Silent Witness

by Richard North Patterson

  Tony had looked around him at the only home he could remember. The tiny living room with his parents’ wedding photo, his own school picture, the porcelain bust of Saint Stanislaus, the figurine of two costumed peasants, dancing a polka. To him, the room reflected the borders of his parents’ narrow lives: his mother’s fears; his father’s small diversions—bowling, church activities—his patient, hopeless serving of time in the cramped cubicle of a corporate bureaucrat. How many times had he imagined leaving this behind—his home, now his prison. Tony had wished that he were dead, like Alison.

  Now it was Monday afternoon. Three days before, Tony would have expected to be in school, accepting more congratulations for beating Riverwood. Instead the school was closed for Alison’s funeral; Tony and his parents found themselves in the office of this criminal lawyer, who was, they had been assured, the best in Steelton. At odd moments, Tony gazed through Ravin’s window at the rust-belt city below, seemingly all cement and steel: gray buildings; gray highways; the polluted Steelton River a gray ribbon filled with gray ore boats and flanked by gray smokestacks. Even the smoke was gray.

  Ravin put the facts of the Lords’ new lives directly. This was a serious matter: Ravin would need a ten-thousand-dollar retainer, and if Tony was charged with murder, his parents would have to mortgage or sell their home. But today he was pleased to meet with Tony free of charge.

  Regrettably, the lawyer concluded, he must do this without Tony’s parents, who could not be Ravin’s clients and therefore should not ask Ravin or Tony about anything said between them; further, as prospective witnesses, his parents should never discuss that night with Tony at all. It was not that Tony was guilty, Ravin was quick to add, but that a clever prosecutor could twist small differences in what the three of them might recall. Mystified, the Lords listened to this as if to a strange new catechism. Then Ravin shepherded Tony’s parents to the reception area and closed the door behind them. Tony and Saul Ravin were alone.

  Ravin sat back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach. He was a paunchy man in his early forties, with curly gray-black hair, a prominent nose, a double chin, and eyes that were lively and lethal by turns, yet somehow sad. Tony guessed that the lawyer was Jewish—“Saul Ravin” had a somewhat exotic sound to it—but could not be sure: to his memory, Tony had not met a Jewish person before. But there was something avuncular about Ravin; he managed to convey that he knew that Tony was disoriented and that they would take their time. Tony sensed that Ravin had excused Tony’s parents for yet another reason—that without them, it was more likely Tony would be honest with him.

  “Well, Tony,” he said at length. “Here you are with a total stranger, who also happens to be the one person in the world who you can absolutely trust. Nothing you say here leaves the room. So I want you to tell me everything.

  “See, I won’t know how to handle this if you start by holding out on me. Just remember telling God’s honest truth is easy—it’s the one story you never have to think about. All right?”

  For an hour, Tony answered questions about his life: his family; his friends; his grades; his athletics and activities; his church; how long the Lords had lived in Lake City; why they had moved there from Steelton; where Tony planned to apply to college; his lack of prior problems with the police or school or anyone in the town. As he spoke, Tony understood that Ravin was trying to put him at ease while creating a picture for himself.

  “You’re a novelty for me,” Ravin said after a time. “A client whose only prior offense consists of being seventeen.” His face turned serious. “We need to talk about Alison, Tony. Not just what happened but who she was.”

  Softly, Tony began. At last, Ravin led him through the night of the murder, pausing as Tony needed. They concluded with the police; with polite insistence, Ravin picked at Tony’s memory of their questions, even phrases. When Tony was finished, Ravin said, “There’s something they’re not telling you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” Ravin steepled his hands beneath his chin, as if about to offer something more, then said almost dismissively, “The cops always hold back something. Sometimes to trip you up, sometimes so cranks don’t start confessing murders they didn’t commit. Sometimes just to protect the feelings of the victim’s family.” His voice softened. “But then you held back something too. From the cops, and from me.”

  Tony flushed. “What’s that?”

  “That you were sleeping with her.”

  Silent, Tony stared at him, shame and defiance warring within. Ravin began studying his gold cuff links with an unimpressed expression. “And like the cops, Tony, my question is, why? Their answer is that maybe you raped her. That maybe you squeezed a little too hard, trying to keep her quiet. You can’t really blame them.” Abruptly, Ravin looked up at him, eyes suddenly penetrating. “So which is it, Tony? Rape? Murder? Rape and murder? Or plain old consensual sex? And don’t leave anything out this time.”

  Tony stood abruptly, walking to the window. But all that he saw was Alison, lying naked beneath him as she looked into his face. Only his resolve of the night before prevented him from crying. Without turning, he said, “We made love in the car. It was our first time.”

  “And you both wanted to.”

  “Yes.” Pausing, Tony added dully, “That’s why she came back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police that?”

  Tony expelled a breath. “Because it was between the two of us.”

  He heard Ravin rise from his leather chair. “She’s dead, Tony. The way you describe her, I don’t think she’d need all this chivalry from you.” He placed one large hand on Tony’s shoulder. “If I remember right, in your religion sleeping with Alison was a mortal sin. But I don’t believe you killed Alison Taylor by making love with her. In my theology, only the person who killed her killed her. That’s also the way the law works. So tell me one more time—did you kill Alison Taylor? Whatever your answer is, I’ll work with. But it has to be the truth.”

  Tony turned to meet his gaze. “I didn’t kill Alison, Mr. Ravin. I loved her.”

  Ravin looked at Tony steadily. Then he smiled a little. “Saul,” he corrected. “Mr. Ravin sounds like my father, the rabbi, to whom I’m somewhat of a disappointment. Please, sit down.”

  As Tony did that, he felt a certain trust. Ravin sat back. “Let me tell you a few truths of my own, Tony.

  “First, other than about you and Alison, there’s no glaring problem with your story. The police and the Taylors may think it’s unbelievable, but they’ll need something more than that. What they think that must be, I don’t know yet—some physical evidence from Alison’s body; something they took off you, like fingernail scrapings; someone else who claims to know something bad.

  “We can’t do anything about the physical evidence, except tell the cops that you really did sleep with her and that it was consensual.” Ravin paused. “Because if it was, I think the coroner will agree. Rape causes trauma to the tissue—even the first time won’t do that kind of damage.” Ravin paused for a moment. “Unless,” he added softly, “someone else got to her later. In which case the coroner might not be able to tell—even with only one source of semen, they can’t say whose it is. Only blood type.”

  Tony felt several emotions hit him at once—the anguish that Alison must have felt; his own hatred of the murderer; distaste for discussing Alison as if she were a piece of evidence; the weight of his own guilt. “Which brings us,” Ravin went on, “to the something else we have to think about. When this happens to a woman, Tony, you have to consider that it may make more sense than you know. Who could be out there—anyone at all—who might have that kind of feeling about Alison…?”

  “No one. She wasn’t some slut, running from boyfriend to boyfriend to turn herself on.” Tony felt his voice rise. “I was the one who found her, not you. I’m the one the cops think killed her. If I knew someone who could do this, I’d have told them. Unless I killed him first.”

  Ravin
gave him a cool look. “I’d skip any mention of murder. And until pretty recently, she was dating other guys. If you had feelings for her, they could have too. She might even have had some feeling about them. Or maybe they thought she did and got let down.” Ravin’s tone became crisp, factual. “Which gets us to a few more truths.

  “If you go to trial, your folks’ finances are ruined. If you get charged, your reputation is ruined—at least with some people—for the rest of your life. We need the cops to believe that someone else might have done this. For that I need your help.”

  Tony stared at him. Then, in a monotone, he named anyone that Alison had dated. Ravin wrote this down. “Thank you,” he said politely, and looked up from his pad. “I’ll give this to the police. When I go to enlighten them about Alison and you.”

  Tony straightened in his chair. “I want to go with you.”

  Ravin put down his pen. “What I was about to tell you is never to talk to the cops again. That’s why you’re hiring me. To know what’s happening, and to not make any mistakes…”

  “I thought the truth was the one story you never have to think about.”

  Ravin studied him. “Under these circumstances, I’d never let any client talk to the police. The risk is, something gets said that doesn’t help. However innocent.”

  “I lied.” Tony sat straighter. “I have to look them in the face again, say I didn’t do this. I have to say that to everyone.”

  Ravin folded his hands, face softer now. In his eyes there was something sad again, infinitely weary. “There’s one more truth I have to tell you, Tony. It’s the harshest truth of all.

  “You’re the only person alive who knows you didn’t kill her. Everyone else has to choose what to believe. And nothing that you seem to know is going to help the average Joe in Lake City believe you’re not a murderer.

  “Only the cops and the county prosecutor can do that for you, and only if I persuade them not to indict you. In the meanwhile, you’re going to have to look to yourself for proof of your own innocence. All I want you to say to anyone—your parents, coaches, friends, even this Sam and Sue—is that you didn’t do it, that you’re counting on the police to figure out who did, and that you’re helping them by keeping quiet. Nothing more.”

  Once more, his new isolation began to dawn on Tony. He had lost Alison forever, and there was no one to help him bear the sadness of this, his horror at finding her, his anguish that others might believe he had killed her. Gazing out the window, he spoke as if to himself. “Her funeral’s going on right now. School’s closed, and half the town is there—a lot of them hardly knew her, only want to think they did. The Taylors’ minister called me to make sure I wouldn’t come. It was what the Taylors wanted; he hoped I’d respect their wishes.

  “Just to be fair, he encouraged me to pray for Alison in my own way, in my own church. I guess he figures we have a special pagan ritual for Roman Catholic murderers.”

  Watching him, Ravin for once looked out of his depth. Tony faced him directly. “All of our friends are going. But what’s so hard is that her parents and I are the people in Lake City who loved Alison the most. And I can’t even tell them that.”

  “Or share in the communal grieving.” There was understanding in Ravin’s eyes. “But stay away from the Taylors. They’re terribly wounded, and seeing you would make it that much worse. In Lake City, the Taylors could do you real harm.”

  The advice compounded Tony’s fear of what he had lost. “If I believe you,” he told Ravin, “there’s no one I can talk to.”

  “What about your priest?”

  Tony hesitated. “I don’t know yet,” he said softly. “About Alison, he didn’t approve.”

  Ravin studied him without expression, as if buying time for his own thoughts. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said at last. “Keep quiet for now, and you can come with me to the police. That way you can speak your piece to the folks who matter most.” Rising from his chair, Ravin stuck out his hand across the desk. “Deal?”

  Tony hesitated, then shook Ravin’s hand. “Deal.”

  “Okay,” the lawyer said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Tony headed for the door. It struck him that he was about to face a world he no longer knew.

  “One more thing,” he heard Ravin say.

  Tony turned, hand on the doorknob. “What’s that?”

  “You can call me, Tony. Anytime you need to talk.”

  Tony paused. In his relief and gratitude, all that he could manage was, “Thanks, Mr. Ravin.”

  For the first time, Ravin’s smile reached his eyes. “Saul,” he said.

  NINE

  On the drive home, the Lords passed Saint Barnabas Episcopal. The street was jammed with cars. A black hearse was parked at the rear of the church.

  Quietly, Tony said, “I need to see Father Quinn.”

  His parents, pale and silent, dropped him at Saint Raphael Church.

  Though the parish was not wealthy, the church itself was spacious, filigreed, soothing in its shadowy quiet. Slipping into the rear pew, Tony sat alone.

  It was three o’clock. Three days before, the football game was not yet played; Alison Taylor, not yet his lover, was waiting for their night together.

  Tears running down his face, Tony prayed for the repose of her soul.

  He knew where he must go.

  At the side of the church, in a darkened corridor, was the confessional booth. Each afternoon, Saturday and Monday, Father Quinn heard confessions: the ritual had been part of Tony’s life since childhood. Tony would recite his sins, venial or mortal. Father Quinn would hear him out and then prescribe a penance, the recitation of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, directing him to make a good act of contrition. “Ego te absolvo,” the priest would say—I absolve you—“in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctus. Go in peace.” Tony would return to the church, kneel before God, and recite his penance. And then he would leave, his soul unstained again, his heart unburdened.

  On this unfathomable day, it was his only hope of redemption, for Alison most of all.

  As Tony approached the corridor, two women emerged, a mother and daughter. Seeing Tony, they stopped abruptly, backing away to let him pass. Whether this was out of deference to his loss or fear of what he must confess, Tony could not tell.

  In the darkness of the corridor, the floorboards squeaked beneath him.

  The confessional booth was at the end, an empty chair inside it. Entering, Tony sat. Behind the screen was the shadowy ascetic profile of Father Quinn.

  “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.…”

  He sensed the priest’s stillness. After a moment, the Irish voice asked softly, “What are your sins, my son?”

  “Mortal, Father.” Tony paused, the words catching in his throat. “I made love with a girl.”

  The priest hesitated. “Sex before marriage is a mortal sin.…”

  “She’s dead, Father.”

  Through the screen, Tony heard the intake of breath, but not from surprise. “How did she die?”

  “I caused it.”

  This time the priest was silent. Tony bent forward in the attitude of prayer. “For months I pressured her, knowing it was wrong. Finally, she gave herself to me because she loved me. She wasn’t Catholic; it wasn’t a sin to her.…”

  “Yes,” Father Quinn said softly, “I know. And that in itself was a sin.”

  Tony felt himself tremble. The priest’s voice became lower. “You haven’t told me how she died. Only that you caused it.”

  Tony closed his eyes. “After we made love, I wanted her again. I waited in Taylor Park for her to sneak back out. When she didn’t come, I went to look for her. I found her in her own backyard, murdered.” Tears came to his eyes once more. “I know that she died in pain. That she would never have been there except that I wanted her. That she died because of me.”

  There was a long silence. Then the priest asked, “Is there more you need to say?”

  It was a long time
before Tony could speak. “She died after we made love, Father. I need to believe…”

  The priest bent forward, his voice parched. “You wish to know what has happened to her soul.”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, Father Quinn was quiet. “But you cannot know,” he said at last.

  Tony felt sick. He had learned the dogma from his own parents: that non-Catholics, let alone a girl who died in sin, could not reasonably hope for salvation. “But our doctrine is changing.…”

  “Perhaps. But not, I think, for this.”

  In bottomless grief, Tony covered his face. “Please, Father…”

  More gently, the priest said, “I cannot tell you what is not so, even for the sake of a poor dead girl for whom your acts had consequences, and whose salvation is now between her and God. You may come here only to confess your own sins and to make penance for the sake of your own immortal soul.” His voice hardened. “So I must ask you, have you told me everything…?”

  “Yes,” Tony said with sudden passion. “Father, forgive me, for I committed a mortal sin and sent a girl I loved to Hell for it.”

  “Listen to me.” The priest’s voice rose. “You are speaking not to me but to God, the ultimate judge, and there is no statute of limitations on eternity. He can grant absolution only to you, and only for the sins you have confessed to Him. Are there any others…?”

  “I didn’t kill her, Father. I just sent her to Hell.” Tony felt himself fill with a hopelessness and fury he had never felt before. “You can absolve me now. Make me feel better.…”

  Behind the screen was a sharp intake of breath. “You’re in an emotional state, my son. Maybe you should consider this.…”

  With a force of its own, torment jerked Tony from his chair. “Maybe I should go to Hell with Alison. That way she’ll have company.…”