by Jodi Picoult
1. Clean up your own messes.
2. Tell the truth.
Regarding Jess's death: I have done both.
Imagine what it would be like if you were suddenly dropped from America into England. Suddenly bloody would be a swear word, not a description of a crime scene.
Pissed would be not angry but drunk. Dear would mean expensive, not beloved. Potty isn't a toilet but a state of mind; public school is private school, and fancy is a verb.
If you were dropped into the UK and you happened to be Korean or Portuguese, your confusion would be expected. After all, you don't speak the language. But if you're American, technically, you do. So you're stuck in conversations that make no sense to you, in which you ask people to repeat themselves over and over, in the hope that eventually the unfamiliar words will fall into place.
This is what Asperger's feels like. I have to work so hard at the things that come naturally to others, because I'm just a tourist here.
And it's a trip with a one-way ticket.
Here are the things I will remember about Jess:
1. For Christmas she gave me a piece of malachite the exact size and shape of a chicken egg.
2. She is the only person I've ever met who was born in Ohio.
3. Her hair looked different indoors than it did outdoors. When the sun was shining, it was less yellow and more like fire.
4. She introduced me to The Princess Bride, which is possibly one of the greatest movies in the history of filmmaking.
5. Her mailbox at UVM was number 5995.
6. She fainted at the sight of blood, but she still came to my presentation this fall in physics about spatter patterns, and she listened with her back to the PowerPoint presentation.
7. Even though there were times when she probably was sick of hearing me talk, she never, ever told me to shut up.
I am the first person to tell you that I do not really understand love. How can you love your new haircut, love your job, and love your girlfriend all at once? Clearly the word doesn't mean the same thing in different situations, which is why I have never been able to figure it out with logic.
The physical side of love terrifies me, to be honest. When you are already hypersensitive to the feeling of anything against your skin or to people standing close enough to touch you, there is absolutely nothing about a sexual relationship that makes it an experience you look forward to attempting.
I mention all this as a disclaimer to the last thing I will remember about Jess: 8. I could have loved her. Maybe I already did.
*
If I were going to create a science fiction series on television, it would be about an empath--a person who can naturally read the auras of people's emotions and, with a single touch, can take on their feelings, too. It would be so easy if I could look at someone who was happy, touch him on the arm, and suddenly fill with the same bubbles of joy that he's feeling, instead of anguishing over whether I'd misinterpreted his actions and reactions.
Anyone who cries at a movie is a closet empath. What's happening on that screen bleeds through the celluloid, real enough to evoke emotion. Why else would you find yourself laughing at the hijinks of two actors who, offscreen, can't stand each other? Or crying over the death of an actor who, when the camera is turned off, will dust himself off and grab a burger for dinner?
When I watch movies, it's a little different. Each scene becomes a catalog card of possible social scenarios in my mind. If you ever find yourself arguing with a woman, try kissing her to throw her off guard. If you are in the middle of a battle and your buddy is shot, friendship means you have to go back under fire to rescue him. If you want to be the life of the party, say, --Toga!||
Later, if I find myself in that particular situation, I can shuffle through my file cards of movie interactions and mimic the behavior and know, for once, that I will be getting it right.
Incidentally, I have never cried at a movie.
Once, I was telling Jess everything I knew about dogs.
1. They evolved from a small mammal called miacis, a tree dweller that lived 40 million years ago.
2. They were first domesticated by Paleolithic cavemen.
3. No matter the breed, a dog has 321 bones and 42 permanent teeth.
4. Dalmatians are born all white.
5. The reason they turn in a circle before lying down is because when they were wild animals, this helped mat the long grass into a bed.
6. Approximately one million dogs have been named the primary beneficiaries in their owners' wills.
7. They sweat through the pads of their feet.
8. Scientists have found that dogs can smell the presence of autism in kids.
You're making that up, she said.
No. Really.
How come you don't have a dog?
There were so many answers to that question, I didn't really know where to begin.
My mother, for one, who said that anyone who could not remember to brush his teeth twice daily did not have the fortitude to take care of another living creature. My brother, who was allergic to nearly anything with hair on it. The fact that dogs, which had been my passion after dinosaurs but before crime scene analysis, had fallen out of favor.
The truth is that I would probably never want a dog. Dogs are like the kids in school I cannot stand: the ones who hang around and then leave when they realize they are not getting what they want or need from the conversation. They travel in packs. They lick you and you think it's because they like you, but it's really just because your fingers still smell like your turkey sandwich.
On the other hand, I think cats have Asperger's.
Like me, they're very smart.
And like me, sometimes they simply need to be left alone.
Rich
Once I leave Mark Maguire to steep in his own conscience for a few minutes, I grab a cup of coffee in the break room and check my voice mail. I have three new messages. The first is from my ex, reminding me that tomorrow is Open School Night for Sasha--an event that, by the looks of things, I'm going to have to miss yet again. The second is from my dentist, confirming an appointment. And the third is from Emma Hunt.
--Emma,|| I say, returning her call. --What can I do for you?||
--I ... I saw that you found Jess.|| Her voice is husky, full of tears.
--Yes. I'm sorry. I know you were close to her.||
There are sobs on the other end of the line.
--Are you okay?|| I ask. --Do you need me to call someone for you?||
--She was wrapped in a quilt,|| Emma chokes out.
Sometimes, when you do what I do for work, it gets easy to forget that, after you close the file on a case, there are people who suffer with the fallout for the rest of their lives. They'll remember one little detail about the victim: a single shoe lying in the middle of the road, a hand still clutching a Bible, or--in this case--the juxtaposition between being tenderly tucked into a quilt and being murdered. But there's nothing I can do for Jess Ogilvy now except bring the person who killed her to justice.
--That quilt,|| Emma sobs, --belongs to my son.||
I freeze in the act of stirring cream into my coffee. --Jacob?||
--I don't know ... I don't understand what that means ...||
--Emma, listen. It might not mean anything at all, and if it does, Jacob will have an explanation.||
--What do I do?|| she cries.
--Nothing,|| I tell her. --Let me. Can you bring him down here?||
--He's in school--||
--Then after school,|| I say. --And, Emma? Relax. We'll get to the bottom of this.||
As soon as I hang up, I take my full mug of coffee and empty it in the sink; that's how distracted I am. Jacob Hunt admitted to being at the house. He had a backpack full of Jess Ogilvy's clothes. He was the last person known to see her alive.
Jacob may have Asperger's syndrome, but that doesn't preclude his being a murderer.
I think of Mark Maguire's flat-out denials about hurting his girlf
riend, his unscarred hands, his crying. Then I think of Jacob Hunt, who cleaned up Jess's house when it looked like it had been vandalized. Had he left out the intrinsic detail that he was the one who'd wrecked it?
On the one hand, I have a boyfriend who's a jackass but who's grief-stricken. I have his boot prints outside a cut screen.
On the other hand, I have a kid who's obsessed with crime scene analysis. A kid who doesn't like Mark Maguire. A kid who'd know how to take a murder and make it look like Mark Maguire did it and then attempted to cover his tracks.
I have a kid who's been known to hang out at crime scenes in the past.
I have a homicide, and I have a blanket that links Jacob Hunt to it.
The division between an observer and a participant is nearly invisible; you can cross it before you even know you've stepped over the line.
Emma
On the way home from school, I am gripping the steering wheel so hard that my hands are shaking. I keep looking in the rearview mirror at Jacob. He looks like he did this morning--wearing a faded green T-shirt, his seat belt snugly fastened over his chest, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He is not stimming or withdrawn or exhibiting any of the other hallmarks of behavior that flag the fact something is upsetting him. Does that mean he didn't have anything to do with Jess's death? Or he did, and it simply doesn't affect him the way it would affect someone else?
Theo has been talking about math--a problem he did that no one else in the class understood. I am not absorbing a single word. --Jacob and I have to swing by the police station,|| I say, training my voice to be as level as possible. --So Theo, I'm just going to drop you off at home first.||
--What for?|| Jacob asks. --Did he get back the results on the backpack?||
--He didn't say.||
Theo looks at me. --Mom? Is something going on?||
For a moment I want to laugh: I have one child who cannot read me at all, and another who reads me too well. I don't answer but pull up to our mailbox instead. --Theo, hop out and get the mail, and you can let yourself into the house. I'll be back as soon as I can.|| I leave him standing in the middle of the road and drive off with Jacob.
But instead of heading to the police station, I stop off at a strip mall and park. --Are we getting a snack?|| Jacob asks. --Because I'm actually quite hungry.||
--Maybe later.|| I get out of the driver's seat and sit beside him in the back of the car.
--I have something to tell you. Some very bad news.||
--Like when Grandpa died.||
--Yes, a lot like that. You know how Jess has been gone for a while, so you couldn't have your meeting on Sunday? The police found her body. She's dead.|| I watch him carefully as I speak, ready to mark a flicker of his eye or a twitch of his hand that I might read as a clue. But Jacob, completely impassive, just looks at the headrest in front of him.
--Okay,|| he says after a moment.
--Do you have any questions?||
Jacob nods. --Can we get a snack now?||
I look at my son, and I see a monster. I'm just not sure if that's his real face or if it's a mask made of Asperger's.
Honestly, I'm not even sure it matters.
By the time I reach the police station with Jacob, my nerves are strung as tight as the strings on a violin. I feel like a traitor, bringing my own son to Detective Matson, but is there an alternative? A girl is already dead. I couldn't live with myself, with this secret, if I didn't acknowledge Jacob's involvement.
Before I can even ask for him to be paged by dispatch, the detective walks into the station lobby. --Jacob,|| he says, and then he turns to me. --Emma. Thanks for bringing him in.||
I don't have any words left to say. Instead, I look away.
Just like Jacob.
The detective puts a hand on my shoulder. --I know this isn't easy ... but you did the right thing.||
--Then why doesn't it feel that way?|| I murmur.
--Trust me,|| Matson says, and because I want to--because I need someone else to take the wheel for just a moment while I struggle to breathe--I nod.
He turns back to Jacob. --The reason I asked your mom to bring you here,|| Matson says, --is because I want to talk to you. I could really use your help with some cases.||
My jaw drops open. That is a blatant lie.
Predictably, Jacob swells with pride. --I suppose I have time for that.||
--That's great,|| Matson replies, --because we're stumped. We've got some cold cases--and a few active ones--that have us scratching our heads. And after seeing you draw conclusions about the hypothermic guy, I know that you're incredibly well-versed in forensic criminology.||
--I try to keep up-to-date,|| Jacob says. --I subscribe to three journals.||
--Yeah? Impressive.|| Matson opens up the door that leads into the bowels of the police station. --Why don't we go somewhere a little more private?||
Using his love of CSI to entrap Jacob into giving a statement about Jess's death is like holding out a syringe of heroin to an addict. I am furious at Matson for being so underhanded; I am furious at myself for not realizing that he would have his priorities, just like I had mine.
Flushed with anger, I start to follow them through the doorway but am stopped by the detective. --Actually, Emma,|| he says, --you'll have to wait here.||
--I have to go with him. He won't understand what you're asking him.||
--Legally, he's an adult.|| Matson smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
--Really, Mom,|| Jacob adds, his voice brimming with self-importance. --It's fine.||
The detective looks at me. --Are you his legal guardian?||
--I'm his mother. ||
--That's not the same thing,|| Matson says. --I'm sorry.||
For what? I wonder. For seducing Jacob into believing he's on his side? Or for doing the same to me?
--Then we're leaving,|| I insist.
Matson nods. --Jacob, it's your decision. Do you want to stay with me, or do you want to go home with your mom?||
--Are you kidding?|| Jacob beams. --I want to talk to you, one hundred percent.||
Before the door closes behind them, I have already taken off at a dead run toward the parking lot.
Rich
All is fair in love, war, and interrogation. By that I mean that if I can convince a suspect I'm the second coming of his long-dead grandma and the only way to salvation is to confess to me, so be it. None of which accounts for the fact that I cannot get Emma Hunt's face out of my mind, the minute she realized that I had betrayed her and was not going to allow her to sit in on my little chat with her son.
I can't bring Jacob into the interrogation room, because Mark Maguire is still there cooling his heels. I've left him with a sergeant who's currently doing a six-month stint with me to figure out whether or not he wants to take the test to make detective. I can't unarrest Mark until I know for sure I've got the right suspect in my sights.
So instead, I lead Jacob to my office. It's not much bigger than a closet, but it has boxes of case files all over the place and a few crime scene photos tacked up on the corkboard behind my head--all of which should get his adrenaline flowing. --You want a Coke or something?|| I ask, motioning to the only other spare seat in the room.
--I'm not thirsty,|| Jacob says. --I wouldn't mind something to eat, though.||
I rummage through my desk drawers for emergency candy--if I've learned anything on the job it's that when everything seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, a pack of Twizzlers can help you gain some perspective. I toss him some from my stash of last year's leftover Halloween candy, and he frowns.
--They're not gluten-free,|| Jacob says.
--Is that a bad thing?||
--Do you have any Skittles?||
I cannot believe we're negotiating candy, but I rummage through the bowl and come up with a packet of Skittles.
--Sweet!|| Jacob says. He tears a corner and tips the edge right into his mouth.
I lean back in my chair. --You mind
if I tape this? That way, I can have it typed up just in case we come up with any terrific insights.||
--Oh, sure. If that's helpful.||
--It will be,|| I say, and I hit the button on the tape recorder. --So how'd you know that guy died of hypothermia, anyway?||
--Easy. There weren't any defense wounds to his arms; there was blood but no overt trauma ... and of course the fact that he was in his underwear was a dead giveaway.||
I shake my head. --You made me look like a genius in front of the medical examiner,|| I say.
--What's the most bizarre case you've ever heard about?||
I think for a moment. --A young guy jumps off the top of a building, intending to commit suicide, but sails past an open window at the exact moment a gunshot is fired through it.||
Jacob grins. --That's an urban legend. It was debunked by the Washington Post in 1996 as part of a speech given by a former president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, to show the legal complications of forensic analysis. But it's a good one, all the same.||
--How about you?||
--The Texas Eyeball Killer. Charles Albright--who taught science--killed prostitutes and surgically removed their eyeballs as trophies.||
He grimaces. --Obviously that's the reason I never really liked my bio teacher.||
--There are a lot of people in this world you'd never suspect as murderers,|| I say, watching Jacob carefully. --Don't you think?||
For just the tiniest flicker of a moment, a shadow crosses over his face. --You'd know better than me,|| he says.
--Jacob, I'm sort of in a predicament. I'd like to pick your brain about a current case.||
--Jess's,|| he states.
--Yes. But that's tricky, because you knew her. So if we're going to talk openly, you'll have to waive your rights to not discuss it. You get what I'm saying?||
He nods and begins to recite Miranda. --I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. I have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If I cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for me ...||
