Grant of Immunity (2 page)

A
lthough his boss
, Lieutenant Becker, had warned him, LAPD Detective William Fitzgerald was taken aback by the reception area at MacLaren Hall, L.A. County’s foster home for abused, neglected, and abandoned children.

The reception room was sparse, the only permanent fixture being a giant concrete trash receptacle adjacent to the entrance he had walked through. The black-tiled linoleum floor was scuffed and littered with wadded-up candy wrappers and take-a-number numbers.

People—mostly women, some with crying babies—sat on folding chairs and waited for their number to be called by a receptionist behind a Plexiglas-fronted cubicle. A dusty display case along the back wall housed faded photographs and trophies. The room had an unpleasant musty odor, tinged with perspiration and punctuated by the smell of dirty diapers.

Fitzgerald approached the receptionist, showed his badge and ID, and told her he was there to interview Sean Collins. The receptionist told him to wait, that Sean’s caseworker would be out shortly.

After a few minutes, a woman came out through a doorway beside the receptionist’s window. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with brown eyes and brown shoulder-length hair in a layered cut. She introduced herself to Fitzgerald as Flo Murphy. She smiled and Fitzgerald, who hadn’t realized how tense he was, relaxed.

“I’m afraid I’m a little out of my element here,” Fitzgerald said. “Is there a place where we can talk?”

“Follow me.”

She turned and led Fitzgerald back through the same doorway and into a long hall, about fifteen feet wide. The walls were white, with unframed drawings posted all along. They were obviously drawn by kids: Each had a name and age written beneath. Some were by four-and five-year-old children. Against one wall stood a row of hospital-style beds, all neatly made with gray wool blankets and turned-down sheets.

Kids were running everywhere.
Utter chaos
, Fitzgerald thought.
How do they keep track of all of them?

“Do you have any news about Sean and Erin’s mother?” Flo asked, as they walked.

“I’m afraid I do.” The images of Sarah Collins’s body would be fixed in his mind forever. Her eyes not quite closed, pupils visible, unseeing. A naked female corpse, lying in blood-soaked mud and weeds, her mouth open, legs unnaturally spread, one knee up, the other out. Fifty-plus stab wounds—an ugly, unliving thing.

“Her body was found late Monday morning by hikers who were exploring the hills surrounding the Lake Hollywood Reservoir,” Fitzgerald said.

“I was worried about that,” Flo whispered. “Her poor kids.”

Flo led Fitzgerald to a partitioned cubical with two desks. She sat at one and motioned Fitzgerald to a chair beside her desk.

“What about Sarah’s kids?” Fitzgerald asked as he sat down.

Flo grabbed a spiral notebook from a drawer and read from it. “The boy is five years old—name is Sean. Erin, his sister, is only two.” She looked up. “Do you know who killed her?”

Fitzgerald shook his head. “No. Only that two were involved—not much else to go on. We interviewed neighbors, searched for family, friends, ex-husbands, boyfriends,
etc.
Checked telephone records. So far, we’ve come up with nothing. That’s the real reason I need to talk to the children.” He looked directly at her. “What can you tell me about them?”

“They are both exceptionally bright children. From what I understand, when Sean awoke around four a.m. on Monday and realized that he and his sister were alone in the apartment, he dialed zero and spoke to a Bell System operator. She called the police. Officers went to the home, found no caregiver, and turned the kids over to Child Protective Services, who placed them here.”

“We’ve searched the home,” Fitzgerald said. “Found utility bills and photographs, but no luck at finding the whereabouts of relatives. Apparently, the victim was a single mother. Moved here recently from Iowa. Both her parents are deceased. She was on food stamps and aid to dependent children—no job, no other source of income.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, then Fitzgerald said, “I have to question the kids.”

Flo frowned. “Impossible. Sean’s not doing well. His sister is worse, won’t stop crying, keeps screaming for her mom. The news about their mother has to come from someone who can hold and soothe them. Someone who loves them.” Her expression hardened. “They can’t be interrogated, Detective.”

“That is not an option. Those kids represent the only source of information we have left. It’s likely they’ve seen or heard something that may lead us to suspects. There was no evidence of foul play at the residence. As far as we can tell, their mom left of her own accord.”

Flo didn’t reply.

“I’d like nothing better then to leave this place,” Fitzgerald added. “I don’t even know how to talk to kids, let alone tell them their mother is dead. Can’t you please help me tell the children? They at least know you. Perhaps we could explain the situation to them together?”

The two stared at each other. Fitzgerald had said all he could. If she refused, he’d have to go over her head, which would only make everything worse. But he knew enough about people to keep his mouth shut until she replied.

He watched as Flo considered. Finally, she said, “All right. I’ll do what I can. I’ll take you to Sean and Erin. They’re in the TV room. Come with me.”

They went into a large dayroom with a black-and-white television playing cartoons. It was on a roll-around stand at the front of the room. Some of the children were sitting on a couch directly in front of the TV. Others were lying on mattresses scattered on the floor. The TV reception wasn’t very good. Flo walked over and spoke to one of the kids, who said something Fitzgerald couldn’t hear, and then pointed in the direction of a small boy squatting against the wall. Beside him, in a playpen, a red-headed toddler played with alphabet blocks.
That had to be Erin,
Fitzgerald thought.
Same red hair and blue eyes as her mother. So sad.

As Flo approached, Fitzgerald joined her.

She whispered to Fitzgerald, “That’s Sean. Erin’s in the playpen. Obviously, you can’t question her—not that you’d be able to get much from a two-year-old.”

“Of course,” Fitzgerald said. They walked over to the boy.

Sean was staring straight ahead, but not watching TV.

He looks so small and fragile
, Fitzgerald thought. The boy was wearing blue corduroy pants with an elastic waist, a long-sleeved T-shirt with little cartoon characters on it, and Winnie the Pooh tennis shoes. His face was dirty, his brown hair uncombed.

Sean looked up as the adults approached. He didn’t smile, but his gray eyes showed recognition as he looked at Flo.

“Hello, Sean,” Flo said. “Why aren’t you watching television?”

“I’m not supposed to watch TV during the day. My mom says it’s not good for me.” He brightened. “Is she here yet?”

Flo hesitated. “Sean, this is Detective Fitzgerald. He’s a policeman who’s come to see you.”

Sean frowned. Fitzgerald held out his hand. “Hello, Sean. You can call me Fitz. I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“You don’t look like a policeman,” Sean said, still frowning.

“Well, I am. Look. Here’s my badge.”

Fitzgerald took out his ID and showed the badge to Sean. Sean touched it and moved his index finger over the badge. “Not all policemen wear uniforms,” Fitzgerald continued, “but I used to.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I’ll tell you all about that. But first, we need to talk about something else.” Then to Flo: “Is there a place where we can talk to Sean alone?”

She shook her head. “We’re very crowded. I’m afraid there’s no place where there aren’t half a dozen kids.”

“What about outside?”

She looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose it would be all right. Follow me.”

She went to a door that led outside to a fenced playground. Fitzgerald and Sean followed. There was a bench against an outside wall. Sprinklers were watering and there was the smell of fresh-cut, wet grass.

“We can talk here. There won’t be any children out until lunch, at eleven-thirty.”

As they sat down, Sean asked, “When are we going home?”

Fitzgerald took a moment to answer. Sean was looking at him, his eyes shining. “I’m afraid you won’t be going home today, Sean—you’ll have to stay here just a little longer.”

“But what about my mom? Can’t she take care of us?” Before Fitzgerald could answer, Sean spoke quickly. “Is she sick? Sometimes Mom gets sick. But she still takes care of us. She stays in bed, and I help her by getting stuff she needs.”

“She’s not sick, Sean.”

“Then why can’t she take us home now?”

Fitzgerald wasn’t sure how to tell the boy. He thought of saying something like

“your mom has gone away,” but he could see that Sean was too smart for that.

Fitzgerald decided on a direct approach. “Your mom can’t come to get you, Sean, because she died. Do you know what that means?”

Sean didn’t answer for a moment, and Fitzgerald thought the boy hadn’t heard him. Finally Sean said, “We had a goldfish that died. I buried him in our backyard.”

The boy looked thoughtful. Then he said, “Can I go home now? Is my mom there? Will you take me home?”

“Honey,” Flo said, “your mom can’t be at home. When someone dies and their spirit goes to heaven, they can’t come back. Even though we love them and they love us.”

Sean said nothing, just kept looking straight ahead. Flo put her arms around him and hugged. They sat there in silence, until Flo reached into her pocket and took out a Snickers bar. “Would you like some candy, Sean?”

Sean said nothing.

“Aren’t you hungry, honey?” Flo said.

Sean shook his head.

Flo said to Fitzgerald, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow. That’s all you’re going to get from him, for now.”

Fitzgerald nodded.

Flo stood up and took Sean’s hand. “It’s time to go back inside, Sean,” she said.

“I wish I could take you home, Sean,” Fitzgerald said. “I know it’s not much fun here. I’ll try to visit you again tomorrow.”

The three of them walked back to the reception area, where Flo let go of Sean’s hand and Fitzgerald shook it. “It was nice meeting you, Sean,” he said.

The boy allowed his hand to be shaken, but said nothing in response. He was crying.

Fitzgerald couldn’t help it. He knelt down and hugged Sean, feeling the boy’s soft, wet cheek against his face.

S
unlight woke Danny
. Bright, unfiltered sun shone into his room, and he opened his eyes. His first thought was that last night had been a dream. No, not a dream … a horrible nightmare.

Danny looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty. The morning was so beautiful. He could hear birds singing outside. Through his open bedroom window, he could see the backyard. It was lush and green, with his grandmother’s roses in full bloom. He felt a warm, flower-scented breeze on his face.
Was it only last night that Snake was in his backyard, knocking on his window? For that matter, could last night have really happened?

As the grogginess of sleep left, he knew that last night
had
happened. He felt sick to his stomach. Tears came to his eyes. He felt unspeakable, staggering grief. He put a pillow over his head and forced himself back to sleep.

Some time later, the hallway phone outside Danny’s bedroom rang and woke him again. At first he ignored it, thinking his grandmother would answer. But it continued to ring.

Looking out the window, he saw his grandmother on her knees, wearing canvas gloves, pulling weeds from freshly turned earth.

Danny got up and answered the phone.

“Hey, Chief,” Snake’s voice said.

Danny considered slamming the phone down, hanging up. But he didn’t. “What do you want?”

“You left last night just when things got really good. It wasn’t very polite of you, especially when I needed you to help me clean up.”

“I have to go,” Danny said.

“Did you ever get a blowjob like that before, Chief?”

Danny didn’t reply.

“The reason I’m calling is to tell you that I got to go away for a while. But I’ll be staying in touch. And in case you think that you might want to tell anyone about our little adventure last night, I wanted you to know what’ll happen. She sucked your dick. Your fingerprints are all over that knife. If you happen to say anything to anyone, anyone at all, the police are going to get that knife.”

“But your fingerprints are there, too, aren’t they?”

“Of course they are. After all, it was my knife that you stole.” Snake paused. “You’ll find all about these details, if I have to give the cops the knife. Even if I’m away, I’ll always know what you’re doing. And if I ever think that you might be about to say something to someone, that knife will wind up with the police. Remember that, Chief.”

Snake hung up.

Danny put down the phone. He tried, but he couldn’t block out the image of Sarah Collins, naked, on her knees before him, sucking. Or block out the sounds of her screaming.

D
anny had been
in bed for three days. Had refused to leave his room. Had told his grandmother he was sick. And the boy was sick. And numb. Nothing seemed real to him anymore. It was a summer-session school day, but he couldn’t get out of bed.

The clock radio alarm had gone off over an hour ago, but he’d just turned over and gone back to sleep. He didn’t care whether or not he was late for school. He didn’t care whether he ever went to school again.

“You have to get up,” his grandmother said, poking her head into his room.

At first, his grandmother had been understanding, had accepted his story of illness. Today, however, she was insistent.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “I thought you liked school.”

It was true. He did like school. He enjoyed learning and talking with teachers, and his grades had shown it. Before this week, he had not missed even one day during the last five school years.

But none of that mattered now. Not compared to the death of Sarah Collins. He hated himself for what he had done. He couldn’t believe he would never see Sarah again. Couldn’t get the memory of Sarah, pleading with Snake, out of his mind. Couldn’t stop hearing the sound of her terrified voice, begging to live. Couldn’t stop thinking about what might have been.

Somehow, he got out of bed, got ready, and went to school. But the dark thoughts stayed with him, reliving that night, detail after detail after detail. He worried he might be going crazy.

He was sure the police would eventually find out and come after him. In his third period English class, his teacher told him that he had to report to the principal’s office. On the way, through the empty hallways, he imagined walking into the room to find police officers waiting to take him away. But it turned out that the principal just wanted to personally notify and congratulate him that he had won a scholarship for which he had applied.

By the end of the day, Danny decided to go to the police.

He walked eight blocks from his house to the police station, feeling relieved that the ordeal was about to end. He went over and over in his mind what he would say, and how he would explain his behavior. He didn’t need to tell them what Snake had done to him. The thought of that made his face burn. It didn’t matter about his fingerprints. Whatever happened would be better than living with the guilt that tortured him.

He walked into the police station. An elderly couple was arguing with the uniformed officer at the reception desk. Danny waited patiently, but the dispute became more heated, until the couple turned abruptly and left.

Danny hesitated. What if the cop arrested him? Danny pictured himself in a jail cell while the police called his grandmother. What would she say? How could he explain what he let Sarah do to him, or why he didn’t throw away the knife? What if they did find out how Snake used him?

The officer looked at him coldly. “May I help you?”

He stared at the policeman, but couldn’t speak. Danny realized he didn’t even know Snake’s real name.

“May I help you?” the officer repeated.

“Uh. No. No thanks,” he said. He turned and walked out.

As the days went by, Danny discovered that he could distract himself by studying. Whenever he began to remember about that night, he would study. Math. English. Science. Anything at all to keep his mind occupied. His grades soared, and teachers hinted he might achieve valedictorian. But that meant nothing to him—he didn’t deserve awards. What he deserved was death … but he wasn’t man enough to kill himself.

He had a thought. Maybe. Just maybe he could redeem himself for what he had done. Dedicate his life to finding a way. The thought eased his pain.

Almost.

Except for the dreams.