I took Curtis into a small consultation room off the ER waiting area and closed the door.
He sat in a plastic chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands over his face. I sat across from him and told him everything. The tight shoes. The padlock on the refrigerator. The bolt on the outside of Josephine’s door. The empty cup and the single cracker. The juice boxes in Eli’s backpack.
When I got to the part about Eli saving his school lunch since before Halloween, Curtis made a sound like somebody had punched him in the stomach.
“I didn’t know,” he kept saying. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
“How did you not know, Curtis?”
He looked up at me. His eyes were wet and full of shame.
“I’m gone fourteen hours a day,” he said. “Six nights a week. I get home at seven in the morning. Darla has breakfast on the table. She tells me Grandma had a good night, she’s resting, don’t wake her. I eat. I go to bed. I get up at four in the afternoon. Eli’s at school or doing chores. I shower and drive to Troutdale.”
He shook his head.
“My wife left when Eli was two. Grandma Josie raised him while I worked. When she fell last summer and broke her hip, I didn’t know what to do. Darla’s my cousin. Well, my second cousin. She said she and Rick were between places. She said they’d move in and take care of Grandma for free if they could stay rent-free. It seemed like a blessing.”
“And the power of attorney?”
“Darla said Grandma needed somebody to handle the bills while she was laid up. She said Grandma asked for it.” He rubbed his eyes. “I signed as a witness. Darla said I needed to. I didn’t even read it.”
“Curtis,” I said. “Who gets your grandmother’s Social Security?”
He stared at me.
“It goes into her account at Unitus Community Credit Union. I think. Darla handles it now.”
“And her pension? From the school district?”
“I… Darla handles it.”
“Have you seen a single bank statement since September?”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it.
“No,” he whispered.
I thought about that brand-new leather sectional with the tags still on it. The giant flat-screen TV. The gaming console.
A detective named Paul Okonkwo from the Portland Police Elder Crimes Unit arrived at seven o’clock that evening. He was about forty-five, quiet and careful, with wire-rimmed glasses and a soft voice.
He interviewed Josephine first, in her hospital bed, with a nurse in the room.
He was in there for an hour and forty minutes.
When he came out, he found me in the hallway and stood beside me without saying anything for a long time.
“Ray,” he finally said. “That lady should be running the Elder Crimes Unit instead of me.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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