Chapter Twenty-Three - Asako Kato
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Asako Kato
ASAKO SAT AT her cluttered desk, her fingers impatiently drummed on the surface. She grabbed her mouse and scrolled through her emails again. No response, not one. Was he getting her messages? Why wasn’t he responding?
Waiting wasn’t her strong suit. Asako thrived on the action, on chasing leads and now his lack of response to her messages was gnawing at her patience.
“Fine,” she muttered. She spun her chair to face her laptop. “If they won’t give me the story, then I’ll find one for myself.”
She shifted her focus, after having spoken to Detective Farmer, the name Sylvia Clearwater had rolled around in her head for days. She had dug through the bowels of the internet and found only a few mentions of her but nothing substantive. Google had provided so few details Asako actually felt further behind than when she had first gotten the name. But as any good reporter does, she needed to keep at it. She stared at the computer screen and thought through the search terms, while in this day and age, Google had everything.
Maybe she needed to widen her search.
Clicking open the university library webpage, she searched for the digital newspaper archives. Soon, she found herself in a database of hundreds of thousands of newspapers archived from all over the state and the country.
She typed: Sylvia Clearwater into the search bar. The poorly optimized search engine took a few seconds to load. Then a few pages of news articles dating back ten and fifteen years ago populated.
She clicked the top article,
Loving Children Who Need It Most: Sylvia Clearwater’s Lifelong Mission
Byline: Jessica Rayford, Staff Reporter
Denver Chronicle
In her modest home nestled in Aurora, on the outskirts of Denver, Sylvia Clearwater — affectionately known to her closest friends and foster kids, as “Sil” — sits surrounded by frames of smiling children, her living serving a veritable shrine to decades of advocacy and compassion. For over 25 years, Sil has worked tirelessly as a caseworker, mentor, and advocate for some of the system's most vulnerable children.
“I always say the same thing when people ask why I do this,” Sil begins with a warm smile, her hazel green eyes crinkling at their corners, “Because every child deserves to feel loved, no matter what they’ve been through.”
Sil’s journey into social work began in the 1990s, fresh out of Summit State University after completing an undergraduate degree in Social Work, she joined the Department of Family Services. It was here she found her true calling. Often, she found herself taking an interest in working with children deemed “special cases.” These were the children other caseworkers dreaded — those who had been labeled, “troubled,” “oppositional,” or simply “too much to handle.”
Sil saw it differently.
“They weren’t difficult,” she says, her voice shaking with emotions. “They were hurting. And if you took the time to listen, you could hear them, you would realize how much love they had to give.”
She often saw in these children what others could or would not, “These kids had their struggles, but they were gifted. Every one of these children was brilliant! Academically gifted, artistically talented, and some really bright kids. They just needed someone who would help them point those gifts in the right direction.”
Going the Extra Mile
Her dedication extended beyond the scope of a normal caseworker. Sil didn’t just find placements for the children on her caseload, she cultivated relationships that lasted well into their adulthood. Several of the children, now grown adults, described her as a second mother, someone who never gave up on them even well long past when everyone else had.
Many of the children that she supported went on to have bright careers and families of their own. Claiming Sil was in part due to their success.
But her work wasn’t without challenges. “Some children needed more than a home. They needed understanding. There were certain kids — kids who were…different in ways that were hard to describe — who required extra attention and care.”
Sil’s voice trailed off momentarily before she added, “They were special. In a way that sometimes scared people.”
When pressed, Sil is careful not to reveal specifics citing confidentiality. However, her compassion for these children is palpable. One of her former charges, a young Japanese girl named Izumi, was a particularly memorable case. “She was bright, inquisitive, and imaginative. While others seemingly forgot her, I always remembered her. She was so full of life.” Sil recalls, her expression softening. “But the world wasn’t always kind to her.”
Izumi, as it turns out, was one of many children on Sil’s caseload who seemed to carry a deep burden far beyond their years. Though Sil wouldn’t elaborate, its clear connection to children like Izumi and others was far more profound than that of a typical caseworker.
The Path Forward
Now semi-retired, Sylvia — or Sil, as she prefers to be called, isn’t showing signs of slowing down. She spends much of her time volunteering with local adoption agencies, doing private casework on special cases, and lending her expertise to families welcoming children with unique challenges in the home.
Reflecting on her career, Sylvia grows thoughtful, “You know, I’ve seen kids who are misunderstood their whole lives suddenly thrive when they felt safe. And some of those kids had gifts — gifts that most people wouldn’t or even try to understand.
When asked what she means by “gifts,” Sil waves off the unique question with a chuckle. “Oh, just things that make them who they are. Special. Unique. We are all a little extraordinary in our own special way, aren’t we?
Editor’s Note:
If you are inspired by Sylvia “Sil” Clearwater’s story, the agency encourages readers to visit their website for resources on supporting foster children.
Asako sat back, pulling her reading glasses from her eyes. The article referenced her sister, Izumi. She felt her throat constrict, her eyes watered. Sil Clearwater was Izumi Kato’s caseworker. How had Asako not known that? There was a lot about Izumi, that Asako had either forgotten or simply did not know. Her parents had shielded her from much of the latter part of Izumi’s journey through the system. Now, it stared her right in the face. Her determination to find Sylvia Clearwater — Sil Clearwater hardened.
For starters, now knowing her proper name would help with online searches. Asako snapped out of her nostalgia and opened a new web browser, searching Sil Clearwater . Immediately more results populated than before, clicking around, Asako read similar accounts from the news article. Apparently, Sil was a beloved caseworker across the state of Colorado. Scrolling through the search results, she clicked on a link to a Facebook, it was a photo. Sil stood with other caseworkers around a cake, the caption read: 35 years of service! Happy Retirement!
Asako looked at the photo, Sil radiated warmth, her face had deep lines with crow’s feat highlighting her bright hazel eyes. Her long, silver-streaked black hair was tied in a loose braid draped over one shoulder. She wore a simple blouse with a shawl draped charmingly around her, and a tasteful turquoise pendant hung thoughtfully from her neck.
Scrolling through the few comments, Asako stopped. Her heart jumped at the name on a comment:
Ethan Hernandez: Congratz Sil, you’re amazing! You deserve everything!
“There he is again,” She whispered — Ethan Hernandez knew Sil Clearwater. Did that mean he knew Naomi Halston? Asako’s sister, Izumi? His name seemed so familiar, did Izumi talk about him? Were they in a foster placement together?
She clicked on Ethan’s profile, but her excitement deflated instantly — the profile was marked private. No posts, no information, just a profile picture of Ethan standing arm-in-arm with Jason, dressed in knit caps. She recognized the backdrop of the photo as SSU’s Holiday Market — an annual holiday market hosted on the square during finals week.
Asako tilted her head, studying the photo. “Cute,” she said begrudgingly. The couple looked so normal, so unassuming. Some might call her “jaded” in the romance department, but the photo of the two standing together melted her heart a bit.
“It’s the 21st century, there has got to be more on these two,” she said, switching her search to Jason.
She found even less on Jason. A few lacrosse scores and an old high school article about Jason’s high school team making it to the state championships. She noticed Jason’s last name was misspelled — Instead, Havelock was spelled Havelook.
She scoffed, “Amateurs.”
Asako was growing tired of this game. How could two college students have so little about themselves on the internet? She gave Ethan’s name one more try, Ethan Hernandez Summit State University . Scrolling, she stumbled upon a university PR article highlighting Dr. Bellamy’s lab. The headline read: SSU Professor Awarded Prestigious Grant for Study on Neural Stress Response.
Asako skimmed the article, Bellamy’s team had recently published a paper on the effects of stress on emotional neural functioning, and among the co-authors listed were Jason Havelook and Ethan.
She scoffed as she noticed the name was misspelled again. “Our own PR team, can’t release a press release without typos?” She muttered. There were two other unnamed members of the research team.
Asako grabbed her notebook and scribbled down a note. Ethan and Jason both worked in Bellamy’s lab. Naomi Halston worked there too.
Two connections.
Ethan and Naomi had the same case worker.
Ethan and Jason shared work in the same research lab as Naomi.
“This is more than a coincidence,” she said to no one, flipping through her notes on Naomi’s disappearance.
Decision made, she shut the laptop with a sharp click and grabbed her coat. Bellamy’s lab was her next stop.