Street Dreams

9

Breakfast wasa quick affair-coffee, juice, and a bowl of granola with skim milk. In working mode, I dressed for efficiency: gray slacks, black ribbed crewneck sweater-merino wool because it and cashmere were the only kinds of wool I could wear against my skin-and black flats. Because I was meeting Koby for lunch, I brought along a pair of pumps and a colorful scarf to offset the look of a funeral director. Scarves were wonderful. Throw them around your neck and people thought you took great pride in your appearance.

There was just one vocational school that looked promising. Fordham Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled sat just east of Hollywood in the Silver Lake district-yes, there really was a reservoir lake. The neighborhood was predominantly Latino, but it held smatterings of other nationalities who had gone through the portals of INS. The school’s address was a half block from Sunset Boulevard, that handy crosstown thoroughfare that began at the Pacific Ocean and died east of Dodger stadium.

I found a parking space on the side street and got out of the car, armed with a badge and medical information. The building was a renovated two-story Arts and Crafts hunter green bungalow surrounded by a porch and topped by a peaked roof. Buttermilk-colored wood trim framed the front door and encased two multipaned side windows. Leading up to the door was a lovely stone walkway. After giving the knocker a few judicious raps, I was buzzed in.

I was surprised that the house appeared to have maintained its original floor plan. There was a tiny vestibule that led into a sun-drenched living room replete with desks and other office paraphernalia. Natural light was made possible by windows and French doors in the back wall through which I could see a panoply of color-an array of flower gardens fit for any Impressionist painting. I could make out figures tilling and tending the soil.

The woman who manned the desk closest to the entry was already on her feet. She was blond and thin and appeared perpetually nervous. “Can I help you?”

I showed my badge and ID. Lapis eyes widened as she read the pertinent information. “Officer Decker, is it?”

“Indeed it is. I’m trying to find out information on someone. Who would I talk to for that?”

“What kind of information?”

“It might be personal. Are you in charge?”

“No, that would be Mr. Klinghoffner.”

“Could I speak to him, please?”

“I think he’s upstairs.”

I didn’t say anything and neither did she. After a few seconds passed, I smiled and said, “When do you think he might come downstairs?”

“Oh, I can go get him if you want.”

“Yes, I would like that, thank you.”

“Okay.” She didn’t move, her eyes nervously scanning around the room. “You can sit down if you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay.” I decided she wanted me to sit before she fetched the boss. There was a cozy arrangement in the center of the room-a floral upholstered sofa and two matching overstuffed chairs. I elected to park myself on the couch and sank down into the cushions. She stared at me for a moment, then bounded up to the second story.

The house still had much of its old-world charm-arched entryways, hardwood floors, casement windows, a wood-beamed ceiling, and lots of built-in oak bookshelves and cabinets. The room was square and at each corner was a work area-a desk and chair, a file cabinet, and a computer station. With the nervous woman upstairs in search of Mr. Klinghoffner, the only other person on the floor was a beanpole man in the right corner. He appeared to be in his late twenties with a short haircut and a mottled complexion. Buried in his paperwork, he didn’t bother to look at me. But that didn’t stop me from staring at him. When he did look up, he colored red and went back to his piles of pulp.

It was time for me to interject some novelty into his life. “What are you working on?”

“Pardon?” His eyes jumped to my face, his cheeks still pink. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, sir, I am. You seem to be working on something very important.”

“Not important, just vast.” His eyes went back to his desktop. “All this paperwork: rules, regulations, statutes, ordinances. Whoever the government doesn’t tax to death, it drowns in paperwork. Either way, it’s going to kill us all. You, me, my dog, your cat-”

“I don’t own a cat.”

“I wasn’t talking literally!” he replied, bristling. “Forget it!”

“You seem stressed,” I remarked.

“Oh please! If I hear that word one more time, I really will upchuck! Anyone who works with bureaucracy is stressed! Obviously, you don’t.”

“I work for LAPD. They don’t come any more bureaucratic than that institution.”

“Or any more corrupt, if you don’t mind my impudence. What are you working on?”

“Talk about impudence.”

“Top secret?” he asked in a bored voice.

“Nothing important. I’m Cindy Decker, by the way.” Silence. “I suppose your mother christened you with a name?”

“She did.”

More silence. The guy was a first-class tool. His desk was set against a window, and abruptly a female face pressed itself against the glass. She had short dark hair, hooded eyes, and a gaping mouth with triangular-shaped teeth. She seemed short and was holding a hoe, almost a takeoff onAmerican Gothic.She bore a worrisome expression. With deliberation, she raised her fist and tapped on the windowpane. The beanpole looked up and gave her a half smile that almost humanized him.

“Back to work, young ’un!” he shouted through the glass. “Rest is for old folk.”

The lines on her forehead deepened. She started to complain about something. I could tell by her tone of voice, although I couldn’t understand her. Her speech wasn’t clear and she spoke through a glass barrier. “Skinny Man” rolled his eyes, then got up and opened the door. They talked for a moment and then she left. He sat down and resumed his paperwork.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

He stared at me. “Of course, she’sokay.Why wouldn’t she beokay?”

“She just seemed… I don’t know… a little lost.”

“I hope you’re a better cop than you are a psychologist.” A derisive sneer. “She wants to know how long until lunch. Then after lunch, they want to know how long before dinner. Their lives revolve around meals. Life would be simpler if we had bells, like in school. You’ll have to excuse me. Some of us have deadlines to meet.”

As in:Shut up.But it didn’t matter because “Nervous Girl” had reappeared with whom I assumed was Mr. Klinghoffner-a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had a shock of thick gray hair, was fat across the middle, and had chubby cheeks to match. All he needed was the suit and the white beard and I was looking at Santa Claus. I got up and extended my hand. He took it politely with a limp-fish shake.

“Jamie tells me you’re from the police?”

Jamie must be the nervous girl. “That’s right, Mr. Klinghoffner. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment. Privacy would be preferred.”

“Don’t bother, I’m not listening, I couldn’t care less,” Skinny Man chimed out.

Klinghoffner laughed. “Don’t mind Buck.”

Buck?I had the good sense to keep my smile in check.

“It’s evaluation time for the Center for funds.” Klinghoffner kneaded doughy hands. “Lots of paperwork. He’s a bit tense. Let’s go into my office. This way.”

He led me through a kitchen that still had its original cabinets and fixtures. The counters were tiled in sunny yellow, and a diamond pattern of midnight blue and yellow made up the back-splash. Klinghoffner’s office was off to the right-a tiny room that was probably once a pantry. When he closed the door, it was pretty tight inside, but it did have a nice-size picture window and a skylight giving a blue clue to a world beyond.

“How can I help you, Officer?”

“If you read the papers on Tuesday morning, you’ll know that LAPD found an abandoned baby in Hollywood.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Terrible.”

“The baby is doing well. We have reason to believe that the mother is Caucasian and possibly developmentally disabled.”

“I see.”

“Any ideas?”

Klinghoffner appeared to be thinking about it. “I’m not… aware of any of our women being pregnant.”

“Was pregnant.”

“Or was pregnant. But I don’t know everything.”

Covering his rather commodious butt. “Okay. Maybe we could talk in theoretical terms.”

“I’m not being cagey, Officer Decker, I just don’t know. We try to teach our students about the birds and the bees, but most of their guardians-the parents, the siblings, the aunts-they don’t like to leave things to chance. Many of our women are sterilized coming in. The last thing anyone needs is another special child to deal with.”

I thought about my poor little baby. Maybe she’d be okay. Maybe Koby was wrong. “You said many of your women are sterilized.”

“Yes. But it’snota back-alley thing. There is full consent-from the families, from the women themselves. They request it, Officer. They know that they are in no position to raise a child, should they have sex.”

“You allow them to have sex?”

“No, not here. But drives are drives. We are realistic. And the women who aren’t sterilized, we give them the pill every day along with their vitamins. We make sure they take it.”

“Are the women aware that by doing this, they can’t get pregnant?”

“We explain it to them. Some comprehend more than others.”

“But you don’t require them to take birth control, do you?”

He heaved a great sigh. “We don’t strap them down, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m sorry. I know you have a difficult task. I’m not passing judgment.”

“That’s good,” the director said. “It’s hard enough teaching our students about hygiene, let alone sex. We just try to make sure that if sex happens, the women are not left coping with something they’re not equipped to cope with.”

“Do the women know what they’re doing when they have sex?”

Klinghoffner pursed his lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Is it consensual as opposed to forced on them?”

“Good Lord, I hope it’s consensual, although I suspect I know what you’re saying. The young women here… They’re not used to having control over their bodies. They’ve been told what to do all their lives. We have counselors here to help them integrate sex and health education.”

He looked away.

“We do not allow sex within these walls. But the few times I’ve actually caught a pair in the act, I’ve looked the other way in terms of punishment. I did take the parties involved aside and insist they get some couples counseling. For precisely the reason you stated. To make sure that nothing was forced.”

“And?”

“The parties were all right with the sexual relationship. But their guardians were not. A few times, I’ve had students pulled out of the programs because of it.”

I tried being charming. “And might you know any woman pulled out of the program because of having sex, say… within the last nine months? Maybe one with Down’s?”

“Not Down’s, although we do have students here with Down’s.”

“So you’re thinking of someone specific.”

Klinghoffner stalled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“The girl needs medical attention.”

“Yes, of course.” Klinghoffner drummed his fingers on the table. “We have a girl here. She’s been sick on and off for the last year. I haven’t seen her in a month. She lives with her sister.”

“Heavyset and very blond?”

He thought for a moment. Then he nodded.

“But not Down’s,” I said.

“No, she’s not Down’s. She has cerebral palsy, although that doesn’t tell you anything. It’s a garbage-can term. Her gross motor coordination is very, very poor. Her fine motor coordination is not as bad as you’d think by looking at her. She’s mentally disabled, no doubt about that, but she has skills. She can take care of herself-bathe, dress, go to the bathroom, even cook a little. And she can work a computer. She does some data entry for us. Quite good at it.”

I was quiet.

“A very sweet girl. Maybe a bit more subdued the last couple of months. I probably should have said something, but there are so many kids here.” Now he was upset. “They’re like children. They upset easily. Sometimes I miss things.”

“We all do.”

“Let me walk you back to reception. I’ll get you the address.”

“Thank you, Mr. Klinghoffner. You’re doing the right thing.”

“I hope so.”

I sat back on the couch and waited. I hoped I didn’t have to tarry too long, because “Beanpole Buck” had taken a real dislike to me. He glared at me over his piles of paper. I guess if I looked like him and was named Buck, I wouldn’t be too happy, either.

At last Buck spoke. “Find what you’re looking for?”

“Maybe.”

“If you tell me what you need, maybe I could help you out.”

A legitimate offer for help? I couldn’t believe it. Nor did I trust him.

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

He stiffened. “Only trying to help.”

“I know. I appreciate it.”

Klinghoffner returned, ending the awkward moment. “Let me walk you out.”

He handed me the paper once we were outside and away from prying eyes. I thanked him again, and he left me at the curb. The name was Sarah Sanders. Her guardian was Louise Sanders, her sister.

They lived in the foothills of Hollywood.

I turned the address over and over in my hand. I really,reallywanted to go to the house, but it wasn’t my place to be the primary interviewer. I was just too low on the food chain. At this point, all I could do was collect the data and give it to someone else to interpret.

Still, I didn’t call Greg Van Horn right away. I had a lunch date to keep. No sense in making decisions on an empty stomach.