She shrugged and took the empty chair in front of the desk. She caught Paul looking at her speculatively and threw him a dirty look. Before it could get further into weird territory, Captain Mann started talking.
“Sorry about the call-back, but we have three problems. One problem might go away on its own in time. One problem, I might be able to delay hitting us if I toss enough roadblocks in the way. The third problem is the bad one. We’re fu…uh, flamingoed…on that one.”
Her brain was taking in all of his words just fine until flamingo, at which point it screeched to a halt. “What’s flamingoed?”
Paul was doing his best not to burst out laughing, so he obviously already knew what it was. That it would be embarrassing was equally obvious in the growing ruddiness of the Captain’s already ruddy cheeks.
“What?” she asked again, perhaps a bit impatient at being the only one left out of the joke.
Mann rolled his eyes heavenward, then said, “I’m trying not to curse so much.”
“So, flamingo for fuck?” Mel said, then made a face that conveyed she could think of a dozen better words than flamingo. Paul still looked like he was about to burst, so there was more to the story.
“Fine. You might as well get a laugh at me too,” Mann said. “My wife has apparently been spending time in confession every Tuesday going over every single time I say goddamn or fuck or anything else. According to her, every time I do it and she doesn’t correct me, it becomes her sin, so she confesses.”
Mel’s mouth dropped open, but she shut it again.
Mann huffed and said, “Last week, our priest told her she had to talk to me about it. I guess he’s tired of listening to a hundred and fifty fucks and goddamns a week. I’m trying for a little marital harmony here, so don’t give me shit about it.”
“You just said shit,” Mel pointed out.
“Shit is okay. My wife said so.”
Mel shrugged. “I think that’s great. Why didn’t you just tell her to correct you when you do it so she doesn’t have to confess anymore?”
“I did. That’s really why I’m trying to find a substitute. It’s constant, I tell ya. She hasn’t talked this much about anything in years.”
This time, Mel did laugh. “I’m sorry to laugh. Really.”
He waved his hand to dismiss it, then glared down at the notebook on his desk, clearly reminded of the reason he’d called them back into the office.
“What’s up, Captain? What are the problems?” Mel said, pushing back the moment of joviality. They got so few of those here, and it felt very good. It was over, though. Back to business.
All traces of his former laughter gone, Mann steepled his fingers on the desk and looked at both of them. “We’re running out of time.” Nodding at Mel, he said, “I know we agreed that letting Baby come to the truth in her own way might be better for her, but we might have to press harder now. We might have to turn her over to the pros and let them get the truth out of her.”
“Why?” Mel asked, alarmed. “We’ve got a great rapport going. I think she trusts me and I don’t think Baby trusts many people. Maybe no one. She may be hanging on to that story pretty hard, but she’s giving us real stuff inside it. If we try to force it, she’ll close up. If we turn her over to a head shrinker, you know they’ll diagnose her with post-traumatic dissociation or some shit like that. They’ll stick her in a psych ward and that will be that.”
“I know, Mel, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re running up against it. There’s a lot happening behind the scenes.”
“What’s happening? Where is this coming from?”
“The feds. That’s what. It’s about the DNA.”
“The old DNA on that case? The one that matched Baby?”
Mann nodded, his expression grim. “I sent the report up and all the sudden there were fireworks. Apparently, some bright boy or girl in the FBI had the grand idea that this would be a perfect case study to push for a nationwide database. I guess they’ve been waiting for something like this to happen.”
“What? What does that have to do with Baby?”
“Think about it, Mel. What is the one way you could scare people enough so that all that fighting against a mandatory national DNA database would stop? You get it now? No? Then imagine this. Imagine you’re joe-blow-I-know-my-rights. You’ve been voting and helping campaigns and fighting for DNA privacy. Suddenly, there’s big news that people who aren’t in the databases are being cloned so they can be used as child sex slaves. Now, it’s not just Mr. Joe Blow. Now, it’s Mr. Blow suddenly terrified that child versions of himself and his family—his kids—are being abused and killed over and over again. What do you think Mr. Joe Blow does next?”
Mel felt the blood drain from her face. “He stops fighting. He probably runs to the nearest government office and volunteers his DNA.”
Laying a finger to the side of his nose, Mann said, “Bingo. Now imagine that on a national scale. Imagine how scared everyone will be if the feds parade a bunch of illegal clones and beg for people to look at everyone in their family to see if any of the girls look like their beloved grandma or daughter.”
“Christ,” Paul muttered, his normally tan skin going pale.
“So, the feds are going to take our case. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” Mel asked, knowing it was true.
Mann nodded. “Yeah, but we have one more card to play. The feds don’t take cases that make them look like idiots. They won’t officially take it unless it looks like it can be solved and they confirm clones are involved. Corporate sponsors don’t give bonuses for cases that go nowhere. Right now, it looks like a loser, except for Baby’s DNA hit.”
Mel returned
