Click here for “The Girl of My Dreams—Part I�?

I’ve walked into scenes spattered with blood before and not been shocked—reason being that when someone has been beaten to death with a hatchet it’s natural to walk in expecting to see some blood. But this scene was nothing like that. Not a drop of blood, and yet I was shocked nonetheless.

The bedroom itself appeared as though a laundromat had exploded. There were clothes scattered everywhere with the exception of two places. The first was an area on the full size bed that had been cleared just enough for an adult to sleep. The second was an area of floor in the corner of the room with one of the large round cushions that are available at any pet supply store. The fact that it was made for a large animal to sleep on didn’t discourage the girl’s caregivers from concluding it was an appropriate spot to place a child needing special care.

I understand that not everyone in this world can afford a crib or a bed and that some people have to make do or improvise. If that were the only issue, it could have easily been overlooked.

But it wasn’t.

The girl was lying face up in the center of the cushion. Scattered around the perimeter of the cushion and the room were dozens of empty cans of Pediasure that—when used with the tiny funnel and syringe that was present—were apparently administered through the girl’s feeding tube.

I snapped a few distant photos and as I stood counting the empty cans, one of the technicians asked, “What’s with all the baby powder?�?

He was referring to the white powder that had been scattered all over the girl and the pad as though she had been dusted with powdered sugar like a pastry. As I knelt down in the garbage next to the pad I noticed a small canister that was different from the Pediasure cans. Examining the canister I realized the baby powder was actually lice powder and a closer look at the girls head confirmed the presence of insect activity on her scalp.

During the entire external exam, it felt like there were bugs crawling all over my forearms. Thankfully, it was just my imagination. Part of me wanted to find some sign of trauma so I could at least go home knowing that the little girl’s parents would spend the night in jail. I borrowed the cleanest baby blanket I could find and spread it out on top of the cans, diapers, and clothing and wrapped the little girl inside.

I exited the house with the lieutenant, gave the funeral home the go ahead to remove the body, and asked the lieutenant to introduce me to the family. At this point I was simply going through the same routine I always did with families: introduce myself, let them know what I’m doing there and where their loved one is going, and answer any questions they have at that time. If I hadn’t just been going through the motions, God only knows what I would have said to them.

After giving them one of my cards, the lieutenant walked with me back to my car.

“Do you think we ought to call Homicide out?�? he asked.

“No. But if you’re not going to call Child Welfare, I damn sure am.�?

“They’re on their way,�? he assured me.

I got in the car and headed home, scratching my forearms from time to time.