Mike typed in the name and hit Enter. Red text appeared on the screen indicating that the password was incorrect. He tried another one, a character with long spindly legs and arms taken from a terrifying internet meme about a tall man who took children into the woods. Slenderman. But this didn’t work either.
Okay, made sense. It was a long shot anyway — Braxton had stopped being into Minecraft a while ago. What was he into now? He’d been given the laptop when he turned thirteen, four months before. So something that was important to him since his birthday.
Mike looked around the room. His gaze fell on the bookshelves, the top of the dresser, the closet. Any moment Hannah would start balking at something, or finish her snack and want more, or the episode of Curious George would end. He stood up so fast the swivel chair spun around. He hunted through Braxton’s things. He looked at the two posters on the wall — both of them from The Hobbit. He knew Braxton identified with the Hobbits to some extent. Unlike himself, Braxton was small. He tried to remember the names of the characters.
He returned to the desk and tried some different possibilities. Every one of them came up incorrect. He could feel the panic starting to creep up his neck, his heart beating faster. He needed to go be with his daughters. Hell, he needed to go collect his wife. Callie was beside herself, out of her mind with shock and grief. He thought about Callie. She was strong, but her strength had a darker side — she was passionate, a gifted teacher because of her energetic style and her unconventional approach to learning — but this was the mother of all tragedies, the worst thing that could happen to a person, to lose their child, to outlive the love of their lives. He felt despicable and guilty over what he was trying to do.
What else? What else did Braxton like? What was special to him? What was secret?
He loved to skateboard and had gotten around Florida on those four little wheels for years. Mike had noticed that the skateboard had been left at home more frequently in the months before their departure.
Desperate, Mike tried a few brand names. Volcom, and Burton — though he thought Burton only made snowboards. He tried RUCA and Billabong. The red text kept flashing. Then the website prompted him to continue by entering a string of odd letters and numbers. It was attempting to protect itself from hackers.
Frustrated, sweating now despite the cool temperature of the room, Mike bent closer to the screen and squinted at the code, pecking it in with his index finger. Then he was again at the log-in field the idiot cursor blinking at him, teasing him to enter the correct phrase.
Or numbers, he thought. Or a combination of text and numbers. He could be here all day.
But he didn’t think Braxton would’ve used numbers. It was just a hunch, but he felt like his son was more inclined to use a word with special meaning to him. The kid was into reading and writing, not math. What else was he into?
Braxton was fiercely dedicated to environmentalism and had some wild ideas about a whole new type of economy, what he called, on the few occasions they discussed it, a resource-based economy. This concern for the environment and the economy, coupled with his lack of debating skills, had caused some trouble between them on more than one occasion.
Mike felt a sudden light illuminate the back of his mind. An innovator Braxton had once expressed his admiration for. He had been watching some documentary about a man named Jacques Fresco who had created The Venus Project, an elaborate design for a utopian world, one that, to some people, would seem like pure communist fantasy, but that placed resources at the center of the world economy instead of the commodification and competition of capitalism.
Mike typed J-a-c-q-u-e-s and F-r-e-s-c-o and then both together.
No dice.
He tried V-e-n-u-s-p-r-o-j-e-c-t
He hit enter. Foiled.
He sat back for a second and rubbed his face. He leaned forward again and stared. He tapped the delete button until the word “project” was erased and then he stopped. He was grasping at straws here. There was just as much of chance that Braxton would be coy and have a password like “Password.” Anyone who wanted to get anywhere they weren’t supposed to go on the web didn’t bother trying to crack existing passwords.
Mike was preparing to try a whole new angle when he hit enter on “Venus,” just for the hell of it and, a second later, Braxton’s email account opened up in front of him.
Mike’s eyes widened and his scalp tingled. He was in. He started flipping through the emails. He kept his eyes on the dates to the right of the email chain.
“Dad?”
It was Reno calling from the other room.
“I’ll be there in a minute. Just put on another episode, okay honey?”
“Dad?”
“I said I’ll be right there.”
He heard a thumping.
“Dad there’s someone at the door.”
He froze. He had yet to locate the email. He peered at the screen and scrolled further down. There were not many messages. Mostly there were repeats from something called “Kapow.” He quickly flicked the cursor over to the trash folder and opened it. He scrolled toward the bottom, and heard the knocking again at the front door.
Jesus, he needed to get out there. He strained his eyes, rolling up and down, scanning the screen. Nothing. Braxton had already deleted the email Mike was hunting for. It was long gone.
He pulled his face away from the screen and quickly closed down the browser window, collapsing both of the open tabs.
He got up out of the chair and turned to see that the screen was now illumined, whereas it had been dark in sleep-mode. The original browser window was now closed. He’d tampered with evidence, for God’s sake.
He left the room, his pulse rate uncomfortably high. No one would notice anything, he reasoned. To check his son’s laptop was a natural reaction that anyone could understand.
He entered the living room, turned and saw two shapes behind the window of the front door. They were here.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Swift pressed ‘record’ on the video camera, though he wasn’t obliged to do so in this case. Robert Darring was an adult and it was only minors who had to be videotaped during interrogation. For adults the audio record was sufficient. But since it was already there, having the video on certainly couldn’t hurt. Swift didn’t have the benefit of a partner, not yet. He’d spoken with Kim Yom, who would be arriving shortly from BCI headquarters in Albany to head up computer forensics, but he didn’t want to waste any time. His name suited him — as people all too often said. Justice should be timely. The kids were here now, and before the lawyers got to them, he wanted to hear their stories. He couldn’t force them to say anything they didn’t wish to, and he wouldn’t. He would do it by the book. They had a right to counsel, but they could talk too. Maybe they even wanted to. The truth set people free.
Of course, it could also send them to jail
Robert Darring looked at him across the table. Now that he was in closer proximity, Darring didn’t look his age. From afar, at a glance, yeah, he’d looked twenty three. He wore a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants, the kind of outfit worn by college kids; only the sweatshirt displayed no collegiate logo. It read, simply, “OBEY.” Swift had seen the word before, something to do with street art. It was usually accompanied by a creepy face, a rendering of the late Andre the Giant.
There were some faint lines around the boy’s mouth and eyes, and pouches beneath eyes that were dark, so brown they were almost black. He wore his sable-colored hair close-cropped. He looked Italian or Hispanic, or a mixture of both, though his surname suggested Irish or Gaelic descent. Perhaps he was mixed-race with a white father.
“Could you please state your full name and age?”
“Robert Matthew Darring, aged twenty-three.”
“And where are you from?”
“Originally or now, sir?”
“How about both.”
“Originally from Queens, New York. Currently from Queens, New York.”
Ki
d was trying to be smart. But Darring’s face was blank. He looked like someone standing in line in a cafeteria or at a post office. The initial hard-ass impression was easing slightly. Or, he was playing it cool.
“And why were you on Route 9N tonight around 3 a.m.?”
Darring opened his mouth and proceeded to relate exactly the same story as Hideo Miko. They had come to visit Braxton. They saw a man standing over a body in the middle of the road and they freaked and turned around and got the hell out of there.
“Okay,” Swift said, folding his arms. “Here’s my problem with that story. One, it’s the middle of the night — or very, very early morning. Two, you were beyond Braxton Simpkins’ house. If you were coming from I-87 and turned off at exit 30, you would have been coming from the east. The crime scene is further west along the road.”
Darring nodded soberly. “I understand, sir. It was the middle of the night for a couple of reasons. One thing, none of us have ever come up here before. We got a little lost. And I screwed up — I had the directions in my phone, but then I forgot my phone at home. So we had Sasha’s phone and used GPS. I guess you could check all that on his phone, or whatever. But then as we got about to — oh, I don’t know, I think exit 24 or so, not far north of Albany? The snow really started coming, and that slowed us way down. And that’s why we went right by his house, too. This area is really small, like, really off the map.”
“Oh don’t I know it,” smiled Swift. The kid was talking a nice little streak. Seemed happy to volunteer details about what and where.
“The GPS went wonky,” Darring went on. “It couldn’t tell us which house was his. Technology, right? I don’t know, maybe we had the address not exactly right. He’d only just moved, so . . . but then we saw the guy in the road and it really scared us. If you say we were beyond Braxton’s house at that point, I guess we were. But we had no idea.”
“His parents were going to let you come visit in the middle of the night? Even if the snow hadn’t slowed you down, or you hadn’t gotten off track, you still would have arrived very late at night.”
Darring lowered his head. “No, sir. His parents didn’t know. It was stupid. The whole thing was . . . I don’t know . . . We just thought it would be cool to take a road trip.”
Swift took a breath and leaned back slightly. After a moment he said, “You know, when I asked Hideo Miko these questions, he had different things to say.”
Darring looked up. For just a second Swift thought he saw something almost feral in the young man’s eyes, something menacing. “He did? I don’t know what. I mean, he was asleep for most of the drive. What we saw in the road really scared him. He’s . . . he’s different, sir. He has some problems, you know? I think he may have wet his pants, but don’t tell him I told you that.”
“Your secret is safe. But that’s not what I mean. Hideo was afraid to tell me at first, but then he opened up. And his story does not match yours. So, let’s cut through the guff and just talk straight. Alright? Here’s what I’ve got.” He leaned forward and counted off on his fingers: “I’ve got you at the scene of the crime. It’s the middle of the night. I’ve got a witness see you speed away.”
“Right. Which goes with what I’m telling you, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we have this kid’s body on a slab right now, and within moments, we’re going to have cause of death. And it’s all going to add up to what you and your friends were really doing there tonight. It’s just a matter of time.”
Swift leaned back. For a moment he fixed the kid with a look that was fatherly, compassionate.
Then he leaned forward.
“Look Mr. Darring. I just need something to take to the DA. This is going to be an open and shut case. I don’t even need anything from you; I’ve already got it. If we take this case to the DA right now, you’re going to do time. Not easy time like your two minor friends, and not cozy county jail either. Prison time, Mr. Darring. I’m here to give you an opportunity to explain what happened. That’s all. There's always two sides to a story, and if the DA hears your side, you'll get credit for it, and it can really help you out. You’re going to need friends, okay?”
Darring’s face remained inscrutable. He seemed neither alarmed nor angered by any of this. Instead, he too leaned forward.
“Sir. If this was really such an air-tight case? You wouldn’t need to interrogate me. You would just go ahead and take it to the District Attorney for potential charges.” Darring’s dark eyes were lit with red pinpoints reflecting the record light on the video camera. His voice was even and light. “After I give you my ‘explanation,’ and it corroborates whatever evidence the state does possess? Then you go about trying to prove that I, the defendant, grossly understated my actual involvement.”
Darring sat upright, his expression still blank.
Dammit, thought Swift. Okay, so the kid was too clever for the usual routine. That was fine; Swift had other cards to play.
As if on cue, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Swift pulled it out and looked at the incoming number. What perfect timing.
“It’s my forensic pathologist.” He stood up and walked briskly to the door, glancing back at Darring. “Let’s see what she has to say.”
He left the room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Doctor Janine Poehler watched the woman in the adjoining room with a heavy heart. It was just before eight o’clock in the morning, and Janine’s understanding was that the woman had been woken up in the middle of the night to be informed of the death of her son. She couldn’t imagine a moment more tragic than this, a more horrific way to deliver such terrible news. Some part of the woman’s mind must believe she was still dreaming, and soon she would awaken and the nightmare would be over.
The woman’s name was Callie Simpkins. She was being comforted by two state troopers, one male and one female. The female trooper looked up and her gaze met Janine’s through the glass that separated them, an unanswerable question blazing in her eyes.
The body lay behind Janine on the table, covered in an evidence sheet.
No way was Janine going to perform the autopsy with the mother watching. Simpkins was beyond grief; she was hysterical. Yet she refused to leave, and the troopers were pulling their hair out trying to figure out what to do with her. What the woman needed was a crisis worker, a mental health therapist from the County, who was supposedly on the way. Janine wanted to know who the hell had made the call to let the woman ride in the van in the first place. Simpkins had just spent forty minutes driving from New Brighton to Plattsburgh with her dead child in a body bag. She was out of her mind. Her eyes were locked on the body in the next room. Her mouth was open in a yawing, soundless scream, giving her face an eerie misshapen look. Her eyes were haunted.
Janine turned her back on the viewing room. It was supposed to be there so that medical students and law enforcement officers could observe the autopsies. Janine did work with the college, but she also had her own practice in anatomic, clinical, and forensic pathology. Most of the referrals she got came from law enforcement, and sometimes medical students and criminal justice students were permitted to observe, depending on the circumstances. In fact, the local state university had just recently dispatched several students to witness a perinatal autopsy, during which two of them abruptly left. Imagine a bereaved mother witnessing her own flesh and blood child undergoing a postmortem examination. Even seeing the external examination would be devastating. She needed the troopers to get that woman out of the room.
The lead investigating officer was John Swift, a man she had known for many years, ever since she had been a medical student. She’d gotten his number from the female trooper and was now ringing him, keeping her back to the woman. God help him if he was the one who’d let the woman ride here with her dead child.
Janine put the phone to her ear.
After a couple of rings, he picked up. “Swift.”
“Detective Swift. This is Doctor Poehler.”
She heard
some noise at his end, as if his phone were being jostled. “Yes, Doctor Poehler. How are you?”
“I’m in a bit of a situation?”
“Yeah, this is one for the books alright.”
She glanced at the body on the table. “That it is. Very, very unfortunate.” Then with emphasis, “Made more unfortunate by the presence of the victim’s mother.”
Swift hesitated. “I appreciate you responding so quickly, Doctor.”
“I’m an early riser,” Janine said, letting it pass for the moment. “Autopsies are best performed within twenty-four hours of death. Organs deteriorate, embalming interferes with blood cultures and toxicology. But, Detective, I’ve never had to perform an autopsy with the family looking over my shoulder.”
He was silent for a moment. She heard a door open and close at his end. Then he spoke, his voice low. “I know. This thing went off like a daisy-cutter. I made the call and let her go; she was so volatile . . . I’m sorry. I’ll have my troopers get her out of there right away.”
“Anything I’m looking for?”
“What’s your initial perception?”
“I only glanced. Nothing obvious. No bruises, no blood. Normally developed white male measuring sixty-two inches and weighing a hundred and eighteen pounds and appearing generally consistent with the stated age of thirteen. Lividity is fixed in the distal portions of the limbs. There is one small scrape on the right cheekbone.”
“Suggesting he fell to the ground?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Let me ask you — could this be some sort of illness? Something undiagnosed?”
“Of course that is possible. I have no idea at this time.” She paused. “You know how this goes, Detective, I need time to . . .”
“I know. I just . . . I’ve got a suspect in the box right now. I really like him for this, but the crime scene was a wash and all else is pending.”
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