“Or did she want to make you feel inferior?”
“No,” Jason said, frowning, thinking again of the lesson. Had Alicia actually been making fun of him? “Why would she do that?” he asked.
“Maybe she wasn’t your friend after all. Maybe she only pretended to be.”
Perplexed, Jason scrunched up his face. The room was hotter than before, the heat seeming to grow with every second. He squirmed in his chair, felt the sweat gathering in his armpits. Even his feet were sweating inside his socks.
Jason didn’t know what to say, could only come back to his original question. “Why would she do that?”
“Who can explain the actions of other people?” Trent said. “Even little girls. Little girls are not always as naive as we think. That old cliché—you can’t judge a book by its cover? It’s a cliché because it’s so true, Jason. It was hard for you to judge Alicia. And it must be hard for you to realize what she was doing . . .”
“But she wasn’t doing anything,” Jason protested. “She was my friend.”
“Was she? You’re twelve years old, Jason, and a seven-year-old girl was your friend?”
Jason realized how strange that sounded, how it made him seem like he was some kind of freak.
“Well, maybe not a real friend,” he amended. “I really didn’t know her that well. I mean, I’d watch her make the jigsaw puzzles when I dropped by her house. Her brother was my friend.”
Jason grimaced at the deception. Brad Bartlett was not his friend but he did drop by Brad’s house. How else could he describe Brad? If he wasn’t a friend, what was he? Someone he went to school with. Which was what he should have said.
“Didn’t you also visit her at school recess sometimes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you did more than just drop by her house to visit her brother.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
“No—I mean yes.”
Jason was confused again.
“Were you attracted to her?”
Trent had carefully chosen the moment for that question, knowing that it would upset the boy. He also didn’t believe it would lead anywhere. Sarah Downes had reported that there had been no evidence of sexual assault or molestation. But Trent had to judge for himself. And the question had to be asked and the answer noted for the record.
The boy drew back, his mouth tightening. “What do you mean?”
“She was a pretty little thing, wasn’t she?” Trent asked. Purposely suggestive.
“Kind of.”
“Did you ever think of showing her some affection?”
“Like what?”
“Touching her, perhaps. Kissing her.”
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth twisting in revulsion. Hands, feet, body, all spasmodic in protest. Not defensive in any way. Everything asserting his innocence.
Which Trent had to be quick to acknowledge.
“Don’t even bother to answer, Jason. I know that you didn’t have improper thoughts about her. Pardon me for making such a suggestion.”
“I think I’d like to go home now,” Jason said, squirming, thrown by all the questions and especially the new ones about Alicia Bartlett.
He half rose from the chair.
“You’re free to go whenever you want, Jason. I appreciate all the information you’ve provided. You don’t realize how important you are to the investigation, not only for your observations but for your knowledge of the people involved. And I find your answers fascinating.” Each word calculated.
Trent gestured. “There’s the door.”
The boy hesitated, half out of his chair, glancing at the door and back at Trent. Trent could do nothing to prevent him from leaving but he also knew that as long as the subject felt free to leave he was less inclined to do so. He knew that something else could be happening. There often came a moment during an interrogation when a bond, a strange sort of alliance, came into being between the subject and the interrogator.
“I know how tired you must be getting, Jason,” Trent said. “I know it’s hot in this office and uncomfortable. But a little girl is dead, she was your friend, and I think we can help the situation by working together on this.”
The boy sat back, but on the edge of the chair, clearly undecided about what to do.
“I really need much more from you than what you observed on Monday. You’re in a unique position to help.”
Placated by the mildness of Mr. Trent’s voice and the possibility that he could actually be a real part of the investigation, Jason asked: “How can I help? When that cop came to my house, he said that you only wanted to ask about what I saw on the street Monday. And I didn’t see anything.”
“Right. But I was told that if you showed that you had more knowledge than that, I had the authority to go further. And as you and I have talked, I’ve realized how much more you can contribute, how much more you can help.”
“But how?”
“By providing inside knowledge, information that I, as an outsider, and even the police, can’t possibly know.”
“Like what?”
“You’re familiar with all the important aspects of the case, Jason. Alicia’s house, the neighborhood, the brook, the woods.”
The boy sighed as he considered what Trent had said. Finally, he nodded. “Okay.” Then tensed himself, hands on his knees, body bent slightly forward. The signs of compliance.
Trent knew that the game of cat and mouse was over.
We now go down to where the ladders start.
“Fine,” Trent said. “Now, let’s talk about the terrain of the area where Alicia was found.”
The boy frowned. “Terrain?”
“The features of the area—woods, bushes, undergrowth,” Trent explained. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Yes,” the boy replied. “We played there a lot. There’s a baseball field and some swings and a slide for the young kids.”
“Did anyone tell you the exact spot where Alicia was found?”
“Somebody said a few feet off the path, near some trees. They said her . . . they said she was covered with branches and leaves and stuff.”
Trent noted that the boy had stumbled a bit and had avoided using the word body, which was entirely appropriate. Trent had also done so to make it easier for the boy.
“What do you remember about the area? Was there loose gravel, grass? Was it rocky, overgrown?”
The boy shrugged. “Just . . . ground. Like you find in the woods.”
“Stones, rocks?”
“I guess so. I remember tripping on a big rock once when I went into the woods to . . .” Jason stopped, hating to admit that he had stepped into the woods to pee.
“To relieve yourself?” Trent asked helpfully.
“Yeah.” Feeling his cheeks warming, wondering if he was blushing, like in school.
“A lot of stones and rocks, right?”
“Yes.”
Knowing the boy would supply the answer he sought, Trent asked: “What do you think the weapon was, Jason?”
“I don’t know.”
Trent waited.
“A rock?” the boy asked.
Hiding what would have been a smirk of triumph, Trent said casually: “Could have been a hammer. If the perpetrator brought a hammer along. If the murder was premeditated.”
“Premeditated?” Jason knew the meaning of the word, having heard it a thousand times on television shows, but he couldn’t connect it with what happened to Alicia.
“I mean,” Trent said, “if someone had planned Alicia’s murder in advance. But I don’t think it happened that way. Do you?”
Planning Alicia’s murder in advance? Jason shook his head at the possibility.
“No,” he said.
“I think it might have been something that happened on the spur of the moment. Not quite an accident but certainly not planned, perhaps as surprising to the perpetrator as it was to Alicia.” Avoiding the word kil
ler or murderer, of course.
“And if it happened that way, spontaneous, not planned, then this brings an entirely new viewpoint to the tragedy.”
Jason frowned, unsure of Mr. Trent’s meaning. “I don’t understand.”
“What I mean is this. For instance, if you, Jason, committed a terrible act, for instance, if you had killed Alicia without premeditation, without planning it out in advance but in a moment of panic or losing your temper—then it would make a big difference in the way the case was handled. We would allow for mitigating circumstances. Not first-degree murder. Perhaps your mind was in turmoil at the time. Juries, the police, they understand how those things can happen.”
Jason understood. He was aware of different charges in murder cases mostly from television, first degree and second degree, manslaughter, but had never given them much thought. He frowned as he looked at Mr. Trent. The questioner wore an expression on his face that Jason had not seen before. He looked . . . sly. Jason recalled words from a book he’d read as a little kid. Sly as a fox. And suddenly the import of Mr. Trent’s words struck him. If you had killed Alicia.
“But I—”
Trent cut him off. That ancient ploy: a question to divert the subject.
“Know what’s interesting, Jason?” he asked.
“What?”
“The choice of weapon. You said a rock was used. That’s what the police also think. ’A blunt object causing trauma.’ Those were the official words. It’s interesting that you also said a rock caused the trauma. Why did you say that, Jason?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of rocks there.”
“What do you think became of the rock?”
Jason shrugged, wriggled a bit on the chair, conscious again of the heat in the room. He was not really interested in all this stuff about the stone. What did all of this have to do with him? He became aware of a headache starting; a small pulsing pain.
“I don’t know what became of the rock. Maybe it got thrown away.” He was getting tired of the questioning, despite what Mr. Trent had said about helping out. He wanted, really, to get out of there, to go home.
“I think I’d like to go now,” he said. “I’d like to go home.”
“Not quite yet, Jason.”
“Why not?” Hadn’t he answered all the questions?
“Because as I said, you are important. Not only were you close to Alicia, but you spent those last hours of her life with her.”
“The killer did, not me,” Jason said.
Trent did not reply, merely looked at the boy.
“Then, let’s summarize, shall we?” he said.
“Yes,” Jason agreed. Summarize. The summary would prove that he was not the last one to see Alicia alive.
“You knew Alicia Bartlett. She was a little girl who seemed to like you. A smart little girl who often beat you at games, made you feel inferior.”
Jason opened his mouth to speak. Somehow Mr. Trent had gotten it wrong. But the interrogator held up his hand, like a traffic cop. And Jason sank back in his chair.
“You enjoy reading about violence. Those books you read and movies you mentioned,” Trent said, speaking a bit more rapidly, not wanting to give the boy a chance to interrupt. “You said you’re not sure sometimes about the difference between reality and fantasy. You daydream a lot. Sometimes about violent things—”
“But—”
Again, the traffic cop’s motion.
“You’re familiar with the woods where Alicia Bartlett was murdered. You said that a rock was used to kill her. The police had not divulged that information to the general public and yet you said a rock was the murder weapon. Right?”
“Right, but—”
“Opportunity and motive are the most important aspects of a case, Jason. And you had both.”
“Motive?”
“Alicia made fun of you. Made you feel inferior.”
“I liked Alicia, she never—”
“There’s a thin line between liking someone, even loving them, and then hating them. A spark can ignite very quickly. Let’s face it, Jason. No one else had the opportunity. You were with her that afternoon. Alone with her . . .”
“I was alone with her but—”
“Look, it’s understandable. You didn’t want to hurt her, did you?”
“No, I—”
“Those things happen. You lose your temper, you get upset, things happen fast, you didn’t mean to do it but things got out of hand. There was a rock nearby—”
“It didn’t happen like that,” Jason said, voice rising in volume, seeming to bounce off the walls.
“How did it happen, then?” Triumph in Trent’s voice.
Jason recoiled as if the questioner had slapped him in the face or struck him in the stomach, and his stomach suddenly felt hollow, his bowels loosening. He had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom.
Trent saw the panic in the boy’s eyes, the raw pain that distorted his features, the trembling of his lips, his hands raised in protest, his body suddenly shriveling as if he needed to make himself smaller, to squirm himself out of the trap he had walked into unaware. And in a blazing moment, Trent knew irrevocably that the boy was innocent, knew in the deepest part of his being, past all doubt and deception, that Jason Dorrant had not murdered Alicia Bartlett. Trent had witnessed too many evasions and heard too many protestations in all his interrogations to have any doubt about it. Jason Dorrant was innocent. The accumulation of body movements, the spontaneous responses, the lack of cunning in his voice and manner, all added up to the inescapable truth. Trent frowned in dismay and disappointment. He thought of Braxton and the senator waiting for the confession, the town outside gripped by fear and suspicion, waiting for him to deliver the goods, deliver the murderer so that they could all sleep easy and not worry tonight if a door wasn’t locked or if a son or daughter stayed out late. The senator’s promise echoed in his mind. You can write your own ticket.
He looked at the boy. So fragile in his innocence and naïveté. So vulnerable. Suggestible. Unguarded, open to being shaped and molded. As others have been shaped and molded—the thought like a moving shadow across his mind. Maybe I’m wrong, he thought. Maybe for once my instincts aren’t accurate. Maybe the boy is more clever than he seems. That momentary flash of deception earlier—was that a glimpse into the boy’s real nature, into his psyche, where guilt resided?
Trent had dreaded the day he’d meet a subject who would be the epitome of deception, outwitting him in the game of questions and answers, thrust and parry, an idiot savant who would somehow outguess and outflank him. He remembered the classic description of a perfect crime: so perfect that it was never perceived as a crime. The perfect deceiver, then, would be someone so innocent-looking, so pure and upright in appearance that any possibility of guilt would be instantly dismissed.
This boy sitting before him—was he that perfect deceiver? Maybe, maybe . . . Or am I only deceiving myself?
Trent knew that this was the moment of decision, to go on or to stop. Simple, really. Dismiss the boy and send him back to his everyday, ordinary life not knowing the fate he had just missed. Or should he dig deeper? Call upon all his own cunning and experience to find out if evil did lurk in the boy, if his appearance of innocence was just that: an appearance, a façade, a mask.
But you know it isn’t.
Trent dismissed the small voice inside him.
“Let’s calm down,” Trent heard himself saying in his most reasonable voice. “Let’s simply look at the facts, the case against you, and then find a way to mitigate it.”
The boy shook his head. “Why do we have to do that? Why would the police think that I . . .” He paused, obviously could not bring himself to say that fatal word. “. . . did what they say I did?”
“It’s all those things we spoke about earlier, Jason. Motive and opportunity. The absence of other suspects. No one saw Alicia after you left her that day. By your own admission, you saw no one in town who was a stranger or who a
cted suspiciously. Nobody else did. Alicia’s parents, her brother, all can be accounted for.” Trent purposely avoided using the word alibi. “You can’t account for your actions, have no witnesses to what you were doing between four and five o’clock, which was the time of Alicia’s death. You have a disposition toward violence. . . .”
“I . . . what?” Astounded at this suggestion. Everything that the questioner was saying was preposterous but especially this disposition toward violence stuff.
“I’m only stating what the police believe. You attacked that boy last year in the cafeteria. Without provocation.”
“I don’t know about provocation. But he was a bully. Sneaky, too. He did things to kids when he thought nobody was looking. He cornered Rebecca Tolland and touched her . . .”
“Did she report him?”
Jason shook his head, angry at himself for not doing a better job of explaining what had happened.
“You see? No one saw him do those things. All they know is that one day, without any reason, you knocked him down in the cafeteria. In front of your classmates. Everybody saw you do that, nobody saw what you say he did.”
Jason was bothered again by Mr. Trent’s choice of words, always leaving a doubt about Jason’s behavior. Nobody saw what you say he did.
“Plus those horror stories you love to read and the violent movies you love to see.”
“I don’t love them. I mean, I like them but I like other stuff, too.”
“Look, Jason, I am only stating what they think. I am trying to show you the seriousness of your situation. You are their prime suspect. They have evidence against you. No one else fits the profile. . . .”
Silence fell and Trent let it gather. Surreptitiously, he checked the recorder, saw the pulsing light that indicated the interrogation was being taped. All was going the way he had assumed it would go. The boy had stepped almost willingly into the trap, and now the trap was closing around him.
“I want to go home,” Jason said.
“Let me tell you something, Jason. You’re safe here with me. Once you step out that door, there is nothing, nobody to protect you. Here we can devise a way to help you, keep you safe.”
“How?” Eager with hope suddenly.
“By devising a strategy.”
The Rag and Bone Shop Page 7
