The Rag and Bone Shop (8 page)

“I think you did the right thing, Jason, by not saying anything,” Trent said.
I can’t let this thing get away from me.
“The kind of information you’re talking about is too vague and can only confuse an already complicated case. The police made a thorough investigation of everyone involved in the case, including members of the family. I understand Alicia’s brother accounted for his movements that afternoon. He spent the entire time with his friends.”

“Okay,” the boy said, accepting Trent’s judgment, settling back in the chair as if relieved that a decision about something that had been bothering him had been made to his satisfaction.

Trent paused, wondering if this was the moment for the preliminaries to be over, when he should launch the strategy that would lead to the inevitable climax. Noting the gathering heat in the room, the moistness of the boy’s flesh, particularly the beads of perspiration on his forehead, Trent decided to go ahead. Take the risk.

“Tell me, Jason, about Alicia Bartlett and how you felt about her.”

Amazingly enough, the boy didn’t seem upset or perturbed by the sudden change of topic.

“She was a nice little girl and I liked hanging out with her sometimes. She was smart as anything but she was what my mother calls a fusser. I mean, she was great at making those jigsaw puzzles but she’d moan and groan trying to pick the right pieces and then she’d place five or six in a row and look at me with a big smile on her face.”

“A bright little girl,” Trent said.

“She was way smarter than me,” the boy said. “One day she tried to give me lessons on how to be better at making the puzzles. Showed me how to choose the different pieces, how to start at the borders. She had a good time acting like she was the teacher and I was, like, her student.”

“Did you think she was putting you on?” Trent asked.

“Putting me on?”

“Yes. That actually she was somehow making fun of you?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she liked to tease you, to make herself seem superior. Maybe she was insecure, and had to do things to make her seem more than she was.”

“It was just the opposite,” Jason said. “She wasn’t bragging or anything. She was just showing me how to make the puzzle.”

“Or did she want to make you feel inferior?”

“No,” Jason said, frowning, thinking again of the lesson. Had Alicia actually been making fun of him? “Why would she do that?” he asked.

“Maybe she wasn’t your friend after all. Maybe she only pretended to be.”

Perplexed, Jason scrunched up his face. The room was hotter than before, the heat seeming to grow with every second. He squirmed in his chair, felt the sweat gathering in his armpits. Even his feet were sweating inside his socks.

Jason didn’t know what to say, could only come back to his original question. “Why would she do that?”

“Who can explain the actions of other people?” Trent said. “Even little girls. Little girls are not always as naive as we think. That old cliché—you can’t judge a book by its cover? It’s a cliché because it’s so true, Jason. It was hard for you to judge Alicia. And it must be hard for you to realize what she was doing . . .”

“But she wasn’t doing anything,” Jason protested. “She was my friend.”

“Was she? You’re twelve years old, Jason, and a seven-year-old girl was your friend?”

Jason realized how strange that sounded, how it made him seem like he was some kind of freak.

“Well, maybe not a real friend,” he amended. “I really didn’t know her that well. I mean, I’d watch her make the jigsaw puzzles when I dropped by her house. Her brother was my friend.”

Jason grimaced at the deception. Brad Bartlett was not his friend but he did drop by Brad’s house. How else could he describe Brad? If he wasn’t a friend, what was he? Someone he went to school with. Which was what he should have said.

“Didn’t you also visit her at school recess sometimes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you did more than just drop by her house to visit her brother.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“No—I mean yes.”

Jason was confused again.

“Were you attracted to her?”

Trent had carefully chosen the moment for that question, knowing that it would upset the boy. He also didn’t believe it would lead anywhere. Sarah Downes had reported that there had been no evidence of sexual assault or molestation. But Trent had to judge for himself. And the question had to be asked and the answer noted for the record.

The boy drew back, his mouth tightening. “What do you mean?”

“She was a pretty little thing, wasn’t she?” Trent asked. Purposely suggestive.

“Kind of.”

“Did you ever think of showing her some affection?”

“Like what?”

“Touching her, perhaps. Kissing her.”

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth twisting in revulsion. Hands, feet, body, all spasmodic in protest. Not defensive in any way. Everything asserting his innocence.

Which Trent had to be quick to acknowledge.

“Don’t even bother to answer, Jason. I know that you didn’t have improper thoughts about her. Pardon me for making such a suggestion.”

“I think I’d like to go home now,” Jason said, squirming, thrown by all the questions and especially the new ones about Alicia Bartlett.

He half rose from the chair.

“You’re free to go whenever you want, Jason. I appreciate all the information you’ve provided. You don’t realize how important you are to the investigation, not only for your observations but for your knowledge of the people involved. And I find your answers fascinating.” Each word calculated.

Trent gestured. “There’s the door.”

The boy hesitated, half out of his chair, glancing at the door and back at Trent. Trent could do nothing to prevent him from leaving but he also knew that as long as the subject felt free to leave he was less inclined to do so. He knew that something else could be happening. There often came a moment during an interrogation when a bond, a strange sort of alliance, came into being between the subject and the interrogator.

“I know how tired you must be getting, Jason,” Trent said. “I know it’s hot in this office and uncomfortable. But a little girl is dead, she was your friend, and I think we can help the situation by working together on this.”

The boy sat back, but on the edge of the chair, clearly undecided about what to do.

“I really need much more from you than what you observed on Monday. You’re in a unique position to help.”

Placated by the mildness of Mr. Trent’s voice and the possibility that he could actually be a real part of the investigation, Jason asked: “How can I help? When that cop came to my house, he said that you only wanted to ask about what I saw on the street Monday. And I didn’t see anything.”

“Right. But I was told that if you showed that you had more knowledge than that, I had the authority to go further. And as you and I have talked, I’ve realized how much more you can contribute, how much more you can help.”

“But how?”

“By providing inside knowledge, information that I, as an outsider, and even the police, can’t possibly know.”

“Like what?”

“You’re familiar with all the important aspects of the case, Jason. Alicia’s house, the neighborhood, the brook, the woods.”

The boy sighed as he considered what Trent had said. Finally, he nodded. “Okay.” Then tensed himself, hands on his knees, body bent slightly forward. The signs of compliance.

Trent knew that the game of cat and mouse was over.

We now go down to where the ladders start.

“Fine,” Trent said. “Now, let’s talk about the terrain of the area where Alicia was found.”

The boy frowned. “Terrain?”

“The features of the area—woods, bushes, undergrowth,” Trent explained. “You’re familiar with it?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “We played there a lot. There’s a baseball field and some swings and a slide for the young kids.”

“Did anyone tell you the exact spot where Alicia was found?”

“Somebody said a few feet off the path, near some trees. They said her . . . they said she was covered with branches and leaves and stuff.”

Trent noted that the boy had stumbled a bit and had avoided using the word
body,
which was entirely appropriate. Trent had also done so to make it easier for the boy.

“What do you remember about the area? Was there loose gravel, grass? Was it rocky, overgrown?”

The boy shrugged. “Just . . . ground. Like you find in the woods.”

“Stones, rocks?”

“I guess so. I remember tripping on a big rock once when I went into the woods to . . .” Jason stopped, hating to admit that he had stepped into the woods to pee.

“To relieve yourself?” Trent asked helpfully.

“Yeah.” Feeling his cheeks warming, wondering if he was blushing, like in school.

“A lot of stones and rocks, right?”

“Yes.”

Knowing the boy would supply the answer he sought, Trent asked: “What do you think the weapon was, Jason?”

“I don’t know.”

Trent waited.

“A rock?” the boy asked.

Hiding what would have been a smirk of triumph, Trent said casually: “Could have been a hammer. If the perpetrator brought a hammer along. If the murder was premeditated.”

“Premeditated?” Jason knew the meaning of the word, having heard it a thousand times on television shows, but he couldn’t connect it with what happened to Alicia.

“I mean,” Trent said, “if someone had planned Alicia’s murder in advance. But I don’t think it happened that way. Do you?”

Planning Alicia’s murder in advance? Jason shook his head at the possibility.

“No,” he said.

“I think it might have been something that happened on the spur of the moment. Not quite an accident but certainly not planned, perhaps as surprising to the perpetrator as it was to Alicia.” Avoiding the word
killer
or
murderer,
of course.

“And if it happened that way, spontaneous, not planned, then this brings an entirely new viewpoint to the tragedy.”

Jason frowned, unsure of Mr. Trent’s meaning. “I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is this. For instance, if you, Jason, committed a terrible act, for instance, if you had killed Alicia without premeditation, without planning it out in advance but in a moment of panic or losing your temper—then it would make a big difference in the way the case was handled. We would allow for mitigating circumstances. Not first-degree murder. Perhaps your mind was in turmoil at the time. Juries, the police, they understand how those things can happen.”

Jason understood. He was aware of different charges in murder cases mostly from television, first degree and second degree, manslaughter, but had never given them much thought. He frowned as he looked at Mr. Trent. The questioner wore an expression on his face that Jason had not seen before. He looked . . . sly. Jason recalled words from a book he’d read as a little kid. Sly as a fox. And suddenly the import of Mr. Trent’s words struck him.
If you had killed Alicia.

“But I—”

Trent cut him off. That ancient ploy: a question to divert the subject.

“Know what’s interesting, Jason?” he asked.

“What?”

“The choice of weapon. You said a rock was used. That’s what the police also think. ’A blunt object causing trauma.’ Those were the official words. It’s interesting that you also said a rock caused the trauma. Why did you say that, Jason?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of rocks there.”

“What do you think became of the rock?”

Jason shrugged, wriggled a bit on the chair, conscious again of the heat in the room. He was not really interested in all this stuff about the stone. What did all of this have to do with him? He became aware of a headache starting; a small pulsing pain.

“I don’t know what became of the rock. Maybe it got thrown away.” He was getting tired of the questioning, despite what Mr. Trent had said about helping out. He wanted, really, to get out of there, to go home.

“I think I’d like to go now,” he said. “I’d like to go home.”

“Not quite yet, Jason.”

“Why not?” Hadn’t he answered all the questions?

“Because as I said, you are important. Not only were you close to Alicia, but you spent those last hours of her life with her.”

“The killer did, not me,” Jason said.

Trent did not reply, merely looked at the boy.

“Then, let’s summarize, shall we?” he said.

“Yes,” Jason agreed. Summarize. The summary would prove that he was not the last one to see Alicia alive.

“You knew Alicia Bartlett. She was a little girl who seemed to like you. A smart little girl who often beat you at games, made you feel inferior.”

Jason opened his mouth to speak. Somehow Mr. Trent had gotten it wrong. But the interrogator held up his hand, like a traffic cop. And Jason sank back in his chair.

“You enjoy reading about violence. Those books you read and movies you mentioned,” Trent said, speaking a bit more rapidly, not wanting to give the boy a chance to interrupt. “You said you’re not sure sometimes about the difference between reality and fantasy. You daydream a lot. Sometimes about violent things—”

“But—”

Again, the traffic cop’s motion.

“You’re familiar with the woods where Alicia Bartlett was murdered. You said that a rock was used to kill her. The police had not divulged that information to the general public and yet you said a rock was the murder weapon. Right?”

“Right, but—”

“Opportunity and motive are the most important aspects of a case, Jason. And you had both.”

“Motive?”

“Alicia made fun of you. Made you feel inferior.”

“I liked Alicia, she never—”

“There’s a thin line between liking someone, even loving them, and then hating them. A spark can ignite very quickly. Let’s face it, Jason. No one else had the opportunity. You were with her that afternoon. Alone with her . . .”

“I was alone with her but—”

“Look, it’s understandable. You didn’t want to hurt her, did you?”

“No, I—”

“Those things happen. You lose your temper, you get upset, things happen fast, you didn’t mean to do it but things got out of hand. There was a rock nearby—”