I quickly look at the photo, then wonder if the cop can hear my heart beating, or can sense my soul leaving my body.
“What we have here, Mick, is a photo of the three of you outside the Big K Market on Friday, November fifth. It’s from the video camera outside. It seems to me you’re having a good time,” the investigator says, almost smiling as he taps the photo with his index finger. “You see the time stamp there on this image we’ve lifted from their outside camera? Do you see it, Mick?”
I stare at my own smiling face in the grainy black-and-white photos. I flash on that night and wonder how I could have thought anything was funny; I stare at the tiled walls around me now and wonder if anything will ever be funny again.
“We compared the time you were outside the Big K with the time that Mr. Shreve was inside. Guess what, Mick, it is the exact same time,” the investigator says, then leans into me.
“All circumstantial,” Richards says. The investigator takes more photos from the folder, putting them down quickly in front of me, like he was dealing blackjack. These color photos show the remains of a human being with burned skin hanging off of broken white bone.
“Here are photos of what was left of Shreve,” the investigator says, pushing the photos toward me. I stare at them as if I was seeing an accident on the side of the road. “Mick, look at these photos.”
“This is wrong—” Richards starts, but the cop cuts him off.
“We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” the investigator says.
I try to resist, but I can’t, so I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Easy way is simple: Mick, tell us what happened. I admire your loyalty to your friends. You’d only better hope and pray they are as loyal to you. My guess is they’re not as loyal and they’ll save themselves. Hard way is we go to trial and everybody sees these photos. Which is it going to be for you?” The investigator flipped his friendly smile switch. Now he’s all teeth.
“Don’t answer that,” Richards says.
“I’m guessing that Mick probably got caught up in something that his friends did. If he turns on Brody and Aaron, and we believe him, then we’ll recommend the case to juvenile court,” the investigator says. “No prison time, for sure. Detox or some program if drugs or alcohol were involved. Probation, community service, and maybe some sort of restitution.”
“I see,” Richards says, but I don’t like the interested tone in his voice.
“Christmas is coming up and this is a gift,” the investigator says with a smile. “But we’re closing this out. Brody may seem tough, but he’s ready to talk, I can tell. And the other one, Aaron, he knows the system, so he knows if he talks, then he’ll get the walk.”
I avert my eyes from the drowning-pool blues of the investigator.
“Aaron seems the weak link,” the investigator says to Richards. “From what happened to his dad, he knows that it’s better if you don’t have to stand in front of a jury. Aaron will sell you out to save himself hard time like his father’s doing. You really want him to decide your fate?”
I can’t take much more; it’s like there’s a ticking time bomb in my chest.
“Brody’s a Catholic, right?” the investigator asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well, they say confession is good for the soul. It might start with confessing his sins to a priest, but that won’t be enough. Brody will talk to us. He’ll tell us everything. Maybe he’ll tell us this was all Mick’s fault. Is that what he’ll say, Mick? I want you to connect the dots. There is a dead man and you’re involved. We know that. Someone is going to go to prison for that crime. We know that. What we don’t know is who that person should be: you, Brody, or Aaron. Three people know who did what: you, Brody, and Aaron. The first to talk is the one who walks.”
“We’re done now,” Richards cuts him off. The investigator nods, then opens up the folder.
“While you’re thinking about things, you might want to read this,” the investigator says just before he exits. “It might explain why we’re more willing to believe you than your friends.”
TWO TEENAGERS ACCUSED IN BEATING OF HOMELESS MAN HAVE VIOLENT FAMILY HISTORY
Two of three teenagers being held for the murder of Edward Shreve, a homeless man, have a violent family history.
One has a father who is currently on death row at Huntsville State Prison in Texas for the brutal murder of his son.
Another’s family also has a violent background. One brother is currently serving a ten-year sentence at Leavenworth Military Prison in Leavenworth, Kansas, for assaulting an officer. The same suspect was recently removed from a school activity for violating the school’s code of conduct for students.
Investigators have learned that earlier in the day, this suspect had an altercation at the Space Invaders arcade with a student from Flushing High School.
The third teenager has no history of violence.
Police have yet to learn how the paths of the three teenagers and Shreve crossed on the night of November 5. Police also lack a motive for the killing.
I read the story twice, slower the second time, hoping the words would change. I stall for time, taking a drink of water, but it does nothing to squelch the burning in my stomach. I notice the investigator left the photos of the Scarecrow faceup inches away from me.
“Mick, what do you want to do here?” Richards asks, then turns over the photos.
“Just leave me alone,” I say.
“Look, I’m not going to pressure you like the cop. I want what is best for you, but it doesn’t look good. I think he’s probably right about Brody and Aaron,” Richards says.
“I said leave me alone!” My shout is loud enough to cause the glass of water to vibrate. We sit in silence for a few minutes, although the volume in my head is up to ten. The photos of the burned up Scarecrow are turned over, but I still hear Robert Plant singing. I’m distracted when the investigator re-enters carrying a small brown box. “Mick, your parents want to join us. I know you don’t want that, but they get to choose, not you.”
My parents walk into the room behind the investigator. I want to scream at them to leave. They’re standing behind me: Mom’s hand is on my shoulder; ex-Dad is seething like a boiling pot. Mom finally sits, but ex-Dad remains standing, five feet and one hundred miles away.
“So who is Garrett Barber?” the investigator asks, like he was talking about the weather.
“He’s this kid—” ex-Dad starts to say.
“Let him speak, Mr. Salisbury, it’s really best,” the investigator says. “Mick, who is he?”
“A kid at school,” I mumble.
“Really?” The investigator furrows his brow. “Mick, we’ve been finding out a great deal about you since you’ve been in here. You can sit here and lie to us, but what good is that going to do? We either already know or will find out the truth. So, again, who is Garrett Barber?”
“Tell him,” ex-Dad says, slapping his hand hard against the back of my chair.
I don’t move a muscle, not even a molecule within a muscle.
“He told us that you and Brody beat him up,” the investigator says, then looks at Richards and away from me. “Sounds like your client does have a history of violent behavior.”
I wanted to turn to Mom and tell her—but only her—why I had a fight with Garrett, that I was defending her. And it was Brody who did the beating up, not me. The investigator pulls a folder from the box, then puts it in front of me next to the Shreve pictures.
“I have his statement right here if any of you would like to look at it.” The investigator hands the folder to Richards, who starts to speed read through the pages. When it becomes obvious I won’t answer him, the investigator pulls out another folder.
“And who is Nicole Snider?” the investigator continues. “We’ve talked to her and her father. He was thinking of taking out a restraining order—”
“What the hell is going on?” ex-Dad explodes. I want to say, That’s a lie, but what is truth and what is li
e is confused in my head now. “Why were you stalking this girl?”
“My son isn’t a stalker,” Mom says. I notice that she says “my son,” not “our son,” when speaking about me, even with ex-Dad in the room. I feel bad making Mom spend so much time in this room with ex-Dad; her skin must be crawling.
“Again, it’s all right here.” The investigator hands another folder to Richards. “Mick, do you want to tell your side of the story? Mr. Snider was very convincing and very angry.”
This is all wrong. All wrong.
“How about a Natalie Riley?” the investigator says, but I’m confused by this name.
“Who are these girls?” Mom says, not really asking me, just desperate to know.
“Your son, Mrs. Salisbury, made a lewd sexual remark to this young woman at the Space Invaders arcade, which led to—guess what?” the investigator continues in a monotone voice.
I remember the girl and realize the investigator must know everything about me.
“It led to another act of violence with your son and Brody Warren attacking a young man at the arcade,” the investigator says. “A jury will be very interested in this pattern of violence. The young man said he would testify at your trial. That is, if you want a trial. Like we’ve said, you don’t need to do that, just tell us what happened that night with Mr. Shreve.”
More silence from me; tears from Mom; sighs from ex-Dad. Everything’s normal.
“Here’s his statement,” the investigator says, handing yet another folder over to Richards. “Still don’t want to talk, Mick? Fine, let’s continue.”
As sweat drips from my forehead, I’m beginning to understand the levee analogy.
“So we have these acts of violence, one of them on the day of the attack,” the investigator says, then pulls out another folder. “But then we’ve yet to add in the accelerant to your son’s behavior. The same accelerant they used to try to burn the body: alcohol.”
“My son doesn’t—” Mom rushes in armed with her beliefs about me, not the facts.
“We talked to some students at your school and they said your nickname is 151,” the investigator says. I imagine every student at school talking about me, like they once talked about Brody’s football heroics. But all the talk is nothing more than a public humiliation. No matter what happens, I know I’ll never ever be able to attend Swartz Creek High School again.
“151? What the hell does that mean?” ex-Dad asks, slapping the chair again.
“Why don’t you tell your father about your nickname?” The investigator is smiling again, but not the friendly smile. No, this is the smile of a willing and well-paid executioner.
“You’d better start talking, mister!” Another shout from ex-Dad, another slap.
“No?” The investigator shrugs. “151 stands for Bacardi 151 Rum, isn’t that right, Mick?”
“That is irrelevant,” Richards says, trying to ignore, as I am, Mom’s tears.
“I’ve got someone who will testify about Mick’s impaired judgment when intoxicated.” The investigator pulls out another folder. He taps on the table waiting for me to speak.
When I give him nothing but a cold stare, he says, “If you don’t want to talk about Garrett Barber or Nicole Snider or Natalie Riley, then how about Roxanne Gray?”
“Shut up!” I shout; I can’t take it anymore. I’m almost ready to talk to make this stop, so Mom doesn’t have to hear any more about the secret and shameful life I’ve been hiding from her.
“Calm down, Mick,” Richards says. “He’s trying to upset you, rattle you.”
The investigator offers the folder to Mom, saying, “A drunken sexual incident at a party.”
“Stop this,” Mom pleads.
“Linda, be quiet!” ex-Dad shouts from across the room.
“I know it must be hard, Mrs. Salisbury, I got two kids of my own.” The investigator’s rough voice has grown smooth, like he pulled a switch. “You try to raise them right, teach them good values, but they get away from you. It’s not your fault, don’t blame yourself for what your son has become. Bad influence of these other two has made your son become a murderer.”
“My son hasn’t become anything,” Mom cuts in. “He’s a good child and—”
The investigator cuts her off, saying, “A child doesn’t have this history of violent behavior. A child doesn’t perform sex acts. And a child doesn’t watch movies like this.”
The investigator pulls from the box the Filthy First Times DVD and my death is total.
“Oh, Mick,” Mom says, then turns to leave the room. I wait for my father to say “That’s mine,” but the only sound in the room is Mom’s footsteps, not ex-Dad’s admission. Same old shit.
“I’ve had enough,” ex-Dad announces, then walks over to me. He grabs my chin and yanks my face around so I have to look at him. “What happened to you? I raised you better, mister!” My eyes look down, but I want to raise my voice and shout, You never raised me. You chased women, then left me and Mom. You’re not my responsible father, you’re just my sperm donor.
“So, there you have it, Counselor,” the investigator says. “And this was just a few days of investigating. Mick, what else are we going to find? Can you really risk that? No judge or jury is going to buy the innocent act. Mick, you’re guilty and everyone in this room knows it.”
“We’re done,” Richards announces, slapping his hands on the table.
“I’ll leave this all with you, Counselor,” the investigator says. “You can tell your client how we’ll bring this all out when he goes to court. Everybody is going to know everything about you. Every little detail.”
“I don’t think so,” Richards replies.
“And then we’ll have the photos of the man that your client brutally murdered,” the investigator says, standing up, taking his Pandora’s box with him. “It’s about the weight of the evidence. Mick, do you feel the weight of all of this on top of you? Do you feel it? Just tell me what happened and all of this goes up in smoke.”
He demonstrates the final phrase by taking from the box my lighter sealed in an evidence bag. “Your lighter, your prints, your history. We’ve got one dead body, and you’ve got two untrustworthy friends. Mick, you’re smart. Add it up and know there’s only one path to take.
“I’ll give you time to think about it,” the investigator says. “Mr. Richards, Mr. Salisbury, why don’t we talk about this outside? Let’s give Mick time to make the right choice.”
· · ·
Through the glass, I imagine the conversations between ex-Dad and Richards. I imagine my mother’s tears. I imagine conversations down the hallway with Brody, his lawyer, that cop, and Brody’s mom. I imagine Aaron and that set of conversations. But all I can do is imagine because I can’t see through the thick walls. I can’t hear what others are saying; I can only imagine. I can only hear what’s already been said about me; I can only hear myself saying, I’m ready to talk. But even as I practice forming the words, I know I can’t turn on my friends for there is nothing worse in the world than cheating on those you love. I’ve cheated once and paid the price. The police may be dealing from the bottom of the deck, but I want to dig deep and find the best part of myself even in the shadow of my worst deeds. I just want to sleep. I’m exhausted from not sleeping and not telling the truth. I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come. After maybe a half hour, the door opens and another cop walks in with Richards.
“Mick, I’m Detective Allan,” the man says, then sits down. I grunt, look up, and notice the wide smile on Allan’s face. Allan’s older, gray-haired, and his voice sounds like he’s not going to be surprised by anything. “I’ve talked to Aaron and Brody. We got the whole story, Mick.”
I don’t say anything. Richards looks as stunned as I do.
“We’ve got Aaron’s story, and we’ve got Brody’s, so that leaves you,” Allan says, pushing a blank sheet of paper across the table. “You’re all alone, Mick, all alone.”
“What do you mean?”
> “They’ve both given you up,” Allan almost whispers, the paper pushed a little closer. “So if you were counting on your friends to protect you, if the three of you had some sort of agreement, if you thought you could trust them—Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, mostly to convince myself.
“Aaron said you were the one who killed Shreve and burned up the body,” Allan says, pushing the paper closer. “If you want to tell us something different, then start writing.”
I’m weighing the words in my jam-packed skull as Allan looks through his notes.
“Here’s what he said, ‘Mick was the one who killed the Scarecrow,’” Allan says as the fire alarm goes off between my ears. How did Allan know to use the term ‘the Scarecrow’? Did Brody and Aaron really confess? If so, did they both blame me? Or is Allan lying to me? The crack in the levee is getting wider; the first investigator was right. I feel like I’m drowning.
“Brody and Aaron are my friends. They wouldn’t say anything,” I protest.
“I’ve seen a lot of folks doing hard time with that attitude,” Allan says. “If you want to pin your hopes on these two, well, Mick, that is your choice. I’m not your parent, I’m not your lawyer. But I can tell you you’re making a mistake. Prisons are full of guys thinking they had friends, but realizing too late that they were friends second, and humans with the urge to save themselves first. Brody cracked right away, but Aaron took longer. They’re survivors, Mick.”
I don’t hear him; I just hear Plant singing. If only I can keep it together.
“Brody acted all tough, but I think when he talked to that girl—” Allan says.
“What girl?” I interject.
“Lauren Shreve, the victim’s daughter,” Allan says. “She’s seen him a couple of times.”
“Why wasn’t I notified?” Richards says quickly.
“You’re not his attorney. Who Mr. Warren sees is between him and his lawyer, but I thought your client might find it interesting that Brody has been talking with her,” Allan says, then chuckles, another hook that reels me in. “You just have to wonder what was said, no?”
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