Grace shook her head, and didn't move an inch closer, as the two women stood at opposite sides of the room.
“Do you remember what happened last night?”
Grace nodded slowly.
“Why don't you sit down?” She pointed to the chairs, and they each took a seat on opposite sides of the table. Grace wasn't sure if the woman was sympathetic to her or not, but she was clearly not her friend, and she was obviously part of the police investigation, which meant that she was potentially someone who wanted to hurt her. But she wasn't going to lie to her. She would tell her the truth in answer to anything she asked, as long as she didn't ask too much about her father. That was nobody's business. She owed it to him not to expose him, and to her mother, not to embarrass them. What difference did it make now anyway? He was gone. It never occurred to her for an instant to ask for an attorney, or try to save herself. That just didn't matter.
“What do you remember about last night?” the psychiatrist asked carefully, watching her every move and expression.
“I shot my father.”
“Do you remember why?”
Grace hesitated before replying, and then said nothing.
“Were you angry at him? Had you been thinking about shooting him for a while?”
Grace shook her head very quickly. “I never thought about shooting him. I just found the gun in my hand. I don't even know how it got there. My mom used to keep it in her night table. She was sick for a long time, and she'd get scared sometimes if we were out, so she liked to have it. But she never used it.” She seemed very young and innocent as she explained it to the psychiatrist, but at first glance, she seemed neither insane, nor retarded, as the arresting officers had suggested. Nor did she seem dangerous. She seemed very polite and well brought up, and oddly self-possessed for someone who'd been through a shocking experience, had had no sleep at all, and was in a great deal of trouble.
“Was your father holding the gun? Did you fight over it? Did you try and take it from him?”
“No. I was holding it on him. I remember feeling it in my hand. And …” She didn't want to tell her that he had hit her. “Then I shot him.” She looked down at her hands then.
“Do you know why? Were you angry at him? Did he do something to you that made you angry? Did you have a fight?”
“No … well … sort of …” It was a fight … it was a fight for survival. … “I … it wasn't important.”
“It must have been very important,” the psychiatrist said pointedly. “Important enough to shoot him over it, Grace. Important enough to kill him. Let's be honest here. Had you ever shot a gun before?”
She shook her head, looking sad and tired. Maybe she should have done it years before, but then her mother would have been heartbroken. In her own sad way, she had loved him. “No. I never shot a gun before.”
“Why was last night different?”
“My mom died two days ago … three days ago now, I guess. Her funeral was yesterday.” She'd obviously been overwrought. But what were they fighting about? Molly York was intrigued by Grace as she watched her. She was hiding something, but she wasn't sure what. She wasn't sure if it was something damaging to herself, or her father. And it wasn't the psychiatrist's job to unearth the answers as to her innocence or guilt. But it was up to her to determine if the girl was sane or not, and knew what she was doing. But what had she been doing? And what was he doing that caused her to shoot him?
“Did you have a fight about your mom? Did she leave him some money, or something you wanted?”
Grace smiled at the question, looking too wise for her years, and not at all retarded. “I don't think she had anything to leave anyone. She never worked, and she didn't have anything. My dad made all the money. He's a lawyer … or … was …” she said calmly.
“Is he going to leave you something?”
“I don't know … maybe … I guess so …” She didn't know yet that if you commit murder, you cannot inherit from your victim. If she were to be found guilty, she would not inherit anything from her father. But that had never been her motive.
“So what did you two fight about?” Molly York was persistent, and Grace didn't trust her. She was much too pushy. There was a relentlessness about her questions, and a look of intelligence in her eyes that worried Grace. She would see too much, understand too much. And she had no right to know. It was no one's business what her father had done to her all these years, she didn't want anyone to know. Not even if saying it saved her. She didn't want the whole town to know what he had done to her. What would they think of them then, and of her, or her mother? It didn't bear thinking.
“We didn't fight.”
“Yes, you did,” Molly York said quiedy. “You must have. You didn't just walk into the room and shoot him … or did you?” Grace shook her head in answer. “You shot him from less than two inches away. What were you thinking when you shot him?”
“I don't know. I wasn't thinking anything. I was just trying to … I … it doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does.” Molly York leaned toward her seriously from across the table. “Grace, you're being charged with murder. If he did something to you, or hurt you in any way, it's self-defense, or manslaughter, not murder. No matter how great a betrayal you think it is, you have to tell me.”
“Why? Why do I have to tell anyone anything? Why should I?” She sounded like a child as she said it. But she was a child who had killed her father.
“Because if you don't tell someone, Grace, you could end up in prison for a lot of years, and that's wrong if you were trying to defend yourself. What did he do to you, Grace, to make you shoot him?”
“I don't know. Maybe I was just upset about my mother.” She was squirming in her seat, and looked away as she said it.
“Did he rape you?” Grace's eyes opened wide and she looked at her at the question. And her breath seemed short when she answered.
“No. Never.”
“Did he ever have intercourse with you? Have you ever had intercourse with your father?” Grace looked horrified. She was coming too close, much too close. She hated this woman. What was she trying to do? Make everything worse? Make more trouble? Disgrace all of them? It was nobody's business.
“No. Of course not!” she almost shouted, but she looked very nervous.
“Are you sure?” The two women's eyes met for a long time, and Grace finally shook her head.
“No. Never.”
“Were you having intercourse with him last night when you shot him?” She looked at Grace pointedly, and Grace shook her head again, but she looked agitated, and Molly saw it.
“Why are you asking me these questions?” she asked unhappily, and you could hear the wheeze of her asthma as she said it.
“Because I want to know the truth. I want to know if he hurt you, if you had reason to shoot him.” Grace only shook her head again. “Were you and your father lovers, Grace? Did you like sleeping with him?” But this time when she raised her eyes to Molly's again, her answer was totally honest.
“No.” I hated it. But she couldn't say those words to Molly.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Grace shook her head again. “Have you ever had intercourse with a boy?”
Grace sighed, knowing she never would. How could she? “No.”
“You're a virgin?” There was silence. “I asked if you were a virgin.” She was pressing her again, and Grace didn't like it.
“I don't know. I guess so.”
“What does that mean? Have you fooled around, is that what you mean by you ‘guess so’?”
“Maybe.” She looked very young again, and Molly smiled. You couldn't lose your virginity from petting.
“Have you ever had a boyfriend? At seventeen you must have.” She smiled again, but Grace shook her head in answer.
“Is there anything you want to say to me about last night, Grace? Do you remember how you felt before you shot him? What made you shoot him?” Grace shook her head dumbly.
“
I don't know.”
Molly York knew that Grace wasn't being honest with her. As shaken as she may have been at the time of the shooting, she wasn't dazed now. She was fully alert, and determined not to tell Molly what had happened. The tall attractive blonde looked at the girl for a long time, and then slowly closed her notebook and uncrossed her legs.
“I wish you'd be honest with me. I can help you, Grace. Honest.” If she felt that Grace had been defending herself, or that there had been extenuating circumstances it would be a lot easier for her. But Grace wasn't giving her anything to go on. And the funny thing was that, in spite of her circumstances and the fact that she wasn't cooperating at all, Molly York liked her. Grace was a beautiful girl, and she had big, honest, open eyes. Molly saw so much sorrow and pain there, and yet she didn't know how to help her. It would come. But for the moment, Grace was too busy hiding from everyone to let anyone near her.
“I've told you everything I remember.”
“No, you haven't,” Molly said quietly. “But maybe you will later.” She handed the girl her card. “If you want to see me, call me. And if you don't, I'll be back to see you again anyway. You and I are going to have to spend some time together so I can write a report.”
“About what?” Grace looked worried. Dr. York scared her. She was too smart, and she asked too many questions.
“About your state of mind. About the circumstances of the shooting, such as I understand them. You're not giving me much to work with for the moment.”
“That's all there is. I found the gun in my hand, and I shot him.”
“Just like that.” She didn't believe it for a moment.
“That's right.” She looked like she was trying to convince herself but she had not fooled Molly.
“I don't believe you, Grace.” She looked her right in the eye as she said it.
“Well, that's what happened, whether you believe it or not.”
“And what about now? How do you feel about losing your father?” Within three days she had lost both of her parents and become an orphan, that was a heavy blow for anyone, particularly if she had killed one of her parents.
“… I'm sad about my dad … and my mom. But my mom was so sick and in so much pain, maybe now it's better for her.”
But what about Grace? How much pain had she been in? That was the question that was gnawing at Molly. This was not some bad kid who had just blown away her old man. This was a bright girl, with a sharp mind, who was pretending that she had no idea why she had shot him. It was so aggravating to listen to her say it again that Molly would have liked to kick the table.
“What about your dad? Is it better like this for him?”
“My dad?” Grace looked surprised at the question. “No … he … he wasn't suffering … I guess dais isn't better for him,” Grace said without looking up at Molly. She was hiding something, and Molly knew it.
“What about you? Is it better for you like this? Would you rather be alone?”
“Maybe.” She was honest again for a moment.
“Why? Why would you rather be alone?”
“It's just simpler.” She looked and felt a thousand years old as she said it.
“I don't think so, Grace. It's a complicated world out there. It's not easy for anyone to be alone. Especially not a seventeen-year-old girl. Home must have been a pretty difficult place if you'd rather be alone now. What was ‘home’ like? How was it?”
“It was fine.” She was as closed as an oyster.
“Did your parents get along? Before your mom got sick I mean.”
“They were fine.”
Molly didn't believe her again but she didn't say it. “Were they happy?”
“Sure.” As long as she took care of her father, the way her mother wanted.
“Were you?”
“Sure.” But in spite of herself, tears glistened in her eyes as she said it. The wise psychiatrist was asking far too many painful questions. “I was very happy. I loved my parents.”
“Enough to lie for them? To protect them? Enough not to tell us why you shot your father?”
“There's nothing to tell.”
“Okay.” Molly backed off from her, and stood up at her side of the table. “I'm going to send you to the hospital today, by the way.”
“What for?” Grace looked instantiy terrified, which interested Molly gready. “Why are you doing that?”
“Just part of the routine. Make sure you're healthy. It's no big deal.”
“I don't want to do that.” Grace looked panicked and Molly watched her.
“Why not?”
“Why do I have to?”
“You don't have much choice right now, Grace.
You're in a pretty tight spot. And the authorities are in control. Have you called a lawyer yet?”
Grace looked blank at the question. Someone had told her she could, but she didn't have one to call, unless she called Frank Wills, her father's law partner, but she wasn't even sure she wanted to. What could she say to him? It was easier not to.
“I don't have a lawyer.”
“Did your father have any associates?”
“Yes … but … it's kind of awkward to call them … or him, he had a partner.”
“I think you should, Grace,” she said firmly. “You need an attorney. You can ask for a public defender. But you're better off with someone who knows you.” It was good advice.
“I guess so.” She nodded, looking overwhelmed. There was so much happening. It was all so complicated. Why didn't they just shoot her, or hang her, or do whatever they were going to, without drawing it out, or forcing her to go to the hospital. She was terrified of what they would find there.
“I'll see you later, or tomorrow,” Molly said gently. She liked the girl, and she felt sorry for her. She had been through so much, and what she had done certainly wasn't right, but Molly was convinced that something terrible had caused her to do it. And she intended to do everything she could to find out what had really happened.
She left Grace in the holding cell, and went out to talk to Stan Dooley, the officer in charge of the investigation. He was a veteran detective, and very little surprised him anymore, though this had. He'd met John Adams a number of times over the years, and he couldn't imagine a nicer guy. Hearing he had been shot by his own kid had really stunned him.
“Is she nuts, or a druggie?” Detective Dooley asked Molly as she appeared at his desk at eight o'clock in the morning. She had spent an hour with Grace, and in her mind, had gotten nowhere. Grace was determined not to open up to her. But there were some things that she wanted to know, that they could find out whether or not Grace wanted.
“Neither one. She's scared and shaken up, but she's lucid. Very much so. I want her to go to the hospital today, for an exam, now in fact.” She didn't want too many hours to elapse before they did it.
“What for? Drug screen?”
“If you like. I don't think that's the issue here. I want a pelvic.”
“Why?” He looked surprised. “What are you after?” He knew Dr. York and she was usually pretty sensible, though every now and then she went off the deep end, when she got carried away over one of her patients.
“I've got a couple of theories here. I want to know if she was defending herself. Seventeen-year-old girls don't usually go around shooting their fathers. Not from homes like this one.”
“That's bullshit, and you know it, York,” he said cynically. “What about the fourteen-year-old shooter we had last year who took out her whole family, including grandma and four younger sisters? You gonna tell me that was self-defense too?”
“That was different, Stan. I read the reports. John Adams was naked and so was she, and there was come all over the sheets. You can't deny it was a possibility.”
“Yes, I can, with this guy. I knew him. Straight-arrow as they come, and the nicest guy you'll ever meet. You'd have liked him.” He gave her a look, which she ignored. He loved to tease her. She was very good-looking, and she
came from a pretty fancy family in Chicago. He loved to accuse her of “slumming.” But she never fooled around on the job, and he also knew that she had a regular guy who was a doctor. But it didn't hurt to razz her a little. She was always good-humored and pleasant to work with. She was smart too, and Dooley respected her for it. “Let me tell you something, Doctor, this guy would not have been fucking his kid. He just wouldn't. Trust me. Maybe he was jacking off. What do I know?”
“That's not why she shot him,” Molly York said coolly.
“Maybe he told her she couldn't have the keys to the car. My own kids get nuts when I tell them that. Maybe he hated her boyfriend. Trust me, it's not what you think here. This is not self-defense. She killed him.”
“We'll see, Stan. We'll see. Just do me a favor, get her over to Mercy General in the next hour. I'm writing an order.”
“You're terrific. And we'll get her there. Okay? Happy?”
“Thrilled. You're a great guy.” She smiled at him.
“Tell that to the chief,” he grinned at her. He liked her, but he didn't believe a word of her self-defense theory. She was clutching at straws. John Adams just wasn't that kind of guy. No one in Watseka would have believed it, no matter what Molly York thought, or the hospital told her.
Two women officers came to pick Grace up in her cell half an hour later, handcuffed her again, and drove her to Mercy General in a small van with grilles on the windows. They didn't even talk to her. They just chatted to each other about the prisoners they'd transferred the day before, and the movie they were going to see that night, and the vacation one of them was saving up for in Colorado. And Grace was just as glad. She didn't have anything to say to them anyway. She was just wondering what they were going to do to her at the hospital. They had a locked ward they took her to in an elevator that went up directly from the garage, and when they got there, they uncuffed her and left her with a resident and an attendant. And they let Grace know in no uncertain terms that if she didn't behave herself they would handcuff her again and call a guard to control her.
“You got that?” the attendant asked her bluntly, and Grace nodded.
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