by Jodi Picoult
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 girlfriend, 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 . . .”
“Exactly,” I murmur. “I actually have a copy of that here. If you can initial it here, and sign at the bottom, then I can prove to my chief that you didn’t just memorize it—you understood what it meant.”
Jacob takes a pen from me and quickly scrawls his name across the paper I’ve prepared. “Now can we talk about it?” he asks. “What have you got?”
“Well, the backpack was a disappointment.”
“No prints?”
“Only ones we could match to Jess herself,” I say. “Something else interesting turned up at the house—a screen was cut and the window jimmied open.”
“You think that’s how the perp got inside?”
“No, because the door wasn’t locked. We did, however, find boot prints under the window that matched footwear Jess’s boyfriend owns.”
“There was a great CrimeBusters episode once where
the exterior footprints didn’t show up until it snowed—” Jacob breaks off, editing himself. “So Mark kills Jess and then tries to make it look like something else—a break-in—by cutting the screen and knocking over the stools and the mail and the CDs?”
“Something like that.” I glance down at his hands—like Maguire’s, they are injury-free. “What’s your take? How hard would it be to reorganize a crime scene to mislead the investigators?”
Before he can answer, my cell phone rings. I recognize the number; it’s Basil, who’s accompanied the medical examiner back to the hospital. “Could you excuse me for a minute?” I ask Jacob, and I step into the hall and close the door behind me before answering the phone. “What have you got?”
“In addition to the scrapes on her back and contusions on the throat and upper arms, there are some more in the periorbital region—”
“English, Basil.”
“Raccoon eyes,” he says. “She’s got a broken nose and a skull fracture. Cause of death is subdural hematoma.”
I try to imagine Jacob Hunt throwing a right hook to Jess Ogilvy’s face, hard enough to crack her skull. “Great. Thanks.”
“That’s not all,” Basil answers. “Her underwear was on backward, but there’s no evidence of sexual assault. Her face was washed clean—there were traces of blood in the hairline. And that missing tooth? We found it.”
“Where?”
“Wrapped up in toilet paper, and tucked into the front pocket of her sweatpants,” Basil says. “Whoever did this didn’t just dump Jess Ogilvy. He cared about her.”
I hang up the phone and immediately think of Sasha, who lost a tooth just a month ago when she was staying at my place. We wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in an envelope with the Tooth Fairy’s name on it, for good measure. Naturally, I had to call my ex to ask her what the going rate was—$5, if you can believe it, which means my whole mouth is worth $160. After Sasha was asleep and I swapped the envelope for a nice crisp Lincoln, I held it, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do with a baby tooth. I imagined the Tooth Fairy to have those empty glass jar lamps that hold seashells, only hers would hold thousands of tiny cuspids. Since I didn’t subscribe to that kind of décor, I figured I’d just toss the damn thing, but at the last minute, I couldn’t do it. This was my daughter’s childhood, sealed in an envelope. How many chances would I have to hold on to a piece of her life?
