to their children, haven’t they?”
Melody smiled sadly. “Repeatedly. And no, they aren’t listening. That’s what happens when your job is ruled by checklists.”
They fell silent, letting the hiss and rattle of old ventilation fill the void. They both knew the score, and in truth, so did social services. Most of these girls weren’t kidnapped in the traditional sense. There were no camera-ready families to collect them, no carefully filed snippets of videos begging for a daughter’s return. Or there wouldn’t likely be.
These sorts of trafficking rings were more carefully crafted than that. They took the children who were already half lost. Or entirely lost.
After the silence stretched too long, Paul asked, “Is the Captain explaining to them?”
“He’s there and he’s trying.”
Melody eyed her partner. Was he okay? Better? Could he function?
He saw her doing it. After three years together, he understood her better than he understood his wife. After all, he spent more time with Melody, and the time was more intense. In such situations, the real person came out. They got to understand the deep parts of each other.
“I’m okay, Mel. I just had to get it out.”
With a quick nod of acceptance, she shifted back to business. “Right then. Let’s get to the hospital. There’s a lot of work to be done before either of us can sleep.”
Whipping his suit jacket off the chair where he’d flung it, he slid it on without any of the delaying tactics he used when he needed more time to think. Melody smiled a little, but only a little. Her partner was going to be alright. This time, anyway.
The Hospital
Social services finally got it. After running the names they’d managed to wrangle from some of the girls, then showing the results to the lead case manager overseeing the operation, they’d finally backed down. The girls were from everywhere or nowhere, and none of them had been particularly missed.
Of the six who’d given names that sounded remotely like real ones, only two had been reported missing. One of those had been reported by social services rather than a family member. The other had been reported by a mother who was imprisoned, but only after she’d been unable to make contact with her daughter for several months.
Four had never been reported at all. Not by anyone.
The two case workers trailing behind the case manager had looked lost after that bit of news sunk in. What do you do with more than a dozen girls between the ages of eight and fifteen who had been through what they’d been through? What do you do with them when they had absolutely no one reliable to lean on?
“We can’t just plop them down into any foster home,” the case manager said. “They need special care.”
“Then figure it out,” replied Captain Mann, his expression deadpan. “The hospital will hold them here for a while, but eventually, they’ll need to go somewhere.” He paused, then added. “Somewhere safe. I don’t want them in with the bad ones.”
The case manager threw up her hands, gathered her minions, and set off to work the phones. No doubt, she was going to call in favors, hoping to wedge another child into each of the few homes that specialized in children like these.
What was saddest of all was that they needed homes that specialized in such children.
Once the woman was out of earshot, the Captain turned to Melody and Paul. His face was almost as drawn as Paul’s had been when they stopped at the station so he could let out some of the rage and grief.
“Mel, Paul,
