Rage (13 page)

“Rand
wasn’t?” I said.

“Rand
never got his name on any lists.”

“Troublemaker
lists?” said Milo.

She
nodded. “We met with Troy a couple of times, tried to get him involved with church
or sports or a hobby, but we never really connected. Then,
after . . . he must’ve mentioned us to his lawyer because she
contacted us and said it would be a great time to start counseling him
spiritually.”

Bible
in a cell. Smooth talk about sin.

“Why didn’t
you connect initially?” said Milo.

“You
know how it is. Kids don’t always take to talking.”

She
looked to me for confirmation. Before I could offer any, Milo said, “Being
arrested help Troy’s communication skills?”

She
sighed. “You think we’re naive. It’s not that we were unaware of the enormity
of what Troy had done. But we recognized that he’d also been victimized. You
met his mother, Doctor.”

“Where
is she?” I said.

“Dead,”
she said. Snapping off the word. “After Troy’s body was ready for burial, the
Chino coroner’s office contacted us. They couldn’t find Jane and we were the
only other people on his visitor list. We contacted Ms. Weider but she no
longer worked for the Public Defender. Troy’s body sat at the morgue until our
dean agreed to donate a plot in San Bernadino where some of the faculty members
are buried. We conducted a service.”

She
touched her crucifix. Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. She made no
effort to dry them. “That day. My husband and myself and Dr. Wascomb— our dean.
A beautiful, sunny day and we watched cemetery workers lower that pathetic
little coffin into the ground. A month later, Detective Kramer called us. Jane
had been found under a freeway ramp, one of those homeless encampments, wrapped
up in a sleeping bag and plastic tarp. Which is the way she always slept, so
the other homeless people didn’t think anything of it until she still hadn’t
budged by noon. She’d been stabbed sometime during the night. Whoever killed
her wrapped her back up.”

She
shuddered, pulled out the tissue paper bookmark and wiped her face.

Milo
said, “How long was that after Troy’s death?”

“Six
weeks, two months, what’s the difference? My point is, these were lost boys.
And now, Rand.”

“Any
idea who’d want to hurt Rand?”

She
shook her head.

“What
was his mood like?”

“Disoriented,
as I told you. Reeling from freedom.”

“Not
happy at all about getting out?”

“To
be honest? Not really.”

“Did
he have any plans other than getting a job?”

“We
were taking things slowly. Helping him settle in.”

“Could
we see his room?”

“Sure,”
she said. “Such as it is.”

* * *

We
followed her through a compact, tidy living room; a dim galley kitchen and
eating area; then a low, narrow corridor. One bedroom, the master, with barely
enough room for the furniture that filled it. A single bathroom served the
entire house.

At
the end of the hall was a windowless space, eight-foot square. Cherish Daney
said, “This is it.”

Cheap
paneling covered the walls. Capped off pipes sprouted from the vinyl floor.

Milo
said, “This used to be a laundry room?”

“Service
porch. We moved the washer and dryer outside.”

A
framed Bible scene— Nordic Solomon and two Valkyrian women claiming motherhood
of the same fat, blond infant— hung over a foldable cot. A white plastic lamp
sat on a raw wood nightstand. Milo opened the drawers. Well-thumbed Bible on
top, nothing in the bottom.

A
dented footlocker served as a closet. Inside were two white T-shirts, two blue
work shirts, a pair of blue jeans.

Cherish
Daney said, “We never even got a chance to buy him clothes.”

We
walked back to the front of the house. She peered through a window. “Here’s my
husband. I’d better go help him.”

D
rew Daney came through the gateway gripping two large
bags of groceries in each arm. An even larger mesh sack filled with oranges
dangled from his right thumb.

Cherish
took the fruit and reached for one of the bags.

Daney
held on. “I’m okay, Cher.” Dark eyes sighted us over the groceries. He stopped
and placed the load on the ground.

“Dr.
Delaware.”

“You
remember.”

“It’s
an unusual name,” he said, coming forward. His wrestler’s frame had taken on
fifteen or so pounds, most of them soft, and his thick, wavy hair was graying
at the temples. He wore a beard now, a stubbly silver thing, neatly trimmed
around the edges. His white polo shirt was spotless and pressed. So were his
blue jeans. Same color scheme as his wife.

“Also,”
he said, “I read your report to the judge, so your name stuck in my mind.”

Cherish
looked at him and went inside the house.

“How’d
you come to read it?” I said.

“Sydney
Weider wanted my opinion, as Troy’s counselor. I told her I thought it was a
careful document. You didn’t want to go out on a limb and say something
unscientific. But you clearly weren’t willing to give the boys a pass.”

“A
pass on murder?” said Milo.

“At
the time we were hoping for a miracle.”

“We?”

“The
boys’ families, Sydney, my wife, myself. It just seemed that putting the boys
away forever wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Forever
turned out to be eight years, Reverend,” said Milo.

“Detective . . .
what’s your name, please— ”

“Sturgis.”

“Detective
Sturgis, in the life of a child, eight years is eternity.” Daney ran a hand
through his hair. “In Troy’s case, a month was eternity. And now
Rand . . . unbelievable.”

“Any
idea who might’ve wanted to hurt Rand, sir?”

Daney’s
lips puffed. His toe scuffed one of the grocery bags and he lowered his voice.
“I don’t want my wife hearing this, but there probably is something you should
know.”

“Probably?”

Daney
eyed the front door of his house. “Could we find a place to talk later?”

“Sooner’s
better than later, sir.”

“Okay,
sure, I see your point. I’ve got a youth council meeting in Sylmar at two. I
could leave a little early and meet you in, say, ten minutes?”

“Sounds
good,” said Milo. “Where?”

“How
about at the Dipsy Donut on Vanowen, a few blocks west.”

“We’ll
be there, Reverend.”

“Both
of you?” he said.

“Dr.
Delaware’s consulting on the case.”

“Ah,”
said Daney. “Makes sense.”

* * *

“Told
you,” said Milo, as we drove away. “You’re still the opposing team.”

“And
you?”

“I’m
the sleuth assigned the honor of clearing Duchay’s murder.”

“Want
me to wait in the car while you two bond?”

“Right.
Wonder what the rev wants to keep from his wife.”

“Sounds
like something that would scare her.”

“Scary,”
he said, “is always interesting.”

* * *

The
doughnut stand was a flimsy white booth on a cracked blacktop lot, topped by a
six-foot, partially eaten doughnut with humanoid features. Brown plaster,
chipped in several spots, tried to resemble chocolate. Wild-eyed merriment said
the deep-fried creature loved being devoured. Three grubby-looking aluminum
table-and-bench sets were scattered on the asphalt. The signage had lost a
couple of letters.

DI SY DON T

Milo
said, “And here I was thinking she did.”

The
place was full of customers. We went inside and breathed fat and sugar and
waited in line as three harried kids bagged and served oversized fritters to a
salivating throng. Milo bought a dozen assorted, finished a jelly and a
chocolate in the time it took to get back to the car.

“Hey,”
he said, “it’s part of the job description. And chewing’s aerobic.”

“Enjoy.”

“You
say that but you’ve got this disapproving thing going on.”

I
took a hubcap-sized apple Danish out of the box and got to work on it.
“Satisfied?”

“Creative
people are never satisfied.”

We
sat in the Seville where he polished off a jelly-filled.

I
said, “Wonder what Rand did between six-thirty and nine.”

“Me,
too. Forgot coffee, want some?”

“No,
thanks.”

He
returned to the doughnut shack just as the Reverend Drew Daney drove up in an
older white Jeep. I got out of the car and Milo came back with two coffees.

He
offered Daney the doughnut box.

Daney
had added a blue blazer to his ensemble, had his hands in his pockets. “Any
crèmes?”

The
three of us sat at one of the outdoor tables. Daney found a raspberry crème,
bit into it, exhaled with satisfaction. “Guilty pleasures, huh?”

“You
got it, Reverend.”

“I’m
not ordained so you can just call me Drew.”

“Didn’t
finish seminary?”

“Chose
not to,” said Daney. “Same for Cherish. We both got involved in youth work and
decided that was our calling. I don’t regret it. A pulpit is usually more about
internal politics than good works.”

“Youth
work,” said Milo, “as in foster care.”

“Foster
care, homeschooling, coaching, counseling. I work with several nonprofits— the
meeting in Sylmar.” He looked at his watch. “Better cut to the chase. This is
probably nothing but I feel it’s my duty to tell you.”

He
finished his doughnut, wiped crumbs from his lap. “Six months ago, Rand was
transferred to Camarillo, awaiting discharge. Thursday night my wife and I
drove up and brought him home. He looked as if he’d landed on another planet.”

“Disoriented,”
I said, using his wife’s term.

“More
than that. Stunned. Think about it, Doctor. Eight years of extreme structure—
his entire adolescence spent behind bars— and now he’s released to a strange
new world. We fed him dinner, showed him his room, and he went straight to bed.
All we had was a converted service porch, but I tell you, that boy looked
grateful to be in a small space again. The next morning, I was up at six-thirty
as usual, went to check on him. His bed was empty, made up neat as a pin. I
found him outside, sitting on the front steps. He looked worse than the
previous night. Dark circles under his eyes. Really jumpy. I asked him what was
wrong and he just stared at our front gate, which was wide open. I told him
everything would be okay, he needed to give himself time. That only made him
more agitated— he started shaking his head, really fast. Then he covered his
face with his hands.”

Daney
demonstrated. “It was as if he was hiding from something. Playing ostrich. I
pried his fingers loose and asked him what was wrong. He didn’t answer and I
told him it was important for him to let his feelings out. Finally, he told me
someone was watching him. That caught me off-guard but I tried not to show it.
I asked him who. He said he didn’t know but he’d heard sounds at night— someone
moving around outside his window. The property’s small and neither my wife nor
I had heard anything. I asked him what time. He said during the night, he
didn’t have a watch. Then he said he heard it again early morning— right after
sunrise— got up and found the gate open and saw a truck driving away fast. We
always close the gate, but it’s just a pull-latch and sometimes if it’s not
shut tight, the wind blows it open. So I didn’t consider that any big deal.”

“What
kind of truck?” said Milo.

“He
said a dark pickup. I didn’t push him because I didn’t want to make a big deal
out of it. It just didn’t seem that important.”

Milo
said, “You doubted his credibility.”

“It’s
not a matter of credibility,” said Daney. “Dr. Delaware, you tested Rand. Have
you told the detective how severely learning disabled he was?”

I
nodded.

“Now,
combine that with the challenge of reentry.”

I
said, “Had you known him to fantasize about things that didn’t exist?”

“Like
a hallucination?” said Daney. “No. That’s not what happened Friday. It was
more . . . exaggerating normal events. I figured he’d heard a
bird or a squirrel.”

“Now
you’re not sure,” said Milo.

“In
view of what happened,” said Daney, “I’d be foolish not to wonder.”

“Anything
happen between Friday and Saturday night?”

“He
didn’t say anything more about being watched or the dark truck and I didn’t
bring it up,” said Daney. “He took a walk and came back and said he’d been by a
construction site and was going to go back in the afternoon to talk to the
boss.”