And just like yesterday, they’re all dressed like they’re going to church.
I sacrifice my usual seat, which would put me right next to them, and choose one in the middle of the room.
John Michael, Shep, and Henry are just feet away.
From their recurring appearance on the news, I feel like I know them. I mean, the reporters love bringing up the fact that Grant was killed on John Michael Forres’s family’s land. I know how long it’s been in his family. I know how many acres it is. I know the layout of the cabin.
And Shep Moore. Arrogant, cocky Shep. He was with Grant when I met him that first time. The news has told his story a hundred times: his family is in the oil and gas business, and when natural gas was discovered in North Louisiana, Mr. Moore’s business skyrocketed.
Then there’s Henry Carlisle—the bad boy. I’ve heard rumors about him since grade school. He’s the richest in the group, and also the one most likely to buy his way out of trouble. I heard he’s been busted drinking and driving by the cops four times, one of those before he even had his license, but he’s never been arrested. Or that’s what some of my friends who have friends at St. Bart’s say.
Shep turns around and I’m caught staring at him. We watch each other a second or so, and confusion or anger, I’m not sure which, flashes across his face.
My eyes drop to my desk. God, I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t even be sitting this close to them.
The bell rings and Mr. Stevens quiets the classroom chatter, which is unsurprisingly louder than usual, since we have such notorious guests.
“As you are all aware, we have some additions to our class. We’ll skip the normal introductions since we are all very aware of who they are and why they’re here,” Mr. Stevens says.
There are a few embarrassed laughs, but mostly everyone is silent. I wish now I could see the boys’ faces rather than just the ramrod posture of their backs.
Just as Mr. Stevens is about to turn toward the board, Henry raises his hand.
“You’ve got something to add, Mr. Carlisle?” Mr. Stevens asks.
Henry leans forward in his desk. “You think you know us, but we know you, too.”
Shep reaches over and grabs his arm, but Henry brushes him off.
Mr. Stevens leans against his desk and with a wide flourish of his arms says, “By all means, please tell us what you think you know.”
Shep pulls Henry close and whispers something to him. They have a quiet fight, with muted words and jerky movements, before Henry finally pushes him away.
“You’re a judgmental, condescending asshole because you’re stuck teaching in public school. Didn’t you apply for a job at St. Bart’s and they laughed your ass right out the door?”
There’s a shocked silence, and then hoots of laughter explode through the room. Henry turns around to the class and shoots us a grin.
Mr. Stevens picks up the phone, probably calling the office, his face red with rage.
John Michael looks nervous, his eyes darting around the room, while Shep seems pissed.
“Mr. Carlisle, you are needed in the office. Take your things, since I don’t foresee your return.”
Henry salutes Mr. Stevens and says, “Best news I’ve heard all day.” He slides his books off the top of the desk and is gone seconds later.
It takes another minute for Mr. Stevens to quiet the class. When he starts writing our assignments on the whiteboard, no doubt adding in more than he planned since the class turned on him, Shep spins around and scans the room. I’m not sure what—or who—he’s looking for, but his eyes stop on every person in class.
Including me.
I hold his stare for a count of five before I have to look away.
• • •
Mom’s area is empty; I’m sure she’s off sneaking a cigarette somewhere, so I make my way to Mr. Stone’s office.
“I’m here, Mr. Stone. What do you need me to do today?” I ask, then glance at the “to be filed” basket behind his desk and cringe. The pile is at least two feet high.
Mr. Stone is shuffling his papers around his desk. “Come on in, Kate. I’ve got something I need help with.”
I move into the room and suck in a sharp breath when I see Logan McCullar, the fourth River Point boy, frozen on the screen behind him.
Logan is the tough one of the group. From what I’ve heard, if there’s a fight, he’s the one throwing the first punches.
Mr. Stone glances up, taking an extra few seconds to move his eyes into a position where I’m in focus.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I point to the monitor. “Nothing, I just didn’t expect a face to be staring at me over your shoulder.”
He swivels around, almost like he forgot what was on the screen behind him. “Oh, yes. This is what I need help with today.”
I inch closer.
“Sit down.”
Once I’m in the chair in front of his desk, Mr. Stone says, “Your mom told me about the photography award you received. Congratulations.”
It takes me a second to switch gears. “Oh, thank you.”
Mr. Stone leans back in his chair and his eyes drift to the ceiling. Mom told me a while back that his eyes tire easily from constantly trying to decipher the blur of color and movement in his central line of vision, so that’s why he takes to staring at the plain white ceiling—so he can give his eyes a break.
“I knew you were into photography, but I’ve never asked you what type of pictures you like to take.”
I squirm like I usually do when people ask me to talk about the thing I love. It always sounds so weird when I try to explain what I see when I look through the lens.
“I take candid images of real life, ordinary things, and try to find something extraordinary about it. I want every image I take to tell a story.”
A small smile touches his lips. “Tell me about the last photograph you took. Paint the picture for me.”
It doesn’t even take a second for the image to come alive in my brain.
“Well, I was at the park, just watching the kids play. There weren’t that many kids around since it was a little chilly out. But then I saw this mom pushing her little girl in the swing. The mom was clearly tired—her hair was a mess and there were huge bags under her eyes—and it seemed like the last thing she wanted to do was stand there and go through the same motion over and over. But the little girl, I guess she was maybe three or four, was ecstatic. I mean, every time she got that push, her face lit up. For me, it was so interesting to see two such different emotions—joy and exhaustion over the same experience.”
Mr. Stone seems pleased with my answer, although I have no idea why. “Have you narrowed down which college you’d like to attend? I know you were looking at several that have good photography departments.”
I can’t stop the smile. “There are a few I’m really interested in. I’m getting my portfolio together and trying to work out the financial stuff.”
“What type of photography would you like to do once you’re finished?” he asks.
I cock my head to the side. “I’m not interested in taking baby portraits or wedding pictures. I’m leaning more toward photojournalism. You know, like when something huge happens and there’s that one image that sums it up—the sorrow or the happiness, the heartbreak, the loss, or the utter joy? That’s what I want to do. I want to find those moments.”
Instead of boy bands covering my walls, I’ve plastered a copy of every image I’ve ever seen that moved me. Reagan and my other friends think it’s depressing, since most of the images were taken during natural or man-made disasters, but they’re just looking at them wrong.
He stays in his reclined position and his eyes close. “Obviously, you know the trouble I have with my vision.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “I expect this to stay between us, but part of the problem is I’m losing the ability to make out details. I can see the large objects, like a face, but I’m struggling with expressions. Do you und
erstand what I mean?”
I nod but then say, “Yes, sir,” when I remember his eyes are closed. “Can you still read?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Just when I think he isn’t going to answer, he says, “It’s getting challenging. Your mother has been a lifesaver.”
I know Mom spends hours reading documents into a recorder so he can listen to them instead of reading them. I thought it was because his eyes needed the rest—but apparently it’s worse than that.
“There are video statements taken from the scene and interviews with witnesses that I need you to watch and then help me see what you do. Paint me that picture. Tell me the story. You obviously are very perceptive about the small details that others would miss, and your mom is swamped with everything else. Are you up for this?” he asks.
Hours and hours of watching the River Point Boys and others talk about their last moments with Grant. Can I handle that? Can I turn down this chance to peek behind the curtain and discover what it was really like between them? See a side of Grant I didn’t know? Maybe this is the closure I need. Maybe hearing about him, finding out what happened that night, will help ease the near-constant ache in my chest.
“Yes, sir. I can handle it.”
“Great. Let’s get started.”
The others don’t know what to make of us.
They study us.
They fear us.
They want to be like us.
We made a decision coming in: we stick together, we don’t let anyone in, try not to show any interest at all.
We learned to keep our mouths shut the hard way. We thought refusing to give a statement at the scene would make us look like we were trying to hide something, but we should have waited for our parents to arrive and made sure we had a lawyer there.
We are asked over and over by our parents and the lawyers if there was anything we said that could be used against us later.
We tell them no. We don’t know anything. We don’t know who did it. There was nothing to say other than that.
They know one of us is lying. One of us pulled that trigger.
And when we’re alone with our parents, they beg us to give up the one who shot Grant. They tell us to protect ourselves, our future. They bribe us, threaten us…anything to get the truth. The truth about what was going on at River Point.
But they don’t really want that truth. None of them want to think their son is guilty of negligent homicide…or any of the other things going on out there.
They’re worried one of the others will break and put all of the blame on their son.
I’m worried about that, too.
AUGUST 29, 9:45 P.M.
GRANT: What’s up
KATE: Taking pics at the regional debate and wishing I was anywhere but here. What about you?
GRANT: At River Point and wishing the same thing
Mr. Stone’s finger hovers over the button that will resume the video of Logan. “What we’re watching today are the segments from their statements at the scene about the gun. There were five guns found at the scene—four shotguns and a rifle. The officers knew Grant’s wound was made by the rifle, a Remington 700 XCR II. It was later confirmed by the medical examiner.”
“How did they know that? Is there a difference between a wound made by a rifle and one made by a shotgun?”
“Yes.” Mr. Stone leans forward, turns to the side so he can focus on the pad of paper in front of him, and sketches a crude drawing of a shotgun shell. “A shotgun shell is filled with lead shot, or pellets, and they spread out when fired, so the wound would be wide with lots of little entry points from each pellet.” Then he draws a picture of a bullet. “A rifle has a single bullet that pierces whatever it hits. The entry wound would be the size of my pinkie finger and then would blow out the back side of whatever it hit. So anyone familiar with guns would know just by looking at him that he was shot with the rifle.”
“Wait. If there was only one rifle and they know Grant was shot with the rifle, why don’t we know who did it?”
He drops the pencil and leans back in his seat again. “No one is admitting to using the rifle, but one or all of them know who did.”
“But aren’t there fingerprints on it? Or gun residue?” Mr. Stone has not had a case like this since I started working for him, so this is all new. And it doesn’t help that my entire knowledge of forensics comes from television.
Mr. Stone pats my arm and gives me a small smile. “The Remington was found in a pile with the shotguns when the police got there. They all participated in target practice the evening before and each one of them shot the rifle that killed Grant, so all of the boys’ fingerprints were on the weapon and they all tested positive for residue on their hands, including Grant Perkins.”
“Oh God.”
Mr. Stone motions to the frozen image of Logan. “The boys were separated at the scene and were questioned until their parents got there and shut it down. Luckily, the officers were equipped with body cameras, so we have footage of each interview. The clips we’re reviewing now are when the boys were asked about the Remington. I’ve grouped them together. I’ve heard these parts of the tapes so many times today that I could recite the words. I’m not interested in the words. I’m interested in how they look while they say the words.”
I nod and just before he presses play to start the video again, I ask, “Do I just blurt out what I see? Wait until it’s over?”
“Describe the scene as it happens. I don’t want you to make assumptions. I want facts. What are his hands doing when he speaks? Where are his eyes? Is he looking at the officer? Are they darting around the room? What is his posture like? Just the facts, do you understand?”
He presses play and Logan comes to life.
I start off a little unsure. “He’s sitting in a wooden desk chair. Looks like he’s in some sort of home office.”
“How’s his posture? Paint the picture, Kate.”
I scoot my chair closer to the screen and imagine I have my camera in front of me.
Logan’s voice startles me.
“I don’t know what else you want me to tell you. We were hunting, just like we do every weekend.”
“He’s slouched in his seat. Hands are on the arms of the chair. He looks relaxed but…not really.”
Mr. Stone shakes his head and pauses the video. “‘Not really’ doesn’t work. Why doesn’t he look relaxed?”
I stare at his frozen image. “Well, even though his body is reclined, he’s gripping the arms of the chair. His knuckles are almost white. His shoulders seem tense, too. He’s got lines across his forehead.”
Mr. Stone nods and pushes play again.
The officer rolls out a map of the property and lays it on the desk in front of Logan.
“He glances at the map but then looks away,” I say.
“Logan, point out on the map where you were hunting this morning.”
“He’s leaning forward and looking at the map. He seems to be studying it before he finally points to a location.”
“So let’s think back to this morning. Everyone is about to walk out the door. Each of you grab a weapon. There were four shotguns at the scene: two Brownings, a Winchester, and a Benelli. And then there was a rifle—the Remington. The only rifle. So on the way out to hunt, what gun did you pick up?”
Logan sits up a fraction in his chair and tilts his head forward. I relay every move to Mr. Stone at the same time I listen intently to his answers.
“I grabbed my Browning.”
“Do you remember what gun the other boys grabbed?”
“He throws his head back a bit and squints his eyes.”
“No.”
“Who grabbed the Remington?”
“His eyes are all over the place.”
“The Remington was Grant’s gun.”
“But there’s no way Grant shot himself. Someone else was hunting with his gun. Who was it?”
Logan looks directly at the cop, no flinching, no wavering. “I do
n’t remember. All I know is it wasn’t me.”
The monitor goes blank for a few seconds; then a second face fills the screen.
John Michael Forres.
An officer is offscreen, just like with Logan, but the voice is different. Less hostile.
I study John Michael, noting everything for Mr. Stone. It looks like he’s in a bedroom. He’s sitting in an oversize chair and I can see the corner of a bed in the background.
“His eyes are red-rimmed like he’s been crying. His nose is red, too. And now that I think back, Logan’s eyes were dry.”
“Son, all this can be over quickly. We can see how upset you are. Talk me through it. You’re in front of the gun case. I got a good look at the collection of guns there and it’s mighty impressive. Lots to choose from. Which gun did you hunt with this morning?”
“I used my dad’s Browning.”
“Okay, good, son. You’re doing really good. Did you get a good look at what the other boys chose? Did they use their own gun or one of y’all’s?”
“He looks shaky. And kind of out of it. Like he’s in a daze or something.”
“John Michael, can you hear me, son? Do you remember what gun your friends were hunting with?”
“His eyes snap back into focus. He holds his hands out in front of him and his eyes close. Maybe he’s trying to picture it in his head?”
“I grabbed Dad’s Browning. I can’t remember what anyone else grabbed.”
“He opens his eyes and drops his hands.”
“You don’t recall anyone using the Remington? We know it was an accident. I’m sure the DA will understand that. We really need to know who used the Remington.”
“John Michael’s shaking his head back and forth.”
“The Remington was Grant’s gun.”
I sit up straighter. “He sits up and looks directly at the officer, just like Logan did, when he answered that.”
“John Michael, I didn’t ask whose gun it was. I asked who used it. I know you boys are close. Everyone probably borrowed from everyone else all the time. It wouldn’t be a big deal to borrow a gun on the morning of a hunt. I just need to know who borrowed it.”
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