The Dearly Departed (20 page)

“Knock it off, Ma. You know better. You've gotten it out of your system, and he's getting picked up soon.”

“Do you have a mother?” she asked the boy.

“Stop it,” said Joey.

“Read him his Miranda rights so I can question him,” she ordered.

“Ma, no. It's different. He's a juvenile. I can't ask him anything.”

Mrs. Loach pinched the starched sleeve of Joey's uniform for emphasis. “This is my son you tried to kill! Do you have any idea what it means to take another person's life?”

“Ma, save it. If it goes to trial, you can stand up at the sentencing and deliver a victim's statement.”

“Is there something wrong with you?” she asked Joey. “Are you such a cool customer that you can sit in the same room with your own killer?”

“I'm alive, Ma. By definition—”

She waved off his nonsense. “I could be marching in a parade today in a black mantilla, with your fellow police officers from all over New England holding me up and paying their respects to their brother slain in the line of duty. If it wasn't for the vest, I'd have buried you.” Mrs. Loach's voice broke.

Dutifully, Joey patted her back.

“I'm just saying, hon, that if ever a police chief had the right to put his fingers in his ears and let his mother yell at his prisoner, it's you.”

Joey looked at the wall clock, then out the window. “The transport van's going to be here any second, so make it quick.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Loach. She stepped toward Billy, but Joey caught her arm. “Stay back. I don't want you laying a hand on him.”

She closed her eyes, opened them, then said in a shaky voice, “Because my son survived, I don't think you'll be put to death, but I hope you rot in jail. And just in case they put you in a boys' home instead and you escape, I want you to promise me that you'll never go near a gun again, and you'll learn to think before you act and, most important—”

“Ma, forget it. He's a dope.”

“I am
not,
” said Billy.

“We're not having a dialogue,” said Joey. “My mother's reading you the riot act, and I'm allowing it because you shot her kid and she's only human.”

Billy wiped his nose, sniffed, then said in a small, choked voice, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't say you're sorry!” Joey yelled. “Jesus! Don't say another fucking word. Save your confessions for the attorney general.”

“Sorry is as sorry does,” said Mrs. Loach. “Of
course
you'd feel sorry now, sitting here in handcuffs, waiting for the sheriff to come get you. Do you think he's going to be as nice to you as my son is? You'll be lucky to get a grilled cheese sandwich.” She turned to Joey. “You need a jail here. I don't like the idea that a criminal just sits around the office with us.”

“I'm not a criminal! I'm not gonna hurt anyone.”

“How often would I use a jail?” Joey said quietly. “The occasional drunk and disorderly? The annual domestic dispute?”

“You need a separate police station,” she hissed. “This is a disgrace! It doesn't make the right impression—a paneled room in the basement of the town hall.”

He signaled with his eyes:
Enough.

“How come I hear on the news all the time about juveniles being tried as adults for murder, and this delinquent gets turned over to the state without a whimper?”

“Where are they taking me?” Billy asked.

“Concord. The youth detention lock-up facility,” said Joey.

“I have A.D.D.,” said Billy. “I get into trouble, but I can't help it.”

“A.D.D.?” repeated Mrs. Loach scornfully. “You don't think we hear that all the time? From every mother of every kid who throws a rock through a window?”

“It's true! I used to have to go to the school nurse to get my medicine during the day.” Billy jiggled each leg separately, then both together.

“Keep it up,” said Joey. “I may not be able to ask you questions, but I can hog-tie you if you keep twitching.”

“And I'll help,” said Mrs. Loach.

“Why are you being so mean to me?” Billy cried. “Nobody got hurt. I was on my way home to return the truck. I didn't even get a scratch on it. I was even thinking of filling it up with gas.”

“You're an idiot, you know that? You think you can erase whatever you did because your victim didn't die and the truck you stole didn't get wrecked? Attempted capital murder and grand theft auto don't work that way. That's what the word
attempted
means. You're in deep shit, junior. And stop wiping your snot on the upholstery.”

Billy sniffled miserably.

“You only have yourself to blame,” said Mrs. Loach. “Although I'm wondering what kind of parents raise a boy who breaks several commandments in one night.”

“Assholes,” said Billy.

“Don't be fresh,” said Mrs. Loach.

Joey laughed.

“What's so funny?” she asked her son.

“Ma—he stole a truck and he tried to kill me. Fresh is the least of his problems.” He turned to Billy. “If you have one brain cell in your head, you'll throw yourself on your parents' mercy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's advice: Let them help you. You're in a lot of trouble, and you're going to need them.”

Billy looked away, defiantly, as if no conciliatory tone could make up for the previous insults.

“Eat your steak,” Joey said.

“How'm I supposed to eat with my hands locked behind my back?”

“Stop being a crybaby. You said you were hungry. They could've sent bread and water.”

“I'm starved,” he whimpered.

Joey came out from behind his desk and Billy shrank. “I'll unlock you for five minutes, but no funny business.”

Freed, Billy lifted the entire cube steak to his mouth on a plastic fork, gnawed off two mouthfuls in quick succession, and swallowed them in a gulp.

“Steak!” tsked Mrs. Loach. “Ridiculous!”

“Chew it, you moron,” grumbled Joey.

Just after five o'clock, Joey rapped on Finn's front door, frowning at the stained-glass panel—milky pink tulips swathed in blue leaves. Fletcher answered, smiling hospitably, wearing that morning's blue jeans, a white dress shirt, tails out and sleeves rolled up. “What's up?” he began, but his smile faded at the sight of the plywood squirrel swaying at eye level.

“Did you give William Thomas Dube your consent to stay in unit two of the King's Nite Motel?” Joey asked.

“William who?”

“William Dube of Agawam, Massachusetts.”

“Why?”

“Why am I
asking
? Because I arrested him this afternoon, and he had very flattering things to say about you.”

“Arrested him on what grounds?”

“Attempted capital murder and grand theft auto.”

“Whoa,” said Fletcher. “I never met the kid before noon today. I'm not a party to anything, if that's the implication.”

Joey's expression remained neutral. He asked if he could come in.

“For what?”

“A friendly little chat.”

Fletcher rolled his eyes. “Do I need a lawyer for this friendly little chat?”

“I wouldn't bother,” said Joey. “All I'm interested in is how you and Billy know each other and whether you freely gave him certain items in his possession—”

“Such as?”

Joey took a small notepad from his breast pocket and read, “A watch. A Penn State T-shirt, pink. The aforementioned room key.”

Fletcher opened the screen door, and Joey walked past him into the sky-lit room.

“Beer?” asked Fletcher.

“Can't.”

Fletcher sat down glumly on a gray flannel couch and motioned for his interrogator to do the same.

“Mr. Finn—”

“Fletcher. And are you forgetting something? My Miranda rights?”

Joey said, “Did someone arrest you? Because all this is, is a friendly conversation.”

Fletcher slumped deeper into the couch.

“Fletcher, it's not against the law for an adult man to give a teenage boy gifts—”

“Me? I'm the man? What gifts?”

Joey repeated in a monotone, “A Penn State T-shirt, pink. Forty dollars in cash. A gold Rolex. Engraved with the initials M.H.F.” He looked up.

“Miles Howard Finn,” Fletcher murmured.

“I'm sorry,” said Joey, “but I have to ask: Were these gifts a form of advance payment or incentive to the juvenile for a prospective assignation at the King's Nite Motel?”

“Jesus!” Fletcher stood and began pacing. “I'm not talking to you without a lawyer. Christ! I'm being accused of what? Solicitation and . . . and God knows what because some punk robbed me?”

Joey shook his head. “
Motel
has a ring to it, Fletch. An adult man gives a boy his room key—”

“To get rid of him! I didn't want him around. He seemed like a nice enough kid. A little stupid, but harmless.”

“What he is,” Joey said, “is a suspect in a capital murder case—
not
harmless. On the contrary: armed and dangerous.” He took a pen out of his breast pocket. “Start from the beginning.”

Fletcher flopped back down on the couch. “I got here around noon, and he answered the door. He told me he had sex in the master bedroom with his Gypsy girlfriend but didn't soil the sheets. I said, ‘Get out of here and don't come back; and on your way out of town, could you drop this key off at the King George Motel, please? On the main drag . . . such as it is.' ”

“King's Nite,” Joey corrected.

“Whatever. I had to pay for two nights, but when I got here and saw what my father had done to the house, my plans changed.”

“So you sent him off, without asking to see his driver's license or registration or taking down the license plate or calling the police?”

“Why would I?” said Fletcher. “I didn't call the police because he was a good liar and he told me his parents had thrown him out, and I felt sorry for him.” Fletcher picked up a red film-processing envelope, thick with pictures, from the coffee table and nervously sorted through them.

Joey reached into his pants pocket, took out a single key, and tossed it on top of the photos.

“What's this?” Fletcher asked.

“Ignition key. Your father's Volkswagen.”

“No kidding,” said Fletcher. “What model?”

“A Beetle.”

Fletcher's face fell.

“It was parked outside his fiancée's house the night of the accident. I'm using my discretion in terms of releasing it.”

“What year?”

“New. You'll sign a release saying you're the next of kin and that you received it from me. Meanwhile, it's taking up my only visitors' space.”

“Automatic or manual?”

“Automatic, I believe.”

Fletcher looked further deflated.

“Life is tough,” said Joey. “Your father dies before his time and doesn't leave you a Lexus.”

Fletcher recovered enough to say he agreed: It had gotten rave reviews in all the car magazines, it would get him where he wanted to go, and it was certainly small potatoes—especially against the broader canvas of loss and unemployment.

“Not to mention your more immediate legal problems,” said Joey.

“The kid? Like I was supposed to intuit that he was a felon?”

Joey smiled and stood up. “A guy's gotta ask. We pick him up wearing your father's watch and T-shirt, babbling on about his cool son and his cool house, carrying a motel key to a room registered to Fletcher Finn. What kind of detective would I be if I didn't make a beeline for Boot Lake?”

“There's no crime in being clueless,” said Fletcher.

Joey said, “I take it you have a driver's license?”

Fletcher reached for his wallet.

“Slowly,” said Joey. “No sudden moves.” He grinned. “Just kidding, Fletch.”

“You're enjoying this,” said Fletcher. “I haven't figured out why yet, but I don't appreciate it.”

“I'm just doing my job. Did I mention that it was me your friend shot at point-blank range? And when someone tries to kill me, it makes me a little testy.”

“Did he miss?” asked Fletcher.

Joey rapped on his stomach. “Vest.”

“No shit,” said Fletcher. “And you just walked away? That is so awesome. You must be in great shape.”

“Don't use psychology on me,” said Joey. “Or flattery. Because I'm immune.”

“I'm serious.”

“Let's go. The Beetle's in town.”

Fletcher put out his hand. “We're okay with everything? You know I'm a lousy judge of character but not a pedophile?”

Joey grunted a halfhearted maybe, and didn't return the handshake.

“Let's get the car. Sunny wanted me to come over. We have some settling up to do.”

“I don't think she's up for a social call,” said Joey.