As a social worker, I was obligated to follow through, though based on what the nurse shared, I didnt think Id find anything that was actionable, but at least the father would know that someone was paying attention to the way he was interacting with his wife and his daughter. Three years later Madalyn was dead and I knew James Olmstead had killed her and he got away with it.
Most often Madalyn comes to me in the violet-tinged mornings. That middling space between night and day. She has the sweet, unformed features of a toddler and sparkling gray eyes recessed above full, pink cheeks. Surprisingly, considering the way she was found, it wasnt the most gruesome of deathsvery little blood and only a few bruises marred her perfect little body. It was the hidden, internal injuries that killed Madalyn. Still Madalyns short time on earth began with the violent expulsion from her mothers womb into the cold, unforgiving earthly air and ended in violence, as well. It just couldnt be proved. I knew differently and I think her mother did, too. Though she was too blind, too scared, to say so.
When I wake up in the mornings, as the memory of Madalyn creeps beneath the covers with me and my snoring husband, my children sleeping soundly in the rooms down the hall, over and over I try to parse out just how her father, James Olmstead, got away with murder.
Id been in and out of the Olmstead home for years because of suspected abuse by the father. Neighbors to the Olmsteads would call the police because of loud fighting coming from the house. Twice Madalyn had to be removed from the home because the father had beaten the mother so badly. Twice, the mother didnt press charges. Twice, Madalyn was returned to the home. There were contusions on Madalyn, but the kind you find on all children: skinned knees, bruised elbows, purple knots on the forehead. All explained away by Madalyns mother. Such a busy little girl. You have children, right?
She was right, I do have children. Just before Madalyn died, Lucas was four and Leah was seven and they had the exact same kind of bruises. But as social workers, we know. We know which homes hold the addicts, the predators, the abusers. We just cant always prove it.
Two years ago, on a beautiful May afternoon, Madalyn Olmstead tumbled out of the third-story window of her apartment building and fell to the concrete sidewalk below. The only other person in the apartment at the time was her father.
She was out of my sight for only a second, her father claimed. She thought she could fly, he cried convincingly to the news cameras. During the autopsy, besides the traumatic head injury, the medical examiner found suspicious bruising on Madalyn but not suspicious enough to call it murder. Because of his neglect, Madalyns father was arrested for child endangerment that resulted in the death of a child and was facing up to a fifty-year prison sentence.
Even though I was convinced this was no accident, at the time I was satisfied that James Olmstead was being tried for the lesser charge and would have been content just having him put in prison. I prepared to testify against James. Over and over I reviewed the documentation of my visits to the Olmstead home, practiced describing the injuries I saw on Madalyns mother, the suspicious bruises I saw on Madalyn. The jury never heard my testimony. It can be very difficult for the prosecution to get a defendants prior bad acts entered into evidence, and the judge in this case felt that the facts would prejudice the jury too much. Our only hope was that the defense would open the door by providing testimony that it was all a mistake, that Jamess character was much different than what he was alleged to have done. That he just wasnt capable of hurting his daughter. The defense didnt open that door, didnt bring Jamess moral fiber into testimony, didnt have his wife or his co-workers at the foundry where he worked, nor the parents of children he coached in Tiny Tot T-Ball, speak on his behalf. Didnt have James testify on his own behalf. As a result, the jurors were not allowed to hear of Jamess abusiveness. He was acquitted. Too much reasonable doubt, the jury foreperson explained after the trial was over.
Three months later, James and his wife sued the owner of the apartment building for not insuring that the window screens were safely installed. They won a tidy sum of money and were from then on known as the victims.
I just knew that James had beaten his daughter and then panicked. In my gut I knew he made it look like she had climbed onto the windowsill, fallen through the screen and tumbled three stories to the sidewalk below. Madalyn was a fear-filled little girl. She was afraid of water, was afraid of dogs, was afraid of strangers, and was, most likely, afraid of heights. There was no way that Madalyn Olmstead would climb onto a windowsill and press her little hands against the screen. Never once in all the time I spent with her did she ever tell me she wished she could be a bird, wished she could fly. One thing I knew of for sure was that Madalyn was afraid of her father.
Months after the trial, not Caren, my supervisor, not Joe, not even my husband would listen to me rant and rave about my suspicions anymore. Didnt the medical examiner say her injuries were consistent with an accidental fall? Adam asked when I brought up my concerns for about the millionth time. I tried to explain that the medical examiner at the time was overworked and had a reputation of taking the lazy way out in determining his findings. Adam wasnt sympathetic. Ellen, he said, youre making yourself sick over this. You need to stop worrying about this kid. No one else seems to be.
Adams lack of concern irked me a bit, but Carens and Joes dismissal truly hurt. In social work and police work, too, we not only deal with facts but gut instinct often prods us into action. I thought they would listen to my worries and would back me up when I suggested another in-depth investigation into Madalyns death. They were sympathetic, made all the right noises when I made my case to them, but in the end they said they were satisfied with the jurys decision and I needed to drop it.
In the end all that was left was the man who got away with murder, the woman who chose to protect him, and me, the social worker who was powerless to protect a four-year-old little girl named Madalyn Olmstead, who will forever be known as Little Bird, the little girl who thought she could fly.
Chapter 2
In the evenings fading sunshine, ten-year-old Jenny Briard, on her knees, sweating and scraping at the hardscrabble dirt, did not have a reliable lucky charm, but she was determined to find one the first chance she got. Maybe a four-leaf clover or a horseshoe. Even a dusty old penny would do. Her father, Billy, in one of his rare moments of clarity a week ago, gave her a rabbits-foot key chain for her tenth birthday. No matter that he gave it to her two weeks late, Jenny wanted to cherish the silky white limb. But try as she might, the thought of a rabbit relieved of its paw to enhance the good fortune of others made her stomach flip-flop dangerously.
What the hell? Whatre you doing out here? her father mumbled when he came upon Jenny trying to bury the rabbits foot in the weedy area behind the motel where they were currently staying. Jenny tried to hide behind her back the pocketknife she had lifted from her fathers jeans for use as a shovel but it was too late. Thats my pocketknife. Give it here! Jenny quickly tried to brush away the dirt before sheepishly handing over the knife. Her father peered into the shallow hole. Hey, thats your birthday present! What are you doing that for? he exclaimed, his hair still wild from sleep, his voice laced with cigarette smoke.
What the hell? Whatre you doing out here? her father mumbled when he came upon Jenny trying to bury the rabbits foot in the weedy area behind the motel where they were currently staying. Jenny tried to hide behind her back the pocketknife she had lifted from her fathers jeans for use as a shovel but it was too late. Thats my pocketknife. Give it here! Jenny quickly tried to brush away the dirt before sheepishly handing over the knife. Her father peered into the shallow hole. Hey, thats your birthday present! What are you doing that for? he exclaimed, his hair still wild from sleep, his voice laced with cigarette smoke.
Jenny didnt know what to say. She hadnt wanted to hurt her fathers feelings, to seem ungrateful for the gift, but in the five whole days shed been in possession of the charm her father had once again lost his job, they had been evicted from their apartment, their truck had broken down for good, and her father had succumbed to what he called his weaknesstwice. It just seemed like the right thing to do, she finally said, not able to meet his gaze.
Her father stood there for a moment staring down at her, his shirttail flapping like a flag in the hot Nebraska wind, his jeans hanging low on his hips, the band of his boxers peeking out. Guess I cant argue with that line of thinking, he said at last, lowering himself into a sitting position next to her. Im thinking that wasnt the best birthday present for a little girl, was it? You probably wanted new shoes or your ears pierced. Something girlie like that.
No, no, Jenny protested. It was a great idea for a present. I just felt...sorry for it.
They both looked down into the small trench. Well, how about we commence with the ceremony and then go to the Happy Pancake for supper? her father asked, looking at her with weary, bloodshot eyes. Together they filled in the tiny hole covering the white paw with dusty earth. Would you like to say a few words? her father asked solemnly.
Ive never been to a funeral before, Jenny admitted. Im not sure what I should say.
Well, Ive been to my share of funerals and mostly theres a lot of praying and crying. You can say whatever comes to mind and its all right.
Jenny thought this over for a moment. Do I have to say it out loud? she asked.
Nope, some of the most powerful words ever spoken are said right here. He tapped his tobacco-stained fingers sagely against his chest.
Jenny stood silently over the tiny grave for a moment and then her father took her by the hand and they walked the quarter mile to the Happy Pancake, both retreating to the restroom after the waitress raised her eyebrows at their dirt-encrusted fingernails.
The Chocolate Chip Happy Stack is $4.99, if thats not too much, Jenny said hopefully, scanning the prices on the menu. And you can have my bacon if you want it.
Get whatever you want, Peanut. Were celebrating today, her father said buoyantly. Jenny peeked skeptically at her father from behind the plastic folds of the menu. Usually, whenever her father announced a celebration, he said he was going to invite two friends over and two friends only. Brew and Ski. Her only consolation was that the Happy Pancake promised a strictly family atmosphere complete with thirty-seven kinds of pancakes and a man who dressed up in a smiling pancake costume and made balloon animals on Sundays. Beer and his problematic friends were nowhere to be found on the menu.
I guess Ill have the Happy Hawaiian Stack then, Jenny decided. She had already tried three of the thirty-seven pancake varieties and was determined to try each.
A fine, fine choice, madame, her father said in his fake French waiter accent, causing her to giggle.
So what are we celebrating? Jenny asked in her most grown-up voice after their orders were placed and they were both sipping on tall frothy glasses of orange juice.
Hold on to your hat... he began, and Jenny indulgently clapped her hands atop her head. We are going on a trip! her father said, emphasizing each word with a hand slap to the Formica tabletop.
What kind of trip? Jenny asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, thinking of their truck leaking dangerous black smoke from beneath the hood the last time her father tried to start it.
I got a call from my old friend Matthew, her father said, pausing when the waitress appeared with their plates and slid a pile of steaming pancakes topped with pineapples, whipped cream and a brightly colored umbrella in front of Jenny. He waited until the waitress retreated before continuing, You wouldnt remember him, you were just a baby the last time we saw him, but Matthew called and said they were looking for some workers at the John Deere plant over in Iowa. He looked at his daughter hopefully.
That doesnt sound like a trip, Jenny said miserably, staring down at her pancakes, the whipped cream already sliding from the stack in a buttery sludge. She pushed her plate to the middle of the table. That sounds like moving. She suddenly wasnt hungry anymore.
Its right on the Mississippi River. We can go fishing, maybe even buy a boat someday. Imagine that, Peanut. Her father stabbed his fork at a piece of sausage, a wide grin on his face. We could live on a houseboat if we wanted to.
This was an interesting thought. A houseboat. But Jenny pushed the thought aside. Whats the name of this place, Jenny asked grumpily, pulling her plate back and pinching off a piece of the pancake with her fingers.
Dubuque. And besides the Mississippi River, theres a dog track and a river museum with otters and alligators and all kinds of cool things.
Silently, Jenny began eatingshe wasnt sure when she and her father would get their next decent meal. Eight hours from now they would most likely be splitting a bag of chips and a stick of beef jerky. Her belly felt uncomfortably full, her tongue thick with syrup. Her father was going on and on about how great Iowa was going to be, how the John Deere plant paid fifteen dollars an hour, how theyd move into an apartment, but just for a while. Once they were settled they could move into a house where she would have her own room and a backyard. Jenny wanted to ask him if there would be a breakfast nook. It sounded so cozy and comfortable, a small corner of the kitchen, surrounded by sun-filled windows. But her stomach hurt and she didnt want him to think that she approved of his plan in any way. Jenny licked her syrupy fingers one by one. When do we leave? she asked in resignation.
How bout tonight? her father asked, smiling broadly, his right cheek collapsing into a deep dimple that women loved. Then, leaning in so closely that she could smell sausage intermingled with this afternoons beer, he lowered his voice. You run on home and start packing. Ill pay and catch up with you in a few minutes. We got a bus to catch at midnight.
Jenny knew that her father wasnt going to pay for their supper, but at least he was letting her get out of the restaurant before embarrassing her to death. He was thoughtful that way.
Chapter 3
I creep down the hallway, the wooden floor sighing creakily beneath my bare feet. I peek into the kids rooms. First Leahs and then Lucass. Leah is tented beneath her thin white sheet, her bright pink comforter covered with multicolored peace symbols kicked to the end of the bed. A faint glow shines through the cotton and Im hoping that she has a flashlight beneath the covers reading a book like I used to when I was little. But I know my daughter too well. Its her handheld video game, one that Adams parents, Hank and Theresa, gave her a few months ago for her ninth birthday. A confusing game where the avatar goes back in time, trying to save the stolen prince and return him safely to the enchanted kingdom. Its a lot like what you do for a living, El, Hank told me happily after Leah opened the brightly wrapped package, whooped with joy and called to thank her grandparents.