Free Little Lamb Lost by Margaret Fenton Page A

Meaning that the caseworker had solid evidence that Al had
abused this girl. That case was when Heather was seven. Another PHYSABCH FOUN
was the same year, when she was almost eight. What our system couldn’t tell me
was whether or not Al was prosecuted. Those records were kept by the justice
system, not DHS. There might be a footnote in the record, or there might not.
    So, Al Mackey was a child abuser. And I
hadn’t known a thing about it.
    Michele interrupted my reading. “Are you
going to want to see the chart?”
    “Yeah.”
    Michele filled out a blue 8-1705 form,
Request for Record. I signed it after she handed it to me. “You let me know if
you change your mind about my cousin’s friend.”
    “Okay. I wouldn’t hold your breath
though.”
    I took my blue form down to the
basement. The cavernous area that once stored additional inventory of clothes,
shoes, ties, and handbags in the 1930s was now filled to the ceiling with
electric racks of case files. Social workers weren’t allowed in, but instead
rang a buzzer at a door once we stepped off the elevator into the small
hallway. I hit the button and waited.
    Dolly opened the door, as usual. She’d
been with DHS since God was a boy. Her hairstyle was a gray sixties bouffant
that never moved, and her clothes were from the same decade, dowdy dresses with
oversized collars. Her skin was paper thin and just as pale. She was sweet,
though, and I was fond of her.
    “Hello, Claire,” she said. “What do you
need?”
    I handed her my blue form and we made
small talk. She didn’t mention Michael. I wondered how much she knew about what
went on upstairs, since she spent most of her day in this dungeon, purging old
charts.
    She went to find the chart I wanted and
returned with it several minutes later. I thanked her and took it to my office.
Behind my desk, I opened the faded brown folder and began to read.
    It took me forty-five minutes to go
through it all. The investigating social worker on the first case, seventeen
years ago, was someone whose name I didn’t recognize. She was long gone. Her
case notes revealed she’d been contacted by a babysitter who’d reported that
three-year-old Heather had several bruises on her bottom and the back of her
legs. Interviews with both parents were conducted. Tina denied ever spanking
Heather. Al admitted to spanking her after she ran into the street, but stated
he hadn’t left the bruises. He claimed those were from her falling off the end
of the slide in the backyard. Her parents were referred to parenting classes at
the agency and the case was closed.
    The next social worker was someone whose
name I did recognize. Danessa Brown, now a supervisor in the foster care unit,
one floor above me. She’d been an investigator thirteen years ago. I read her
meticulous notes. When Heather was in second grade, Danessa was called out to
the school by the guidance counselor who’d noticed several bruises on Heather’s
legs. Heather revealed how she got them from her daddy spanking her, and the
case was sent to court on a dependency charge. That was so the court could
supervise the family and place Heather out of the home if needed. Al was
required to go to parenting classes, ordered not to spank the child under any
circumstances, and to attend AA meetings. The case was left open for oversight
by DHS.
    Danessa made regular contact with
Heather, as required, and noted that two months after the court appearance, Al
moved out. I got the feeling from reading between the lines that sobriety was
too much of a strain on his marriage. He visited regularly with his daughter,
though, and just before she turned eight, more bruises appeared. Once again,
brave little Heather told exactly where she got them, the case went back to
court, and Al was ordered to have no contact with his daughter whatsoever. The
case was closed a year and a half later after no further incidents.
    I closed the chart and put my face in my
hands. All this time, Al Mackey’s