Robby the R-Word

by Leif Wright

  A computer-printed sign cheerfully proclaimed: Visitors must check in AT THE OFFICE.

  A giant red arrow cut from construction paper was taped to the bottom of the sign, pointing to the right, which was where THE OFFICE must be.

  Russell pushed through the glass door there.

  A woman who looked like she was straight out of the 1970s sat behind a large wooden partition facing the door. Her hair, which had clearly sat in curlers all night the night before, was in a hue no-man’s land between fake auburn and fake light brown. She had a bit of a mustache working its way through the last waxing, and she had to have bought her horn-rimmed glasses on purpose to complete the look. They looked as if they might have popped right out of a Far Side cartoon.

  “Hi,” she said as she saw his uniform. “Are you the police officer I spoke to?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Russell.”

  “The guy who wanted old records,” she said. “I’ll take you back there, but I can’t guarantee on helping you make heads or tails of it.”

  “Thank you,” he said. The records sounded like they might be in disarray, which prompted a sense of foreboding. She led him through a labyrinth of hallways, the carpet muffling their footsteps. Toward the end of the hallway, a door bearing the simple label “RECORDS” stood on the left.

  Inside, there were boxes arranged on metal shelves. Some of them looked quite old. But they didn’t appear to be in disarray, as the lady had led him to believe. The shelves appeared to be arranged by year. Then each level appeared arranged by grade.

  This would be easy. He quickly walked toward the shelving unit he thought was most likely to have the early ’70s and looked for a label.

  “1971,” he said. “1972, 1973, 1974, 1975 … There it is, 1976.”

  The grades appeared to start from the highest grades on the top shelves.

  “Great,” he said, knees creaking. “On the bottom.”

  First grade. There it was.

  Inside the soft, brown cardboard box, records that looked as if they hadn’t been touched since 1976 were crammed from one end to another. Some secretary in the ’70s had taken her job seriously, however. There were big green folders that each contained smaller Manila folders. The green folders were clearly labeled, things like “tuition paid”, “tuition delinquent”, “teachers”, “student discipline”, “class rosters”, and “semester grades”.

  Russell reached for “class rosters”.

  Inside were six folders, each with a teacher’s name on it. Russell flipped through until he found “Edwards, Pearl M.”

  Inside was a single piece of yellow paper. Russell scrolled his finger down the page until he got to the one he had been sure wasn’t there: “Turner, Robert (retarded)”.

  “Holy fuck,” he whispered, then quickly turned around to see curler hair lady smiling. “Shit, I’m sorry!”

  “No worries,” she laughed. “I just work here. I’m Episcopalian. We drink at church.”

  He laughed, more out of relief than anything else. “Can I get a copy of this?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Glad you found what you were looking for.”

  “You don’t even know,” he said. “This may have solved a homicide!”

  36

  “WAKE THE HELL UP!”

  Bain’s hand slid from under her head, which promptly banged onto the edge of the couch’s armrest. “Fuck!” she said, rubbing the eye socket that had made best contact with the corner. “What the hell, Russell! I’m gonna have a black eye!”

  “Totally worth it,” Russell said from the doorway. “Plus, it’ll make you look badass.”

  “You better have a fucking smoking gun,” she said. “Or I’m gonna black your eye.”

  “Not smoking,” he said. “But definitely puffing. Pearl Edwards was Robby Turner’s first-grade teacher.”

  “What? Serious?”

  “As a heart attack,” he said, handing her the copy of Edwards’ class roster from 1976 and another paper as Bain stood. “For one semester, after which the old broad wrote a note asking the school to have the ‘retard’ removed from her class. Her word, not mine.”

  Bain rubbed her eyes and looked at the papers. There it was, staring at her, just as he had said. “This’ll get us a second interview with Robby,” she said. “Maybe even a warrant if we combine it with the knowledge that he knew all three victims. You’re a fucking genius!”

  Russell smiled. “I was thinking we file for the warrant, and while that climbs its way through the system, we go visit Robby,” he said. “I bet his answers change.”

  “Good plan,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

  The pair worked up a request for a warrant for Robby’s computer.

  “I don’t think you can seize his computer,” Chief Dreadfulwater said five minutes later as he read the warrant request.

  “Why not?” Bain was indignant. “He’s a suspect in a murder-for-hire scheme. His computer is the thing we believe he used to do the hiring.”

  “It’s also his only means of communicating with the world,” Dreadfulwater said, looking up at her over his reading glasses. “If you seize it, you’re depriving him of his right to free speech, and I’m pretty sure the ACLU and the media would crawl up our asses with a fork and a microscope.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Bain said, knowing he was right. “We have to get his computer to get the emails!”

  “I’m pretty sure Keith Moore can clone his hard drive without us seizing his computer,” Russell said. “It will take a little time, but we won’t be depriving him of speech.”

  “This,” Dreadfulwater said, pointing at Russell. “This is why I let you take him off patrol for this case. Good thinking, Barbie. Y’all go down to the dungeon and see if Moore can really do all that shit Barbie just said he could.”

  37

  WHEN AMIE WASN’T AROUND, A STATE-APPOINTED NURSE FROM SOME hospice or another took care of Robby during the day. Her name was Retha Ballow, not that Robby knew it well. If she had occasion to discuss her name with him, he’d remember if she said it, but otherwise, there was no reason he should need to remember her name. It was just as well. He was one of her easiest patients by far. He never made much of a fuss, and all he seemed to want to do was look at the computer, controlling it with his mind somehow.

  So she generally straightened up around the house, checking in on him every ten minutes or so. She cooked his three meals, fed them to him, and helped him to the bathroom on his scheduled appearances there. He was always quick with a robotic-sounding “thank you” from the computer.

  It was a good, quiet gig, unlike some of the other, similarly handicapped people she dealt with other times. Some of them had seizures—those were the worst, as grown men and women would uncontrollably hurl their bodies at the ground, a wall, a hospice caregiver, something sharp.

  Most wore helmets, but that didn’t stop them from smashing out teeth, breaking noses, arms, ribs, or legs. It was horrible, no matter how many times she saw it. And there was nothing she could do when it hit.

  This guy, however, had no seizures, which made her day much more pleasant.

  Just as she was about to start puréeing his lunch, someone knocked at the front door. She walked to the door without thinking about it, opened it, and was confronted by a police officer and a woman in a pants suit. Behind them was a guy in a plaid shirt and jeans.

  “Hi,” she said, startled. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Sergeant Russell,” the police officer said, sticking his hand out. She shook it. “This is Detective Bain. The man behind us is Keith Moore. We have a warrant to clone the hard drive from Mr. Turner’s computer.”

  Retha immediately went into sister-of-a-lawyer mode. You didn’t hang around with a staunch Fourth Amendment lawyer and not pick up a few things along the way.

  “I appreciate that you have a warrant,” she said. “And you’re welcome to come in and watch Robby to make sure he doesn’t change anything
while you wait, but I must insist his attorney be here while you execute your warrant.”

  Russell looked surprised.

  “That’s fair,” Bain said, stepping forward. “We’ll come in and you call whoever you need to.”

  Retha wasn’t prepared for that response. Her brother’s practice largely revolved around people whose property was unreasonably searched and seized. Usually the police did what they wanted and let the chips fall where they might. She hadn’t been prepared for courteous officers who agreed with her. She showed the officers in, then ran to the kitchen to get her phone.

  “Hello, officers,” Robby’s computer said. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Wow,” Bain replied. “Did you get an upgrade? You’re talking a lot faster than I remember.”

  “Yes,” Robby’s computer said. “Upgrade. I can control this one with my eyes. It makes my speech a lot faster.”

  “Would you mind talking to us while we wait for your lawyer?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I had a lawyer,” his computer said. “I’m happy to talk to you.”

  “We had some new information in your father’s case that could cast you in a suspicious light,” she said, sitting down on the couch across from Robby. Russell sat next to her. Moore stayed standing. “Do you know what I’m referring to?”

  “No,” the computer said, then a pause. “This is the first I’ve heard this. I can’t move my body, so I’m not sure how I could be a suspect.”

  “You’re not a suspect,” Bain said. “We just have some suspicions. For instance, we have two other victims who were beaten by the same man who has confessed to beating your father, and he said each of the victims was given a photo before they were beaten. Two of those were photos of you. Were you aware of that?”

  “Haaaaaa.”

  “No,” the computer said. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Who was in the third photo?”

  “The boy you saw being molested by a Catholic priest,” she said, watching him for reaction. He gave none.

  “Miguel?” the computer asked after a long pause. “Why would he be in a picture shown to someone being beaten?”

  “You don’t watch the news?”

  “Haaaaa.”

  “Not if I can avoid it,” the computer said. “It’s all entropy. Bad news is always around. I prefer good.”

  “The priest who molested him was beaten after he was shown the picture,” Bain said. “After we arrested him, he was beaten to death in jail.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry,” Robby’s computer said. “He ruined Miguel’s life and I still have nightmares to this day about what he did to that poor guy.”

  Bain hadn’t expected that response. “Did you pay someone to beat him?”

  “No,” his computer responded. “But that’s a great idea. I hope that doesn’t incriminate me. I didn’t hire anyone, and though I can see the poetic justice of it, I never would.”

  “Pearl Edwards was shown a picture of you before someone beat her to death,” Bain said. “Did you hire someone to beat her?”

  “Haaaaa.” A bit of drool dripped down onto Robby’s lap.

  “Ms. Edwards? My first-grade teacher?” the computer said. “She was old even back then. I’m surprised she was still alive for someone to kill her. I didn’t hire anyone to beat her either.”

  “And your father?”

  “No,” the computer responded simply.

  The front door swung open and Robby’s primary caretaker, Amie, walked in wearing “day-off” sweats and a t-shirt from a Counting Crows concert. Behind her, a man wearing a suit strode through the door.

  “I’m Gary Ballow,” he said, handing a business card to Bain. “I’m Robby’s attorney. My understanding is you have a warrant. Could I read it?”

  Bain handed the warrant to him. It was a simple, specific warrant, so she knew it would pass muster.

  Robby’s chair made a whooshing sound as the lawyer read the warrant.

  “This gives you access to clone the hard drive on the computer Robby uses to access the Internet, but not to the computer he uses to speak,” he said finally.

  “Our lawyers felt like that would be akin to retroactive wire-tapping,” Bain responded. “Since every word Robby ‘speaks’ is recorded, we would need a separate warrant to view that, and we didn’t want the legal battle that would bring.”

  “Smart,” the lawyer said, handing the warrant back to her. “That would have been tied up in court for years. You can clone his hard drive, but I want to watch.”

  Bain motioned for Moore, who had a hard drive in his hand attached to a USB cable, to get to work. He walked around Robby and plugged his device in, typing some commands into the keyboard attached to that computer.

  “This will take a while,” he said. “It’s a terabyte drive.”

  “The warrant says you’re looking for evidence that Mr. Turner participated in an assault-for-hire scheme,” Ballow said as Moore worked. “What makes you suspect my client was involved in any such thing?”

  “Photos were given to all three victims before they were beaten,” Bain said. “Two of the photos were of your client, one was of a little boy your client had the misfortune to witness being molested years ago.”

  “Is that the bishop case that’s all over the news?”

  “Yes,” Bain said. “Robby saw the bishop—or I guess he was a priest then—molest a little boy, then the man who has confessed to assaulting the bishop at his church said he was given a picture of the little boy to show to the bishop before assaulting him. Robby was the only other witness in the room when it happened, and the little boy, who is a man now, has never told anyone about the molestation. The other victims were known by Robby. One was his first-grade teacher and the other was his father—all beaten severely by the man we have in custody who has confessed that he was hired to commit all three.”

  “Has Mr. Turner been read his Miranda rights?”

  “No, because he’s not under arrest,” she said. “We simply wanted to know what he had to say about everything and whether his computer contained traces of the emails that were used to hire our guy.”

  “I’m afraid he won’t be making any statements until I’ve had time to confer with my client.”

  “I’ve already made statements,” Robby’s computer said. “I have nothing to hide.”

  Ballow looked at him with the expression of a teacher rehearsing a lesson to a tiresome student. “You don’t have to speak just because you have nothing to hide,” he said. “Our country’s Fifth Amendment right was created to prevent people from assuming that silence meant you had something to hide. The police should have something much stronger than this before they can interrogate you.”

  “I would hardly call what we were doing interrog—”

  Robby’s computer interrupted. “Mister Ballow,” it said. “I’m thankful for your help, but I do not have a lawyer and I don’t plan on hiring one.” Then, after another pause, “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  When Moore was done, the police said their thank-yous and left. Ballow left, too.

  Amie stayed. “Are you okay?” she asked Robby. “Did they scare you?”

  “I’m fine,” Robby’s computer said. “What are they going to do? Cuff me?”

  Amie smiled.

  Robby said, “Haaaaa.”

  She smiled at Retha, too. “Thank you for calling me and your brother,” she said. “That was some level-headed thinking.”

  “It’s been drilled into my head since he became a lawyer,” she answered, waving her hand as if to shoo a fly away. “‘If you see a cop, call a lawyer.’” Her dead-on impersonation of her brother made both women laugh.

  “Come on,” Amie said. “I’ll make you some tea. Want anything, Robby?”

  “Tea sounds nice,” his computer said.

  The women went to the kitchen, which was far enough away that Retha felt comfortable talking in hushed tones.

  “That scared the bejeezus out of me,” sh
e whispered. “You hear what they said? Robby’s picture was handed to his dad before the guy put him in the hospital. And that old lady that got beaten to death. And the bishop! You can’t blame them for thinking Robby might be involved, but he’s so sweet—I just can’t imagine anything like that.”

  It was more words than Amie had ever heard Retha utter.

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t involved, or he wouldn’t have been so confident,” Amie said. “Still, that picture thing is weird.”

  “More than weird,” Retha said. “Gives me goosebumps.”

  “Hot tea will take care of that,” Amie said, pouring the tea into a pitcher, where honey was waiting for it. She mixed it up and poured some in a glass with four ice cubes, which promptly melted under the hot tea. “Here. Robby’s has to be a lot cooler, so I’ll use a bunch of ice in his.”

  38

  MOORE HAD BEEN WORKING ON ROBBY’S HARD DRIVE FOR TWO DAYS WITH nothing to report—which was a bad sign for Bain. It meant nothing obvious was there, no email, no proxy servers.

  Any other suspect, and she’d start checking area library computers, but Robby could only use his own computer, so it was this or nothing.

  Moore’s office was next to the server room. The contrast between the server room and Moore’s office was stark. The servers, all neatly mounted on metal racks, had cables tidily lined up and labeled, going only Keith Moore knew where. His office looked like the Tasmanian Devil had made a visit for a few hours. There were computer parts everywhere, with only a small place cleared for his computer.

  When she walked in, he was ready.

  “You’re gonna cuss at me,” he said. “But this computer is clean. He has never even Googled how to hire someone for stuff like that. This computer could almost sit in a kindergarten classroom without any problem.”

  “Shit,” Bain said, realizing she couldn’t sit in a kindergarten class without any problem. “Can we—”

  “There is something,” he interrupted her. “Your friend in the wheelchair seems to fancy himself something of an amateur detective. And from what he’s found, I’m inclined to agree.”