The man was just looking for his boots.
His name was Shawn Slappy. He was a
security guard at a local hospital who had been living with his girlfriend, an
exotic dancer named Sherry Murphy. He suspected she had hidden the boots from
him, so when he reached the basement door and found it locked, he pried it open
with a screwdriver.
What he discovered there was beyond a
nightmare: Two little boys cowering in the darkness, starving, filthy, and
covered in burns. Slappy had been living in the house for months and had no
idea he was sharing it with them.
When authorities arrived, the story
only got worse. One of the boys said he had a twin brother who he hadn’t seen
in weeks. Police eventually found the emaciated remains of seven-year-old
Faheem Williams stuffed in a plastic storage bin.
The Faheem Williams case became a
notorious one in Newark, the rough-and-tumble New Jersey city where this all
unfolded fifteen years ago. It prompted a complete overhaul of New Jersey’s
child protective services.
It also—thought I never would have
known it at the time—sparked the beginnings of my latest novel, Closer Than You Know.
I was a newspaper reporter in Newark at
the time, watching on in horror like the rest of the city. As a kid growing up
in an upper middle class suburb in Connecticut, I had absolutely no experience
with the social services system. If it was there at all, it was well hidden.
In a poor city like Newark, there was no
rug large enough to sweep it under. In nearly every neighbourhood I went into as
a reporter, child protective services was an enormous presence in people’s
lives. But what I really took away from that
time is the simple reality that no matter where you live—a poor U.S. city, a
wealthy U.K. enclave, or anywhere in between—there is a government agency with
the statutory authority to take your children from you.
Now, most of the time, that authority
is only used with great discretion; and only, if anything, too late.
But what an incredible power.
Especially if it was abused.
That’s the premise of Closer Than You Know, my latest
thriller: that someone who understands the child protective services system
could manipulate it to steal a child.
It’s actually not as difficult as you
might think. In some places, especially poorer communities, people use social
services as a weapon, making anonymous phone calls alleging abuse out of sheer spite.
And social workers, who have been trained to avoid another tragedy like Faheem
Williams, have no choice but to act first and ask questions later.
So that’s the scenario facing Melanie
Barrick, the protagonist of this novel. She’s a young working mother who goes
to pick up her infant son from childcare one evening only to learn he’s been
taken away by social services—and no one will even tell her why.
For Melanie, who grew up in foster care
herself, it’s doubly terrifying: No one knows the horrors of “the system,” as everyone coldly calls
it, than someone who spent her childhood trying to survive it.
Which leads to the book’s title. It references
an exchange Melanie once had with one of her foster care sisters, upon learning
she was about to be shipped off to a new placement.
“This
is a disaster,” Melanie moaned.
“Honey,
this is the foster care system,” the sister replied. “Disaster is always closer than you know.”
Brad Parks is the only author to have won the Shamus, Nero, and Lefty
Awards, three of crime fiction’s most prestigious prizes. Visit him on Facebook or sign up for his
newsletter, which covers the exploits of his unruly interns, at www.BradParksBooks.com.
Closer
Than You Know by Brad
Parks is published in March by Faber & Faber (£12.99)
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