Lost Innocents by Patricia MacDonald

he said briskly. “We’d like to try and get a composite sketch from your description. It may give us a picture of the suspect. You may remember this procedure from your own experience. Do you think you could work with our artist on this?”
    “Yes, sure,” she said.
    “Now,” said Frank, peering down at his notes. “What about other people that might have seen this man? Did you notice anyone else in the park? Anyone who might be able to ID him for us?
    Julia sighed and looked at the imitation stuccoed surface of the dropped ceiling. “There were a couple of women with kids. One woman walking her baby in a carriage. A couple of joggers, I think….” She shook her head. “Wait, a guy doing tai chi…that’s a series of exercises…a martial art, I believe.”
    “I know what it is,” Frank said irritably. “What did he look like?”
    “He was Asian. Young—late twenties, probably. He was wearing warm-up clothes.”
    “That’s a good place for us to start,” said Frank, standing up. “Thank you for coming forward. If you remember anything else…”
    “I’ll call you,” she promised.
    He hesitated, then added, “I only wish someone had done the same for you.”
    Julia stopped at the door. “I hope it’s not too late,” she said sincerely.
    “So do I,” said Frank in an edgy voice. “So do I.”

Chapter Eight
    T he banner headline on the Taylorsville Tribune proclaimed MISSING over the photos of a pretty high school girl and a laughing, curly-haired baby. Ellen Henson stared at the photos and read the caption: “ Six-month-old Justin Wallace and fifteen-year-old Rebecca Starnes… ”
    “What’ll it be, lady?” the man in the kiosk asked.
    Ellen looked up at him, startled by his abruptness, then held up pack of mints. “These…and the paper,” she said.
    The man toted up the price indifferently, and Ellen stuffed both the paper and the mints into her purse. She walked down the block, gazing into windows as she passed by. She was so preoccupied that she scarcely registered what she saw. Finally she found herself standing still, staring into one window for a long time. She read the name of the shop on the window and felt disoriented. How long had this store been here, she wondered. She rarely came to town, but still…It was not there when she…when Ken was a baby. She was sure of it. She pushed the door to the Precious Littles Shop open and took a cautious step inside. The walls were painted a creamy yellow, and wallpaper bordered with ducks and dancing letters of the alphabet substituted for a molding around the ceiling. Ellen looked around, wide-eyed, at the racks of frilly dresses, footed sleepers, and tiny pastel sweaters. She was reluctant to touch anything. She walked around the store, gripping her purse as if it were likely to be stolen, although there was no one else in the store except for the young salesgirl, who was sitting behind a glass case, full of baby bonnets and silver rattles.
    The salesgirl was folding hooded terrycloth bath towels into neat piles. She smiled at the gaunt, graying woman who stood helplessly in the middle of the shop.
    “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.
    “I’ve just come to get a few things,” Ellen said.
    “Grandchild?” the girl asked pleasantly.
    Ellen stared at her as if the question were somehow confusing. “No,” she finally said. “No…just a baby.”
    If the salesgirl was surprised by Ellen’s response, she didn’t show it. “How old is the baby?” she asked smoothly.
    Ellen looked at her blankly for a moment. Then she unconsciously glanced at the newspaper sticking out of her purse and said, “Uh…around six months.”
    “Boy or girl?”
    “Boy,” said Ellen.
    The salesgirl came out from behind the counter and led Ellen over to the rack of crayon-bright outfits appliqued with fire trucks or puppies or baseballs. The assortment was both dazzling and daunting. Gently Ellen parted the hangers, her eyes alight