House Rules (16 page)

I have a kid who‘s been known to hang out at crime scenes in the past.

I have a homicide, and I have a blanket that links Jacob Hunt to it.

The division between an observer and a participant is nearly invisible; you can cross it before you even know you‘ve stepped over the line.

Emma

On the way home from school, I am gripping the steering wheel so hard that my hands are shaking. I keep looking in the rearview mirror at Jacob. He looks like he did this morning wearing a faded green T-shirt, his seat belt snugly fastened over his chest, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He is not stimming or withdrawn or exhibiting any of the other hallmarks of behavior that flag the fact something is upsetting him. Does that mean he didn‘t have anything to do with Jess‘s death? Or he did, and it simply doesn‘t affect him the way it would affect someone else?

Theo has been talking about math a problem he did that no one else in the class understood. I am not absorbing a single word. Jacob and I have to swing by the police station, I say, training my voice to be as level as possible. So Theo, I‘m just going to drop you off at home first.

What for? Jacob asks. Did he get back the results on the backpack?

He didn‘t say.

Theo looks at me. Mom? Is something going on?

For a moment I want to laugh: I have one child who cannot read me at all, and another who reads me too well. I don‘t answer but pull up to our mailbox instead. Theo, hop out and get the mail, and you can let yourself into the house. I‘ll be back as soon as I can. I leave him standing in the middle of the road and drive off with Jacob.

But instead of heading to the police station, I stop off at a strip mall and park. Are we getting a snack? Jacob asks. Because I‘m actually quite hungry.

Maybe later. I get out of the driver‘s seat and sit beside him in the back of the car.

I have something to tell you. Some very bad news.

Like when Grandpa died.

Yes, a lot like that. You know how Jess has been gone for a while, so you couldn‘t have your meeting on Sunday? The police found her body. She‘s dead. I watch him carefully as I speak, ready to mark a flicker of his eye or a twitch of his hand that I might read as a clue. But Jacob, completely impassive, just looks at the headrest in front of him.

Okay, he says after a moment.

Do you have any questions?

Jacob nods. Can we get a snack now?

I look at my son, and I see a monster. I‘m just not sure if that‘s his real face or if it‘s a mask made of Asperger‘s.

Honestly, I‘m not even sure it matters.

By the time I reach the police station with Jacob, my nerves are strung as tight as the strings on a violin. I feel like a traitor, bringing my own son to Detective Matson, but is there an alternative? A girl is already dead. I couldn‘t live with myself, with this secret, if I didn‘t acknowledge Jacob‘s involvement.

Before I can even ask for him to be paged by dispatch, the detective walks into the station lobby. Jacob, he says, and then he turns to me. Emma. Thanks for bringing him in.

I don‘t have any words left to say. Instead, I look away.

Just like Jacob.

The detective puts a hand on my shoulder. I know this isn‘t easy … but you did the right thing.

Then why doesn‘t it feel that way? I murmur.

Trust me, Matson says, and because I want to because I
need
someone else to take the wheel for just a moment while I struggle to breathe I nod.

He turns back to Jacob. The reason I asked your mom to bring you here, Matson says, is because I want to talk to you. I could really use your help with some cases.

My jaw drops open. That is a blatant lie.

Predictably, Jacob swells with pride. I suppose I have time for that.

That‘s great, Matson replies, because we‘re stumped. We‘ve got some cold cases and a few active ones that have us scratching our heads. And after seeing you draw conclusions about the hypothermic guy, I know that you‘re incredibly well-versed in forensic criminology.

I try to keep up-to-date, Jacob says. I subscribe to three journals.

Yeah? Impressive. Matson opens up the door that leads into the bowels of the police station. Why don‘t we go somewhere a little more private?

Using his love of CSI to entrap Jacob into giving a statement about Jess‘s death is like holding out a syringe of heroin to an addict. I am furious at Matson for being so underhanded; I am furious at myself for not realizing that he would have his priorities, just like I had mine.

Flushed with anger, I start to follow them through the doorway but am stopped by the detective. Actually, Emma, he says, you‘ll have to wait here.

I have to go with him. He won‘t understand what you‘re asking him.

Legally, he‘s an adult. Matson smiles, but it doesn‘t reach his eyes.

Really, Mom, Jacob adds, his voice brimming with self-importance. It‘s fine.

The detective looks at me. Are you his legal guardian?

I‘m his
mother.

That‘s not the same thing, Matson says. I‘m sorry.

For what?
I wonder. For seducing Jacob into believing he‘s on his side? Or for doing the same to me?

Then we‘re leaving, I insist.

Matson nods. Jacob, it‘s your decision. Do you want to stay with me, or do you want to go home with your mom?

Are you
kidding
? Jacob beams. I want to talk to you, one hundred percent.

Before the door closes behind them, I have already taken off at a dead run toward the parking lot.

Rich

All is fair in love, war, and interrogation. By that I mean that if I can convince a suspect I‘m the second coming of his long-dead grandma and the only way to salvation is to confess to me, so be it. None of which accounts for the fact that I cannot get Emma Hunt‘s face out of my mind, the minute she realized that I had betrayed her and was not going to allow her to sit in on my little chat with her son.

I can‘t bring Jacob into the interrogation room, because Mark Maguire is still there cooling his heels. I‘ve left him with a sergeant who‘s currently doing a six-month stint with me to figure out whether or not he wants to take the test to make detective. I can‘t unarrest Mark until I know for sure I‘ve got the right suspect in my sights.

So instead, I lead Jacob to my office. It‘s not much bigger than a closet, but it has boxes of case files all over the place and a few crime scene photos tacked up on the corkboard behind my head all of which should get his adrenaline flowing. You want a Coke or something? I ask, motioning to the only other spare seat in the room.

I‘m not thirsty, Jacob says. I wouldn‘t mind something to eat, though.

I rummage through my desk drawers for emergency candy if I‘ve learned anything on the job it‘s that when everything seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, a pack of Twizzlers can help you gain some perspective. I toss him some from my stash of last year‘s leftover Halloween candy, and he frowns.

They‘re not gluten-free, Jacob says.

Is that a bad thing?

Do you have any Skittles?

I cannot believe we‘re negotiating candy, but I rummage through the bowl and come up with a packet of Skittles.

Sweet! Jacob says. He tears a corner and tips the edge right into his mouth.

I lean back in my chair. You mind if I tape this? That way, I can have it typed up just in case we come up with any terrific insights.

Oh, sure. If that‘s helpful.

It will be, I say, and I hit the button on the tape recorder. So how‘d you know that guy died of hypothermia, anyway?

Easy. There weren‘t any defense wounds to his arms; there was blood but no overt trauma … and of course the fact that he was in his underwear was a dead giveaway.

I shake my head. You made me look like a genius in front of the medical examiner, I say.

What‘s the most bizarre case you‘ve ever heard about?

I think for a moment. A young guy jumps off the top of a building, intending to commit suicide, but sails past an open window at the exact moment a gunshot is fired through it.

Jacob grins. That‘s an urban legend. It was debunked by the
Washington Post
in 1996 as part of a speech given by a former president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, to show the legal complications of forensic analysis. But it‘s a good one, all the same.

How about you?

The Texas Eyeball Killer. Charles Albright who taught science killed prostitutes and surgically removed their eyeballs as trophies.

He grimaces. Obviously that‘s the reason I never really liked my bio teacher.

There are a lot of people in this world you‘d never suspect as murderers, I say, watching Jacob carefully. Don‘t you think?

For just the tiniest flicker of a moment, a shadow crosses over his face. You‘d know better than me, he says.

Jacob, I‘m sort of in a predicament. I‘d like to pick your brain about a current case.

Jess‘s, he states.

Yes. But that‘s tricky, because you knew her. So if we‘re going to talk openly, you‘ll have to waive your rights to
not
discuss it. You get what I‘m saying?

He nods and begins to recite Miranda. I have the right to remain silent. Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. I have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If I cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for me …

Exactly, I murmur. I actually have a copy of that here. If you can initial it here, and sign at the bottom, then I can prove to my chief that you didn‘t just memorize it you understood what it meant.

Jacob takes a pen from me and quickly scrawls his name across the paper I‘ve prepared. Now can we talk about it? he asks. What have you got?

Well, the backpack was a disappointment.

No prints?

Only ones we could match to Jess herself, I say. Something else interesting turned up at the house a screen was cut and the window jimmied open.

You think that‘s how the perp got inside?

No, because the door wasn‘t locked. We did, however, find boot prints under the window that matched footwear Jess‘s boyfriend owns.

There was a great
CrimeBusters
episode once where the exterior footprints didn‘t show up until it snowed Jacob breaks off, editing himself. So Mark kills Jess and then tries to make it look like something else a break-in by cutting the screen and knocking over the stools and the mail and the CDs?

Something like that. I glance down at his hands like Maguire‘s, they are injury-free. What‘s your take? How hard would it be to reorganize a crime scene to mislead the investigators?

Before he can answer, my cell phone rings. I recognize the number; it‘s Basil, who‘s accompanied the medical examiner back to the hospital. Could you excuse me for a minute? I ask Jacob, and I step into the hall and close the door behind me before answering the phone. What have you got?

In addition to the scrapes on her back and contusions on the throat and upper arms, there are some more in the periorbital region

English, Basil.

Raccoon eyes, he says. She‘s got a broken nose and a skull fracture. Cause of death is subdural hematoma.

I try to imagine Jacob Hunt throwing a right hook to Jess Ogilvy‘s face, hard enough to crack her skull. Great. Thanks.

That‘s not all, Basil answers. Her underwear was on backward, but there‘s no evidence of sexual assault. Her face was washed clean there were traces of blood in the hairline. And that missing tooth? We found it.

Where?

Wrapped up in toilet paper, and tucked into the front pocket of her sweatpants,

Basil says. Whoever did this didn‘t just dump Jess Ogilvy. He cared about her.

I hang up the phone and immediately think of Sasha, who lost a tooth just a month ago when she was staying at my place. We wrapped it in tissue paper and put it in an envelope with the Tooth Fairy‘s name on it, for good measure. Naturally, I had to call my ex to ask her what the going rate was $5, if you can believe it, which means my whole mouth is worth $160. After Sasha was asleep and I swapped the envelope for a nice crisp Lincoln, I held it, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do with a baby tooth. I imagined the Tooth Fairy to have those empty glass jar lamps that hold seashells, only hers would hold thousands of tiny cuspids. Since I didn‘t subscribe to that kind of décor, I figured I‘d just toss the damn thing, but at the last minute, I couldn‘t do it. This was my daughter‘s childhood, sealed in an envelope. How many chances would I have to hold on to a piece of her life?

Had Jacob Hunt felt the same way when he held Jess‘s tooth?

With a deep breath, I walk back into my office. The gloves are off. You ever been to an autopsy, Jacob?

No.

I settle back down behind my desk. The first thing the ME does is take a huge needle and stick it into the jelly of the eye so he can draw out the vitreous humor. If you run a tox screen on it, you can see what was in the victim‘s system at the moment of death.

What kind of toxicity test? Jacob asks, not fazed at all by the gruesome image I just presented. Alcohol? Prescription meds? Or illegal drugs?

Then the medical examiner cuts the torso open with a Y incision and peels back the skin. He‘ll saw through the ribs to make a little dome that he can lift up like the top of a jar, and then he starts pulling out the organs, one by one … weighing them … cutting slices he can look at under a microscope.

A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice
Chianti.

Then the medical examiner takes his saw and cuts off the whole top of the skull and pops it open with a chisel. He reaches in, and he pulls her brain out. You know the sound a brain makes when it‘s being pried out of a skull, Jacob? I imitate it, like a seal breaking.

Then it gets weighed, right? Jacob asks. The average human brain weighs three pounds, but the biggest one on record was five pounds, one-point-one ounces.

All that stuff I just described, I say, leaning forward. All of that just happened to your friend Jess. What do you think about that?