Poisonous: A Novel (40 page)

“Tommy? What’s wrong?”

He stood and waited until the detective was standing right in front of him. “I killed my stepsister,” he said. “You need to put me in jail.” Saying it felt good and bad. It felt good because he always needed to tell the truth, and it felt bad because he didn’t remember killing Ivy. Also, Tommy didn’t want to go to jail.

The policemen in the room looked at him like he was a bad guy and that made Tommy feel worse. He looked down at his feet.

“Come with me, Tommy,” she said.

“Don’t you need to put handcuffs on me?”

“No.”

She walked him through the big room to a row of rooms with windows. She opened one door. There was a table and two chairs. It was a small room and he didn’t like it.

“Sit down, Tommy.”

He took a seat and folded his hands on the table in front of him. He looked around. There wasn’t a lot to see. There was a camera in the corner. He raised his hand to wave at whoever was watching.

“Tommy, I’m going to record our conversation for your protection as well as mine,” she said.

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

“Okay,” he said again.

There was a high window on one wall that looked outside, and Tommy stared at the blue sky. Were there windows in jail? He didn’t like scary shows, but he’d seen one that had a prison and it scared him. He didn’t want to be locked up in a cage, but if you hurt someone you have to be punished.

He wanted his mom really bad, but he couldn’t call her. She’d already lied to the police and he didn’t want her to get into any trouble.

Tommy didn’t get mad at other people. He only got mad at himself when he couldn’t say what he thought. He could think better than he could talk. He knew he should be mad at Austin, but instead he was just sad. Austin was his best friend. Tommy had friends in his special class, but none like Austin. Because he thought Tommy could go to a community college and take classes, Austin was helping him with his reading. Tommy still struggled when reading. Numbers were so much easier. But even in math, you had to know how to read. He was the best reader in his class, but he wasn’t as good as other people like Austin, and no one else helped him get better. And sometimes Amanda when she wasn’t too busy.

Tommy didn’t want Austin to get into trouble. He wished he’d never let Austin help him write the letter to Max. Tommy didn’t want to know what happened to Ivy anymore.

Maybe because he was the one who’d hurt her.

The lady detective came into the room and handed him a can of orange soda. His favorite.

“Last year when you came in to talk to me about Ivy, you asked for orange soda. You still like it?”

He nodded.

“It’s cold. Drink it.”

His mom didn’t like when he drank orange soda because his lips always turned orange for the rest of the day. He hesitated, then reached out and opened the can. It was cold and yummy.

“You’re not under arrest, Tommy. I’m telling you that right now. But because of what you told me outside, I need to inform you of your Miranda rights. I need you to listen to me carefully.”

“Okay.”

Then she said a lot of stuff about his rights, and ended by asking if he understood.

“Yeah,” he said, a bit uncertainly.

“Do you need me to explain anything to you?”

“Austin told me never to talk to the police because they twist things around,” Tommy said. “But you’re recording this, right? So anything I say is on that camera, right?”

“Yes, Tommy. I can call your mother to bring in an attorney for you. Would you like me to do that?”

“No. No, I’m going to tell you the truth. I promise.” He crossed his heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” He frowned. He’d said that when he was little. He straightened and hoped this police lady took him seriously. She wasn’t laughing. She looked at him with kind blue eyes.

He remembered that Max told him she was helping the police. Suddenly he was relieved. Max had told him from the very beginning that she would help. Maybe she left, but she tried real hard, and it’s not her fault that his mom yelled at her.

He said, “Max told me that the truth is really important. She also said that sometimes people don’t want to know the truth. I didn’t get what she meant. My mom told me never to lie, and I never lie. Well, I guess I sort of lied. Is it a lie when you don’t say something because you don’t want to get in trouble?” He backtracked. “I mean, not if you’re asked a question, and then lie, because that’s wrong, but if you know something but don’t say anything because if you say something then everyone will be mad at you?”

“I think it depends,” she said.

“I’m sorry I sent the letter to Ms. Revere. I … I didn’t write all of it.”

“Austin did,” she said.

His mouth opened and his eyes widened. “H-h-how did you know?”

“Ms. Revere said that Austin helped you write the letter,” Detective Martin said. “What did you want to tell me, Tommy?” She spoke very softly and he almost couldn’t hear her. He spoke softly, too. Paula, his stepmom, told him he was too loud.

“I will tell you the truth because it’s the right thing to do,” he whispered. “But, please, I don’t want my mom to get into any trouble for not telling the truth. She didn’t mean to do anything wrong. My mom is a really good person.”

The police lady didn’t say anything, so Tommy continued, hoping he was doing this right. “Ever since I was little, I walked in my sleep. Sometimes I leave the house and I don’t know. A couple times I’ve woken up in my tree house and didn’t know how I got there. I like my tree house, especially when Mom is sad and crying.

“I didn’t know I was walking in my sleep that night. I never remember anything. When I was twelve I climbed into my tree house and fell out and broke my arm.” Tommy showed her his right arm. There was a faint scar from the cut he’d gotten when he fell. “She told Dad that I don’t sleepwalk anymore, that I outgrew it, but that was a lie. Because she thought that I wouldn’t be able to spend the night at his house because his wife is sort of mean.”

“Can you go back to the night Ivy was killed? Do you remember anything?”

He shook his head. “I went to bed and woke up at six thirty in the morning. I always wake up at six thirty, even in summer when I don’t have to set my alarm. But last night my mom told my sister that she found me outside the night Ivy was killed. Mom didn’t tell me because she didn’t want anyone to know, but she told Amanda. I think because Mrs. Baker told Max that I was sleepwalking last month. I don’t remember that, either. She said I walked through her yard and squished her flowers. I don’t remember. But sometimes I wake up and my feet are dirty.” He paused. “I didn’t want to kill Ivy.”

“Tommy, do you recall anything about the night Ivy died? Like, did you have a dream maybe? And in the dream you did something?”

He shook his head. “I don’t really remember dreams. Only if they’re happy or scary.”

“So you might not have done anything wrong, just walked outside.”

“Then why would my mom not tell the truth?”

“I’m going to have to talk to her, Tommy. You know that, right?”

He felt the tears come back and he didn’t want to cry. “I know.” His voice sounded funny. “And you need to talk to Austin, too.”

“Why?”

“Because I think he lied, too.” Now the tears did come. Tommy thought he was doing the right thing, but he was so darn sad. “Why do people lie to me, Detective Martin? Is it because I’m not smart?”

“I think you’re smart.”

“Now you’re lying to me. I’m not smart. That’s why I have to go to special ed. Austin says I can go to college if I try really, really hard, but I still read slow, and I have to think hard about which way is left and which way is right.” He showed her the small mole on the top of his right hand. “This is my right hand because of that mole. Smart people just know, they don’t need a mole.”

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” Detective Martin said. “I’ve gotten lost many times because I turned right when I should have turned left. It confuses me, too.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No. I’m not.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. His mom did that when she was really tired or really frustrated. She looked at him, really looked at him. He squirmed, then froze when she asked the question, “Tommy, did you ever think about killing Ivy? Before or after she died?”

Tears burned. “N-n-no,” he said. “I swear. I didn’t know what I did. I don’t remember. Do they have a special jail for people who don’t remember they did something bad?”

Someone knocked on the door. Tommy jumped.

Detective Martin said, “Stay put, Tommy. Drink your soda. I’ll be right back.”

*   *   *

Grace stepped out of the interview room and closed the door. She could not see that boy killing anyone, but she couldn’t discount that his mother had lied to her about where her son had been the night Ivy died.

“What?” she asked the cop who interrupted them.

“That reporter is here, Revere. She said it’s urgent.”

“Tell her to cool her heels, I’ll be done in a minute. And call Jenny Wallace and ask her to come here to pick up her son. But don’t let her leave—I have some questions for her.”

“What about the boy?” he nodded toward the interview room.

“He’s fine where he is.”

Grace took a minute to compose herself. There was no evidence that Tommy had killed Ivy, but no evidence that exonerated him, either. If Paula Wallace found out that he wasn’t at home sleeping the night her daughter was killed, she would push it, and the DA might lock Tommy up for evaluation. That could do more harm than good. And Grace was very skeptical about psychiatrists and children. She’d seen too many instances of children being led into believing something that wasn’t true or only partly true. While Tommy was a legal adult, he had the mental capacity of a child. He easily believed what his mother told him, what Austin told him, or what anyone told him.

She went back into the room. “Tommy? I’m going to call your mom and let you go home.”

He frowned. “You can’t. Shouldn’t I go to jail?”

“I need to verify your statement.”

He stared at her blankly.

“I need to talk to your mom.”

“She’s going to be mad at me. She’s going to cry.”

“I’ll try not to make her cry, Tommy. I need her to tell me the truth. Just like you did. Do you understand?”

He nodded, still looking upset and confused. Grace didn’t want to leave him alone.

She pulled out her phone and sent one of the civilian staff members a text message. A few minutes later, John Ogilvie popped into the room. John was tall and skinny and looked much younger than his thirty years. He brought with him snacks, paper, and crayons. She nodded her appreciation. “Tommy? This is John. He’s one of our computer technicians. He’s going to sit with you for a bit while I do some work.”

John pulled a deck of cards from his breast pocket. “Do you play cards, Tommy?”

Tommy smiled. “I love Crazy Eights.”

“Me, too.” John sat down and dealt the cards.

Chapter Thirty-two

While Max sat at the police station waiting for Grace, she sent the article Lorenzo wrote to her producer Ben. Max told him to move heaven and earth to get that garbage off the Internet or, at a minimum, correct the inaccuracies.

Ben e-mailed back that he was skeptical that he could do much since it was Lorenzo’s blog and not an official newspaper. But he’d still try and do his best.

As a journalist, Max was a huge proponent of free speech. There was no right more important than the First Amendment. Lance Lorenzo had a right to his opinion. But lies? That photo of David was taken out of context.

Maybe Max was more upset because she feared how Brittney was going to react to that picture. If she used it against David because it was an unofficial visitation … if she tried to keep him away from Emma … Max couldn’t think about things she couldn’t control.

She had to focus on the present. She might not be able to do anything about that idiot who called himself a reporter, but she would absolutely find out who killed Ivy Lake and fix all the damage she’d done.

She rubbed her temples. It wasn’t even ten in the morning and she had a splitting headache. Not enough sleep, coupled with that article and the pressure of this investigation. She considered all the things she could have done differently, thought more about her choices.

There were a few people Max had worked with whom she genuinely liked, people she admired and respected. Sally O’Hara had been in law school when Max met her, frantic to find her younger sister who had been abducted. Now Sally was a detective in Queens and Max’s closest friend outside of David.

Lois Kershaw, the octogenarian who had brought her into the elder abuse case in Miami. Max went down every year to visit her on her birthday, which was the day after Max’s. She’d be ninety on January first.

Dr. Arthur Ullman, the retired FBI agent and criminal psychiatrist who was instrumental in expanding the Behavioral Science Unit, and now taught a seminar at NYU. Max had met him while he was still an active agent and assigned to Karen’s disappearance.

And now there was Tommy. Max had an odd protective feeling for him, and she didn’t exactly understand why. It couldn’t simply be because he was handicapped, because she didn’t think of him like that. She wasn’t a patient person when dealing with most people but with Tommy—Max never had that sense of rushing, that she had to get through the conversation, get to the next point, get to the next part of the job. It pained her that he’d been treated so poorly by the people who should love and care for him the most.

If Max was going to be entirely honest, she hadn’t been as aggressive as she might have been with people because she didn’t want Tommy to be damaged by it. She hadn’t pushed him because she didn’t want to intimidate him. And now, he’d been out sleepwalking the night Ivy had been killed, and not once did Max think that he could have killed her. Even as she struggled against the thought, she wondered if her subjectivity had blinded her to the truth.

David’s research said deep sleepwalkers did things they wouldn’t do during waking hours. That they were almost different people. Arthur Ullman had concurred, though he’d qualified that he couldn’t give an opinion without meeting Tommy.