The Good Boy (24 page)

Eventually she says, “Boys and their stories.”

Pete sits with her for a while and he doesn’t say anything, which probably seems thoughtful, but what he’s trying to think of is a way to phrase a question about the wrong crowd she mentioned. Before he does, Brett Northcutt rounds the corner from the corridor, cell phone in hand. He looks to be about Pete’s age; he also looks about as worked up as he did when he was dealing with Step.

Pete gets up and puts out his hand. “Mr. Northcutt?”

“What.” He looks at Pete’s hand but doesn’t take it.

“I’m Officer Pete Murphy.”

“Oh,” he says, “sorry, I’m a little rattled.” But still he doesn’t take Pete’s hand.

They face each other, Colleen seated between them. Pete is taller, and he wishes he weren’t. He eases his stance.

“He’s here to talk to Aaron,” Colleen says.

“Where’s Lyons?” Brett asks.

“He’ll be along shortly. I’d like to talk to Aaron now, if that’s okay.”

“Is my son in trouble?”

“No, he isn’t. Zack Fowler confessed, and he was charged.”

“I gotta tell you,” Brett says, pointing his phone at Pete’s face, “that guy Lyons? He had a lot of questions that sounded like maybe Aaron could be in the hot seat. I think we should wait for my attorney.”

“Lyons tends to be very thorough, and very focused on facts over context,” Pete says. “That makes him come off as kind of an asshole. But I promise you, your son is not in trouble. If I can talk to him now, I might even be able to help Zack.”

“Zack Fowler?” Brett asks like he’s being duped. “I don’t know Zack Fowler. Zack Fowler shot my son.” He leans in to say, “
Fuck
Zack Fowler.”

Between them, Colleen’s cheeks flush. She puts her hands on the edges of her seat and looks down, toes curling in her ballet shoes, and Pete gets the idea that maybe Brett isn’t privy to her extracurricular parenting.

He also thinks he’s going to have to appeal to both of them if he’s going to hurry up and get into the room with Aaron.

“Like I told Mrs. Northcutt,” Pete says to Brett, “Aaron will be able to help us determine whether or not Zack’s story is accurate. You may have heard Zack opted for sentence bargaining—he admitted guilt to a lesser charge in exchange for a lighter sentence. But that doesn’t mean the judge has to accept the deal, especially if we find facts that paint a different picture.” He figures that was diplomatic enough.

Brett asks, “What’s the lesser charge?”

“Reckless conduct. With Zack’s record, he’s likely looking at a year.”

Pete can feel Colleen watching him, but hell, he’s not the one who charged the kid.

“This is all so complicated,” Brett says, shaking his head. “I feel like I’m trying to untangle a string of blown-out tree lights with my fucking elbow.”

Pete steps back to include Colleen when he says, “I’ll try to explain my goal here, because it really is simple: to find out who did what. I’m not concerned with questions about intent, or negligence, or who pays the hospital bills, or how this will affect Aaron’s school year—though I know those are all things you have to sort out, the blown-out lights you’re talking about. My job is to get the truth and to be honest, I don’t care if Zack did this or not. What I care about is whether or not we have the facts straight. I will not hold your son accountable for anything more than that.”

Brett looks at his phone, tucks it into his pocket, says, “If you find out this kid Zack is anything other than a complete dumbshit, he better be locked up, otherwise I’ll find him and tie him up by his balls with those tree lights.”

As Brett leads the way to Aaron’s room, Colleen follows behind them and Pete hears her say, “Boys and their stories.”

In the room, a young Hispanic nurse wearing a neck full of gold-link chains has Aaron sitting up in bed, a stethoscope pressed to his back. Aaron’s eyes are swollen to slits, his cheeks, too—it’s like someone attached a helium tank to his chest tube and he’s blown up from there.

“Dad,” he says, which means he can still see.

“How’s it going?” Brett asks, forcing casual. Pete stands behind him, waits to make his move.

The nurse hooks the stethoscope around her neck and says, “Everything is fine now,” carefully guiding Aaron back to the inclined mattress. The cross hanging from her longest chain is nearly the size of the one hanging above the bed.

“Remember,” she says to Aaron, “you can push the button when you start to feel pain, but give the medication some time.” She checks the IV monitor, presses something that beeps four times, and rolls the unit around next to him. “The dose is controlled, so there’s only a certain amount available. Where it says ‘PCA lockout’—you see that?—that tells you how much time is left. Use the pain scale as a guideline, and try to maintain a two or a three, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, immediately feeling for the blue button.

Colleen has worked her way around to the window side of the bed. She leans against the sill next to a white single-bud vase holding a stumpy fake red carnation, a sad but well-intended decoration provided by housekeeping, since there are no flowers allowed in ICU.

“I’ll come back at nine,” the nurse says, rounding the bed to scrawl a numbered code in green marker on the room’s whiteboard.

“Excuse me,” she says to Brett on her way out, who hasn’t moved from his spot inside the doorway, a few steps in front of Pete. He’s just been standing there, looking at Aaron. Watching him breathe.

Pete puts a shoulder forward to make room for the nurse and says, “Thank you,” making her exit his entrance. He starts toward Colleen and takes position at the foot of the bed, between the parents.

“Who’s that?” Aaron asks about Pete, which means he can’t see all that well.

It suddenly occurs to Pete that Aaron is McKenna’s “friend,” and there’s no telling what she might have said about her dad, so he says, “I’m a police officer. My name’s Pete.”

Colleen says, “He’s going to ask you some questions, Air, if you’re up to it.”

“About the accident?”

“Yes,” Pete says, pulling the lightweight sleeper chair from the back corner toward the bed so he won’t be towering over the kid. He turns the chair sideways, planning to sit on the arm, but then he notices Brett is still standing there, so he steps back to ask, “Would one of you like to sit down?”

Colleen says, “I’m fine,” and Brett says, “No,” but instead of the chair, he goes to the end of the bed where Aaron’s feet don’t reach, sits there.

Pete watches Aaron fiddle with the medication dispenser; he knows he’ll have to do most of the talking and hope he can get a yes, a no, or a name where he needs it. He starts by saying, “Aaron, I want you to know that there’s no reason to worry. You aren’t in any trouble, and your parents are here to support you while we go over what you remember. Before we do that, I want to make sure you know that
we
know what happened was an accident, so this is not about getting anybody else in trouble. I don’t think anyone intended to harm you, or to commit a crime. I just want to know what happened. Who did what. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he says; hard to say whether hospital dope or doubt delayed the answer.

“Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what you were doing before the accident.”

“I was at Zack’s house. In the yard. I was putting wood on the bonfire.”

“That’s good,” Pete says, the story following the crime-scene markers.

“I got shot. That’s all.”

“That’s all you remember?” Brett asks, like this is some kind of test the kid might not pass.

Aaron looks at him—or at least turns his head that way—shoulders slumping in direct relation to his dad’s disappointment. He says, “That’s all.”

Pete angles the chair away from Brett, hoping he gets the hint. He says, “That’s okay, Aaron, let me walk you through. Maybe I can help you remember.” He tries to balance his aggravation with a smile.

“Okay.” Aaron thumbs the blue button.

“You were in the yard, putting wood on the fire. Was there anyone there with you? Anyone helping you?”

“No.”

“What about in the yard? Were there other kids in the yard?”

“There were some. I don’t know who was out there then. We were all, inandout of the house.” His speech slurs a little, rushing Pete’s clock.

He shouldn’t ask directly about Zack—leading questions ruin a witness’s memory—but what he wants to know doesn’t have to do with Zack anyway, so he says, “The party was at your friend Zack’s house, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“And there were other kids from your school there, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“And there were also some other kids who weren’t from your school, is that right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know everybody in my school.”

“So what you’re saying is, you don’t know some of the kids who were there at the party.”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I don’t know everybody.”

“What about the boys who came by from the west side? Do you know them?”

Aaron doesn’t answer. Thumbs the blue button.

“You can tell me, Aaron. I already have this information. Like I said before, you aren’t getting anyone in trouble.”

“No,” he says. “I’m the one who’ll be in trouble.”

“Why would you be in trouble?” Brett interrupts again, on defense.

Aaron shakes his head, no: he’s not talking. Pete thinks he must be covering for Zack, or else he’s covering for Zack who’s covering for those boys—and that means real trouble. Street trouble. The kind Aaron—or Brett—can’t handle.

“Listen, Aaron,” Pete says, edge of the chair, “I’m not trying to make things worse for you or for Zack. In fact, I was hoping you could tell me something that might help him. As it is, Zack’s admitted to the shooting, and he might be scared about that. He might be afraid other kids are talking, making it sound like more than an accident. I can tell you, other kids
are
talking, and that’s why I want the real story. I know you don’t want Zack to see jail time. If he’s innocent, I want to stop that from happening.”

Pete is sure he’d have seen some light in Aaron’s eyes if he could open them—right then, when he said
innocent.
He’s also sure that Brett made fists at the same word.

“Let me ask you again, Aaron: do you know the boys from the west side?”

“Thisisn’tfair.” The words slur; he licks his lips.

“Are you okay, Air?” From Colleen.

“Okay,” he says, drifting.

“Hey, how about something to drink?” Pete says, indicating the tray on Brett’s right, where there’s a plastic carafe of water and a half-empty cup, straw bobbing. “How about if your dad gives you some water. That medication can make you real thirsty.”

“Okay.”

Pete sits back as Brett slides off the bed to pour the water and then hold the cup for Aaron and help him with the straw. It’s hard to watch; Brett’s hand shaking. Pete looks over at Colleen: she can’t watch at all.

When Aaron’s finished, Brett puts the cup on the tray and stands back, gathering himself.

“Is that better?” Pete asks Aaron.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now I have an idea about how to make this easier, because I’m afraid I’m confusing you, asking about what you know when I said I was going to ask about what you remember. So. How about this: you let me tell you what I know, and then maybe you’ll remember. How about that? Does that seem fair?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ve got to find a way through this, so let’s give it a shot. Here’s what I know: Zack Fowler has a criminal record. Last night he was found in possession of an illegal firearm. He was also in possession of narcotics with intent to sell. And, he is your friend. As for your other friends, well, it seems most of them were busy trying to destroy each other’s brain cells, burn rushing or whatever you call it. A party game I think maybe you’re too smart to play, since you said you were out there in the yard. Wood on the fire. You said so. Then, while you were out there, a dog jumped the fence, and one of those boys from the west side got bit. You were shot. Any of that you don’t remember?”

Aaron bites his lip and his head lolls, or else he nods; hard to tell.

“Do you remember now, Aaron?” Pete asks. “The west side boys?”

“What the hell is this?” Brett again, indignant.

“I don’t know,” Aaron says to them both.

Brett steps up to the bed, very quickly working his way back to pissed. “He said he doesn’t know. Why do you keep pressing him?”

“Because it’s interesting to me, Mr. Northcutt, that out of everything that happened, nobody seems to want to remember the part about the boys from the west side. Who are you covering for, Aaron?”

Brett moves around the bed, gets in front of Pete. “What the hell does that have to do with the accident?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“It’s time for you to go.”

Pete gets up at the same time he backs down. “I figured.”

*   *   *

Pete’s waiting for the elevator and he’s thinking it’s time to say fuck it, call Sergeant Finn, come clean about Joel and Butch, when suddenly Colleen is standing next to him.

“I’m sorry Aaron can’t help you,” she says.

“I’m not sure he had the chance.”

“My husband is protective.”

“So is your son.”

“You don’t think Zack did it.”

“I don’t think it matters.”

She folds her arms, watches the elevator dial above the door tick down from the top floor. “Aaron is so much younger than Zack. I mean, in life.”

“That’s the way I feel about my daughter. And my son. Maybe that’s just the way parents feel.”

“No. Because I know those kids you were talking about. From the west side. And they make Zack look like a baby.”

“You know them?”

“Well, I’ve seen them. They bring Zack around sometimes. I asked him about it; he said they’re from his old school. But you know, they come into this neighborhood and—I don’t mean to sound racist, or—I mean, we live here because we want Aaron to experience diversity—it’s just, these boys? They don’t belong. I think they’re the type to prey on boys like Zack. And I think they’d eat my son alive.”

“Do you know where Zack used to go to school? West side somewhere?”