Mo Grá| Derek Morgan

chapter thirteen

Reid looked at the teacher, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "We have no idea," he confessed, as I stood up and offered a tight-lipped smile to the woman in greeting.

"We're currently trying to locate his aunt, but in the meantime, we hope you can assist us in getting through to him," I explained.

"Okay, I'll try," she replied, sitting down next to Sammy. "But even before this happened, he wasn't exactly enthusiastic about talking." I took a step back, positioning myself behind Spencer as I observed their interaction.

Sammy turned to her, a flicker of concern in his eyes, as if sensing she needed something. The teacher pulled out a set of laminated cards from her purse, placing them in Sammy's line of sight. "What are those?" Rossi asked, curiosity piqued.

"These help some kids with autism learn routines," she explained, showing us one of the cards.

"Ah. 'School bus leaves at 2:15,'" Rossi read aloud, comprehension dawning on him.

The woman nodded, then drew one of the cards with an "L" shape closer to her. "Sammy, what's this?"

As he looked at the shape, Sammy's eyes widened, and he began rocking back and forth once more.

I exchanged glances with the teacher, silently hoping she had a better strategy to calm him. When I noticed her slight panic, I moved to sit beside the boy. I placed the toy we had been using earlier in his lap, grabbed another from the table, and together we began creating shapes.

"Do you have any idea what that 'L' might stand for?" Reid asked the teacher, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I have no idea," she admitted as Sammy paused his rocking and stared at the ceiling. The teacher looked at me. "He likes you."

I brushed off her comment, my focus solely on Sammy's hands. His fingers had slipped from the toy and were now tapping on his pad of paper in a specific rhythm. "I've never seen that. I don't know what it is," the teacher acknowledged, her eyes widening with intrigue.

"Is he trying to type?" Rossi asked, his curiosity evident.

"I don't think so," I replied, watching the boy intently.

"I think he's trying to play something," Reid chimed in, his voice steady. "Can we get a keyboard in here?"

"There's a piano at his house," Rossi pointed out.

"You want to take a ten-year-old boy back to the crime scene where his father was shot?" the teacher asked incredulously.

"No one said that," I interjected. "What we're suggesting is that music may be a vital part of how Sammy communicates. If we can't get a keyboard here, we need to find a way to understand what he's trying to convey."

"Who decides whether the risk to Sammy's well-being is justified by the information we might gather?" she pressed on.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I don't second-guess your decisions at your job, do I?" I countered, my voice steady yet firm. She looked down, shaking her head.

"My team and I would appreciate it if you didn't question our judgment. We know what's best for him," I continued, casting a glance at Rossi before returning my gaze to the teacher, who had slumped into her chair. Then, suddenly, she stood up again.

I had already moved to stand with Rossi and Reid when she attempted to scold us for even considering such an idea. "He's a child, and I don't think you have the right to decide what's best for him."

"With all due respect, ma'am, he is currently in state custody while we await news about his aunt," I explained calmly.

"Yes, Sammy's mental health is crucial, but so is finding his parents. If you want to buy a keyboard to help us understand him, feel free. Otherwise, I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself. We're all focused on Sammy's best interest here."