The Forgotten

Yonkie was a mass of burning indignation, and Decker tried to take it in stride. What had to be done, had to be done. But the words hurt more than he’d like to admit. “I’m not responding to this. You’d better go back to class—”

“It’s not enough that they snicker behind your back,” Yonkie shot out. “You have to make me and Eema and Hannah pariahs as well?”

The barbs cut deep. Such venom from the mouth of a child that he had raised and had taken on as his own. “Jacob, I’m sorry that my position as a cop put you at odds with your friends. But it can’t be helped. I really have to go.”

“Where are you going?” Yonkie demanded to know.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Foreman Prep.”

The boy was quiet, his mind tumbling for something to say. He had reddened with embarrassment. “So you’re like … checking out all the schools?”

Decker offered him a tolerant smile. “I’m checking out everything. The vandalism was vicious. It qualifies as a hate crime that carries extra weight and extra punishments. I’d like to nab the perps. I assume you’d like that, too. That much we can agree upon. Good-bye.”

Jacob blurted out, “Did I just put my foot in my mouth?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The boy turned his head away but didn’t move. “I used to keep my mouth shut. I never spoke my mind no matter what I was thinking.” He scratched his face. Bits of beard stubble were shadowing his cheek and it irritated him. Jacob used to have a stunning complexion. Porcelain smooth with hints of red at the cheekbones. His skin was still blemish free, but coarser now, like that of a young man. “What the hell happened to me?”

“You had secrets, and were afraid to talk. Now you don’t have secrets. The trade-off is a big mouth. It’s fine, Jake. I’m a tough guy; I can take a little sassing. I’ll see you at home tonight.”

“This whole thing was just a setup.” Jacob was whispering, more to himself than to Decker. “So you could go to the other places and say, ‘I’m checking out everyone, including my own son’s high school.’ Then they wouldn’t have an excuse.” He looked at his stepdad. “Am I right?”

“Shut up and go back to class.”

“I’m really stupid.”

“More like impulsive.”

“That’s true, too.” Instinctively, the kid reached out and hugged him quickly. Then he took off, embarrassed by his sudden display of emotion.

Decker bit his lip and watched him run away. Standing alone, he whispered, “I love you, too.”

5 (#u0f746847-02e6-5495-8ba5-4f5ec129c6fa)

Driving up to Foreman Prep, Decker was sorely reminded of the difference between parochial private schools and preparatory private schools. The acreage of Foreman was vast and green, shaded by specimen willows and stately sycamores. Behind the layers of arboreal fence were sprawling, Federalist-style, brick buildings. Or probably brick-faced, because architects did not design solid brick structures in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whether they were brick or brick-faced, the edifices were impressive and sufficiently ivy-covered to evoke dreams of the eastern universities. Decker didn’t care about the form, but he did care about the content. Foreman Prep had a course catalogue that could rival those of most colleges. Both Decker’s stepsons could have gotten in, but Rina wouldn’t hear of it. Religious education was paramount even if the current yeshiva had minimal grounds and rotating teachers. For her—and for the memory of her late husband—some things were nonnegotiable.

The headmaster, Keats Williams, was a double for Basil Rathbone except for the bald head—a topographic map of veins and bumps pressing against shiny skin. His eyes were hazel green, and his speech held a slight British accent. Affected? Probably. But at least he allowed Decker to present his scheme without sneering. As the headmaster lectured back his response, Decker’s eyes sneaked glances, trying not to widen at the richness of Williams’s office—something that Churchill would have been comfortable in. He wasn’t just a headmaster. Nor was he just a doctor of sociology as indicated by his Ivy League diploma. No, Williams was more. Much more. Williams was a friggin’ CEO.

“We just had an all-school drug check,” the headmaster informed Decker. “We have a zero tolerance for drugs at the school. Drugs, weapons, and explicitly sexual material. Even the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated is not to be brought to school, although it isn’t grounds for suspension—the first time. It’s impossible to keep teenage boys from thinking about sex. It’s always there just like a pulse. Still, that doesn’t mean it has to be addressed all the time. We’re out to train progressive minds.”

Decker said, “I heard about that. I’ve also heard that your school offers a very liberal freedom-of-speech policy, including platforms on abortion, legalization of opiates and prostitution, and euthanasia.”

“You’ve heard correctly.”

“You don’t shy away from controversy.”

“Indeed. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that these are but some of the issues that have come before our legislative body. We like to keep our students up-to-date … topical if you will. However, controversial issues do not extend to hate crimes, which are odious and against the law. I know you’re using drugs as an entrée to students’ lockers, but if you find any … and I do mean any evidence … that any of our boys are behind this heinous event, I want to know about it immediately. Proper remedies will be taken to assure that this issue will be addressed.”

“Doctor, if I find proof that one of your boys was part of this morning’s vandalism, he will be arrested.”

Williams was silent. It was one thing for him to reprimand and even to punish the students involved. It was quite another for their felonies to be broadcast over airwaves—not the PR that Foreman Prep liked. “Exactly how do you determine proof?”

“It varies.”

“If you should find proof … or perhaps the correct word might be ‘evidence’?”

“‘Evidence’ is fine,” Decker said.

“And if it should be necessary … for you to take appropriate action, is there a way that this can be handled … without a tremendous amount of fanfare?”

“I have no intention of calling up the press.”

“And if the press should call you?”

Decker was silent.

The headmaster placed his hands, fingers fanned out, on his highly polished walnut desktop. “Our boys are minors. If their names are released to the press, there will be problems.”

“Dr. Williams,” Decker chided. “Surely you don’t advocate suppression of the public’s right to know.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Williams stated.

Decker smiled. Spoken like a true American with his ass against the wall.

“I’m Dr. Jaime Dahl—special services administrator.”

Decker stuck out his hand. “Thank you for taking the time—”

“I didn’t volunteer for this witch-hunt, it was foisted upon me.” A swish of blond hair. “Let’s get that straight. I don’t approve of any kind of searches. I believe it’s a violation of civil rights.”

His day to get grief. Yet it wasn’t entirely her fault. At Decker’s behest, Dr. Williams hadn’t informed her or anyone else of the true purpose of the search. She’d probably be appalled by hate crimes, though she’d no doubt retort with, “One violation doesn’t excuse another.”

Through designer eyeglasses, she was slinging wicked looks his way. What made it worse was she was a fox—around twenty-five, with lush lips and knockout legs. She was wearing a black business suit and looked more like an actress playing the part of a school administrator. If this were a Hollywood script, they’d be in bed an hour from now. He must have inadvertently smiled, because her eyes grew angrier. She sneered at him. Too bad. He hated being dissed by anyone, let alone a fox.

She spoke in a clipped cadence. “Follow me.”

She led him down a flight of stairs, through a long, wide Berber-carpeted hallway, designated the student locker area. They were waiting for him—rows of adolescent boys standing next to their little bit of privacy, their hands at their sides. Two uniformed guards were watching them. The scene made Decker feel as if he were the aggressor, and that didn’t sit well with him. He stopped. “Is there any specific place I should start?”

“One is as good as the next.” Jaime tapped her toe, her left buttock moving with each rhythmical click of the shoe. “Let’s go from freshmen to seniors. They know what to do. They just went through the routine drill a few weeks ago.”

“They may know the drill, but I don’t.”

Jaime sighed impatiently. “One boy at a time will open his locker, swing the door all the way out, then take two steps back. Then you do your search and seizure. When you’re done, you step away and let the boy close his locker. Give them back a little piece of their stripped dignity.”

“That sounds fine—”

“I’m glad you approve,” Jaime snapped back. “Shall we get on with it?”