Colm fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. He really didn't feel right talking to this kid, and he felt worse at having dredged up obviously painful memories. Pity welled up in Colm- he was a decent enough man, he didn't like to see a little kid bawling. He had confronted his share of crying people in his time as a police officer, but it was much easier with adults. 

Colm did the only thing he could, grabbing a wad of tissues and holding them out to the little boy, while trying to offer a comforting smile. The poor kid needed an adult to make things right, and it was looking like him. Colm's determination to find this mystery killer got a small boost from that sobering thought.

"You're doing great, Quincey," he said softly and- he hoped- soothingly. "This is going to be a lot of help in catching this bad guy." He waited until the sobs subsided a little before plowing on. "Now, tell me a little more about this guy. You said it wasn't a man, was it a woman? What kind of clothes were they wearing? And what col-" Colm stopped short, unsure how to broach the subject of race with this kid. "Uh, was their skin, uh, like mine?" he said, gesturing at his own Afro-American features. "Or like the nice man who brought you here?" he said with a point to the white Social Services agent, watching carefully through the office window. With any luck, Colm could at least coax a useful description out of the poor kid.