Bird Boy

 

    Chapter 4  

 

    “OK, I guess you two are free to go.”

    The deputy closed his notepad and replaced it in one of the pockets of his tan uniform shirt.

    “Listen, you guys need a ride home, or anything?”

    “Thanks, but our bikes are right over there,” Dov answered pointing to the bike rack a few yards away.

    “Look, this whole thing seems pretty straightforward to me. I don’t think it’s going to go much farther. But you might get a call from Children’s Services, you never know.” He handed each of them a business card that read, BUTTE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT, FRANK DORMAN, DEPUTY.

    “Either of you has any problems with this, or questions…or if you just want to talk, just give me a call, OK?”

    “Thanks, Officer. We will.” Dov held out his hand and the deputy shook it, thinking to himself how odd, how mature the gesture was, for such a small kid.

    “Later, guys.”

    Dorman turned and headed back toward the school parking lot, where his patrol car sat in a space reserved for the police.  As he walked away, Dov turned to Kim and silently mouthed the words, “Later, guys”, which he followed with a questioning shrug and a smile.

    As far as the deputy was concerned, there wasn’t much reason to pursue the incident. The boy and the girl didn’t appear to be lying or hiding any information; and after radioing in for wants and warrants, both kids were clean, with spotless records.

    Plus, there was no shortage of witnesses to corroborate the version of the story that had the girl wading in to protect her friend from a nasty beating by his big brother.

    And, the kid’s bruises and split lip also seemed to support that angle.

    He opened his driver door and stood back for a second, letting the blast of heat that always built up when it was parked in the sun find its way out of the car. Then he started the engine, and waiting for the air conditioning to do its job, picked up the microphone and radioed in his position, and that he was returning to patrol status.

    Rolling through the parking lot on his way to the street, Deputy Dorman had to shake his head and smile.

    Must have been a pretty rude flash for the big, badass football player.  Just when he’s all set to hand his little brother his lunch again, he gets his clock cleaned and his nuts driven clear up into his throat by the kid’s fourteen year-old girlfriend.

    He allowed himself a short chuckle.

    Damn, but he would have liked to have seen that.

    Then the thought hit him -- a simple, two-syllable word that started making him feel a little uncomfortable about the whole thing.

    Just when he’s all set to hand his little brother his lunch AGAIN…

    Thinking back on the interview he had just conducted, he recalled that most of the bruises on that strange looking Halek kid were already yellowed, maybe several days old. But the kid’s split lip was pretty damned fresh.

    In his capacity as Juvenile Liaison Officer, Dorman was always catching up on a lot of reading, mostly texts, published papers and endless statistics on teenage alcoholism, pregnancy, drug abuse, gang and family violence. Thinking about what he saw on the Halek kid, one phrase from his reading just jumped out at him, turning over and over in his mind.

    Systematic pattern of abuse.

    Was that what he saw on the Halek kid? A pattern of abuse? Or was he just creating something out of nothing?

    Maybe it was time to look a little deeper into this whole thing.

    Starting with the big brother.

    He radioed in his new destination, Hooker Oak Hospital. Then he placed the microphone back on its bracket and picked up his cell phone from the passenger seat. Scrolling through the names and phone numbers programmed into it, he stopped at Sheila Bowen and pressed the “send” button.

    A moment later, his call was answered.

    “Butte County Department of Children’s Services.”

    “Sheila Bowen, please. Frank Dorman calling.”

    As his call was being routed, he found himself a little uneasy, wondering if he was jumping the gun here. Maybe he should wait until he knew a little more before he dragged Kid’s Services in and ended up causing even more heartache for Tom Halek than the man had already been forced to live through.

    He knew Tom. Anybody born in the area knew the Haleks.

    He even went to Bidwell High with him, although Tom had been a couple or three years ahead.

    How the hell could you go to Bidwell then, and not know Tom Halek? Or at least know of him, and the whole sad story. Big time football player, all state or something. Put the damn school on the map and got them all the way to the State Finals. Married the Homecoming Queen after graduation and was all set to go to USC on a full-ride football scholarship after junior college, when something went seriously wrong. Wife died having their second kid, and it shattered his life. Now, he’s a janitor at the college, and just a sad, pathetic drunk.

    Hell, I’ve even pulled him over and had to drive him a home a couple of times. Really pitiful, when you think about it.

    Now he was having second thoughts about all of this. About bringing a whole new load of pain and troubles down on Tom Halek.

    Because no one knew better than Deputy Frank Dorman that, once you brought the system -- particularly any part of it that dealt with the health and welfare of a juvenile -- into a person’s life, they weren’t going away for a long, long time.

    “Hi, Frank.” Shelia Bowen’s cheerful greeting quickly brought him out of his thoughts. “What a nice surprise.”

    He and Sheila had known each other since junior college and had worked many juvenile cases together over the years, but always kept things businesslike and professional, even a little detached. This town was too damn small as it was.

    But now that his divorce had been final for a couple of months, he could swear he was hearing a warm note in her voice he never noticed before.

 

                                                     *                              *                              *

 

    “Anabolic steroids, Mr. Halek.” The doctor’s voice had lost its compassionate, supportive tone. “They’re completely illegal, but a lot of athletes take them to build muscle mass and strength, and enhance their performance.”

    Tom knew about steroids; they were already in pretty wide use twenty years earlier, when he was playing. But, he seemed to recall, they already had a nasty reputation. Didn’t the Olympic Committee have a ban on them, even back then? Fortunately, he never really felt the need to get involved with anything like that.

    “But the side effects…” the Doctor’s voice trailed off for a second. “For starters, we’re talking about the possibility of stunted growth, sterility, testicular atrophy, impotence and several particularly nasty forms of cancer.”

    Doctor Enloe’s beeper went off and he paused to check the message. Then he turned back to his conversation with his patient’s father, deciding he could ignore the page for now.

    “And then there are the psychological effects. Like agitated, aggressive and delusional episodes. And in some cases, extremely violent behavior. These people can be a real time bomb.”

    Tomasz slumped back against the wall, crushed by what he was hearing.

    “But Michael said they were only vitamins,” he weakly protested, desperately wanting to disbelieve what the doctor was telling him, but also knowing deep down that the man was telling him the truth about his son. “Some kind of supplements to bulk himself up for football.”

    The doctor stood up. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

    They walked through the double doors and into the ER recovery area, down to the curtained-off bay at the very end. Doctor Enloe quietly slid the drape open, revealing for Tomasz, what was inside. He looked for a second, then gasped at what he saw.

    Michael was sound asleep on the gurney, hooked up to lord knows how many electronic monitors. His nose was bandaged, and one leg had been immobilized in some sort of traction device. But what really got to his father-- what made him gasp – was the sight of Michael’s hands.

    Both wrists were wrapped in padded, heavyweight leather straps that had been lashed to the chrome steel pipes at each side of the bed.

    Doctor Enloe spoke in a low, quiet voice. “We had to place him in restraint and sedate him.”

    “Oh, my God..!”

    “He’s sleeping fine for now,” the doctor went on. “But you should have been here about an hour ago. It took me and three orderlies to hold him down. With your permission, I’d like to bring in a specialist and run some tests. Determine how much physical damage the steroids may have already done.” He paused for a moment, weighing his next words.

    “And…I would also recommend holding him for a five-day psychological evaluation.”

    As they walked back toward the ER entrance, Tom was speechless, numb.

    “By the way, Mr. Halek. Just who, or what, is ‘Bird Boy’?”

 

 

    Frank Dorman eased his patrol car to a stop in an empty parking space in the lot next to the hospital, and radioed in his position.

    If possible, he wanted to have a word with Michael Halek. The more he thought about this, the more he suspected that, instead being the ‘victim’ in this afternoon’s little fracas, Michael might actually have something to do with all the bruising on his kid brother’s body, not to mention the little guy’s spit lip.

    Or, maybe he knew who did.

    The double doors to the hospital’s lobby automatically slid open as he approached, the welcome coolness of the building’s air conditioning drifting out to meet him. Damn, if that wasn’t a huge improvement over the hundred twenty degrees outside.

    Which was why the sight of Tom Halek, sitting alone in the hospital lobby, seemed so incongruous to him.

    It wasn’t that the man was perched on the edge of his bench, clutching some papers from the hospital’s admissions office and silently rocking forward and back. What got Dorman’s attention was the way Tom Halek was drenched in sweat. Trickles of perspiration ran down his forehead and his shirt was soaked through - even though the building’s air conditioning was keeping the place downright chilly.

    Then there was his unseeing thousand-yard stare, like some deer caught at night in the glare of an oncoming car’s headlights.

    “Hey, Tom.  Frank Dorman”. The elder Halek slowly looked up at him, not quite registering who was standing there, just nodding hello.

    “Tom?” the Deputy asked softly. “You all right?”

    The man was in shock. Christ, anyone who had spent any time around a crash site could see that.

    “What am I gonna do..?” the sweating man answered absently, asking no one in particular.

    “How’s Michael? He gonna be OK?”

    “What the Hell am I gonna do..?”

    Dorman took a seat next to him and put a reassuring hand on Tom’s shoulder.

    “Look, I talked with everyone involved, and I really don’t think it’s that bad. Honest.”

    Tom nodded, just as absently as before. Then slowly turned his head and finally seemed to notice the man speaking to him, as if hearing him for the first time.

    “Oh, Hi Frank…”

    He smiled weakly at the deputy and turned away.

    A moment later, his face contorted into a mask of unbearable anguish and he began to sob.

 

                                                   *                              *                              *

 

    “Hey, Kim. It’s Dov. Uhh…‘Whatcha doin’…?”

    A lot had happened in the past couple of days, starting with his finally having an answering machine to talk to when no one was home at Kim’s.

    Her father, who taught American History at the college, harbored an almost pathological distrust of things modern and technical. And after months of asking, pleading and badgering, he finally gave in, coming home for dinner a couple of nights earlier with a new answering machine for the house. So now, when the place was empty, which it usually was, since both parents were working professionals and their daughter was active in extracurricular athletics, at least the caller could leave evidence that they had tried. Progress had scored a minor victory.

    But any discussions about the ancient Smith Corona portable typewriter in her father’s study, their black and white TV or the battleship grey, ’64 Rambler station wagon parked in the garage would have to wait for another day.

    “…Anyway,” Dov continued. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go swimming at the high school after lunch or something. Lemme know, ‘K?”

    He hung up the phone and started rummaging around the kitchen, looking for something to make for breakfast.

    Make that a huge breakfast.

    Dov was in a good mood and he was starving.

    Why not? Hey, the sun was out, the birds were singing and the split in his lip was just about healed. The same for all of his bruises.

    And, thanks to Children’s Services, he might be in for more good days like this. Maybe even a bunch more of them.

    They had come out with a Sheriff’s deputy, to look around, search Michael’s room and talk to his dad.

    When they finally left they took away a shopping bag stuffed with different bottles of pills, Michael’s stash of steroids. Lucky for Michael, neither brother messed with drugs, or he would have probably been gone for good.

    As it was, according to the Children’s Services lady, there were going to be some big changes around the place. Changes that left Dov hoping that, maybe – just maybe -- things might actually be a little bit better for him.

    For starters, Michael was going to be out of the picture a bit longer than originally thought. Between the hospital stay, the additional couple of weeks to make sure the steroids were flushed out of his system, then the extra five days for the psych evaluation, it looked like his older brother was going to be out of the house for the rest of the summer.

    And out of football for a while.

    If the injury to his knee didn’t keep him on the bench, the district’s policies toward steroid use would. Once Michael’s knee healed, he would still be officially barred from taking part in any organized sport until he tested clean.

    And he would be urine tested each and every week as part of his suspension from sports.

    He would also have to take part in a county-sponsored drug counseling program, with both regular and surprise visits from the Butte County Probation people and Children’s Services.   

    And all it would take would be one little slip-up.

    Then his big brother wouldn’t just be out of the house.

    He’d be six hundred miles away in San Bernardino, sentenced to live in a group home with a very strict, twenty four-hour a day behavior modification program and a staff he wouldn’t be able to charm, intimidate or impress with his defensive stats. Probably until his eighteenth birthday.

    Just one bad urine test.

    One angry blow-up.

    One suspicious new bruise on Dov’s body.

    And Michael would be history.

    Gone like a cool breeze.

    For one brief second, Dov allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the situation his brother had brought upon himself. Not to mention the power he might be able to wield over Michael. Then he shook his head, dismissing the thought, transferring his attention to the three eggs he was about to scramble.

    Sure, his brother had made his life a living Hell for a long time. But to make Michael squirm now, just because the authorities had inadvertently given him the power? Nah, not interested.

    That would make him the same as Michael, wouldn’t it?

    And that was the last thing he was looking for.

    Let somebody else look to visit a little payback on Big Brother. He just wasn’t in the market.

    Hey, hasn’t this family already suffered enough over the years?

    Weren’t they all entitled to a break?

    At this point, all Dov wanted was to be left alone. For Michael to ignore him for a while -- to give him a little peace and freedom from the constant pain, fear and harassment.

    That, and he wouldn’t mind some cheese to scramble in with these eggs.

    Yup, some cheddar.

    And maybe a few slices of bacon.

    OK, so a decent breakfast wouldn’t necessarily make life totally good. He grabbed a couple of slices of whole wheat bread and dropped them into the toaster.

    But it couldn’t hurt, either.