The drive to Shady Pines Senior Living was a crawl through a frozen hellscape. The plows had created narrow canyons of snow, turning the four-lane avenue into a single, claustrophobic track. My cruiser’s tires crunched over the packed ice, the sound rhythmic and hypnotic.
Who are you? The question cycled through my mind. What kind of mother leaves her child to die?
But another voice, a quieter, more pragmatic one, whispered: What kind of hell was she living in that freezing to death seemed like the better option?
Shady Pines was a grim, brick fortress built in the 70s. It sat on a corner lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence that was sagging under the weight of the snow. The parking lot was unplowed, a mess of rutted tire tracks.
I pulled up to the front entrance. The automatic doors were smeared with condensation. A single flickering fluorescent light illuminated the lobby.
I walked in, the heat of the building hitting me with the smell of floor wax, boiled cabbage, and urine—the universal scent of underfunded elder care.
The front desk was unmanned. A sign read: Ring Bell for Assistance.
I didn’t ring. I walked around the desk. A logbook lay open. Visitor Sign-In / Staff Sign-In.
I flipped to the staff page for the night shift.
Janice T. – RN – 7pm Marcus L. – CNA – 7pm Elena R. – CNA – 7pm Sarah M. – Dietary – 6pm
I ran my finger down the list. I didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly. Just a feeling.
“Can I help you, Officer?”
I spun around.
A woman stood in the doorway of the breakroom. She was wearing blue scrubs. She was large, formidable, with tired eyes and a name tag that read Janice – Charge Nurse.
“Officer Miller, CPD,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’m looking for information regarding a staff member. Does anyone here have a young son? About five years old? Maybe owns a golden retriever puppy?”
Janice frowned, crossing her arms. “We have a lot of staff, Officer. Most of the aides have kids. Why?”
I pulled the evidence bag with the button out of my pocket. “I found this near a crime scene tonight. And I found a blanket with your facility’s tag on it.”
Janice looked at the button, then at the tag photo I showed her on my phone. Her expression tightened.
“That blanket…” she squinted. “That’s one of the old ones. We phased those out last year. We gave a bunch of them away to staff who wanted them. Or the homeless shelter.”
“Think, Janice,” I pressed. “Who is struggling? Who is desperate? Who has a boy named Leo?”
Her eyes widened. The realization hit her like a slap.
“Elena,” she whispered.
“Elena who?”
“Elena Rodriguez,” Janice said, her hand going to her mouth. “She’s a CNA. She… oh god.”
“Is she here?”
“No,” Janice shook her head. “She didn’t show up for her shift tonight. She called in. Said she was sick. But she sounded… wrong. She was crying.”
“Tell me about her,” I said, pulling out my notebook.
Janice leaned against the desk, looking defeated. “She’s a sweet girl. Maybe twenty-four? She’s been here six months. She works double shifts whenever she can. She has a little boy, Leo. He used to come sit in the lobby sometimes when she couldn’t afford a sitter. Cute kid. Quiet.”
“And the dog?”
“I don’t know about a dog. But Elena… she’s had it rough. Her landlord kicked her out three days ago. Evicted. She’s been sleeping in her car, I think. Or motels.”
My stomach turned. I have no home. I have no money.
“Where is she now, Janice?” I asked. “Do you have an address?”
“The address on file is the one she got evicted from,” Janice said, moving to the computer. She typed quickly. “402 West 61st Street. Apartment 3B.”
“That’s the eviction address?”
“Yes. But…” Janice hesitated. “She mentioned a storage unit. She was putting her stuff there. U-Store-It on Halsted. She said she might have to ‘camp out’ there until she got paid.”
A storage unit. In minus twenty degrees.
“Thank you,” I said, turning to run.
“Officer!” Janice called out. “Is Leo okay?”
I paused at the door. I didn’t turn around. “Pray for him, Janice.”
I was back in the cruiser in seconds.
U-Store-It on Halsted was two miles away.
I drove fast, but my mind was racing faster. Elena Rodriguez. A mother who was working double shifts, who was evicted in the middle of winter, who had nowhere to go.
She didn’t dump him because she didn’t love him. She dumped him because she thought we would find him. She put him on a bench in a public park, near a wealthy street, hoping a rich person would call the cops. She wrapped him in everything she had.
She gave him up to save him.
But where was she?
If she left the boy because she couldn’t keep him warm… where did she go?
I have no home. I have no money. God forgive me.
Those sounded like final words.
Panic seized me.
“Dispatch, 4-Alpha!” I yelled into the mic. “I need a wellness check on a storage facility at 5800 South Halsted. U-Store-It. Possible suicide attempt in progress. I am one minute out!”
“Copy 4-Alpha. Fire and EMS rolling.”
I skidded into the parking lot of the storage facility. It was a desolate row of orange metal doors behind a chain-link fence. The gate was keypad locked.
I didn’t have the code.
I backed the Explorer up, aimed for the gate, and floored it.
The push-bumper of the cruiser slammed into the gate. Metal screamed, chains snapped, and the gate swung open.
I drove through, scanning the rows.
Unit… Unit… I didn’t have a unit number.
I killed the engine and rolled down the window.
Silence. Just the wind.
Then, a sound.
A car engine running? No. A car that had run out of gas?
I saw a faint plume of exhaust rising from behind Row C.
I drove around the corner.
There, parked in front of Unit 104, was a rusted-out 1998 Honda Civic. The windows were completely iced over from the inside. The tailpipe was barely puffing gray smoke. The engine was sputtering, dying.
I jumped out and ran to the car.
I wiped the frost off the driver’s side window.
Inside, reclined in the driver’s seat, was a young woman. She was wearing the same blue parka material—no, she was wearing just a scrub top and a thin sweater. She had given the parka to the boy.
She was slumped over the center console. In her hand was a rosary.
“Elena!” I screamed, pounding on the glass.
She didn’t move.
The doors were locked.
I grabbed my baton. I didn’t hesitate. I swung it with all my strength against the passenger side window (never break the driver’s window if you can help it, to avoid glass hitting the victim).
CRASH.
The safety glass shattered into a million diamonds.
I reached in, unlocked the door, and scrambled across the seat.
The air inside the car was freezing. The heater must have died hours ago when the gas ran out.
I grabbed her shoulders. She was cold. Ice cold.
“Dispatch! I have a female, late 20s, unresponsive! Hypothermia! Send the bus now!”
I pulled her out of the car. She was tiny. So light. Malnourished, just like the boy.
I laid her on the snow—it was safer than the cramped car—and checked for a pulse.
I pressed my fingers to her carotid artery.
My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t tell if the thumping was my own heart or hers.
Come on, Elena. Don’t you dare.
I waited.
Nothing.
No. No, no, no.
I started compressions right there in the snow, under the orange glow of the streetlamp.
“Come on!” I grunted with every push. “Leo is alive! You hear me? Your boy is alive! You don’t get to quit! You don’t get to leave him alone!”
I pumped her chest. I heard a rib crack. I didn’t stop.
“Breathe!”
I did thirty compressions, then tilted her head back, pinched her nose, and breathed two breaths into her mouth. Her lips were stiff.
Thirty more.
I looked up at the sky. The snow was falling again.
“Where is that ambulance?!” I screamed into the empty night.
I was alone. Just me, a dying mother, and the ghosts of a system that had failed her.
I pushed harder.
One, two, three, four…
And then, a miracle. Or maybe just a reflex.
A gasp.
It was a horrible, ragged sound, like a drowning person breaking the surface.
Her body convulsed. She vomited a thin, clear liquid.
I rolled her onto her side instantly.
“That’s it,” I choked out, tears finally spilling over and freezing on my cheeks. “That’s it, fight. Fight for him.”
I heard the sirens in the distance. They were getting louder.
I stripped off my uniform shirt—I was down to my thermal undershirt now in sub-zero weather—and wrapped it around her.
“You’re going to make it,” I told her, though I wasn’t sure. “You’re going to make it, and I’m going to make sure you never have to make a choice like that again.”
The ambulance lights swept across the snow, painting us in chaotic flashes of red and white.
As the paramedics rushed over, I looked at the rusted Honda. In the back seat, I saw a few items. A box of diapers. A leash. And a picture frame, face down.
I reached in and flipped the picture over.
It was a photo of Elena, Leo, and the puppy, sitting on a patch of green grass in the summer. They were smiling. They looked like a family. They looked happy.
I clutched the photo to my chest as the paramedics loaded her onto the stretcher.
The story wasn’t over. In fact, the hardest part was just beginning.
Chapter 7: The Cage of Law
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