THE INVESTIGATION

During the first several months, Caty spoke only a few simple words on rare occasions. One day she said, “Mama left, Mama left,” but didn’t say anything more. At times, Caty described “blood all over, dirty” to her caretakers with hand motions from the elbow to the wrist. She described a scene by crossing her arms in front of her and said it was “bad.” Caty told about a knife and slid her hand across her throat. Another story came out about a baby and a boy riding a bus. Caty mentioned a papa who had blood all over his arms and hands. She repeated the words of gory happenings, so we knew that something horrible had taken place with her watching or participating. We couldn’t come to any conclusions because of her limited speech and mentality. We speculated about her involvement in satanic rituals.
Caty had mental and physical issues that needed immediate attention. So we followed what we thought to be the obvious route of wisdom.
I first took Caty to a missionary dentist. After the exam, he said that her teeth indicated she was fourteen years old. We guessed she would be younger. I realized girls appeared smaller than their age when nutritionally deprived in early development.
A medical doctor’s exam verified that she had scars from physical abuse on various parts of her body. In addition, her stomach and pelvic area had marks of cigarette burns. Injuries from consistent sexual abuse were prevalent and would set anybody’s imagination into orbit.
The judge ordered testing by the children’s court psychologist. I hoped that this routine would disclose something about this mystery child. I went with Caty to assure her she wouldn’t be alone and followed the woman’s instructions doing the assessment. I led her to the room and thought it better to be out of sight. Caty sat slumped in the chair, her eyes looking downward and her bottom lip sticking out.
I’m sure the psychologist tried every trick she had to document some action, but Caty portrayed a frozen statue. Finally, the court official told me that Caty didn’t need to return for any more psychological appointments. Her parting comments included putting Caty in a mental institute as the best option for her.
No, Lord, she can’t go to one of those horrible places. Where is the justice? My heart sank. I had hoped that something would help unravel the mystery about Caty. But instead, I left the appointment with her, hand-in-hand, and with pain in my heart.
Part of the process of finding missing family members requires putting the child’s picture in the newspaper and on TV. Shadow of His Wings complied with this part of the investigation. First, we waited for answers to the missing person’s report. A word from somebody looking for Caty or who recognized her face, but nobody came forward.

In a city of 2.5 million people, how does one find the necessary information for one girl with no leads? Caty needed a name and birthdate for registration in the computer system. Since nobody responded to the publication of her picture, the judge gave a name and set her birthdate for the court’s records and documents. Up to this point, Caty didn’t exist.
Next, we arranged for Caty to meet with a brain specialist. Having a professional evaluate her brain function would undoubtedly shed some light on how we could help this young girl. I looked forward to this meeting with great anticipation.
While waiting for the neurologist’s exam, my thoughts went down many avenues as I watched this young girl. Who bore the responsibility for the damage done? Would Caty recover and be able to function normally? Is she locked up inside her head with the inability to communicate with us? Question after question came as I struggled within myself. Yet, we wanted to help her find her identity and come to healing.
After the exam, the doctor explained that Caty had a healthy brain, but not all of it was functioning. He said he had seen many cases like hers during his time as a doctor in Guatemala.
“These children are part of satanic rituals and subjected to horrible things that they can’t emotionally endure. So they escape by shutting down that part of their mind.”
I hung on to every word the doctor said, trying to grab hold of any helpful information. I never expected to hear him say, “In cases like this, the survival instinct is for protection, and a part of the brain turns off. That is simple layman language for what happens.”
“What can be done to help her?” I asked, pen in hand, to write down the recommendations.
“At this point, there is nothing you can do,”
“You don’t have any suggestions on how we can help Caty?” I said.
“There is an institute for the cognitive deficit run by the government. I recommend you put Caty in this place for her sake and that of your orphanage.”
I walked away from the meeting feeling like a door had slammed in my face. What would we do with a fourteen-year-old who needed the care as if Caty were four? What about justice for this child who became a victim of sinful and selfish people? Could her family, a mother or someone, be out there looking for her? A part of me wanted to protect her and keep her in the Home. Another aspect of me knew how difficult it would be to allow her to stay, but a mental institution would not be the answer. Caty deserved more in life. I felt like angry bees buzzed in my head.
I prayed as I drove back to the orphanage, “Lord, where do we go from here? Please show us the way. I don’t know how we can help her, but I know she didn’t come to us by accident. Help us to know the plan.”
Caty watched me with a grin. Excitement showed on her face because she got to go someplace in the car with Mama Carroll—a big treat in her eyes. I smiled back. There had to be a way to work all of this out. I trusted the Lord to bring us the answers.