by Lisa Gardner
Four hours later, we sat side by side at the kitchen bar, both eating bowls of cereal, Ree cooing away in the automatic swing, and neither of us saying a word.
He chewed. I chewed. Then he reached over and, very slowly, took my hand. We were okay again, just like that. Until the next time I had to disappear into a hotel room, I supposed. Until the next time he needed to disappear into the computer.
I wonder if the darkness grew inside his head. I wonder if he ever smelled decaying roses and cursed the color of his eyes or the feel of his own skin. But I didn’t ask him. I would never ask him.
First rule of lying, remember? You never acknowledge it.
And it occurred to me, over a bowl of soggy cereal, that I could live like this. Compartmentalized. There, but separate. Together, but alone. Loving, but isolated. This is how I had been living most of my life, after all. In a household where my mother might appear in the middle of the night to do unspeakable things with a hairbrush. Then hours later, we’d sit across from one another sharing a platter of buttermilk biscuits for breakfast.
My mother had prepared me well for this life.
I glanced over at my husband, crunching away on Cheerios. I wondered who had prepared him.
The Boston Police Department’s press conference started at 9:03 A.M. And Jason knew the second it ended, because his cell phone rang.
He hadn’t watched the briefing. Once he’d wiped his daughter’s tears and fed one very demanding Mr. Smith, he’d loaded both his daughter and the cat into Sandy’s Volvo. Mr. Smith had sprawled out in a sunny spot and gone immediately to sleep, the rare cat who actually liked car rides. Ree, in turn, sat in her booster seat, clutching Lil’ Bunny to her chest while she stared at Mr. Smith as if she were willing him to stay put.
Jason drove. Mostly because he needed to move. He felt as if he were on the open plains of Kansas, watching a twister touch down and helpless to get out of its path. He could only watch the sky darken, feel the first whip of hurricane-force winds against his face.
The cops had held a press conference. The media machine was now slowly but surely roaring to life. There was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing anyone could do.
His phone rang again. He eyed his screen, feeling his sense of fatalism swell.
Using the rearview mirror, he glanced at his daughter again, the serious look on her face as she tried to find happiness in watching her cat sleep when what she wanted most in the world was to hug her mother.
He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear.
“Hello, Greg.”
“Holy shit,” the senior news editor of the Boston Daily exploded in his ear. “Why didn’t you tell us, Jason? Hell, we’re like family. We woulda understood.”
“It’s been a trying time,” Jason said automatically, feeling the words come out by rote as they had before, so long ago. Wanna be on the front page? All it will cost you is your life. Or maybe your child’s. Or maybe your wife’s.
“What’s the deal here, Jason? And I’m not talking editor to reporter. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.” Another lie. There would be many lies in the days to come. “I’m talking as a member of your journalistic family, the guy who’s seen the photos of your family and knows how much you love them. Are you doin’ all right?”
“I’m taking it one day at a time,” Jason recited evenly.
“Any word? Gotta say, the police were pretty damn vague.”
“We are hoping the public can provide clues,” Jason filled in dutifully.
“And your daughter? Clarissa? How’s she holding up? Need any help, buddy?”
“Thank you for your offer. We are taking it one day at a time.”
“Jason … Jason, my man.”
“I won’t be able to work tonight, Greg.”
“Of course not! Holy crap, of course we understand. You need to take a week off, maybe a leave of absence. You name it, we’re there for you, man.” Just don’t forget about us, right, buddy? Front-page scoop, the inside skinny straight from the husband’s mouth to our front page, right, buddy?
“Thank you for your understanding.”
“We’re there for you, Jason. You name it, you got it. We believe in you, man. Why, the thought of you doing anything to harm Sandra …”
“Thank you for your understanding.” Jason hung up the phone.
“Who’s that?” Ree demanded from the back seat.
“Daddy’s former boss,” Jason said, and meant it.
The BPD’s headquarters was a glass-and-granite monstrosity that had been plopped down in the middle of the housing projects of Roxbury. The hope had been that the overwhelming police presence would help jumpstart the gentrification process of this particular inner-city. Mostly, it made both workers and visitors to the building fear for their lives.
Jason eyed his parking options with much trepidation. He did not expect to come out to find his Volvo intact. And honestly, he worried for the cat. Mr. Smith had obviously spent the past thirty-six hours using up at least one of his nine lives. Who knew how many the cat had left?
“We shouldn’t be here, Daddy,” Ree said when she climbed out of the back of the car, clutching her bunny. The parking lot featured a lot of broken asphalt, framed by concrete barriers. Interior decorating by way of Beirut.
Jason thought about it, then reached inside the car for his notebook and Ree’s red Crayola marker. He tore out two sheets of paper and wrote in big block letters: QUARANTINED: Rabid Cat. Warning. Do Not Touch.
He placed one sheet of paper on the front of the car and one on the back. Then he looked in at Mr. Smith, who opened one lazy golden eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.
“Be a good rabid cat,” Jason murmured, then took Ree firmly by the hand and headed for the crosswalk.
As they neared the giant glass building, his footsteps slowed. He couldn’t help himself. He looked down at Ree’s hand, tucked securely in his own, and it seemed like the past five years had been both too fast and too slow. He wanted to call it all back. He wanted to pull every single moment and hold them close because the tornado was coming. The twister was coming, and he couldn’t get out of the way.
He remembered the very first time his daughter had grabbed his finger, only one hour old, her impossibly tiny hand wrapping with determination around his ridiculously large index finger. He remembered those same fingers a year later, receiving their first burn when she grabbed the candle on her birthday cupcake before he or Sandy could warn her that it was hot. And he remembered one afternoon, when he’d thought she was napping, he’d gone online and read too many sad stories about sad children, and he had started to cry, hunched over at the kitchen table. Suddenly, there had been Ree, her little two-year-old hands upon his face, wiping away his tears.
“No sad, Daddy,” she’d whispered to him calmly. “No sad.”
And the sight of his tears on his daughter’s little fingers had almost made him weep all over again.
He wanted to speak to her now. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to tell her to trust him, he would keep her safe. He would figure this out. Somehow, he would make the world be right again.
He wanted to thank her for four beautiful years, for being the best little girl in the world. For being the sun on his face and the glow in his smile and the love of his life.
They hit the glass doors, her fingers twitching nervously in his hand as the police headquarters loomed.
Jason looked down at his daughter.
In the end he told her none of those things. Instead, he gave her the best advice he could.
“Be brave,” he said, and opened the door.
| CHAPTER FOURTEEN |
After consulting with Marianne Jackson, the forensic interviewer, D.D. had commandeered a room from white-collar crimes. The space was nicer than anything the homicide unit had to offer, and hopefully less likely to scare the kid. Marianne brought with her two child-sized folding chairs, a bright, flower-shaped rug, and a basket crammed with
a collection of trucks, dolls, and art supplies. In ten minutes or less, the child specialist had the place looking like a cool kids’ hangout, versus the fraud squad’s interrogation room of choice. D.D. was impressed.
She’d been happy with the morning’s press conference. She had intentionally kept it brief. Less was more at this point. Fewer innuendos to come back to haunt them later, should they decide the registered sex offender was their suspect of choice, versus the husband, or heaven help them, an unknown subject yet to be identified. Besides, their biggest goal was to increase the number of eyes and ears actively seeking Sandra Jones. Find the wife alive, save them all a headache. Thirty-seven hours into the investigation, D.D. still had hope. Not a lot of it. But some hope.
Now she busily arranged her notepad and two pens on the table of the observation room. Miller was already present, sitting in the chair closest to the door, where he seemed to be lost in thought, given his rhythmic stroking of his mustache. She thought he should shave the mustache. A mustache like that practically cried out for a powder blue leisure suit and she really did not want to see Detective Brian Miller in a powder blue leisure suit. She didn’t say anything, though. Men could be very touchy when it came to facial hair.
D.D. fiddled with her pens again, clicking and unclicking the ballpoints into place. The speakers were already turned on, allowing them to hear what was said in the interrogation room. In turn, Marianne was fitted with a tiny earpiece so she could receive any follow-up questions or additional inquiries they made into a cordless mic. Marianne had already warned them to be tight and focused. The rule of thumb for interviewing children was five minutes per year of child, meaning they had roughly twenty minutes to learn everything there was to know from four-year-old potential witness Clarissa Jones.
They had formulated their strategy in advance: key questions to determine Clarissa’s credibility and capability as a witness, followed by ever more specific questions regarding Sandra Jones’s last known moments on Wednesday night. It was a lot of ground to cover in the time they had, but Marianne had emphasized the need to be thorough—follow-up interviews with a child witness were risky. Next thing you know, a defense attorney was arguing the half a dozen interviews you required for specificity were actually a half a dozen times you badgered, cajoled, and otherwise corrupted your young, impressionable subject. Marianne gave them two shots at talking to the child, max, and for better or worse, D.D. had already used up one, questioning Clarissa at her house on Thursday morning. So this was it.
The downstairs sergeant notified them that Jason and his daughter had arrived. Marianne headed down immediately to hustle them upstairs before Ree became too overwhelmed by the full police headquarters experience. Some kids were enthralled by men and women in uniform. A lot, however, were just plain intimidated. Talking to a stranger was tough enough without Ree starting the process scared witless.
D.D. and Miller heard footsteps in the hall. Both turned expectantly toward the door and, despite her best intentions, D.D. felt nervous. Questioning a kid was twenty times worse than facing the news media or a new deputy superintendent, any day of the week. She didn’t care about reporters or, most of the time, a new supervisor. On the other hand, she always felt bad for the kids.
First time she’d ever interrogated a child, the eleven-year-old girl had asked them if they wanted to see her menu; then she’d proceeded to pull from her back pocket a tiny scrap of paper, folded into an impossibly small square. It was a menu of sex acts, prepared by the girl’s stepfather: Hand Job quarter, Oral Sex fifty cents, Fucking one dollar. The girl had taken twenty bucks from her stepdad’s wallet. This was his way of letting her repay the loan. Except last time she’d performed a “service,” he had refused to pay, and that had made her mad enough to come to the police. Oh, the sad stories that had been told in this room …
The footsteps stopped outside the door. D.D. heard Marianne talking.
“Clarissa, have you ever been in a magic room before?”
No answer, so D.D. assumed that Ree was shaking her head.
“Well, I’m going to take you into a special room now. It has a pretty rug, two chairs, maybe some toys you’d like to check out. But it’s also a very special room with special rules. I’ll tell you all about it, okay, but first, you gotta say goodbye to your daddy. He’s going to wait for you in this room right here, so he’ll be close by if you need him, but this magic room, it’s just for you and me.”
Still no answer.
“Say, what’s the name of this fellow right here? Oh, I’m sorry, this gal. Lil’ Bunny? I should’ve guessed she was a girl, look at that pink dress. Well, Lil’ Bunny, do you like big pink flowers, because you look to me like the kind of rabbit that might enjoy a really large pink flower. I’m talking huge. Kind of flower you have to see to believe. Really? Well, come on, I’ll show you. And I’ll explain to you a little bit about magic.”
The door opened. Jason Jones entered the room. Clarissa’s father walked stiffly, as if he was moving on autopilot. The shuttered expression was back on his face, that one where D.D. couldn’t decide if he was a complete psychopath or the most stoic man she’d ever met. He closed the heavy door behind him, then looked at D.D. and Miller a bit warily. D.D. twisted around the permission slip she’d already printed out, and slid it across the table toward him, producing a black ink pen.
“This forms shows you’ve given consent for a certified forensic interviewer to question your child on behalf of the BPD.”
Jason gave her a look as if he was surprised his permission really mattered. But he signed the form without a word, returning it to her before taking up position on the wall farthest from the observation window. He leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze went to the window, through which they could now see Marianne and Ree entering the interrogation room. Ree was clutching a tattered-looking brown bunny for dear life, its long floppy ears obscuring her hands.
Marianne closed the door. She moved to the middle of the room, but rather than taking a seat in one of the little red folding chairs, she sat cross-legged on the edge of the pink rug. She ran her hand over it a few times, as if inviting the girl to take a seat.
D.D. picked up the mic, and stated for Marianne’s sake, “Consent form has been signed. You may begin.”
Marianne nodded slightly, her fingers brushing over the receiver nestled inside her ear. “What do you think?” she stated out loud to Clarissa Jones, gesturing to the pink rug. “Is this a pretty flower? It looks like a sunflower to me, except I don’t think sunflowers come in pink.”
“It’s a daisy,” Ree said in a small voice. “My mommy grows them.”
“A daisy? Of course! You know a lot about flowers.”
Ree remained standing, clutching her well-worn rabbit. Her fingers had found one of its ears and were rubbing it rhythmically. The unconscious movement pained D.D. She used to do that as a kid. Had a stuffed dog. Wore its ears right off its threadbare head.
“So, as I told you downstairs, my name is Marianne Jackson,” the specialist was saying brightly. “My job is to talk to children. That’s what I do. I talk to little boys and little girls. And just so you know, Ree, it’s not as easy as you think.”
For the first time, Ree responded, her forehead crinkling into a tiny frown. “Why not?”
“For one thing, there are special rules for talking to boys and girls. Did you know that?”
Ree edged closer, shook her head. Her toe touched the pink flower. She seemed to study the rug.
“Well, as I mentioned outside, this is a magic room, and there are four rules for talking in a magic room.” Marianne held up four fingers, ticking off. “One, we only talk about what really happened. Not what might have happened, but what really happened.”
Ree frowned again, moved a tiny bit closer.
“Do you understand the difference between the truth and a lie, Clarissa?” Marianne reached into the toy basket, came up with a stuffed dog. “If I say this is a cat, is
that a truth or a lie?”
“A lie,” Ree said automatically. “That’s a dog.”
“Very good! So that’s rule number one. We only talk about the truth, okay?”
Ree nodded. She seemed to get tired of standing, taking a seat just beyond the flower rug, her bunny now on her lap.
“The second rule,” Marianne was saying, “is that if I ask you a question and you don’t know the answer, you just say you don’t know. Does that make sense?”
Ree nodded.
“How old am I, Clarissa?”
“Ninety-five,” Ree said.
Marianne smiled, a bit ruefully. “Now, Clarissa, do you know how old I am? Have you asked or has anyone told you?”
Ree shook her head.
“So really, you don’t know how old I am. And what are you supposed to say if you don’t know something?”
“I don’t know,” Ree filled in obediently.
“Good girl. Where do I live?”
Ree opened her mouth, then seemed to catch herself. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed, a trace of triumph this time.
Marianne grinned. “I can tell you’re very good in school. Are you an excellent student?”
“I’m very pre-pre-cushush,” Ree said proudly. “Everyone says so.”
“Precocious? I fully agree and I’m very proud of you. Okay rule number three. If you don’t remember something, it’s okay to say you don’t remember. So how old were you when you first walked?”
“I’ve been walking since I was born,” Ree started, then caught herself as she remembered rule number three. She let go of her stuffed bunny and clapped her hands gleefully. “I DON’T REMEMBER!” she shrieked with delight. “I. Don’t. Remember.”
“You are the best pupil I’ve ever had,” Marianne said, still sitting cross-legged on the rug. She held up her four fingers. “All right, star student—last rule. Do you know what rule four is?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” Ree shouted happily.
“You are so good. So, rule four, if you don’t understand something I say or ask, it’s okay to say you don’t understand. Capisce?”