‘We need to have a conversation,’ a cop with an orange-dyed buzzcut said brightly.
She was at the tail end of her twenties. Chubby tattooed arms, black jeans and the sleeves of a plaid shirt rolled up, like she was about to chop wood.
‘I’m Officer O’Banyon,’ the cop said, gum in her mouth. ‘Don’t need to cuff you, do I?’
She took Charlie one floor up, then offered anything you like from the vending machine, as if that was the deal of the century. The interview room had been prepped. Files waiting on the table, a stack of disposable cups and a tatty plastic water jug with cling wrap stretched over the top.
‘Take a chair,’ O’Banyon said.
The officer’s movements were all floaty, her voice easy. Trying to play the chilled big sister.
O’Banyon stripped cellophane off a vending-machine sandwich and bit bread stained with mustard. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. Crazy shift, I’m famished.’
‘Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?’
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ O’Banyon explained. ‘Obviously, anything you choose to say in this room is being recorded and may be used as evidence.’
She licked mustard off fingertips, then pointed to a camera, up on the ceiling inside a heavy Plexiglas dome.
‘What’s your full name?’ O’Banyon began.
‘Charlie Luanne Croker.’
O’Banyon scratched something on a pad. ‘And you’re thirteen years old?’
Charlie reckoned O’Banyon was trying to ease her into talking by asking questions she had no reason not to answer. Charlie sat upright and tried to sound strong.
‘First off, I’ve already spoken to a lawyer and he told me to say nothing unless he’s present. Second, I’d like to report that the officer who arrested me kneed me in the face when I was already pinned with my arms behind my back.’
The cop chewed slow as she considered her response.
‘That’s a serious accusation,’ O’Banyon said finally. ‘It’s not my department, but I’ll pass that along and someone from internal affairs will speak to you as soon as they can. But let’s focus on the big picture here.’
O’Banyon dragged her chair forward, and locked fingers on the desktop. The cop’s orange nail varnish was the same shade as her stubbly hair, and Charlie thought it seemed fake: putting so much effort into a look that was supposed to show that you didn’t care.
‘Think of your situation like a ticking clock,’ O’Banyon said. ‘You’re in deep. You’re facing serious charges. But if you’re honest and you co-operate with us now, the sentence you end up with could be minimal.
‘And I’m not talking about a few months’ difference, Charlie. Play ball and the state attorney might let you plead down to a charge like assault with a deadly weapon and you’ll get two to five in juvenile detention.
‘But you try to be clever, the state attorney will get the bit between her teeth. Thirteen-year-olds can be tried as adults for murder or attempted murder in this state. That’s fifteen years in an adult prison, before you get a sniff at early release.’
Charlie folded her arms. I’m Buddha. Don’t react. Don’t make eye contact with this phoney punk.
‘Look,’ O’Banyon said, making a theatrical sigh as she leaned in, then lowering her voice for added drama. ‘You did something bad, but people will have a lot of sympathy. We all had crazy teenage crushes. When I was twelve, I fell in love with Todd Pendragon. Are you old enough to remember him?’
Charlie tutted and shook her head.
‘Todd was a super-cute Olympic diver. I watched all his fitness tips on YouTube. Spent hours online trying to buy gold sneakers like the ones he wore on Good Morning America. I’d stare at his picture and lie on my bed imagining that I could reach across and touch him. When I thought about how Todd didn’t even know my name, my body ached so bad I wanted to die.’
Charlie shuddered with contempt and broke silence. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
O’Banyon cracked a motherly smile, at odds with the black eye make-up. ‘We know about the messages you sent to Deion Powell,’ she purred. ‘We found his practice shirts under your bed. We found hundreds of photos and newspaper clippings on your laptop and a steak knife with pieces of rubber on close to Deion’s home.’
‘I don’t have his shirts,’ Charlie said incredulously. ‘I’ve never messaged Deion. I’ve never even been to a stupid Rockets football game.’
O’Banyon let Charlie’s words float as she kept talking. ‘We haven’t run the DNA test yet, but the steak knife has a white plastic handle with a feather design. It’s an exact match for the cutlery in your trailer. Your den at the back of Tire Maxx sent the explosive-sniffing dogs into a frenzy. The forensic report will take a couple of days, but I’d bet a year’s salary that the explosive residues at Rock Spring High will match the ones we detected on your clothes when you were arrested.’
Charlie had been expecting questions about JJ, the explosives and how JJ got hold of them.
‘This Deion stuff is all lies,’ Charlie said, as tense fingers dug into her knee. ‘Is this some cop trick? Trying to knock me off balance?’
‘Who are you trying to fool, Charlie?’ O’Banyon said. ‘You had a mad crush on Deion and when you realised you couldn’t have him, you made sure nobody else could either.’
‘I don’t … Just …’ Charlie shouted, then shook her head and tried to compose herself. ‘JJ already handed himself in to confess. Maybe it was at another precinct. How can you not know what’s going on?’
‘You can’t pin this on JJ,’ O’Banyon said, confidently shaking her head. ‘JJ was an obvious suspect. Very sensibly, he came here shortly after the attack with a lawyer who works for his father. He was open and honest about everything.’
‘Was it him that pointed the finger at me?’
‘JJ was able to comprehensively explain his movements from the last time Deion accessed his locker on Wednesday night until the explosion this morning. He was at a party all night, and he stayed at his father’s house, sharing a bed with your sister, Fawn. The Janssen property has extensive CCTV, and all recorded footage has been handed across.’
‘The Janssens are super rich,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘I’m sure JJ could pay someone to do his dirty work.’
‘So where were you between the end of school on Wednesday and the locker explosion this morning?’ O’Banyon asked, her purr now more of a roar.
‘I want a lawyer,’ Charlie insisted.
O’Banyon pointed up at the camera. ‘What would a jury say if they saw this recording?’ she asked. ‘If you’re as innocent as you claim, why can’t you answer a simple question about what you were doing last night?’
O’Banyon looked unbearably smug. Charlie would have loved to grab the water jug and smash it over her head.
‘My sister, Fawn, was there when I got home from school,’ Charlie said angrily. ‘But Ed was getting sick. He made a mess in the bathroom and was crying. Fawn suddenly walked in wearing this stupid party dress and tells me she’s going to a club with JJ. We had a blazing row. But she stormed off and there was no possible way I could leave Ed.’
‘So Fawn left,’ O’Banyon said, back to purring. ‘Who else saw you between the time Fawn left and the time of your arrest?’
‘I was looking after Ed the whole night,’ Charlie said, her chest shuddering as she wondered if there was more to this than O’Banyon trying to trick her into an admission.
‘Would Ed make a reliable witness?’ O’Banyon asked.
Charlie narrowed her eyes. ‘You know he wouldn’t.’
‘And did Ed go to sleep?’
‘You’re making this stuff up,’ Charlie insisted. ‘The shirts and the steak knife. Accusing me of planting the bomb, so the other stuff seems less serious.’
‘Who are you trying to kid, Charlie?’ O’Banyon groaned, standing aggressively, then leaning in with her knuckles flat on the desktop. ‘If I told lies in this room, your lawyer would watch the tap
e and claim I’d tried to entrap you. I’d get yelled at by my boss, investigated by internal affairs and this entire interview would be ruled inadmissible by a judge.’
Can she really not lie? Charlie wondered. Or is that a lie too …
‘All I’m doing is laying out the real evidence, Charlie. All you’re doing is burying your head in the sand and making your situation worse.’
‘I didn’t do this,’ Charlie shouted, then gasped with delight as she had a brainwave. ‘They have CCTV in the hallways at my school. They must have it in the High School too. Since you’re so sure I did this, I’ll bet you two years of your salary, that you will not see me anywhere near Deion Powell’s locker.’
‘The video was looked at,’ O’Banyon explained, unruffled. ‘The closest camera is sixty feet from Deion’s locker and only gives a blurry view. But you knew that already, didn’t you?’
‘You’re turning everything I say against me,’ Charlie spat. ‘Aren’t you supposed to listen to what I say and investigate? Not decide I did something before I open my mouth?’
O’Banyon kept hammering. ‘The memory card recording CCTV footage for the entire ground-floor annexe suffered damage the last time it was reinserted. We can get a data-recovery technician to look into that. But that takes days and costs the police department money, which we can spend on something more worthwhile if you do the decent thing and admit to what you did.’
‘I’ve been framed,’ Charlie yelled.
‘Who’d frame a thirteen-year-old girl?’ O’Banyon said, tutting incredulously as she took a step back from the desk. ‘I’ve given you a chance to make things easier for yourself, but I’m clearly wasting my time.
‘So, Charlie, you cool your heels overnight in your cell. I’m gonna drive home, make food, walk my dog and snuggle up in bed with my boyfriend. I’ll drop by your cell in the morning. And hopefully you’ll be ready for a more constructive conversation by then.’
10 NEW-BABY SMELL
‘The person you are calling is not currently able to take your call. If you wish to leave a message, please speak after the tone.’
‘Harry, this is me … Charlie, from earlier? These calls are recorded so I must be careful. Fawn’s not answering, but the custody officer let me get numbers off my cell and yours was still open in the contacts screen.
‘I can’t think of anyone else and I know you’re interested in this story, even if you don’t care about me. I’m scared … Really damned scared. JJ didn’t hand himself in at all. They’re trying to blame me for the bombing, not just making explosive.
‘I got grilled by this awful cop. She’s talking about stuff they found. A steak knife from my house got used to slash Deion’s tires. Deion’s football shirts under my bed. Pictures of him on my laptop. They’re saying all this crazy stuff and none of— You’ll probably hear stuff about me, but, Harry, I swear on my mom’s grave it’s not true.
‘I don’t have an alibi, because Ed was sick and I had to stay home. I can’t see why the cops would make up a bunch of evidence. It had to be planned before the attack anyway, so someone must have it in for me. My sister Fawn’s not answering her phone, but we’ve been fighting a lot. I got angry and threatened to report her to the trustees who control Ed’s compensation money, because she gets eighteen hundred a month but hardly looks after him. I guess it suits Fawn if I’m not around, and if Deion’s out of the picture her boyfriend, JJ, gets to be starting quarterback …’
Charlie took a deep breath before the words started tumbling again.
‘My own sister … I know, right? Can’t be certain, I guess. You must think I’m some nut-job … But you were there when that lawyer guy called, saying he was an attorney and that JJ was going to surrender? You heard that, right?
‘If I get a public defender it will be exactly like the fire-extinguisher thing. They’ll see the evidence stacked up and tell me to plead guilty. And my eighty-six dollars in Wells Fargo won’t get me a real lawyer. So I’m up to my neck, Harry. And, as pathetic as this seems, you’re probably the only person in this world who might give a damn …’
There was a stifled sob, then Charlie hung up.
• • •
The red Nikes weren’t as comfy as the ones Harry had binned, but a scraped heel was just pain and pain was part of what he liked about running: the feeling of pushing your heart and lungs, nothing in your head but the next gulp of breath as sweat floods your eyes.
Harry ran a slight hill, on a street between two gated developments. It was no-man’s-land. Rooftops and palm trees, glimpsed over twenty-foot block walls. He’d often amused himself with the thought of suburban kids tunnelling out, but today all thoughts were fixed on the gun.
As the street came to a dead end, a smell of trash wafted through a service gate in one of the walls. Beyond was a parking lot, busy with the type of cars you cram full of kids and a public space centred on four softball diamonds and a play area.
Harry ran past a dad holding a sleepy toddler, then slowed as he cut between two tall SUVs, parked under a row of palms. The kerb here had a big slot-drain to catch runoff from the parkland.
He put one Nike up on the kerb, like he was stopping to tie a lace, glanced around to make sure nobody was in sight, then slipped a drawstring pouch off his back. Breathless and dripping sweat, Harry opened the collar of the pouch, careful not to touch the package inside as it slid out on to the kerb.
He’d used white spirit to scrub the clip and gun for fingerprints and now they were in a Ziploc bag, disassembled and swimming in neon-blue bleach gel to kill DNA. He’d only touched the bag while wearing rubber gloves. Now he flicked it down the hole with his heel and hooked the drawstrings back over his arms as he resumed his run.
There was often a bunch of Venezuelan refugee kids around when Harry ran through the park. They’d always ignored him, but two hands-down-pants tenth graders swaggered over as he stopped at a water fountain.
‘You Smirnov?’ the bigger of the two stated accusingly.
He straightened up, sweeping away dribbles down his chin. ‘Yeah.’
Harry felt wary. But he never took a phone or money when he ran and there were heaps of people around.
‘That video’s sick, man,’ the smaller one said, getting closer than Harry found comfortable.
‘Sick,’ his pal agreed. ‘The photo too, with Deion’s cracked helmet and all the blood.’
Harry had spent two hours cleaning the gun, cleaning himself, and timing it so that everything he’d been wearing or carrying earlier went down the Sinatra’s trash chutes, minutes before the cart arrived to take it all to the dump. He’d been so focused he hadn’t even known the photo had been published.
‘Where’d you see it?’ Harry asked excitedly.
‘Insta, Facebook. It’s everywhere,’ the little guy said. ‘The bloody helmet gave me chills, bro.’
‘You get paid for that shit, Smirnov?’ the big guy asked.
‘Nah,’ Harry lied.
Football players liked any excuse to use their muscle, so the last thing Harry wanted were rumours he’d cashed in on Deion’s misfortune.
‘I wanted it online so people could see.’
‘School website says Rock Spring is closed at least until Tuesday!’ the big guy said happily.
Harry tapped the face of his running watch. ‘Good to talk, but I’ve gotta bolt.’
He felt better now he’d got rid of everything, but angst still gnawed at him.
What if someone saw me leaving Charlie’s den? Or cameras in the CVS parking lot? Or I clogged the mall plumbing with all that explosive? Cops catch pros who spend months planning crimes and I did this on the fly. On the other hand, if JJ has confessed, and Charlie gets a smack on the wrist for making the explosives, why would the cops be looking for me? In which case I just threw out a $160 pair of running shoes for no reason …
Running blotted thought, and Harry pushed his body, even though the early evening temperature was up in the nineties. He sprinted th
e last stretch beneath an amber sunset and caught an open gate as a lady in a casino uniform dashed out of the Sinatra to a waiting taxi.
The TV in the kitchen was on as Harry walked in, trailing drips of sweat. He was sure it had been off when he left, but with so much in his head he figured he must have forgotten. He’d guzzled water from the sink and started peeling his shirt when he saw the message icon on his phone. He guessed it might be Ellie, or Matt bragging that he’d done something with his girlfriend that her father wouldn’t approve of.
Harry decided a shower was more important than the message, but only got three steps before a door opened at the top of the stairs.
‘There you are,’ his aunt, Kirsten, said, with enough acid in her tone for Harry to know there was trouble.
She looked a lot like her nephew. Harry had caught the running bug from Kirsten and they shared the same slender build. She’d been getting undressed, so the belt of her white pants dangled and her double-breasted chef’s coat was unbuttoned, showing a grey undershirt beneath.
‘You’re early,’ Harry said, which was an understatement. It wasn’t eight and his aunt never got home before midnight.
‘I had a couple of diners compliment me on your photography skills,’ she said tartly, coming downstairs as Harry unconsciously backed into the kitchen island. ‘And an hour ago I had a call from the principal of your school saying that you’re suspended until I come in to discuss your actions after the evacuation.’
‘School’s closed until Tuesday anyway,’ Harry noted.
‘Don’t get cute!’ Kirsten snapped, hands on hips as Harry felt queasy. His aunt wasn’t around much and they rarely argued.
‘I’m not going through this again,’ Kirsten said, wagging a finger. ‘I grew up with a big sister I loved to bits. I watched her charging all over the world, with everyone telling me how brave and talented she was. But I spent too many nights lying awake worrying about her, and your nan was a wreck every time your mum left on another adventure.
KILLER T Page 5