Though Franz was only five foot three, he had a General Patton swagger about him. He puffed out his small chest and man-spread his legs—perhaps he thought that taking up more space would make him appear larger than he was. His beady eyes were too close together to see through most binoculars; bird-watching would be hard for him.
Tom flipped open his notepad and clicked out the point of his ballpoint pen, ready to pin down some facts and get to know the Vanderwaals, who sat across the coffee table from him as though they were all about to play a game of Go Fish. “How much did the deputies tell you about last night?” he asked.
“Just that the cop down the street shot Christopher because he supposedly attacked her. That’s ridiculous!” Franz scowled.
“The deputies weren’t sure what had happened. We’re just starting the investigation. It’s going to take a while to figure things out,” Tom said.
“Christopher had nothing to do with any of it. That cop murdered him in cold blood,” Franz said.
Tom absently pinched a corner of his notepad. “Christopher may have stabbed Officer Brady’s dog.”
“He’d never hurt a dog. He loved dogs. He begged us to get one, but Franz is allergic,” Jane said.
“If Christopher did stab that dog, it attacked him first, and he was defending himself,” Franz insisted. “Typical German shepherd. Menacing. He should be patrolling a prison, not threatening our neighborhood.”
“You were afraid of him?” Tom asked.
“Of course not,” Franz said as if Jihadi John couldn’t scare a bead of sweat from him.
Tom doubted the courage. Brandishing a hatpin might strike fear into a man as well versed in bluster as Franz was. “Like I told you, we’re not sure yet what happened. We’re just starting to get the facts. Officer Brady claims Christopher ran at her waving a knife. She thinks he intended to stab her. Do you know why he might have done that?”
“That’s impossible. He is—” Jane flinched. “He was a good boy.”
“That cop is delusional. Christopher wouldn’t have hurt her,” Franz said. “If she mistakenly thought he stabbed her dog, she shot him for revenge, pure and simple.” Franz looked pleased that he’d wrapped up the case when the sheriff ’s morons had barely started it.
“We won’t take revenge off the table.” Tom scrawled on his notepad: “Brady trigger-happy?” He paused to regather his focus. “Okay. Let’s talk about Christopher. Anything unusual going on with him lately?”
Jane shook her head sadly and studied the loops in her carpet’s pile. She seemed to retreat to a lonely, windswept land, as far off as Antarctica or Mongolia.
But Franz’s face tensed. “Have you asked if anything unusual was going on with that cop? I’ll bet money she’s Looney Tunes. Or evil.”
“We’ll find out.” Tom kept his voice calm. Ross Jackson had pegged Franz right: He was hot under the collar. A peacock. There was no point agitating him any more than necessary till knowing the facts put Tom on firmer ground. “So if nothing unusual was going on, could Christopher have been upset or worried about anything?”
“No,” Franz said, flat as a tortilla.
“No problems at school? With grades?”
“No,” Franz said.
“With . . . um . . . sexual orientation?”
Franz bristled. “You implying he was gay?”
“Just asking. It’s routine. We’re trying to get a picture.”
“Christopher was fine.” Franz glanced furtively at his cell.
What on that phone could be more important than Christopher’s death? “You didn’t notice any change in his behavior lately, Mrs. Vanderwaal? Any sign of upset or worry?”
“No,” she said.
“Any recent traumatic situation? Anybody bullying him?”
“No,” she said.
“Any major loss? A death of someone he loved?”
“No.” The carpet’s loops seemed to recapture her attention.
Tom mentally growled with frustration. The Vanderwaals would give Johnny One Note a run for his money; their one note was “no.” He wondered what they were hiding, but he decided to save more forceful grilling for another visit when Jane might feel more inclined to talk. On a good day she’d be fragile; today she seemed like a frightened cockroach—one stomp of his foot, and she’d skitter under a baseboard.
“Any indication Christopher was into drugs?” Tom asked.
“Of course not.” Franz shook his head at Tom as if a fruit fly could beat him on an IQ test. He slipped the phone back into his sports coat’s pocket.
“What about Christopher’s friends? Can you give me names?”
“I don’t know them,” Franz said.
“Mrs. Vanderwaal?” Tom called her back from the distant Land of Carpet Loops.
“I work nights and sleep during the day. Dinner is my time to keep up with the kids. Christopher never brought any friends around then.”
“Work can get in the way of close relationships sometimes,” Tom said to inject a little empathy.
“I was saving up for Christopher’s college fund.” When Jane closed her eyes, she might have been trying to process the horrible fact that Christopher wasn’t going to need the money now. “I promise you we had quality time. I put effort into that. Christopher knew I loved him.”
Tom made a mental note: Jane defensive. Working mothers’ guilt was a staple in juvenile offenders’ homes. Jane looked so pained that Tom moved on to the less emotional topic of Christopher’s computer. “Where is it?”
“We thought you’d found it on his desk and taken it. A laptop,” Franz said.
“Nope. It wasn’t there. No cell phone, either. You didn’t take them away last night?” Tom asked.
“What are you suggesting?” Franz’s eyes looked shifty.
“That they’re missing. They’re important to help us understand what was going on.”
“Your men stormed in here and followed us around while we packed to go to the hotel. You treated us like criminals.” Franz showed his teeth. “How were we supposed to take out Christopher’s computer when we didn’t have a minute to ourselves?”
“I’m sorry we intruded at such a bad time, but we had to do our job,” Tom said.
“Go do it at that cop’s house,” Franz said. “That’s where you’re going to find the truth.”
Right, buddy. Thanks for the advice. “Did you know Officer Brady?”
“No,” Franz said.
“Mrs. Vanderwaal?”
“Mostly to wave to.”
“Any impression of her?” Tom asked.
“Franz doesn’t like her.” Jane glanced over at him as he stared off into the distance at an imaginary vanishing point.
“I thought you didn’t know her, Mr. Vanderwaal,” Tom said.
“I don’t.” He shrugged.
“Why don’t you like her?”
“Because she drives through the neighborhood in her big, bad cop car. She thinks she’s hot stuff. I don’t like cops. It’s a disgrace to our family that one killed Jane’s son.”
“Jane’s son?”
“We married when Christopher was eight and Joey was four. Franz adopted them,” Jane said.
When a flicker of regret crossed Franz’s face, Jane looked back at her carpet.
Well, at least one thing is established: no happy marriage here.
* * *
Christopher’s brother, Joey, looked green around the gills. On a normal day, he might have been a normal kid. But on the day after his brother’s death, he made Tom think of an inflated mattress whose air had leaked out in the night—his body looked shrunken, and his voice had gone flat.
Tom shook Joey’s limp hand and gestured for him to sit next to him on the narrow step up to the front porch—away from Franz’s hostile ears. Their shoulders touched, so Joey was spared making eye contact. He chewed his index fingernail.
“I’m really sorry about your brother. It’s got to be hard for you,” Tom said.
&nbs
p; “Hmng . . .”
Tom waited for him to continue, but he gazed at his basketball hoop above the garage door. “You doing okay?”
A shoulder shrug.
“I can come back if this is a bad time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Joey mumbled.
Like mother, like son. Maybe their shared defense to get through life was to fade away. “Joey, so far all we know is that your brother allegedly stabbed the K-9 down the street and was coming after Officer Brady. Had anything been going on that would have made him do something like that?”
“ No. ”
“Any problems? Upset? Something to stir him up?”
“ No. ”
“A fight with your parents?”
“ No. ”
“A conflict between him and your stepfather?”
“ No. ”
Saying no must be a contagious disease in this house. “When you got home from your walk just now, did your father tell you not to reveal anything to me?” Tom had heard whispers in the kitchen.
Joey’s gaze dropped to his scuffed hiking boot, a possible sign Tom had hit a nerve.
“You need to be honest, Joey. We’re not playing games here. For Christopher’s sake, we’ve got to figure out what was going on.”
“Nothing was. Everything was fine.”
Sorry, kid, but I don’t believe you. “You must be pretty shocked by what’s happened, huh?”
“Yeah.” Joey dug his finger into the rip of his jeans’ knee and jiggled his boot. In a few years he might grow into his huge feet.
Tom tried again. “I need your help. I really need to know where Christopher’s laptop and cell are.”
“I have no idea.”
Tom turned to look at him for signs of lying on his face but couldn’t pick up any. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” When a group of teens passed by on bikes, Joey’s wave in their direction was as peaked as his handshake.
“Friends of yours?” Tom asked.
“I see them around.”
“Friends of Christopher’s?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I’d like to talk with some of his friends. Can you give me names?”
Joey shifted his body slightly away from Tom as if he wanted to bolt. “Christopher knew people, like everybody does. I don’t know who.”
“Nobody came around here to see him?”
“ No. ”
“Because your parents didn’t want them here?”
A shoulder shrug. A look of sadness. Tom felt sorry for him.
CHAPTER 12
ANDREA
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Stephanie peered at Andie, whose black turtleneck accentuated the dark circles under her eyes. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you don’t look so good.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Andie pasted a smile on her face, though her anxious heart was thumping all over her chest. She’d rather spend today milking python venom than meeting with Tom Wolski, but at least Stephanie would accompany her to lend support.
To meet him in the conference room, they had to pass through the roll-call room, where officers drank morning coffee around a large oval table. When Stephanie opened the door, the men were laughing, but the instant Andie stepped into the room, they stopped. Three sets of eyes gaped at her. Eyes of curiosity, which didn’t surprise her: What the hell happened when she shot that kid? Eyes of relief, which alienated her: Thank God it’s not me. Eyes of pity, which she hated: Poor Brady. The job doesn’t get any worse.
Andie’s colleagues were used to handling scams targeting little old ladies, pranks on high-school graduation night, and complaints about chainsaws on Saturday mornings. No San Julian officer in history had used deadly force. She might just as well have walked in with a black cowl and sickle. The men didn’t seem to know what to say to her.
Determined not to let them see her anxiety, Andie threw back her shoulders and stiffened her spine. “Good morning,” she said, drawing strength she did not feel from some resolute corner of herself.
“Hey, Brady.” Doug Baker had gone through rookie years with Andie. A tattoo above his wrist said: “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” He asked, “How’s it going?”
“You know . . . same old, same old.” A preposterous lie. If Andie were honest, she’d say that she was overwhelmed. She’d admit that she could hardly get out of bed this morning, that she was writhing at the awkwardness here.
Baker, bless him, joked, “No cookies for us today?”
Andie forced a smile. “No time to bake.” Who am I kidding?
“Keep moving. We’re late.” Stephanie touched Andie’s arm and ushered her toward the conference room—away from mere social discomfort into the gaping jaws of stress.
* * *
The conference room’s only window was covered with a venetian blind, tilted so that little of the overcast day got through the slats. Tom Wolski and Ross Jackson sat on one side of the hard-edged Formica table, and Andie, Stephanie, and Ron Hausmann sat on the other. The arrangement told Andie everything she needed to know. The battle line was drawn, and the troops were at attention. It was Brady versus Wolski.
The opposing side had all the heft. Together, Wolski and Jackson must have weighed five hundred pounds, and their reflection in the Formica doubled them to a thousand. Every time Andie looked down to avoid Tom’s and Jackson’s penetrating stares, the two men were still staring at her from the shiny tabletop, their faces stern, like they’d been chewing five-penny nails.
In contrast, Ron Hausmann looked like an overgrown Pillsbury Doughboy; he had round cheeks and a round stomach that, if poked, seemed like he’d giggle, Tee-hee! But his cheerful appearance masked seriousness that Andie now saw in his eyes and yesterday had witnessed on the phone when he’d warned her in a grave voice, “Tom’s supposed to be an impartial fact finder, but be careful. Whatever you say might come back to bite you.”
When Tom leaned forward and laced his fingers together, Andie noted that he’d be attractive if the overhead fluorescent lights weren’t giving his honest-looking face a blue-green hue. As usual for taking an officer’s statement, he, as lead investigator, would ask her questions. Jackson was there for another pair of ears and eyes.
For the recording, Tom gave the date and listed everyone present. As legally required, he read the Garrity Warning, which reminded Andie of her Fifth Amendment right to silence and her protection from disciplinary action if she refused to answer questions. He picked up his pen and held it in his fist like a small nightstick. “Okay, Officer Brady, let’s start with you telling us about Christopher Vanderwaal. How did you know him?”
“I bought a raffle ticket from him once. Years ago. Cub Scouts.”
Tom pressed, “Any other contact?”
“I saw him around the neighborhood once in a while.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“I waved.”
“That’s it? Nothing more?”
Andie felt backed against the wall already. When she grabbed her chair’s seat to steady herself, she realized that the interview was going to be even harder than she’d thought. “Nothing more.”
Tom turned a page of his yellow legal pad. “Okay, let’s cut to the night in question. After work, did you come straight home or stop somewhere?”
“I came straight home. I’d worked late, and I was tired.”
“Was anything out of the ordinary when you pulled into the driveway or got out of your car?”
“ No. ”
Tom set Andie’s use-of-force report in front of her. “You say here that your motion-sensor light was out.” He tapped his pen on Andie’s wobbly scrawl. “Wasn’t that unusual?”
“I’m sorry.” Don’t apologize. Flustered, Andie tucked her hair behind her ears. “I forgot. Yes, the light was out.”
“If it had been working, would it have lit up your yard?”
“Yes. I should have changed the bulb the day before, but I never got around t
o it.”
“Any reason for that?”
“I was busy,” Andie said, defensive. She had a right to put off a chore in her own home. “What difference does it make why I didn’t change the bulb?”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to ask the questions here,” Tom said.
The reprimand, though slight, felt like a slap to her wrist, and it emphasized that he was the boss and she, the underling. She noted that he was frowning—she was the one who had the right to frown in this scenario.
“So your yard was dark. Did you have a flashlight?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Every officer carries one.” As you well know.
“When did you first know Christopher was there?”
“When he rose from the bushes and stabbed Justice.”
“Did you actually see him do that?”
“Not up close. But I saw him raise his arm, and I saw the knife in his hand, and I heard Justice’s horrible shrieks.”
“So you concluded he’d stabbed Justice, but you weren’t certain,” Tom said.
“What else could I have thought? I heard the shrieks,” Andie argued. Stay calm! For a break from his gaze, she looked down at the table, but Jackson’s reflection was staring at her.
“When did you draw your gun?” Tom asked.
“When he started coming at me.”
“How fast?”
“A quick walk at first. Then a run.”
“Why didn’t you use your Taser?”
“If it hadn’t stopped him, I wouldn’t have had time to shoot,” Andie said, then added to make sure Tom knew, “I didn’t want to hurt him.” Under the table she wrung her hands so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Tom squinted at her slightly, as if he were deciding whether he believed her. He said, “Some people might wonder why Christopher was a threat to you. He was only five-five. Weighed a hundred and forty. You’re what? Five-four? A hundred and twenty-five? You’re strong. You’ve been trained to defend yourself. You couldn’t manage a less lethal way to do it?”
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