ike Finche walked into his office, tossed his briefcase onto its space on the floor beside his decrepit ergonomic chair. He looked at the folder sitting in the middle of his desk. He scratched the crest of his head, between patches of nappy gray and black hair.
He didn't remember leaving this folder here, as he always neatly put everything in the IN and OUT baskets or in his filing cabinet before he went home. Some yutz must have been in here looking through his case files this morning, probably Franco or Ginger. Which wasn't uncommon, because everyone at the Department of Child Welfare regularly pilfered through each others' records as the need arose. But they could at least put his cases back in the cabinet, right?
Finche put his coffee down and picked up the anonymous folder. His deep, dusky brown skin stood out in contrast against the manilla cardboard. He opened it, and read through it for a minute, mumbling bits of it out loud: "Young child found in complex. Name unknown... no parents found. Hmmph. Seems to have been raised by dogs, also found in complex..."
He sighed and walked to the office next door. It was enough to work here at all. He didn't need crap like this.

Franco Maricio looked up. Rotund and glowering, Finche impatiently waved a folder in front of him.
Maricio looked at the item, just inches from his hawkish nose, then at Finche. He smiled through a mouthful of bagel, still chewing. Maricio was classic Italian: gaunt features, a pale complexion, and black hair. He had an Indian-style tattoo of some sort on his right hand, and wore a Pueblo Nation leather jacket with frills. Completing the incongruity were thick, plastic-rimmed glasses. An all-around weird guy, but one of the Department's better caseworkers.
Finche shook his head. He was used to Maricio and his antics, but they usually weren't as sophisticated as fabricating fake cases. Maricio's "pranks" were usually things like leaving nudie pin-ups in people's offices or using the fax machine to send jokes and cartoons to other government agencies. This sort of gag -- using official documents to fabricate a fake case -- could get Maricio sanctioned or fired. Not that Finche would report him, but he should know better.
"Maricio, is this your idea of a joke?" He waved the folder with his right hand, the other curled into a fist against Maricio's desk.
Maricio shook his head, then washed the bagel down with some mineral water. He finally said, "Nope. That's a real case. I wanted it myself, but they gave it too you because of seniority. Ya lucky bastard."
Finche's eyes widened a second. He swallowed hard, then sighed and opened the folder again. Jesus Christ, he didn't want this case. Lucky bastard. Sure.
Maricio continued, after nibbling some more on his bagel, "Scary, isn't it? Something like that right here in Brooklyn."
"Yeah, great city," Finche spat.
Maricio nodded, and said, "We've both seen our share of bad shit, Finche: kids with broken bones, all types of molestation, pint-sized sociopaths. But this... this takes the cake. This is just too weird. I'm not callous enough for something like this to not affect me, ya know? Not yet, anyway."
"I'm pissed off more than anything, to tell you the truth. I have to deal with this crap."
Maricio pushed his glasses up on his nose, and squinted. "Sometimes I wonder why the hell you're here, Finche. It can't be for the money."
Finche chuckled dryly. "It doesn't pay much, but it's steady work. I need to pay the rent and keep the warden in new clothes. I'm not here for my health, I'll tell you that."
"But...� Maricio started, then paused as if he were considering his words. �Thing is, you don't care about your work here anymore. I remember when you used to, but now each case is just something to get over with. Then you just move on to the next one."
Finche waved away the comment, crossing his arms across his wide chest. "Idealism is nice. But it messes with my head when I invest too much in these things. I can't care too much. These problems ain't mine. I don't bring these cases home with me, and I don't get personally involved. I've learned that much in the eight years I've worked here."
"Well, I'm not completely unsympathetic to your point of view. But again I ask: why are you here, of all places, doing this of all things? Why aren't you an accountant or tax consultant or something that doesn't requires a conscience?"
Finche shrugged, his expression absent. He turned and slowly walked back to his office.

<-- Return to story index Go to Chapter Two -->