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For the first seven years of her life, Dani never saw the sun, felt the wind or tasted solid food. “If this child doesn’t get to a hospital, she’s not going to make it.”Įven though Dani is safe with her new parents, she's still very much in her own world. “Radio ahead to Tampa General,” the detective remembers telling his partner. The investigator agreed: They had to get the girl out of there. So the detective carried the girl down the dim hall, past her brothers, past her mother in the doorway, who was shrieking, “Don’t take my baby!” He buckled the child into the state investigator's car. He wanted to arrest the woman right then, but when he called his boss he was told to let DCF do its own investigation. “The mother’s statement was: ‘I’m doing the best I can,’” the detective said. “But the only ones I found were covered in maggots and roaches.”Ĭhoking back rage, he approached the mother. He looked for a toy, a doll, a stuffed animal. He searched for clothes to dress her, but found only balled-up laundry, flecked with feces. Holste asked, What’s your name, honey? The girl didn’t seem to hear. “I put her over my shoulder, and that diaper started leaking down my leg.” “It felt like I was picking up a baby,” Holste said. When he bent to lift her, she yelped like a lamb. “The glass in the window had been broken, and that child was just lying there, surrounded by her own excrement and bugs.” “The pile of dirty diapers in that room must have been 4 feet high,” the detective said. Malnourished and anemic, she spent six weeks there. He squinted in the dark.Īfter Danielle was removed from a filthy, bug-infested room, she was taken to Tampa General Hospital. He turned the handle on a door, which opened into a space the size of a walk-in closet. The detective strode past her, down a narrow hall. Her daughter? Well, yes, she had a daughter. Yes, those were her two sons in the living room. While Holste looked around, a stout woman in a faded housecoat demanded to know what was going on. “They were in the lights, in the furniture. You couldn't take a step without crunching German cockroaches,” the detective said. “It sounded like you were walking on eggshells. The floor, walls, even the ceiling seemed to sway beneath legions of scuttling roaches. Trash blanketing the stained couch, the sticky counters. Cardboard and old comforters stuffed into broken, grimy windows. Tattered curtains, yellow with cigarette smoke, dangling from bent metal rods. Urine and feces - dog, cat and human excrement - smeared on the walls, mashed into the carpet. “I’ve been in rooms with bodies rotting there for a week and it never stunk that bad,” Holste said later. The police officers walked through the front door, into a cramped living room.
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The thought of having to lie down with 1,000 cockroaches on a urine-soaked mattress every night …” “I still have nightmares about what that child had to live with for the first six years of her life. She was an investigator for the Florida Department of Children and Families. The driver's door was open and a woman was slumped over in her seat, sobbing. Plant City Detective Mark Holste had been on the force for 18 years when he and his young partner were sent to the house on Old Sydney Road to stand by during a child abuse investigation. Two officers went into the house - and one stumbled back out.Ĭlutching his stomach, the rookie retched in the weeds. Just before noon on July 13, 2005, a Plant City police car pulled up outside that shattered window. The child stared into the square of sunlight, then slipped away. Her cheeks seemed sunken her eyes were lost. But they had never seen a child there, had never noticed anyone playing in the overgrown yard. T he family had lived in the rundown rental house for almost three years when someone first saw a child’s face in the window.Ī little girl, pale, with dark eyes, lifted a dirty blanket above the broken glass and peered out, one neighbor remembered.Įveryone knew a woman lived in the house with her boyfriend and two adult sons.