“It bothers me, too,” Braxton said, covering his mouth, trying to resist his desperate yawn.
Alvin Dark cracked his knuckles on the table. He liked to think of himself as a man of action. “Okay, call him.” Command in his voice as if Braxton were an underling.
“Fine,” Braxton said, overlooking the district attorney’s superior attitude. The important thing was getting Trent here, not engaging Alvin Dark in a battle of egos. He wanted to turn Trent loose on the boy, get him to admit his guilt. The prospect was almost as sweet as the thought of a good night’s sleep.
Trent received the call from Detective Lieutenant George Braxton moments after he had obtained a confession of murder from Adolph Califer, a respected broker who finally admitted that he had strangled his next-door neighbor, with whom he had been carrying on an illicit affair.
Califer had been brilliant during the questioning, parrying Trent’s questions with questions of his own or with answers that were not really answers. He had managed to avoid Trent’s verbal traps and seemed to take pleasure in it as if an entertaining game were in progress. At times, he not only anticipated the questions but answered them eagerly, so certain was he of his defenses, so confident of his replies.
For a moment or two, Trent had wondered whether Califer would be his first failure. He thought of the reactions of the other cops and detectives in the department, who’d be happy to see him fail. The Highgate Police Department was small, with a roster of only ten full-time officers in charge of a Vermont town near the Canadian border. Trent knew that he was the object of resentment by the other cops. He had never fit the mold from the beginning. Trent had quit college and the pursuit of a degree in psychology to fulfill a childhood dream: becoming a cop. He had continued taking courses as he went from beat cop to the detective squad, in a career that wasn’t spectacular but was nevertheless successful, particularly in the questioning of witnesses and suspects. The population of Highgate swelled during the winter skiing season and Trent had made his mark when he obtained a confession to four gruesome murders from a serial killer. The resulting headlines had established Trent’s reputation.
He found himself on call from other departments. He polished his techniques, studied all kinds of interrogative methods and ultimately developed his own system. He conducted occasional seminars and envisioned breaking away entirely from police work and the unending litany of confessions. He was aware that he was waiting for the right case to come along.
Meanwhile, there was Califer.
Focusing on him, Trent began to tire of the cat-and-mouse moves. He had an ace up his sleeve. But the trick was to play it at the right time, to be patient, to await the proper moment.
So he allowed Califer to conduct his game of interrogative hide-and-seek. Interrogations called for flexibility and subtlety within the rules and regulations that Trent had developed. And, at times, a waiting game had to be played with patience as the watchword. Whatever weapons Trent had at his disposal had to be brought into play when it was psychologically right. The weapons, of course, consisted of information that the subject didn’t know Trent possessed. Or, most often, knowledge of the subject that Trent had detected during the questioning itself.
At a moment when Califer was off guard and thus vulnerable, Trent made the decisive move.
“What was your daughter’s name?” he asked, quite innocently, almost casually.
Stunned, Califer turned away, averting his eyes for the first time during the interrogation. When he looked at Trent again, he couldn’t disguise his astonishment. Trent saw Califer’s defenses begin to crumble.
“She’s dead,” Califer said, voice flat with resignation, shoulders slumping, chin dropping to his chest.
“I know,” Trent said, making his voice soothing and sympathetic, one of many voices he employed during his confrontations with suspects.
“She was only five when she died,” Califer said, voice breaking now.
Trent had not only waited for the proper moment to spring the question but had attacked Califer from the inside, not the outside, touching the one vital spot where Califer was vulnerable.
Ten minutes later, Califer confessed.
And five minutes after that, Trent received the call from Detective Lieutenant George Braxton.
“I’m calling from Monument down in Massachusetts,” Braxton said. “We need your services here. Desperately.”
“And why’s that?” Trent asked dryly, knowing the answer, of course.
“The town’s in an uproar over the murder of a child. We have a suspect who needs interrogation. Can you help us?”
Carl Seaton and Califer, all within six days. He didn’t need another so soon.
“How did you reach me?” he asked, knowing that he was stalling, that he never could resist an appeal to his expertise.
“Your department in Highgate gave us your number in Rutland. I’ve been standing by until you wrapped up your current interrogation. Congratulations. I understand you scored another one.”
Braxton’s congratulations rang hollow but the words still pleased him. Trent knew, however, where Braxton’s real interest lay. Sure enough, Braxton immediately proved him right. “Can you come?”
“Where’s Monument?” Trent asked, but only going through the motions, really.
“Central Massachusetts. About four hours from Highgate.” Trent heard him pause. “Senator Gibbons is interested in the case. He said to call this to your attention. His grandson knew the victim. They were in the second grade together.”
Braxton had played his ace and Trent’s interest quickened. The senator was a man of powerful authority and influence. He was an advocate of tough anticrime laws. A good man to have in your corner.
“Details,” Trent said.
He heard the relief in Braxton’s voice as he recited the details of a too-familiar situation. The murdered girl, the tension-filled town, the suspect.
“He’s more than a suspect. Someone we feel is the perp. Twelve-year-old neighbor of the victim,” Braxton added.
“Evidence?”
“That’s the hitch. No physical evidence. No witnesses. No weapon. No fingerprints. That’s why we’re calling you. We have a suspect who fits the profile. But we need a confession. Otherwise, he walks.”
“Is the scenario in place?” Trent asked. The answer to this question would determine whether he would accept the assignment.
No hesitation on Braxton’s part. “Yes. The scenario’s in place. We know about your work with Fallow and Blake.”
Trent frowned at the mention of Blake. Blake had been an aberration with a predisposition to confessing.
“Arrangements?”
“Senator Gibbons will provide transportation. He’ll have a driver at your disposal. Pick you up anywhere at any time.”
“How much time will I have with the suspect?”
“Three hours. Maybe four.”
“Parents?”
“Father’s away on a business trip. We anticipate that the mother will accept the scenario.”
Trent’s mind still echoed from the Ping-Pong–like questioning session with Califer and his too-smooth, too-confident voice and the effort it had taken to break him down. He had a sudden urge to reject this new assignment. But do I want to be a small-town cop all my life? How could he turn his back on a case that would leave a powerful senator in his debt?
“Fax me the details,” Trent said, giving Braxton the number. “Everything. Spell it out. I don’t want to have to read between the lines. And I don’t like surprises later.”
“Right,” Braxton said.
“And have your driver pick me up in Highgate at six sharp in the morning.”
“Right,” said Braxton again.
Trent hung up the phone, despising himself for allowing a politician to influence his decision. But then Trent had despised himself for quite a long time, anyway.
Jason was surprised when he entered police headquarters to find a normal place that could have
been any business office in Monument. He’d expected telephones to be ringing wildly, a bank of monitors showing all kinds of activity, police officers coming and going, and cigar-smoking detectives in plain clothes hunched over their desks, like on television or in the movies.
Instead, Jason found himself in a small cubicle occupied by a gray-haired man in a crisp white shirt and blue tie sitting at a desk behind a plate-glass window. The place was so quiet that Jason could hear the humming of the air conditioner.
The officer, whose name was Henry Kendall and who had accompanied Jason to police headquarters, nodded at the man at the desk. The man apparently pushed a hidden button that buzzed a door open to their left. Officer Kendall led Jason to another office that was as bare and barren as the principal’s outer office at school. No pictures on the walls, no desks or chairs, no curtains on the windows.
“The others will be here in a minute or two,” Officer Kendall said, voice soft and gentle. “You’re going to be a big help to the investigation, Jason. You’ll do just fine.”
After he’d left, Jason shivered slightly in the coolness of the room. He walked to the window and looked out at Main Street. Traffic moved slowly as if the heat had affected even the cars and trucks. People walked languidly as if in slow motion. Jason thought of his mother and wondered if coming here was a mistake. Then wondered why he should be having that thought.
He had been surprised earlier that morning when he glanced outside his bedroom window and saw a police cruiser pulling into the driveway. Another visit from the police? His breath quickened and his heart accelerated. An emergency of some kind? But the blue and white lights on the roof of the cruiser weren’t flashing and the big red-faced officer who got out of it strolled leisurely up the driveway toward the front door.
Hearing the chime of the doorbell, Jason stood still, urging his heart to calm down if that was possible. The sight of the policeman brought back the image of Alicia Bartlett as he had last seen her at her house. Last seen her. Poor Alicia.
“Jason.”
His mother’s voice reached him as if from far away.
A moment later, Jason stood in the foyer with his mother and the police officer.
“This is Officer Kendall,” his mother explained to Jason. “He’s asking for your help in the investigation.”
“Actually, we’re asking several people for their help,” the officer explained.
“A detective spoke to Jason yesterday,” his mother said. “For quite a long time.”
“I know, Mrs. Dorrant,” the officer said, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a big man. “But this is a new approach we’re trying. We have some special interrogators down at headquarters who will be asking people who were out on the street on Monday what they might have seen.”
“But I already told the detective that I didn’t see anything,” Jason said, and instantly regretted having spoken. Saying those words would probably eliminate him from the questioning and he really wanted to be part of the investigation.
“We realize that, Jason,” the policeman said. “But these experts can really get people thinking about what they might have seen. Sometimes you’ve actually seen things that you don’t realize you’ve seen. Or heard things that you didn’t think were important at that time. With the right kind of questioning, evidence can turn up that didn’t seem to be evidence. . . .”
Jason sighed with relief when his mother said: “Well, I’m sure Jason would like to help. He’s a good kid.”
“Fine,” Officer Kendall said. “I can drive him to headquarters now, where he’ll join the others.”
“How long will this take?” Jason’s mother asked.
“Oh, maybe a couple, three hours. We’ll drive him back when it’s all over.”
Jason’s mother frowned, doubt appearing in her eyes. “My husband’s out of town, won’t be back until tomorrow.”
What’s that got to do with anything? Jason wondered, afraid that his mother might change her mind about letting him go.
The officer frowned, too. “We’re doing all we can to find who did this terrible thing to that little girl.”
His voice was so gentle and kind that Jason wondered if he ever got up the nerve to arrest anybody.
Jason’s mother nodded. “Well, I guess it’s important for him to do his part,” she said. But she seemed skeptical. “How many other people are involved?” she asked.
“Four, maybe five. Mostly young people because they happened to be out on the street Monday. Jason probably knows them.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s important to move fast because time is a factor.”
“I’d rather go with him,” she said, still reluctant, “but Emma’s got a doctor appointment in half an hour and they’re always booked so full . . .” She looked at him anxiously and Jason blew air, impatient to be on his way. The officer glanced at his watch again.
“Well, okay,” she said, “do your best, Jason.” To Officer Kendall she said: “He’s been upset by all this.”
This time, it was Jason’s turn to frown. “Aw, Ma,” he said.
And she smiled wanly.
“Be on your way, then,” she said.
And here he was, in this barren office, wondering if his mother was right to be worried. He hadn’t seen anything unusual. He would probably be revealed as a fake.
The doors swung open and Officer Kendall was back with two guys Jason recognized. Jack O’Shea and Tim Connors. Jocks. They usually wore turned-around baseball caps, always passing a basketball between them. No baseball caps or basketball now, although they came into the room in that loose-limbed jiggling walk typical of jocks. They were followed by a kid named Danny Edison who sometimes sat at the same cafeteria table with Jason. Danny was a thin intense kid, face raw with acne.
Jason was glad to see Jimmy Orlando appear. Jimmy was a normal kid. Not a jock, not a major brain. Just a regular kid. Like what Jason hoped others saw when they looked at him.
Officer Kendall said: “Lieutenant Braxton will be here in a minute and give you fellows the lowdown on everything. He’s in charge of the investigation.”
After he left the room, they all stood around awkwardly. The two jocks meandered toward the window and huddled together like conspirators. Jimmy pulled a paperback book from his pocket and, leaning against a wall, started reading.
Danny approached Jason and they looked at each other for a moment.
“This is kind of neat, isn’t it?” Danny said, almost whispering. “I mean, being part of an investigation and everything.”
Jason nodded, glad to be talking to somebody.
“What do you think’s going to happen?” Jason asked.
“I don’t know. Give statements. I hope we don’t have to write anything down, like an essay. I’m rotten at composition.”
“Maybe they’ll record our answers,” Jason said. “And all we have to do is talk.”
They fell silent. The jocks continued to confer at the window but glanced now and then at Danny and Jason. Jimmy turned a page of his book but Jason had a feeling that he wasn’t really reading.
“Don’t you feel, like, kind of weird?” Danny asked.
“Right,” Jason said. “Because I don’t know what I’m going to say. I mean, I didn’t see anything unusual that day.”
Danny shook his head. “I mean, about Alicia Bartlett. That you were the last person to see her alive.”
Jason frowned in surprise. He hadn’t realized that his visit with Alicia on Monday had become common knowledge. Is that why he’s talking to me? Jason wondered. Curious, looking for inside information?
“One of the last to see her alive,” Jason amended.
Danny lowered his eyes. When he blushed, his acne seemed to come alive, the rawness of the zits emphasized.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”
At the same time, Jason became aware of the jocks looking his way, their eyes lingering on him. He grew uneasy. He didn’t like to have attention focused on him. T
hat was why he never raised his hand in class. He could feel his own cheeks getting warm, glad that he had been spared acne, at least. Had everyone heard about him and Alicia Bartlett?
Silence again. Jimmy Orlando closed his book and remained leaning against the wall. The jocks again turned their backs on the room and looked out the window. Danny seemed to be staring at something over Jason’s shoulder. The room suddenly became colder, as if the air-conditioning had been turned up.
Finally, the door swung open and Lieutenant Braxton stepped in. Still thin and intense, as if he were made of wire instead of bones and muscle.
“I’m Lieutenant Braxton and we’re ready to get started, guys,” he said in his brisk, businesslike way. “We really appreciate your cooperation and hope that we can come up with some vital information, information that you don’t even know you have.”
He looked at each of them in turn and his eyes finally rested on Jason. He gave no sign of recognition.
“Here’s how it works.” He took a notepad out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open. Eyes on the pad, he said: “Experts at interrogation will be questioning you. Two of you, John O’ Shea and Timothy Connors, will be questioned simultaneously because you were together most of that day. The others will be questioned individually.” Looking up, he said: “Time is of the essence, gentlemen, so let’s get started.” Consulting the pad again, he said: “First up is Jason Dorrant.”
He directed his eyes to Jason, recognizing him for the first time. “Okay, Jason, I’ll take you along to your expert.” To the others, he said: “I’ll be right back.”
Jason followed Lieutenant Braxton out of the office, wondering again if he had made a mistake coming here.
When Trent stepped into the limousine, immersing himself in the sudden flood of air-conditioning, he was surprised to find a young woman seated inside.
“My name is Sarah Downes and I’m with the district attorney’s office in Wickburg,” she announced. “Lieutenant Braxton asked me to ride down to Monument with you and provide you with background information.”