Behind Closed Doors / A Short Story

The squad car pulled up alongside a woman who appeared to be wandering aimlessly down the berm of the Twenty Fifth Street Bridge. The officers left their vehicle and approached her cautiously, sensitive to the possibility of any suicidal tendency's she might be harboring. She starred straight ahead and continued her slow steady pace, seemingly unaware of their presence.

"Ma'am." the officer quarried. "Ma'am. Pedestrians are not allowed on the bridge. Can we give you a lift into town? Ma'am are you alright?"
She stopped, then and turned slowly to look blankly into the officer's face.

"Can I see some ID please?" His request firm, but gentle.

Without a word, she began searching her pockets in what appeared to be a feeble attempt to comply with the order. At last her trembling hands produced an envelope from somewhere inside her jacket. She handed it to the policeman and began to weep. Silent, silver, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to brush them away.She spoke at last, with great effort, whispering, pleading. "My children. I have two children. They're home alone. I .. I.. left them there."


"When did you leave them?" The officer demanded.


"I...I..d d don't remember." She stammered and began to sob, collapsing on to the pavement.


The envelope contained the medical records of one, Mary Anne Preston, who resided at 52692 Bridge Water Lane. Upon further examination, the records indicated a recent medication change for the treatment of schizophrenia. An unfilled prescription lay nestled between the folded sheets.

++++++++++++


From the downtown police station, a squad car was dispatched to the Preston address in the hopes of retrieving two minor children. Officers Benjamin Quinn, and Bart Wilson responded to the call, winding their way through the urban development in search of the address.They pulled into the driveway of a large century house, neatly landscaped, with the address displayed in bold bronze numbers on the cedar shake siding. Exiting their vehicle, they strode quickly to the front door of the residence. Unable to catch a glimpse of the interior because of the tightly drawn drapery, they pressed the door bell and listened for the sounds of children's voices. They heard nothing.


Once again they rang the bell and got no response. Could the report be wrong, they wondered? Were there really two small children left alone inside this home? With a tone of authority, Officer Quinn rapped loudly on the wooden barrier and called out, "This is officer Quinn of the Preston Police Department. Please open the door!"


From within, a frightened child's voice called out, "Go away! Mom's not here. She said not to open the door to anybody."


Lowering his voice, so as not to further frighten the child, Ben began to reason with her. "It's OK sweetie. We found your mom. She's sick and she asked us to come and bring you to her. You need to open the door. Is there anybody else in there with you?"


The tiny voice from within began to plead once again. "My brother Tommy is here. I have to take care of him. Please, please go away. Mom said no one. Tommy is scared. You're scaring him."

A second child began to wail hysterically as if to confirm her accusations.The officers listened helplessly as the screams rose to a frantic pitch. Ben tried again and again to convince the little girl to open the door. She responded at last by grabbing her brother and dragging him away from the door seeking a hiding place. As the cries of panic faded quickly into the furthest recesses of the house, Ben made eye contact with his partner. Wilson nodded, and together they slammed their shoulders into the old wooden door, shattering the frame and the lock.

Once inside, the odor hit them like a physical presence. Then the complete and utter chaos within the home took their breathe away. Only a narrow path winding between piles of strewn garbage, dirty clothes and dishes encrusted with dried and moldy left overs, led them beyond the front door to the room where the children were hiding. This was not a temporary living condition. Such filth could only be the result of months of neglect. How long, they wondered, had these children lived like this?

Carefully, the two men edged their way between the piles of garbage searching for the two small refugees. They found them at last cowering in the corner of the equally disgusting bathroom. The young girl, Officer Quinn guessed she was about eight or nine years old, had her arms wrapped protectively around her little brother. She eyed the officers warily, making no attempt to leave her hiding place. Ben knelt down on the filth encrusted tiles and opened his arms to them. Only Tommy sought comfort in this mans embrace, leaving his sisters arms for the security only an adult could give him.

As he gathered the boy into his arms, tears filled Ben's eyes. How was it possible to have victims when there was no crime? There were no bad guys here, no one to hold accountable for the trauma inflicted on these children. How does one fight mental illness, poverty and ignorance? He had a badge, a gun and years of training which provided all he needed to protect the innocent, and yet they were useless against these silent enemies.

These were the events that forever changed us, he thought. This is what molded children into who they would become. What would it do to these tiny victims? Would it break them, or make them stronger? He could rescue them now, but he knew he was playing only a small part in the outcome of their future, and certainly the terror of their rescue would also be a part of today's memory. He could see it in the young girls eyes. He would never know the rest of story, for only time would reveal its final chapter.