by Kate Flora
Jason was waiting in a little cubicle, looking puzzled about why he'd been sent to the nurse's office. He perked right up when he saw Burgess walk in.
"Sergeant," he said. "Are you taking me out to breakfast?"
"I am. Just not today. Today I am interviewing an important witness in a major case."
The boy's eyes widened. "Me?"
Burgess nodded. "That's right." He took out the tiny recorder he carried for times like this. "You mind if I record this?"
"Hell, no. That's cool."
Jason swiped at his runny nose, and Burgess gave him a handkerchief.
Sometimes, at parties, the younger people used to have the "superpowers" conversation. If you could have a superpower, what would it be? Burgess knew what his would be—what any cop would want—the ability to read minds. But when he imagined himself as a superhero, he had a vision of a bulky middle-aged man going about handing out magic handkerchiefs to a needy population. Hankies to stop tears, stop bleeding, bind broken bones and broken hearts. Not even in his imagination did Hanky Man wear a Lycra suit. The image would have been too awful.
"Tell me about yesterday, and how you happened to hear those screams."
Jason nodded and sat up straighter. "You know that we live right across the street there? In that brown house? Me and my foster family? And you know, like I really like living with them and all, it's so clean, and they're kind. I even have my own room. But we've got a baby, see, and it cries a lot, and I really can't stand to hear a baby cry. So, we've like got this other little kid, his name is Ricky, he's almost six. And like he can't stand to listen to the baby, either. And you know, there's kind of like a field in front of that building. Mosque. The one that burned? So, like sometimes I—"
He broke off and looked at Burgess. "Is this okay?"
"Is what okay?"
"That I tell it this way? My foster mom, she gets impatient with me 'cuz I'm so slow getting to things. I tell her it's just the way my brain works. But you know, she's got all us kids and so she sighs and says, 'I only wish you could hurry it up, Jase,' which I try to do, only then I get all tangled up and I forget things."
"Your way is just fine. It's your story. You tell it the way it works for you."
The clock was ticking. Soon he would have to be on his way to Augusta, but rushing a witness was never a good idea. And he was so pleased, after the way life had bounced Jason around, to have him in a good home. He liked hearing the boy say, "we," like it was a real family unit. Oh yeah. The meanest cop in Portland was really a mushy sentimentalist.
"So I took Ricky over there to kick a soccer ball around. Our foster mom, she'd rather we went over there than down to the park, 'cuz she can keep an eye on us, you know. Only some days no one seems to mind and some days, those people from the mosque, the In Man and some of the others, will come out and tell us to go away, we're bothering them."
"When was this, Jason, the last time you took Ricky over there to kick a ball around?"
"The night before the fire. Of the fire."
"Right. Okay, so yesterday you went over there to play with Ricky, is that right?"
Jason nodded.
"What time was this?"
"A little after four, maybe? After Ricky got home from school and had his snack."
"Did you see anyone there? The Imam? His grandson, Ismail, the man with the scar? Anyone else?"
"It was weird, you know, Sergeant Burgess. There weren't no... weren't any cars or trucks there. Usually there are some of those women in headscarves and men carrying things in from trucks or out to trucks, lots of men coming in the late afternoon... a girl in my class told me that it's because they have to pray five times a day. But not yesterday. There was no one around."
Another pause. Another quick look at Burgess. "If they have to pray every day, why didn't they have to pray yesterday?"
Burgess had no idea. "You notice any cars or trucks on the street?"
"Just one of those little black Hondas. They all drive these little black Hondas, you know, like it's another requirement of their religion or something. Drive white vans, or those square white trucks that look like boxes, and little black Hondas. And pray five times a day."
This kid was amazing. Burgess was willing to bet the adults in the neighborhood couldn't have told him half of this.
"Do they think praying five times a day makes them better people, Sergeant Burgess? Because those men aren't very nice to women."
"What makes you say that?"
"This girl at school. She's not supposed to talk to me, because I'm a boy, but we're friends and she tells me things about how women don't matter in their families, only men do, and how they think she should leave school soon and get married. Which she says she doesn't want to do. And my foster mom, she says she's seen things, and she also gets mad at the way those men treat her, like when she's out with the baby and stuff, you know. She says they stand around and stare and act like she's dirt or something. And like once they parked one of their trucks so it was blocking our driveway when she needed to get out so she could take the baby to the doctor and when she went over there to ask them to move it, they yelled at her that she had to get out of their building. So she came home and called you guys."
A report that might be worth looking up. Actually, it might be worth doing a general search about complaints regarding the mosque and its members from the neighborhood. See who else was watching. Good idea to talk to the officers who patrolled this sector, too. They usually had a pretty good read on their neighborhoods. See what got noted on field identification cards. Those FID cards could be very helpful.
But he was being a dinosaur again. Now that was all computerized. No more of those handy little cards he could sort through and pick out valuable data. Now he had to figure out how it might have been recorded and filed. Practically needed a techie in his pocket just to do his job.
"Okay," he said, "so you were over there with Ricky, knocking that ball around, and no one was at the mosque and there were no cars in the lot, is that right?"
Jason nodded.
"When did you spot the fire?"
"It was Ricky," Jason said. "He had kicked the ball over on that side of the building, and when he came back he said he'd seen smoke. So I went around there and I could see it wasn't just smoke, it was flames. So I walked him back across the street and told him to go upstairs and have our foster mom call the fire department. And when I was walking him across, that's when I heard the woman screaming."
He stopped, his eyes wide. "I never heard nothin' like that, ever, Sergeant Burgess. It sounded just awful. And I looked up and down the street for someone to help her, and I saw your car parked there, and I just ran up... not knowing it was you 'til I got close, and then I was so glad it was you and I pounded on your door, and you know about the rest."
He had so many things to ask, but he didn't want to overwhelm the boy. "The Imam says that they've been having trouble with a motorcycle gang. Have you ever seen men on motorcycles around the mosque?"
"You mean that huge guy with the eye patch? I've seen him a couple times, maybe more. Him and this other guy, sometimes more than one guy, they'll go into that parking lot and just drive around and around, making all that noise. My foster mom has called the cops—I mean, you guys—a few times because they wake up the baby."
"That's the man," Burgess said. "You ever see him speak to the Imam or anyone else over there?"
"Sure. The In Man, he came out and yelled at the man with the eye patch, and then the eye-patch man, he drove his motorcycle right at the In Man. He's an old man, you know, Sergeant Burgess. He had to jump out of the way so quick he fell over, which is when one of his sons, or grandsons, the one that's not Ishmael, he came out and yelled at the man that if he didn't stop, they were gonna kill him. And then the eye-patch guy said... I mean yelled, 'unless I kill you first.'"
Jason stopped, his eyes wide. "But people say that stuff all the time, don't they? And they don't mean it, right? Anyway, the
y both said some things I couldn't hear and then the son helped the In Man back inside and them... uh... those motorcycle guys roared off."
"Do you remember when this happened?"
The boy considered, then shook his head. "It might have been last week, but I'm not sure. My foster mom might remember, because she came out to see what was going on. She says she's real frustrated about having them as neighbors, because they bring so much trouble to the neighborhood."
In the background, a bell rang.
Burgess had more questions, but he could see Jason was anxious to get back to class. He also thought he'd better stop in later and talk to the foster mother. She might have noticed things that Jason wouldn't have, and might remember the date of that confrontation between the Imam and his grandson and Butcher Flaherty.
He stood up. "Time to get you back to class," he said. "You've been very helpful. And yes, I know I still owe you those pancakes. Maybe this weekend, if all goes well. And Jase?"
The boy looked suddenly wary. Not surprising, given his history.
"Don't tell anyone we've talked. You're our secret witness. Like to keep it that way."
"Don't worry, Sergeant. I won't say a word. Except..."
Burgess wondered what the exception was. Jason's best friend? The girl he confided in?
"Would it be okay if I told my foster mom?"
"It would be fine. That's a good idea."
Burgess took out the photo of his mystery girl. "Have you ever seen her before? Around here? Or at school?"
Jason took the photo, studied it carefully, and handed it back. "Is that the girl who was locked up in the building? The one you had to break down the door so you could rescue her?"
"That's right."
Burgess felt like he was on the cusp of something important. He tried not to let it show as he waited for Jason to explain.
"I might know something," Jason said, suddenly coy. "But I'll have to ask my friend if it's okay to tell you."
He squirmed on his chair. "I'd better go now, Sergeant Burgess. It's time for class and they'll be mad if I'm late."
"Please do ask your friend. I really need this information, Jason," Burgess said. "And I might need to talk to your friend."
The squirming increased. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. She's really shy."
Now the boy was on his feet, almost vibrating with his need to get out the door.
"We'll talk again," Burgess said. "Let me know what she says." Then realized he was missing a vital piece of information. "What's her name?"
Jason looked everywhere except at him. Finally, he said, "Amina."
No last name, but that wasn't a problem. There couldn't be too many Aminas in the school.
"Thanks, Jason. I really appreciate your information." He gave the boy his card. "And if you remember anything else I should know, you call me, okay?"
Jason tucked the card away, still looking troubled, and Burgess realized he needed to reassure Jason that he wasn't going to damage the friendship or get the girl in trouble.
"I know you understand why I might need to arrange to speak with your friend. And I know why that worries you. If I do, I will be very careful not to get her in trouble with her family. I know she will be very reluctant, so please don't say anything to her yet."
Jason put a finger to his lips. "You can trust me, Sergeant Burgess."
"I know I can. Just be careful, Jason, and like we agreed, don't say anything to anyone about this talk, except for your foster mom. Right?"
"Right."
Reluctantly, he let Jason go.
Burgess watched the boy's small, awkward figure, until the boy disappeared back into the school building and the door closed behind him. Another kid he needed to keep safe and worried that he couldn't.
Chapter 15
Still, he was feeling irritated even though he had no right to be. The boy had been helpful and Burgess knew if he interviewed Jason again, he'd get more, that there were things Jason wanted to say and wasn't sure he should. But Burgess needed answers now. He was getting sick of everyone's lack of cooperation. Impatient with all the rules he had to follow, the fine line he had to walk to respect everyone's rights. Like abused girls and dead infants really didn't matter.
Burgess thought he'd need to talk to Jason's friend, but that would not be easy. Not easy at all. For him or for her, if she would even agree to speak with him. A male American cop talking to a young Somali girl was not something easy to arrange. He had an idea, though. Use the library, which was regarded as a safe place, and bring Andrea Dwyer with him. The kiddie cop was supposed to talk to kids.
He thanked the nurse and headed out to his truck.
He called Kyle for an update on their meeting with Osman. Osman hadn't appeared. No one was answering the phone at his residence, which had the same address as the license plate of the car that had picked him up. They were going to drop by there, then split up and start working their lists. Kyle sounded frustrated, eager to get back to his informant, see if she really knew anything. If, like Jason, she lived near the mosque, she might well have something useful to add. Nosy people might be annoying if they lived next door, but they could be a policeman's best friends.
"You might drop by the Imam's place, see if he drew us that plan of the building we were supposed to pick up last night."
"We were there last night," Kyle reminded him, "trying to pick it up. He just wouldn't answer the door."
"Kid gloves," Burgess said. "And persistence. Let 'em know we aren't going to go away just because they want us to. Hang in there. We're going to get some breaks in this thing."
"Right. I'd like to break a few things."
Heads, probably. And Kyle was the calm one. Of course today he was saddled with their ill-tempered colleague Stan Perry.
"How's Stan doing?"
"Vibrating. Cursing. Veering toward the edge of the reservation."
"He sitting right beside you?"
"Got it in one."
"You didn't hear this from me, but the divine Andrea says Stan's girlfriend is pregnant. That might explain a few things. I'll catch up after the autopsy."
"Good luck with that."
Burgess thought he'd need luck. This was not going to be one of his better moments.
On his way to 109 to pick up Sage Prentiss, he called Melia and told him what he'd just learned from Jason about the inexplicable absence of people around the mosque when the fire started, and his certainty that some very important information was available if he could only tap into it. He shared his plans for follow-up.
"The captain is very anxious to see your reports," Melia said. A euphemistic way of saying that Cote was foaming at the mouth and stalking the corridors with hands opening and closing like they wanted to be around Burgess's neck.
"Sorry, Vince. You know how it's been. After the autopsy, I'll sit down and write things up."
"It's my ass, too, Joe."
"I'll keep your ass in mind."
"See that you do."
He swung into the dark cement garage at 109 and called Prentiss to say he was there. His call got a two-fer, because Prentiss arrived with Dani Letorneau, their evidence tech, in tow.
She climbed in the back, giving the lanky Prentiss the roomier front seat. "Sorry, Joe," she said. "Car broke down on the way to work this morning."
"Not a problem," he said. "I can use the company. This thing's making me grouchy as a bear coming out of hibernation."
She had the grace not to say "what's new?"
As they headed north on 295, Prentiss said, "Lieutenant Melia said you might need more bodies on this one."
"Poor choice of words, Sage," Burgess said, as he jerked the wheel and whipped around an ancient man in a battered Subaru who was going forty when the speed limit was sixty-five. "I'd rather have fewer bodies."
"I meant—"
"Dammit, Sage, I know what you meant. And yes, we can use some more help. You don't happen to speak Somali, do you?"
"A litt
le," Prentiss said, surprising him. "I was a kiddie cop for a while. Lotta Somali kids at the school."
Finally a bit of good news. Too bad they hadn't had Prentiss with them last night when they were interviewing the Imam. He smiled, remembering Jason's very serious voice calling him the In Man.
Burgess didn't know Prentiss well. He was a lateral transfer from the Lewiston police department. But then, Lewiston had its issues with Somalis as well. Real issues of educating a population that often wasn't even literate in their own language. The mayor might have had a habit of explaining it badly, often resulting in him being depicted with his foot in his mouth in the national press, but it was hard on city systems to integrate a large new population in need of every possible service when the federal resettlement money was going to communities where the Somalis had initially settled, before their secondary migration to Maine.
"Sounds like you might be a big help. We're running up against a brick wall trying to get information about that mosque. Lotta people lying. Or just going silent on us. So far, we don't even understand the Imam's family structure."
"I'll do what I can, Sergeant. I've got some strategies. Lotta times, I've found the way in is through the next generation, the kids. Or the women."
As they whipped past the salt marsh, still fall's golden brown, not beginning to green up yet, and the marina—a field of shrink-wrapped boats looking like misshapen marshmallows—he felt Dani's small hand on his shoulder. "You gonna be okay with this, Joe?"
"Are any of us?"
"I'm dreading it," she said. "That little boy from the park, that was bad enough. But a baby? Dr. Lee doing the autopsy?"
"He is."
"At least he keeps it clinical."
She said it like that was a good thing, but Burgess remembered some of his first autopsies, with a very different ME, and the sense of reverence for the soul of the person on the table that had filled the room. Maybe she was right about today, though. Clinical might make it easier.