by Lisa Gardner
“Who knew it could be this damn hot,” Egan said.
“Egads,” Quincy agreed.
Given there was no place for Quincy to sit, the DA abandoned his desk chair and came around to stand beside Quincy. There was a stash of water bottles on top of one of the piles of boxes. The DA helped himself.
“Hear there’s been some big events this morning,” Egan said. The man wasn’t dumb; he and Quincy were hardly the type for social calls.
“Multiple shootings,” Quincy stated, avoiding the word spree. “Seventeen-year-old suspect shot and killed his foster parents this morning. Then took out two more at a local gas station.”
Egan nodded, no doubt already having been notified.
“Sheriff Atkins asked me to assist.”
Another nod, another piece of information Egan already knew.
“We have a video of the second shooting. The suspect has been ID’d as Telly Ray Nash. I understand this isn’t his first brush with violence. That in fact, he killed his own parents when he was a kid.”
Egan’s face had gone expressionless. The DA untwisted the top from his bottle of water. Raised it. Took a long sip.
“Telly Ray Nash,” Egan repeated. “His parents’ deaths.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no file. He was never charged with a crime.”
“I understand.”
“So you’re here . . .” Quincy could hear the wealth of possibilities in that open-ended statement. Most of which weren’t pleasant for a man in Egan’s position. Quincy was here to second-guess why Egan hadn’t prosecuted a kid now suspected of killing four more? Quincy was here to identify all the warning signs Egan had missed? Quincy was here to start the line of questioning that would only be getting more uncomfortable for the DA’s office in the days ahead?
Knowing all that, Quincy decided to take pity on the man.
“I believe you know my wife, Rainie, and I are fostering a girl. We’ve started adoption proceedings and hope to have it finalized in time for Thanksgiving.”
Egan nodded, brow furrowed slightly at this change of topic.
“Our soon-to-be-adopted daughter is Sharlah May Nash. Telly’s younger sister.”
At once, the man straightened. “Oh,” Egan said.
“Oh,” Quincy agreed.
“So you’re here . . .”
“Personally, as well as professionally.”
Egan took a swig of water. Finally, he sighed, crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I didn’t feel bad about my decision eight years ago. Some cases you angst over—what’s right, what’s wrong? Others you suspect right away will come back to bite you in the ass. But Telly Nash, what happened with his parents, his sister . . . By the time the police were done analyzing the scene and the forensic psychologist was done head-shrinking the boy, I didn’t have any doubts. Doesn’t that just figure? I didn’t have any doubts at all.”
“Walk me through it,” Quincy suggested.
The man did: “Neighbors from the trailer park called it in. Sounds of a loud argument, followed by screaming. By the time first responders arrived on scene, they found nine-year-old Telly standing in the middle of the space, covered in gore and holding a bloody baseball bat. Two dead bodies, his little sister—who was what, four, five?—collapsed in a ball at his feet, crying.”
Quincy winced, said nothing.
“Telly wasn’t a big kid. Rather scrawny in fact. No history of violence, though the police were familiar with the parents. Calls out for domestic spats, disturbances of the peace, that sort of thing. Drug addicts, according to the cops. Child welfare had been contacted twice. Kids, however, had remained in the home.
“My office was called in. I personally visited the scene, given the nature of the offense, age of the offender. I remember the boy mostly stood there, not moving, not speaking. Shock, I suppose. But it was quite a sight, let me tell you. This thin, blood-covered boy with his perfectly expressionless face. Made my hair stand up on end.
“Turned out he’d taken a swipe at the sister, as well, broken her arm. But she still defended him. Claimed her father had stabbed her mother, then chased both the kids through the house. She’d actually found the baseball bat, got it to Telly. He took a stand in the family room. Apparently, once the boy got to swinging, though, he couldn’t stop. Pulverized his father’s skull. Then, when little sis stepped forward, nailed her too. She went down and that seemed to snap him out of things. Or at least end the rampage. He was still pretty shell-shocked when we got there. Didn’t seem to know what he’d just done.”
Egan looked at Quincy.
“I thought he killed both parents,” Quincy said. “But you’re saying the father killed the mom.”
“Which is where the story gets interesting. Because according to the ME, in addition to a stab wound to the chest, the mom also suffered a single blow to the head. But neither kid would comment on it. Every time we asked the question, their faces went blank. Closest we got was days later. We confronted Telly once more with evidence from the scene, trying to get him to talk. His single response: ‘I must’ve done it.’ Interesting choice of words, though. Not that he did do it. But that he must’ve done it.”
Quincy nodded.
“Would the stab wound have killed her?”
“She was bleeding internally. Anyone’s guess if the EMTs would’ve been able to save her.”
“Interesting.”
Egan shrugged.
“Do you still have the forensic psychologist’s report?” Quincy asked.
“Sure. Somewhere. I can, uh, do some digging around. Off the top of my head, though, there were three main reasons I opted to not press charges. One, parents’ known history of addiction and domestic abuse. According to the neighbors and the like, it was only a matter of time before something terrible happened in this house. Two, Telly had several knife wounds, which lent support to his sister’s allegations of self-defense. Let alone the mom had also been stabbed before being smacked over the head with a baseball bat, and the blood trail further substantiated the sister’s version of events.”
“Telly never provided a full statement?” Quincy asked.
“Nope, just his fairly infamous ‘I must’ve done it.’ Following protocol, we set him up with an expert, Dr. Bérénice Dudkowiak. The level of violence disturbed me; I definitely wanted a professional’s opinion before I decided whether or not to pursue charges. According to Dr. Dudkowiak, once a kid with Telly’s kind of history explodes . . .”
“To this day, Telly himself probably doesn’t know how many times he struck his father,” Quincy filled in.
“She was more interested in what kind of coping skills Telly might have exhibited leading up to the ‘tragic incident.’ All signs indicated the deaths themselves were impulsive, not planned, and sparked by the father’s own drug-fueled rage—”
“Tox screen?”
“Both parents were high as kites,” Egan assured him. “Another point in the boy’s favor. There was some suspicion the boy suffered from RAD. Reactive . . .”
“Reactive attachment disorder.”
“That’s it. And of course, Dr. Dudkowiak wanted to check out the possibility of Telly exhibiting signs of the homicidal triad.”
“Bed-wetting, arson, cruelty to animals,” Quincy provided.
“Exactly. But on that front, the boy was clear. If anything, he showed some signs of nurturing behavior, given his care of his little sister. Dr. Dudkowiak did have concerns about RAD, but given the parents’ history of addiction and the children’s level of exposure to violence . . .”
“Attachment should be an issue.” Quincy knew this well from Sharlah’s own file. And, of course, from having spent the past three years with a child who could disappear inside her head for long periods of time, then look at him and Rainie as if they were the crazy ones.
Egan took another swig of water. “Deciding factor for the shrink: Telly’s relationship with his sister.”
“Really?”
“Really. Based on whatever the boy said, and substantiated by teachers, et cetera, Telly cared for his sister. Was in fact the one raising her. Making her breakfast, doing laundry, getting her to school. He even walked them both to the library after school and read his sister books, apparently, to keep them both out of the house. Also, according to Sharlah, Telly had interceded on her behalf in the past when the father had grown violent, taken the hit himself, that sort of thing.”
Quincy nodded. Such a scenario, a young child raising an even younger sibling, was hardly uncommon in households with drug addiction.
“For Dr. Dudkowiak, this proved two things.” Egan counted them off on his fingers. “One, the boy had some capacity to bond, as clearly his baby sister mattered to him. Two, Telly had tried. I think that’s even the term she used. The fact he’d taken on such adult roles showed he’d made some effort to cope with his parents’ issues. In a kid his age, apparently three or four strategies was what you’d expect to see. Telly had used them. Unfortunately, his father had still opted to shoot up, then grab a kitchen knife. At which point Telly abandoned more traditional approaches and went with the baseball bat option instead. Sad, in her opinion, but hardly unexpected.”
“What happened to Telly?” Quincy asked.
“I don’t know. He would’ve been in emergency placement the first few days. Then I assume Child Welfare would’ve found an appropriate foster home for the boy. No living relatives, so family was out of the picture.”
“Sharlah was placed without him,” Quincy said. “In the file we have, it says she’s not to have contact with her brother.”
“He did shatter her arm with a baseball bat.”
“And yet she defended his actions.”
Egan shrugged. He was the county DA, after all, not family services. “One way or another, Telly was out of control that night. Maybe the powers that be thought it would be better to give Sharlah some space. She’d already spent most of her young life with a violent father. Why add to that a violent brother?”
Which, given the events of the morning . . .
Both men fell silent.
“Is Dr. Dudkowiak still practicing?” Quincy asked.
“Has an office in Portland,” Egan provided. “My secretary can get you her number. My turn: I just saw the video image from the morning’s shooting. The kid, Telly Nash. He’s looking right at the camera. No expression, no nothing at all on his face.”
Quincy didn’t say anything, which seemed to tell the DA enough.
Egan sighed heavily. “This isn’t going to end well, is it?”
“Statistically speaking?” Quincy finished his water, set the empty bottle on top of a box. “We’ll end up in a shoot-out with a seventeen-year-old suspect. Or he’ll kill us first.”
Chapter 10
RAINIE WON’T LET LUKA AND ME play outside. “Too hot,” she says, which it is, except we both know that’s not what she’s really worried about. Instead, I take my bowl of yogurt and granola and head down to the basement. If it’s hot outside, then she can’t argue with the coolness of the basement, can she?
I like this house. I’m lucky to have landed here and I know it. And not just because Rainie and Quincy want to adopt me, or because they have a cool catching-killers business, but because they’re successful and have the house to prove it. Don’t get me wrong. First foster home was clean and welcoming. I remember number three as also being cutesy in a hand-stitched-quilt, red-cheeked-gnomes-everywhere sort of way.
But Rainie and Quincy’s house . . . I like how it sits on top of a hill, with a steep gravel drive that never lets anyone approach without being noticed. I like the mounds of ferns and wildflowers that lead up to the front deck, with its matching Adirondack rockers. When my family worker brought me here the first time, I thought we’d arrived at an L.L.Bean catalog.
The house is big. Not too big, Quincy likes to say. I guess he designed it. But it’s plenty big by a foster kid’s standards. Open floor plan, exposed beams, massive stone fireplace. Lots of windows and skylights, which during the gray winter months help keep Rainie and me from going insane.
And there are fun little details. A stone-inlaid floor in the foyer. A custom-built staircase with birch-stick banisters. Bringing the outside in, Quincy explained to me one day. I like the outdoors. One day, I’d like to build a house that brings the outside in. Maybe I can follow in my soon-to-be adoptive parents’ footsteps and become an expert in monsters, too.
While I head downstairs, Rainie remains sitting at the kitchen table, tapping on her laptop. She doesn’t tell me what she’s researching and I don’t ask. We’re that kind of family.
In the basement, Luka opens his mouth wide, like a yawn, except I think he’s really trying to pull in as much of the cooler air as possible. The basement has some natural light from windows placed up high on the rear wall. But mostly, the basement is rec space. One corner has exercise equipment, a treadmill and elliptical for the days the two obsessives can’t make it out for their morning run. In the middle is a U-shaped soft brown sofa facing an impressive flat-screen TV. Hangout space. As in, I could have friends over, Quincy suggested one day, before he knew better.
Even Luka has a space. An oversized kennel, complete with piles of dog beds, a few treasured tennis balls, and of course a massive water bowl. It looks a little dungeony, which led Quincy to make a few ironic observations about profilers and what they had in their basements, before he realized I was listening. As Rainie pointed out to him, “Quincy, you have a kid now. And they’re always listening.”
Luka is supposed to spend downtime in his kennel. At least that was Quincy’s plan when he had it installed. But mostly, Luka spends downtime sleeping on my bed or sprawled at Rainie’s feet. Quincy will tell you he knows when he’s been beat.
Now I set my yogurt on the dark-stained coffee table. Luka won’t touch it. He’s much too professional for petty theft.
Instead, he’s running easy laps around the sofa, getting the lay of the land, reveling in the feel of cooler air. I let him relax. We’re behind on his exercise routine, let alone training regimen, but I blame it on the outside temps. Who can concentrate in this heat? At least he didn’t have to attend swim camp. The moment I got home, I told him how lucky he was, and I could tell from the serious look on his face that he believed me.
I don’t turn on any lights in the basement. The bright sun leaking through the top windows is enough. Besides, it feels cooler this way.
With my yogurt in front of me, and Luka running in circles around me, I reach into my back pocket and withdraw the real reason I’m down here. My iPhone. I start my search on Safari. Shooting, Bakersville, Oregon. “Breaking News,” the first headline informs me. “Two found shot and killed at an EZ Gas. More details to follow.”
The stories don’t have much information, however, and make me frown. Luka comes to sit beside me. He puts his head on my lap and gazes up at me with his big brown eyes. Luka has expressive eyebrows. He arches one now in question. I pat his head, take a bite of my yogurt.
“Someone must know something,” I tell him. “What’s the point of an entire Internet filled with news if you can’t learn what you need to know?”
Next up, I try searching the web page of the local oxymoron, as Quincy calls it, the Bakersville Sun.
Sure enough, there’s a photo. Freeze-frame from a security video, I realize, of a teenage boy in a black hoodie pointing a gun. Basic hoodlum material, I would think. Except this hoodlum has Telly’s eyes, staring straight at me.
I study it for a long time. Looking for . . . I don’t know what. An aha moment? A bolt of recognition? A squeeze in my chest?
I look at the picture and mostly I feel nothing. Nothing at all.
Then,
almost on cue, my shoulder starts to burn.
Luka whines softly. I stroke his ears, but mostly to comfort me.
I tear myself away from the photo, move on to the main article. The shooting at the EZ Gas happened shortly before eight A.M. I would’ve been getting out of bed right about then, dragging my feet, already dreading the day ahead. At eight, I was taking Luka outside, recoiling at the wall of heat, further agitated at having to spend my morning stuck at the Y.
At the bottom of the article came the most interesting information. Suspect identified as Telly Ray Nash, seventeen. Also wanted for questioning in the deaths of Frank and Sandra Duvall. Suspect believed to be armed and dangerous.
I have a response then. I shiver. And whether I mean to or not, I see the knife. I hear my father’s voice, crooning from the other side of the couch. And I feel Telly’s hands, scooping me up, tossing me through a doorway, out of my father’s path.
My hand has curled into a fist on top of Luka’s beautiful brown and gold head. He growls, so softly it’s more like a rumble in his throat, and I release my fingers, patting him gently once more.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, but this time, he doesn’t believe me.
I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel. I wasn’t lying to Rainie earlier. I don’t really remember my brother. Or my parents. I get more like vague snapshots. Yellow Cheerios box. The smell of cigarettes. Clifford the Big Red Dog.
My brother taking me to the library, reading me stories while I sucked down apple juice.
My shoulder hurts. I’m sweaty, and not just from the temperature. I don’t want to think about him. Or my parents. Yet now I can’t help myself, and I’m filled with a mix of sadness and fear and . . . longing.
I miss my brother, my parents. No matter how terrible they were, they were still my family.
Not true, I tell myself. I have Rainie and Quincy now. And neither of them would ever chase me around the house with a bloody knife or smash my arm with a baseball bat.
