Cameron focuses on his brother, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve and looking about six years old. Looking like he did when their father was raging and they were locked behind their bedroom door with their mother, praying the wood wouldn’t splinter.
“Don’t cry, Robbie. Everything’s going to be okay.”
MONDAY
6:10PM
Mr. Jeffries knocks on the kitchen door, then opens it and sticks just his head through.
“Hi. Your mom told you I was coming?”
He slips inside, carrying a leather briefcase too packed to close all the way. Cameron doesn’t get up from the table. He nudges his half glass of milk back and forth between his fingertips and watches his lawyer walk toward him in a kind of slow motion that’s really a trick of the mind. Cameron can’t alter the rotation of the world. The end is coming, and not on his terms.
“The police are pulling into the driveway,” Jeffries says. “They’re going to take your fingerprints. They want to ask you a few questions. I told them we’d listen. I didn’t promise answers.”
He sets the briefcase on a chair and sifts through it until he comes to a stack of yellow papers stapled together.
“I have a couple of questions, too,” he says. “The cops found a second blood type in the locker room. More specifically, on a single shower tile, on the combination lock, and in the hair of the victim,” he reads from his notes. “Could that blood belong to you?”
“Anything’s possible,” Cameron says.
Jeffries steps closer. “Turn your hands over.”
Cameron releases the glass and turns his palms up. There are marks on his right hand, a small circular bruise where maybe the spin notch of the lock pressed against his skin. Worse, between his middle and ring fingers there’s a purple gash now covered with a thin layer of new skin. Cameron watches the sun set in Jeffries’s face.
“How did you get that?” he asks.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, remember?”
Jeffries sinks into a chair at the table. From outside come the sharp clicks of car doors slamming.
“Okay. We’re going to have to regroup,” Jeffries says. “For now, do exactly as I tell you.” He pauses, rubs a hand over his forehead, and pushes back his hair. “Unless stated on the warrant, you don’t have to show them your hands. So don’t. Keep your palms down while they roll your prints.”
Cameron sees the cops through the window before they knock. Good Cop and Bad Cop again. And Randy. He’s standing behind the other cops, in full uniform, his face about as flat as a plate. Cameron wonders why Randy doesn’t open the door. He never knocks anymore.
Jeffries stands up and moves toward them. “Don’t answer any questions without my approval,” he warns. “They ask, you wait for me to tell you it’s okay. Got it?”
Cameron nods. He pushes himself up until he’s sitting tall in his chair. His fingers curl into his palms and he taps his fists against his thighs under the table.
Jeffries opens the door and holds it wide and then the room is too full and the air is suddenly thin.
“Hi, Cameron,” Good Cop says. “How you doing today?”
Cameron looks at Jeffries.
“You can answer that.”
“Fine,” Cameron says.
“You have him on a tight leash,” Bad Cop says. “Why’s that?” He looks at Cameron. “You hiding something?”
“Shut up, Finney,” Randy says and walks around the two cops and takes a seat next to Cameron at the table. “Take the prints.”
Good Cop pulls the plastic box from his coat pocket and asks Cameron if he wouldn’t mind standing and walking over to the counter. Cameron waits for Jeffries’ nod and then rises from his chair. His legs are full of the tired that comes after running seven or eight miles at full speed. He shuffles to the counter where Good Cop is setting up.
“Let’s see the warrant,” Jeffries says. “And then you can take the prints.”
“We showed it to Randy.”
“Great. Now show it to me,” Jeffries says, and takes his place next to Cameron.
Bad Cop tosses the warrant to Jeffries. “You’re not going to like it,” he warns.
Cameron feels his gut clench but breathes through it. He watches Jeffries eyes shift as he reads, lifting several pages, taking his time.
“Fingerprints, blood, and house,” Jeffries says. “We’re fine with that.”
Good Cop takes Cameron’s left hand, rolls each finger through an ink pad and then onto a piece of paper that’s separated into a grid. Cameron holds his hand stiff, breathes through his nose, feels his pulse slam against the veins in his wrist.
“Loosen up.” Good Cop shakes Cameron’s hand, rolls his thumb over the paper, then reaches for his right hand.
“Not used to holding hands with a guy?” Bad Cop asks.
“Shut up,” Randy says again, his voice so tight Cameron thinks it might snap in two.
“You need to loosen up, too,” Bad Cop tells Randy. “You know what’s coming.”
“You’re not going to find anything,” Randy says.
“You’ve already been through the house?” Bad Cop asks. “We figured as much. Figured we’d find it super clean. That’s okay. The prints and the blood will probably be enough.”
Good Cop runs Cameron’s fingers through the ink and across the paper. He feels the cop’s fingers move on his palm, over the peeled skin of his healing cut.
“You’re right-handed, Cameron?”
“Yes.”
“Feels like you cut up your hand.”
Good Cop tries to turn over Cameron’s hand, but he holds it steady and then Jeffries places his hand on top of Cameron’s.
“You a nurse now?” Jeffries wants to know. “Just take the prints. The warrant doesn’t entitle you to a search of his body.”
“Well, maybe we’ll just go back and get that,” Bad Cop says.
“You do that,” Jeffries invites. “I like it when we go by the book. Everything’s so neat and tidy.”
Good Cop tucks the card with Cameron’s prints on it into a plastic bag and slips it into his pocket. He packs up his plastic box and turns to Jeffries.
“We like it that way, too. Keeps the cases in the courthouse.”
“Adult court this time,” Bad Cop says. “The D.A.’s already talking about moving this one out of the juvenile system.”
“That’s premature,” Jeffries says.
“But likely,” Good Cop says. “All these cases are getting tried in adult court.”
“Some of them,” Jeffries says. “Not all.”
Good Cop shrugs.
“My money’s on adult court,” Bad Cop says. “What do you think about that, Cameron?”
“You can ask him about the clothes,” Jeffries says. “That’s it. Then I’m taking Cameron down to the lab for the blood sample.”
“You left your backpack in your gym locker,” Good Cop says. “You know we found that. But we haven’t found your PE clothes, or the street clothes you were wearing on Friday.”
“I had my PE clothes on when I left,” Cameron says. “I went to the lake. I went running.”
“Yes, your PE teacher says you left in your PE clothes, but where are they?”
“In the wash, I guess.”
“What about your street clothes?”
“In the wash?”
“Then you left wearing your PE clothes and brought your street clothes home with you?”
“Yes.”
“You sound positive about that.”
“I brought my gym bag home instead of my backpack,” Cameron says.
“Why?”
“It was a mistake.”
“You wanted to take your backpack?”
Cameron nods. “I had homework for history I wanted to do.”
“Your teachers say you don’t do homework,” Bad Cop says.
“I do some of it.”
Good Cop checks through his notes. “Hit and miss, that’s what your history teacher, Mr. Hart,
says about your homework.”
“Move on, then,” Jeffries says.
“Did your mom do the laundry this weekend?” Bad Cop asks.
“Maybe.”
“How is he supposed to know?” Randy asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bad Cop says. “You know you can’t wash blood out of clothes, Cameron? It’s set for life, even if you can’t see it with the human eye.”
“Where are we going to find your clothes,” Good Cop asks. “Your room? The laundry room?”
“My room, maybe.”
“What about the gym bag? Where’s that?”
Cameron shrugs. “My room?”
“You don’t sound sure about that.”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Maybe you could go get it for us,” Good Cop suggests.
“Get it yourself,” Jeffries says. “You’ve got a warrant, use it.” He puts his hand on Cameron’s shoulder and says to him, “Go get your jacket. We’ll pick up your mom on the way to the police lab.”
Cameron walks into the living room and picks up his coat from the couch. He can hear them talking, Randy mostly. His voice is raised and strained.
“The city’s really pushing this into adult court? They don’t even know yet who they’re trying.”
“They’re making noise.” Jeffries sounds confident.
“They can and will move it,” Bad Cop says.
“We don’t know that this case is going there or that it will even involve us,” Jeffries cautions. “It’s insane, really, to be talking about adult court when a viable suspect isn’t even in the picture.”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” Good Cop says.
“Opinion is all we have,” Jeffries says.
TUESDAY
2:30AM
The cops (Cameron counted thirteen of them) weren’t done searching the house until two in the morning. Cameron stuffed the cushions back into the couch and curled up there while they picked through his bedroom. Robbie spent the night at a friend’s house and his mom dozed in the armchair close by. Randy stood outside, in the glow of halogen lamps, and watched cops dig through the garage, which included the laundry area and the trash cans lined up against the outside wall. When they were done, Randy shoveled the trash back into the cans, picked up the clean clothes that were in the dryer but were tossed around by the detectives, and loaded them back into the washer, then he straightened the furniture on the deck and came inside.
“They’re just about done,” Randy says, looking Cameron in the eye, even through the dimness of the room.
“Good.”
“They didn’t find what they’re looking for,” he says.
“My clothes.”
“That and your gym bag.”
“I know.” Because they’re buried in the woods. For now.
Randy nods. “Your lawyer told you not to talk to me about the case. That’s a good idea.”
“Yeah, I think so, too.”
“Are you scared?”
“Sometimes,” Cameron admits. “Mostly, I don’t feel anything at all.”
“Your mom made an appointment with a doctor in Philadelphia. You know that’s a confidential relationship? Not even the court can break it.”
“Okay.”
“I just want you to be straight with the guy.”
“I’ll try.”
“Sorry to break up the pillow talk,” Bad Cop says, walking into the room. “But we’re done.”
“You’re an ass, Finney,” Randy says.
Cameron sits up on the couch.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Bad Cop says. “You’re taking this personally.”
“Real personally,” Randy agrees.
Good Cop walks into the room, smiles, and says. “We’re leaving. Empty-handed.”
“Bull. You’re too happy. You found something,” Randy says.
“We’re confident the blood is all we need. We’ll let you know the preliminary results on that later today.”
“You mean you’ll either clear Cameron or you’ll be back to arrest him?”
“That’s right,” Good Cop says.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Cameron.”
Randy lets them walk themselves out. Cameron hears them packing up. The halogen lamps outside are shut off, plunging the room into darkness. Car doors slam shut. Engines turn over and tires crunch on the gravel, skidding on the last patch of driveway before making the state road and clinging to the blacktop. His eyes adjust and he finds Randy, sitting now in a chair near the window.
“I’m going to jail,” Cameron says.
“Maybe.”
“Am I going to die?”
“It wasn’t murder,” Randy says. “It wasn’t planned.”
Cameron didn’t know he was going to kill Pinon. It wasn’t a decision but an action. And maybe this will save his life.
TUESDAY
9:45AM
His mother is in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee, when Cameron enters from outside. She’s still wearing the makeup she didn’t wash off the night before, but her hair is combed into a ponytail and she changed clothes. She’s not going to work. He thought maybe she’d go in late, but she’s wearing a velour sweatsuit and is in no hurry to get out the door.
She told him not to go to school today. Last night, after he gave his blood at the police lab, they sat in Jeffries’s car in the parking lot and talked about the immediate future. They no longer talked in days but hours. Cameron shouldn’t go to school. Before the end of the day the police would return and if the blood was a positive match, Cameron would be arrested.
“And if his blood isn’t a match?” his mom asked. “What then?”
“The police will move on, look for another suspect,” Jeffries said. He paused and tapped the steering wheel with his stubby fingers, then looked into Cameron’s mom’s face and warned, “We have to think about what we’ll do if the blood does match. We need a plan for that.”
His mom’s face got tight, smaller somehow. Air rattled in her throat as she drew a breath. “You’re supposed to believe he’s innocent.”
“He has bruising, a pretty deep cut on his right hand. They’re consistent with having handled a combination lock.” Violently. Jeffries didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.
His mom’s lips peeled back from her teeth. Cameron thought she was going to defend him, but the words never came. Instead, he heard a thin hiss like air escaping out of a balloon and even as he watched her she grew distant, out of reach.
When Jeffries dropped them off at home she got out of the car and walked toward the house, surrounded with halogen lamps on tall metal poles and strangers picking through and setting aside their stuff. She stopped on the deck, a dark, haloed figure, her fingertips pressed to the railing, and swayed on her feet.
“She’s in shock,” Jeffries said. “She won’t give up on you.”
She stood in his bedroom door that morning, her fingers barely touching the doorjamb, as if testing its reality, and told him to stay home. He already knew that so he guessed she was finally accepting that she had a killer for a son. She looked at him a long time, so long he felt like she was trying to memorize him. He felt her eyes on his hair, cut so short now and the color of bark. Her gaze settled on each feature of his face individually. She didn’t just look into his eyes, she dove in. Stayed. Searched. Then she approached him, cupped his face with her hands, and kissed his forehead, beneath the burn scabs. She loved him no matter what he did.
“What are you doing?”
His mother’s words break through his thoughts. Her voice is high and thin and charged with accusation. He takes another step toward her, clutching the blue gym bag to his chest.
“You shouldn’t bring that in here,” she says. “They’re coming back, the police.”
“I don’t want to die,” Cameron says. His voice breaks and so he says it again.
She pushes up from her chair. Coffee spills and pool
s around her cup.
“Give me the bag.”
She opens her hands but Cameron clings to the bag and instead he moves into her arms. He puts his face on her shoulder, his nose turned into her neck, and smells her flowery powder, watches his tears wet her jacket.
“I wish this had never happened,” Cameron says.
She lays her hands on his head, strokes her fingers through his short hair, rubs his temples, and promises him she’ll try to fix it. All of it. And Cameron doesn’t mind that she seems to include him in that statement or that her record for repairing what’s broken is unimpressive.
TUESDAY
7:00PM
Cameron watches from his bedroom window as his mom removes the steel rack from the grill, stuffs his jeans into the trough, and pours lighter fluid on them. His gym bag is on a deck chair, the zipper open, T-shirts, shorts, and socks falling out the top. His mom steps back from the barbecue and strikes a match. The fire catches fast, flames a foot long leaping into the air. She waits with her arms folded over her stomach, bent a little at the waist, like she’s leaning into a muscle pull. He can’t see her face, but he knows she’s crying. He knows her eyes are dark, unfocused, confused. She looked like that a lot of times when they were still with his father.
She burns his clothes and the gym bag, then scrapes melted plastic off the barbecue while it’s still hot, gathers the metal zippers and buttons, dumps the hot ashes into a brown grocery sack, and leaves the deck.
He hears the garage door open. She had told him she was going to burn it all, that he should stay in his room and not think about it. She didn’t tell him what she planned to do with what’s left over.
He had told his mom that he did it. He had killed Pinon. But she’d already known. It was like she had just been waiting for him to say it. Her hands had shaken a little. The breath caught in her throat and tears spilled off her cheeks, but she hadn’t said anything. Not then, and not much since. He could tell, though, that he had broken her heart. She had that bruised, scared look she wore living all those years with his father.
And maybe that hurt him more than all the beatings he’s taken this year. It might even hurt more than knowing that he killed a boy.
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