Part 5 — What The Record Showed
Detective Rosa Chen had handled child welfare cases for nine years.
She reviewed the incident log, the pharmacy record, the sealed syringe, and Reed’s notes in order.
She said: the missing child report was filed at 4:10. The girls arrived at 4:17.
She said: he reported them missing before they had been gone long enough to have walked to the station.
She said: he knew where they were going.
Reed said: or he knew they had left and he wanted the narrative established first.
She said: yes.
She said: the prescribing credential.
Reed said: the pharmacy confirmed the transaction at 2:43 this afternoon. The medication dispensed requires a specific diagnosis code to prescribe.
She said: which he has access to as a licensed practitioner.
Reed said: yes.
She said: and Emma said Olivia didn’t know what she was swallowing.
Reed said: her exact words were he made her swallow it and said not to tell.
Chen looked at the incident log.
She said: CHILDREN REQUESTED PROTECTION BEFORE PARENT ARRIVAL.
Reed said: yes.
She said: good documentation.
She said: the girls are at the hospital?
Reed said: Olivia is being evaluated. Emma is with her.
She said: I’m going there now.
She said: Reed.
He said: yes.
She said: the syringe in the shoe.
He said: yes.
She said: she hid it because he checks their pockets.
He said: yes.
She said: she knew to bring evidence.
He said: a seven-year-old.
Chen said: yes.
She said: they walked to the station on their own.
He said: yes.
She said: holding hands.
He said: yes.
She took the pharmacy record and the incident log copies and left for the hospital.
Reed sat at his desk.
The box fan still rattled behind the counter.
The fluorescent lights still buzzed.
The empty evidence envelope marked 4:17 p.m. was in the secure cabinet.
Michael Carter had been taken to a separate room by Reed’s supervisor pending the detective’s return.
Outside the rain had stopped.
The parking lot was wet and quiet.
Reed thought about a girl sitting on a station floor and pulling off her sneaker and peeling back the insole.
He thought about Daddy checks our pockets.
He thought about the careful seriousness in Emma’s voice the whole way through.
She had known to bring the syringe.
She had known where to bring it.
She had known to ask before anything else: don’t make her go home.
Seven years old.
She had done everything right.
He had locked the doors.
That was everything the moment required.