“Here is the lady from the CPS to speak to you, Miguel,” he said at an octave so low I wondered if he’d undergone throat surgery.
Miguel scanned the room, but his gaze never landed on me. His eyes appeared deeper, more hollow than yesterday. He then walked over to a chair at a table at the far end of the room and sat down.
I glanced at the guard and Stan. “I’ll take it from here, guys.”
“I need to stay in the room, Ms. Nash,” the guard said, his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped in front of him. I noticed a Taser attached to his belt.
Shifting my sights to Stan, I added, “If I need anything, I’ll let you know.” I ensured my tone was calm, composed.
Stan leaned toward the guard and said a few words out of earshot. The guard nodded. “We’ll be right outside the door.”
11
Stan shut the door, and I walked over and sat at the same table as Miguel, his gaze angled downward. His hair was matted and tangled, as if he’d slept on wet hair—no doubt a furious, unsettling night of sleep. He ran his fingers across scribbles of red and blue markers on the scarred table. I waited a couple of minutes, giving him the time to get used to me being around. But he didn’t say anything.
“Miguel, do you remember me? I’m the lady with the funny name. Ivy.”
He didn’t acknowledge me.
“I know you’re hurting right now. We had a chance to speak yesterday, and I was hoping we could talk a little today.”
More silence.
“I don’t want you to feel any pressure, Miguel. We can talk about anything on your mind, or you can ask me questions. Whatever you want. I’m just here to be your friend.”
His fingers stopped outlining the marks on the table. He seemed to still be in a state of shock, and I wondered what it would take to get him out of it. Time or maybe some event to snap him back to the here and now.
Glancing around the room, I found a shelf full of trucks. I walked over, picked up a firetruck and brought it back over to the table. “Check this out, Miguel. Even has a ladder on the back that you can extend.”
It took a few seconds, but his eyes locked in on the truck as I moved it across the table.
“What do you think? Can you imagine yourself at the top here, rescuing someone from a building?”
His gaze fell back to the table. As I was about to take the truck back to the shelf, Miguel jumped to his feet, grabbed the truck from the table, and slammed it to the floor. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he pressed his hands against the top of his head, the cords of his neck strained like taut ropes.
The door swung open, Stan and the guard talking over each other.
“I’m fine. We’re fine,” I said, holding up a hand.
“He’s breaking one of our key rules, Ms. Nash. No lashing out or violence of any kind. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take him back to his room,” the guard said, taking a couple of steps in our direction, his hand resting on his Taser.
I extended my arm. “No, we’re fine. If you have a problem with that, go get your supervisor. Stan?”
I looked over the guard’s shoulder to the beefy detective, who said, “Hey, man, I know Ivy, and she’ll be fine in here. The kid just experienced some bad stuff. She’s not hurt. Let’s leave them alone for another few minutes.”
The guard flipped around, mumbling, “One more chance. That’s all he gets.”
They disappeared from the room. Miguel relaxed his arms, but I could still see his chest expanding with every rapid breath, his pupils like a pair of glassy black moons. Given my initial interactions with the child, I would have never guessed he had that type of rage built up inside. But I knew firsthand that when exposed to extreme violence and near-death experiences, the mind could be nothing more than a minefield—a path that seemed to be filled with green grass, but take a step in the wrong direction, and everything explodes, sending shrapnel of hate, self-loathing, and yes, even retaliation flying indiscriminately into anyone nearby. The collateral damage to other relationships can be just as devastating and irreversible as the initial trauma.
“Let’s take a seat,” I said as my butt plopped down into the tiny chair. But Miguel remained standing.
His scowl had deepened, and he looked much older than his ten years.
“Miguel?”
No response, not even an indication that I was in the room. Was his mind replaying the terrible events from when his world imploded? A gunshot, and then a moment or two later, more gunshots. If Miguel had killed Tommy, what initiated the confrontation, especially in the middle of the hostage situation? Was it possible his father had encouraged his son to kill the boy? Passing along the torch of hate and retribution…his last dying act? Again, I couldn’t wrap my head around how Miguel had sat in that living room and not shown any remorse.
“Do you want something to drink, Miguel? I bet they’ll get us something if I ask nicely,” I said, still maintaining a calm, pleasant tone, even though my frustration was building.
Again, nothing but a cold stare. A recent memory popped into my mind: a documentary I’d seen showing little boys who had been kidnapped and then brainwashed into fighting for rebel groups in Africa. Ten-year-old little boys carrying assault rifles and machetes, ruthlessly shooting innocent people at close range or, in one instance, hacking their blades through their victims’ limbs until they could hold up their trophies, a bloody arm or leg. The armies of boys would dance and cheer those who had the most kills. They had lost their souls. Had Miguel lost his soul? The idea scared the shit out of me.
Did you lose your soul when you killed Frank?
I shuddered as flashes of images broke into my conscious thought. The so-called funhouse; Frank’s massive fist just before he pounded my head; his blemished face so desperate for attention from a little girl; and his cold, dead eyes. Then I looked at Miguel, his round, unblinking eyes staring into nothingness, his jaw muscles flinching. Had he actually killed that boy? Even if he had, I, more than anyone, couldn’t turn my back on him. He needed someone to care.
“I realize this isn’t how you thought your life would turn out. And I truly think you’ll feel better about yourself, about tomorrow and next week and next month, if you let it all out. Just tell me everything that you’re feeling before it eats you up inside.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat.
His eyes shifted.
“Do you see something that interests you?”
He pointed to the other side of the room. I pushed out of my chair and started walking that way, trying to figure out what he was pointing at. He followed me. I made it all the way to the far side, stopping at a toy box that had various balls inside.
“Do you want to toss a ball?” I picked up a rubber ball and turned around to find Miguel flipping over a large sheet of paper attached to an easel.
“I want to draw,” he said, lifting up a box of colored pencils.
My heart literally fluttered. “Sounds like fun.” I kept my distance, standing on the other side of the easel, but I had nothing to keep me occupied. I walked around in my space, ensuring I didn’t invade his area of creativity.
I gave him a couple of minutes then asked, “What are you drawing?” I could only see the top of his head.
“Uh…”
He was concentrating, so I gave him another minute while I examined the bookshelves. I glanced at a few of the titles, some targeted to kids who would be learning how to read. And then I spotted all seven books of the Harry Potter series. I had spent an entire summer immersing myself in the world of Hogwarts, Harry, Hermione, and Ron—the summer after the incident with Frank. That time of escape probably kept my sanity in check, even if I was living vicariously through all the wonderful characters. I thumbed through the last book and saw a few passages that brought back memories. My vivid imagination had always been able to visualize the scenes that J.K. Rowling had described long before the movies hit theatres. Hell, I didn’t even see the movies until later in college.
I could never afford it.
I turned around and saw Miguel’s arm still moving. “Ready to share what you’re drawing?”
“Me and Dad at the Spurs game,” he said, his voice more like a little boy, not a little killer.
“Cool. Who did they play that night?”
“The Thunder. It was a tough game, but we pulled it out. It was one of Tim Duncan’s best games in his last season. Did you know he played until he was forty years old? My dad said that’s really old to be playing basketball and not be on the YMCA team. And I know the NBA isn’t the YMCA.”
I chuckled so that he could hear me.
A moment later, he tore the paper off the easel and handed it to me. It was a black and gray sketch of Duncan going up for a dunk over a Thunder player. While the faces were blanked out, the drawing had so much action and life.
“Miguel, this is really incredible. I love it.”
He smiled for a brief second while wiggling the colored pencil between his fingers. “Thanks,” he said, his voice barely audible.
Then his mind seemed to take another turn. His eyes shifted to glance over my shoulder. I turned around and didn’t see anything of note.
“I want to draw something else,” he said, moving back around the easel.
“Great. I can’t wait to see it,” I said, setting his first drawing on a nearby table. I saw some board games stacked next to it. “Hey, when you get tired of that, maybe we can play a game of checkers.”
I looked over at Miguel, but he was deeply focused. I took a couple of steps back toward the bookcase, my happy place, feeling better about Miguel’s ability to break through the fog of anger and find something productive to focus on. Whether he killed that little boy or not, I still couldn’t determine. But I was just glad to see a bit of humanity bust through his armor of hate.
“My dad killed my mom, didn’t he?”
I immediately choked on my saliva. “I’m sorry, Miguel. What did you say?” I asked with a cough.
“Another kid here in this ‘kid jail’ told me that my dad killed my mom,” he said as if he were giving me the weather forecast. “At first I didn’t believe him. Told him he was lying just to make me upset. Told him he was a bully.”
His voice began to crack, and I could see his head drop. “But he said one of the guards told him about me and my crazy dad. How he held us hostage. But before he broke into the Gideons’ house, he killed my mom. He shot her, right?”
I padded toward him.
“Stop,” he said, sniffling. “I don’t want you to see me crying.”
“Okay, I understand, Miguel.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “Adults, parents, do really stupid things, Miguel. They’re human, which means they make mistakes. Sometimes the mistakes can be big ones.”
“What about your parents? Did they make mistakes?”
I wasn’t about to share all of the pain and suffering I’d experienced growing up as a nomadic system kid. “Yes, Miguel, my parents made mistakes. Detective Radowski, outside the door, his parents made mistakes.”
“But I bet his dad didn’t kill his mom.”
“You’re right, Miguel. He didn’t,” I said, shuffling closer to the easel. “I don’t want to lie to you, but I’ll be honest: I can’t say for certain that your dad hurt your mom. I only heard that it’s possible.”
“He did it.” His voice was even, as if he’d witnessed the horrific event.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I knew he had it in him.”
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me wanted to ask if the act of killing was inside Miguel, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. Not at this juncture.
He continued without me saying a word. “I saw him beat up Mom a lot of times. Usually he was drunk, but it got worse the last few months. And the last couple of times it got really bad. I wasn’t sure she was going to…live.” He sputtered out the last few words. I moved to where I could see him better; he was wiping tears off his cheeks. But the moment he brought his hand down, the stream continued. His heart was breaking before my eyes, and I only wanted to reach out and hold him...even if he did kill Tommy.
“I’m so sorry you had to see your dad do that to your mom.”
“It’s not your fault,” he replied behind a couple of gasps. The entire time he kept his gaze on the paper, his drawing hand still moving.
I paused for a moment, hoping his focus on the drawing would take his mind off the deaths of his parents and bring him back to a happier place.
A few more sniffles.
“So do you think the Spurs will make the playoffs this year without Tim Duncan?” I knew more about basketball than I ever really wanted to know. Being the only show in San Antonio, it was hard to avoid any and all news about a team that had won five titles in the last fifteen years.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m surprised Pop hasn’t called you up to ask your opinion,” I said, hamming it up a bit.
No verbal response.
“Miguel?” I peeked around the easel at the same moment he broke a pencil in two.
“What’s going on, Miguel? Talk to me.”
He began to stab the easel with the broken edge of the pencil, each blow a little more forceful than the previous. He growled so fiercely his voice began to crack.
“Miguel, you’re going to hurt yourself.” I stepped next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. I turned to look at the picture, and my breath caught in my throat.
I saw red spewing out of a gray figure’s body. Positioned to the left, the only other figure in the drawing had an arm extended, pointing what looked like a gun at the other person.
He had to be drawing what he’d seen yesterday. Or what he’d done.
His attack on the easel continued, even after the pencil flew out of his hand. He started punching the board so hard it started to rock backward. I tried grabbing his arm, but his strength surprised me.
“Miguel, please stop. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
He ignored me. The drawing tore away and drifted to the floor, but he kept going, pummeling the board with everything he had. He was on a mission to destroy. I could see blood from his knuckles leaving splattered prints on the remaining drawing paper.
“Miguel.” I didn’t want to be physical with him. I just hoped he’d hear me and break out of his violent rant.
Just then, the door slammed open, and the guard was in our space before I could say a word. He grabbed Miguel’s arm and brought it around his back until he cried out.
“Don’t hurt Miguel,” I said, reaching toward him.
“Ma’am, step away before you get yourself injured,” he said, lifting Miguel off his feet and then laying him face down on the floor.
“What are you going to do to him?”
Stan walked up to me. “It’s out of our hands now, Ivy,” he said, a bit too calmly for my liking.
“Screw you. I’m not going to let this ogre hurt a little kid.”
The big beast of a guard chuckled as he cinched zip-ties around Miguel’s wrists, then brought him to his feet. “Believe me, lady, this isn’t his first rodeo. I can see it in his eyes. He’s a cold-blooded killer.”
The guard tried to nudge Miguel forward, but he dug his feet into the floor. “I don’t want to go back to my room.”
“Well, you don’t have a choice, mister. I gave you a second chance to get your act together, and you screwed it up by acting like an animal. Come on now, get moving.”
The guard shifted his eyes to me for a second, then gave Miguel another light push from behind. I got the feeling he was taking it easy on Miguel just because I was there.
Just as the guard put his hands on Miguel, the kid dropped to the ground. An obvious protest.
“Get up!”
Miguel turned his face upward. “Fuck you.”
“You’ve screwed with the wrong guard. Come on.” The guard grunted, using the strength of his legs to quickly lift M
iguel as if he were a toy soldier, setting him down on his feet. “If you want to eat, you will walk. You understand me?”
“You can’t withhold food from him. That’s illegal,” I yelled, moving closer to the guard and Miguel.
“Hey, man.” Stan now took the lead. “Be the bigger man here, and don’t let this escalate.”
The guard twisted his head around, his brow beading with sweat. “This is my house. You don’t have to deal with these dangerous shit-bags day in and day out. I do. So get the hell out of my face.” He turned back to Miguel, who had stopped again. But the guard would have none of it. He bear-hugged Miguel, flung him over his shoulder, and then walked out of the room. Miguel screamed as if he were being stabbed a thousand times. I took a few steps in their direction, but Stan moved in front of me.
“It will only make it worse. I’m sorry, Ivy. I wish there was something we could do. For Miguel, and for the little boy he killed.”
Miguel’s screams echoed off the walls. When our space finally drew silent, I wondered if I’d witnessed the last of Miguel the little boy.
12
To show that he actually had a heart somewhere in his thick chest, Stan insisted on taking me to lunch. He said he owed me because of how the situation with Miguel had deteriorated. While I considered talking him into going to a bar, we settled on Torchy’s Tacos.
Scooping up a cucumber from my salad onto my fork, I paused before taking a bite. “You’re just trying to brownnose me, aren’t you?”
“You always think someone has an angle. You should know me by now, Ivy. What you see is what you get, for the most part,” he said, shoving a huge forkful of lettuce in his mouth. “My wife wishes I wasn’t quite as transparent. I can be a little... How does she say it? Uncouth. Yeah, that’s the term she uses.”
I smiled, thinking I hadn’t seen much of Stan’s unfiltered personality. Usually he was busy trying to stay on top of all the SAPD’s ever-changing policies and procedures, or jumping every time an IA detective walked by.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 7