The Rag and Bone Shop (5 page)

“Yeats,” she said.

Gratified that she recognized the poem, he said: “I admit that I have sleepless nights. Or I wake up from dreams I can’t remember except that terrible things happened in them. All of it, I suppose, from what I’ve heard in the interrogations. But you learn to live in isolation. And that’s where the trouble lies.” What was he admitting to this young woman that he had never admitted even to Lottie? “The terrible thing is that the priest can give absolution. Absolve the sinners. Send them on their way with a clean heart. I can only listen and turn the confession into an indictment. And go on my own way . . .”

“To another case, another interrogation.”

He nodded in agreement.

“And that’s enough for you?”

You are what you do.

Or should I be more than that?

The limo swerved, and he and Sarah Downes were almost thrown against each other, shoulders touching, the faint scent of her cologne reaching him, like a soft breeze in a leafy glade, the echo of an old song coming into his mind.

“Sorry,” came the word from the speaker connected to the driver. “A dog in the road . . .”

Sarah Downes drew away, a wan smile on her face.

“I guess I’ve envied you for a long time,” she said. “Wanted to be as expert, as efficient . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“But now you’re not sure,” he suggested.

She turned her eyes on him, said nothing.

What did he see in those deep gray eyes? Pity, perhaps? Or revulsion? And which was worse?

An unaccountable sadness settled on him, along with the familiar exhaustion that he wore like an old suit, as the limo continued on its way to Monument.

L
ieutenant Braxton greeted Trent at the rear door of police headquarters. As the detective introduced himself, Trent took in the wiry intensity of the man. Tall and thin, all sharp angles, cheekbones and chin, shoulder blades sharp in the sweat-stained white shirt.

“Glad you’re here,” Braxton said, voice brisk. His handshake was also brisk. And brief. “No time to waste,” he said. “Sarah Downes filled in the cracks.” Not a question but a statement that required no answer.

Sarah had quietly drifted away after a curt nod to both men.

“Let’s go,” Braxton commanded, turning abruptly toward the hallway.

Trent disliked being hurried and purposely lagged behind. Braxton stopped and looked over his shoulder at him. “The senator would like a word with you.”

At the same moment, Senator Gibbons stepped into the hallway. He looked as if he had just emerged from a political cartoon, everything about him spectacular, almost a caricature. A shock of white hair, bulbous nose, wide smile and gleaming buck teeth. But he carried himself with an air of authority that contradicted the exaggerations.

Trent expected a booming hearty greeting but Senator Gibbons shook hands with a gentleness that surprised him.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said breathlessly. “The suspect’s waiting and we know you’ll do your best, Trent. The town needs an arrest, families are upset.” He hesitated, frowning, then added: “Including my own.” An obvious reference to his grandson’s friendship with the victim. “We’re counting on you, Trent, and I will owe you much if you can see this through. You can write your own ticket.” He paused, for dramatic effect, Trent supposed. “I keep my promises.”

Trent had no illusions about campaign promises. However, this was not a campaign but an investigation in which the senator was personally involved.

Braxton, who had been moving impatiently at the senator’s side, said: “Let me show you the office.”

Trent’s pulse quickened, his old enthusiasm for the pursuit of the confession renewed and revitalized, the game of thrust and parry accelerating his breathing.

The office to which Braxton led him was perfect. Small and cluttered and claustrophobic. No windows, which eliminated the necessity of drawing the shades. No lamps on the desks, the light coming directly and harshly from a ceiling bulb. No air-conditioning, either. Trent, in fact, felt a slight wafting of heat as he entered the room. Two desks and a filing cabinet took up most of the space, which meant that he and the suspect would be in close proximity, their knees almost touching as they sat in the two chairs arranged opposite each other. That was the intent, of course, to conduct the interrogation in a small space with no room for the suspect to be comfortable.

“Okay?” Braxton asked, a frown on his face. Did he ever relax? Trent wondered.

“Okay,” he echoed. “Exactly what I need.”

“We had the extra desk brought in to make it more crowded.”

“Perfect.”

“You’ll note that one chair is higher than the other as you requested. Need water? Snacks?”

“Nothing like that. Austerity. No refreshments.”

“Fine,” Braxton said, with a small sigh of satisfaction.

“How much time do I have?” Trent asked.

“The mother was a bit doubtful but not really suspicious,” Braxton said, leaning back against the doorjamb, seemingly relaxed for the first time. “Her husband’s away until tomorrow. I’d say you’ve got three hours, minimum. She may become curious after that and either call or visit.”

“The other young people?”

“It’s hard to fake long interrogations. We may have to let them go after an hour or so. Hard to predict. The quicker you can work, the better.”

“It all depends, of course,” Trent said.

Glancing around the room one more time, Trent sighed. Carl Seaton, Califer and now this boy, all in the space of a week. But a twelve-year-old boy should be easy enough to handle. He thought of Senator Gibbons and his words—
you can write your own ticket
—which provided the necessary thrust of energy he needed.

“Bring in the suspect,” he said.

T
he boy. Pausing at the doorway before entering the office. On the thin side, black hair neatly combed, blue plaid shirt open at the collar, sharply creased chinos.

Trent imagined the boy’s mother inspecting him prior to his departure for headquarters, checking his fingernails, perhaps. Checking the fingernails himself as they shook hands, Trent found that there was no evidence of their having been bitten. An indication. Everything was an indication.

Trent ushered him into the office. The boy’s step was halting, blue eyes blinking in the harsh light. He appeared intimidated, which was to be expected, a glint of curiosity in his eyes, but no suspicion. Trent was expert at detecting suspicion.

Arranging a smile on his face, he welcomed the boy with a raising of his arms, an attitude of praise for something not yet earned.

“You’re Jason?” Omitting the family name, establishing a sense of familiarity but maintaining a degree of authority for himself, announcing only his own family name. “I’m Trent.”

He motioned to the boy to be seated, maneuvering deftly so that the boy ended up in the lower chair. Trent seated himself opposite, slouching a bit so that his loftier appearance would not be obvious until later and even then almost subliminally.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Jason. And will try to make this as brief and as painless as possible. It would be wonderful if you came up with information that would help find the perpetrator of this terrible crime.” Voice mild, informal.

The boy nodded. “I hope I can help. I’ll do my best.”

His first words. Well-modulated voice. A small swallow before answering. Hands moving slightly but not defensively.

“I know you will.”

Jason shot a quick glance around the room, observing it for the first time.

“Sorry for the smallness of the office,” Trent said. “All the rooms are being used and we drew this one.” The use of
we
designed to give the boy a sense of their being in this together, as partners, as associates.

Nodding again, Jason seemed to relax, settling back a bit in the chair.

Trent positioned his hand over the Record button of the tape recorder. “For the purpose of accuracy, we’ll be recording our conversation. Is this acceptable, Jason?”

The boy nodded in agreement.

Trent looked at the boy’s trusting face, the surface innocence in his wide-eyed gaze. Was he truly innocent or was this a mask? Trent was aware of the masks people wear and it was his job to remove the masks, if not entirely, then at least to allow a glimpse of the evil underneath. Was there evil in this boy? Was he capable of an evil act? We are all capable, Trent thought, remembering Carl Seaton and the innocence in his eyes, which resembled the look in the eyes of Jason Dorrant.

“Just relax, Jason. Think of this as a conversation, no more, no less.” Trent was conscious of using his avuncular voice. “We’ll talk about the events of Monday. What you saw and what you remember seeing.” He was conscious of avoiding the word
murder,
would use soft words throughout the interrogation. “Memory is a strange device, Jason.” The constant use of Jason’s name was important, personal, avoiding the impersonal. “It plays tricks. What we remember or think we remember. And the opposite, what we’ve forgotten or think we’ve forgotten. We’ll find out about it all together.” Establishing them as a team. “Think of this as a kind of adventure.”

“I
hope
I can help out,” the boy said.

“Don’t worry about it. Just relax. We’re alone here. Only the two of us. You don’t mind being alone, away from the rest of your friends, do you?”

And now the first important step.

“I mean, we can have other people here, if you want. A lawyer or counsel. Or even your mother.”

The object was to isolate the boy, to avoid the presence of a lawyer or parent or guardian. It had to be done immediately at the outset and so deftly that the boy would not become suspicious. The words were important, of course, because they would appear on the official record—audio and transcript—but what would not show up on the record was Trent’s casual attitude, the shrug of his shoulders that conveyed the ridiculous idea of having other people present. The mention of his mother was deliberate, counting on the boy’s preadolescent pride—the humiliation of having his mother on hand to give him support—all of this to elicit from the boy the answer he sought and now received.

“No, that’s fine.”

And to make certain:

“Okay, this way then, without counsel?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, Jason. Then let’s proceed. First of all, tell me a bit about yourself.”

“Well, I’m twelve years old, thirteen in November. I’ll be starting eighth grade in September.”

Jason fell silent. What else was there to tell?

“Hobbies?”

Jason shrugged. “I’m not too interested in hobbies. I read sometimes. E-mail on the Internet. I have a pen pal in Australia. He lives in Melbourne.”

“Chat rooms on the Internet?”

“There’s a teen chat room. But I only listen. Watch. I mean, I never say anything.”

“Shy, right?”

An inclination of the head. “I guess so.”

“Spend a lot of time alone?”

“Kind of. I have a little sister. Her name’s Emma. She’s a nice kid, smart.”

“Friends?”

“Not many. I guess I don’t make friends too easy.”

Jason was impatient to get on with the questions about Monday, even though he didn’t think he had much to offer and would probably disappoint this Mr. Trent. He was also uncomfortable with these personal questions. What did they have to do with what he had seen or not seen that day? Maybe Mr. Trent was trying to find out how reliable he would be as a witness. The questions also made Jason realize how empty his life really was. The guys in the other rooms probably had a lot of things to tell—Jack O’Shea and Tim Connors could brag about the basketball games they won, for instance. What did he have to offer? An e-mail pen pal from Australia.
I read sometimes.

“What kind of books do you like to read?” Mr. Trent asked, as if reading his mind.

“All kinds. But I like mysteries. Horror stories. Stephen King. Science fiction.”

“You don’t mind all that violence in those books? People killing each other?”

“It’s only stories. They’re not real.”

“How about movies and television? Do you like violent ones, too? Horror stuff?”

Jason was puzzled. He liked horror stories but he wasn’t wild about them and somehow these questions made it sound like he was some kind of fanatic when it came to horror stuff.

“I like other kinds of stories and movies, too. I mean, adventure. Like
Indiana Jones,
and
Star Wars
.”

“They’re kind of violent, too, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know.” He thought of them as cartoons, unrelated to anything in real life. “They’re unreal.”

“You seem to be fascinated by things that are unreal,” Trent said.

Do I? Jason wondered. He had never really thought about it.

“Do you sometimes get confused between what’s real and unreal?”

Jason squirmed, fidgeted, tried not to show his impatience and his growing uneasiness.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

He felt like he did in class when the teacher explained something that he didn’t understand, unable to process it in his mind. That was what was happening now with this real-unreal stuff.

“I mean, are you always aware of what is real—what is happening to you at any given moment—or maybe what’s not real, but fantasy? Like a dream? Do you sometimes confuse a dream with what’s actually going on?”

“No.” Emphatic. Why was he asking these questions?

Trent wanted to move on. The boy’s attitude, his restlessness, his hands moving to his face, scratching at his arm, all indicated his innocence and his puzzlement. But his disposition toward violent movies and stories was now on the record for whatever use might be made of it later.

Not wishing to make the boy uncomfortable, Trent changed tactics.

“Now, let’s get down to the business about Monday, the day you worked on that puzzle with Alicia.” Avoiding the fact that that was the day of Alicia’s murder.

Almost eagerly, Jason nodded.

“Tell me about that day, Jason. Your activities in a general way, and then we can get down to specifics and I’ll help you remember what you think you don’t remember. Regard it as a kind of game, okay?”