J. Jance - Without Due Process

“Hey, Detective Beaumont,” Captain Powell yelled after me as I vaulted past him down the steps. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You can’t be finished in there already.”

“I’m going after the teddy bear,” I called back over my shoulder, “and there by God better be one out in the car!”

Years earlier, a local radio station had sponsored a program called the Teddy Bear Patrol. The idea was to put donated teddy bears in all local emergency vehicles-law enforcement, fire, and Medic One-in both the city and county. When confronted with traumatized children, emergency personnel and police officers would then have something besides mere words with which to comfort injured or frightened kids.

At the time I first heard about it, I confess it struck me as a pretty dumb idea. The idea of men getting ready to go on shift and making sure they had their weapon, their cuffs, their bulletproof vest, and their teddy bear seemed a little ridiculous. After all, real men don’t eat quiche, and they don’t pack teddy bears either. Over the years, however, I’ve been forced to change my mind, having heard enough secondhand, heart-rending stories to see the error of my ways. That April night, though, was the first time I personally had need of one of those damned bears.

“Teddy bear?” Captain Powell echoed, following me down the sidewalk. “What the hell do you want with a teddy bear?”

“Big Al just found one of Ben’s kids, Ben Junior.”

Powell stopped in his tracks. “He’s still alive?”

The soft, squishy brown bear was right there in the trunk, exactly where it was supposed to be. My groping hand closed around one tiny leg. When I triumphantly hauled it out of the car and slammed the trunk lid shut, I almost collided with Captain Powell, who had stopped directly behind me.

“He’s alive all right. He’s fine. He was hiding in a linen closet. Got stuck in there. I think he just woke up and recognized Al’s voice.”

“You’re kidding!”

“The hell I am! Come see for yourself.”

“Hallelujah,” Captain Powell breathed. “I can’t believe it!”

I left him standing there and hurried back up the sidewalk with that precious teddy bear crushed against my chest. Holding that soft, cuddly creature even helped me that night, made me feel better. I knew holding it would help Junior Weston too.

Back in the hallway, Big Al hadn’t moved. He still held the child, although the crowd of onlookers had thinned some as people returned to their various assignments. I caught Big Al’s eye and held the bear up high enough so he could see it. He nodded gratefully as I handed it to him.

“Look here,” Big Al said to the child in his arms. “Look what Detective Beaumont found for you. A teddy bear.”

Benjamin Harrison Weston, Jr., couldn’t have been more than five years old. As far as we knew, he was totally unaware of what had happened to his parents. He had no idea that his entire family had been wiped off the face of the earth and that he himself was an orphan. He saw only the lovable brown teddy bear and knew that, for whatever reason, he was being given a gift.

“For me?” he squealed delightedly, hugging the bear to his pajama-clad chest. “Really?”

For a few moments, there wasn’t a dry eye anywhere within earshot, mine included.

It seemed important to have Junior Weston well away from the house before Doc Baker’s helpers began wheeling gurneys loaded with body bags out the front door and into waiting vans. We bundled the boy into a jacket over his pajamas and then took him along downtown. Some kids might have balked at or been terrified by the prospect of a trip to the Public Safety Building, but because Junior was a cop’s kid, for him it was nothing more than a trip to his dad’s office.

After a quick but necessary visit to the bathroom, we brought him back to our crowded cubicle on the fifth floor. There he settled easily into Big Al’s lap, clutching the teddy bear. A steaming cup of cocoa sat at the ready on the detective’s cluttered desk.

Genetically linked stubbornness has necessitated a long learning curve, but now when I’m wrong, I can come right out and admit it. In regard to Detective Lindstrom and the Weston family murders, I’m happy to report I was absolutely dead wrong. During the next few minutes Big Al reverted almost totally to type. By dint of pure Scandinavian hardheadedness, he set aside his own feelings of grief and outrage and functioned flawlessly as the consummate investigator questioning a vulnerable but essential eyewitness.

In dealing with witnesses of any kind-young or old, willing or not-that initial questioning session often offers the best chance of gleaning really useful information. With young children especially, those first few moments are critical. It’s important to hear what the child himself has to say before his memory is colored or diluted by the preconceived notions of those around him. Well-intentioned adults-relatives, friends, or social workers-may inadvertently or deliberately encourage him to forget or change what he remembers, thinking that by doing so they will somehow lessen the trauma of what the child has experienced.

In the case of Benjamin Harrison Weston, Jr., there was no other detective in the Seattle Police Department who could have worked with the five-year-old boy the way Big Al did. Already a known and trusted adult in the Weston family sphere of influence, he dealt with the child in a straightforward, no-nonsense manner that gave the kid credit for having a good head on his shoulders. The detective’s whole approach, caring but devoid of condescension, was no doubt good for the boy, with the reverse also true-Junior Weston’s trusting innocence gave courage and purpose to the man.

“Do you know what dead is?” Big Al opened the discussion with a quiet but throat-lumping question.

Junior nodded, his eyes focused intently on the man’s face. “My granny’s dead,” he answered slowly, “and so’s Bonnie’s mama. She died before I was born. Mommy told me that when people die, they go to heaven.”

Big Al faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “They’re dead, Junior. They’re all dead-your mommy and daddy, your sister and your brother.”

The child was quiet for a moment, assimilating the words. “Does that mean they’re in heaven now, with Jesus?”

Big Al blinked. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose they are.”

“Can I go too?”

“No, Junior. You can’t. You’ll have to stay here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

The boy turned away while two gigantic tears slipped down his round cheeks. “The bad man did it, didn’t he,” Junior said softly. “He hurt Bonnie. I saw him do it.”

“You saw him?” Big Al asked with a meaningful glance in my direction.

“Yes. In the kitchen. He had a knife, a big knife. He started to come after me, too, but I ran and hid in the closet. I closed the door so he couldn’t find me.”

The bearers of bad news can also issue a rousing call to arms. Big Al, after delivering his devastating news, now wisely offered Junior Weston the opportunity to do something about what had happened to him. “We’ve got to catch that bad man, Junior. Will you help us?”

The boy’s huge, unblinking brown eyes met the detective’s searching gaze. “It’s what my Daddy would have done, isn’t it,” he said gravely, making a statement, not asking a question.

Big Al nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It’s exactly what your daddy would have done.”

For a moment Junior Weston nuzzled his small, tear-stained face against the top of the fuzzy teddy bear’s head. “I want to catch him,” he whispered.

I didn’t know Big Al was holding his breath until he let it out in a long, grateful sigh.