Paula Soloman parallel-parked her hulking city-issued van into a tight space in front of the weathered white house.

Finally, she thought, she was going to meet the elusive Nakesha Bridges.

For months, the 19-year-old mother had been playing a real-life game of three-card monte with the Department of Human Services.

Soloman, a heavyset woman of 44, assertive and earnest, in faded jeans, reached for her clipboard and camera. An investigative social worker, she had been working on this case since June, when a report came in that a mother was giving her 2-year-old son beer but no food, and punching him in the chest. It also alleged that, in a fight with a neighbor, the mother was swinging with one arm while holding her baby in the other.

Over the summer, Soloman had left letters and messages for Bridges at three addresses where she and her boys supposedly lived. When Bridges failed to respond, Soloman got a court order, hoping to force the young woman out of hiding.

"We've had three court dates," Soloman said. "She never showed."

In October, a bench warrant was issued, and a threat to stop her welfare checks. That got her attention. In mid-November, Bridges called Soloman and agreed to meet her at this house.

"She's just a kid herself," Soloman said, walking up the porch steps. "One of the recycles, barely out of our system."

In this business, where social workers face long odds, Bridges is a perfect - and discouraging - example of how intractable the problems are. From age 13 until last year, she herself was a child of neglect, under DHS protection. She had been placed in several group homes, and repeatedly had run away.

She would try to run this day, too.

As Soloman reached the door, an ambulance pulled up and two paramedics jumped out. Bridges appeared on the porch, holding her 2-year-old boy, bundled in pajamas and an Eagles jacket and crying.

"He has a fever," she told the paramedics. "He won't stop crying."

As they hustled into the ambulance and raced away, Soloman watched, the red lights flashing in her stunned face.

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Every year, the city receives an average of 15,000 reports of child abuse and neglect, about 30 percent of which are found to be partly or wholly true.

The agency's 161 investigators each get six to 10 new cases a month. They visit homes, schools and hospitals, interviewing children, neighbors, teachers, doctors and relatives - anyone who might have information. They decide if the children are really at risk. And if so, whether to remove them from the home or refer the family for services.

In October, an Inquirer investigation found that eight children in the last three years died of abuse or neglect despite DHS involvement. Later, the agency said at least six children had died while the city was paying a contractor to check on them.

Martha Poller, a social work administrator who has been with the department 27 years, said she could remember every child who died.

"It's tough," Poller said. "We can't read minds. We don't have crystal balls. A parent who is very contrite with us could turn to a kid and say, 'You got me in trouble. I'm going to hit you again.' "

Social workers like Soloman are among the strongest members of the staff.

"There is a wide range of skills, of course," said Poller. "Some supervisors are more zealous than others. Some will try to cover for weak workers who are burned out and just don't care anymore, or who don't quite have the gumption or strength to deal with difficult issues."

Poller can recall about 15 firings, and a few others who left on their own after they were reprimanded for lying about making visits to a client.

"The truly bad ones are few and far between," she said. "Some we help shape up. Some we help ship out."

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Every choice has rough edges.