The Word of a Child (22 page)

Although Saturday wasn't a schoolday, Tracy's mother did
work, Connor knew, leaving at around four-thirty in the afternoon. He rang
their doorbell at three-fifteen.

An eye peered at him through the peephole. A moment later,
he heard the rattle of a chain being unfastened and a dead bolt being unlocked.
Ms. Mitchell, dressed for work in a tiny miniskirt, fishnet stockings and
three-inch heels, opened the door.

"I'm sorry it took ten minutes to let you in. That
kid!" she said irritably. Over her shoulder, she yelled, "Tracy! Why did you fasten all the locks?" She shook her head and made an apologetic
moue at Connor. "She's gotten so timid! Honest to God, I swear she'd put
bars on the windows if the landlord and I would go for it."

"She was raped." He had to remind her?

"At school!" She shrugged. "If you can call
it rape, when she went along with it."

Connor immediately developed a deep distaste for Tracy's mother.

As if reading his expression, she said hastily, "Not
that a teacher should have been seducing a little girl like my Tracy! I hope he's fired at the very least! Still, it's not as if a lock would have kept
him out."

He kept his tone stolid. "Ms. Mitchell, I hope you'll
consider counseling for Tracy. She's very young to have had this kind of
experience. Her fear—" he nodded at the door "—suggests she feels
very vulnerable. I know you work evenings, which leaves her here alone. Talking
out what she really fears might help."

She pressed a hand to her generous bosom, three-quarters
bared by a plunging neckline. "Do you know how much those robbers charge? I
can't…" She stopped and aimed a patently false smile past his shoulder.
"Tracy. See who's here to talk to you again."

He'd missed her first reaction to his presence. Connor
turned and nodded. "Tracy. How are you?"

Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that said, Surfer Girl, she
gazed at him expressionlessly. "I'm okay."

"I'd like to talk to you again, if that's all
right."

Momentarily hopeful, she asked, "Does that mean I can
say no?"

"I know it's hard." He imbued his voice with
sympathy. "Unfortunately, going over and over your story is an unavoidable
part of the investigation. I can't make an arrest until I have my ducks lined
up, and you can help me do that."

"Of course she wants to help!" Steel in her voice,
her mother wrapped an arm around Tracy and urged her toward a chair.

Her daughter dug in her heels, eyes widening with panic.
"I've said everything! I've said it and I've said it and I've said
it!"

He made his expression grave. "We won't go over the
whole thing again. In fact, I'm hoping you'll be more truthful with me today,
Tracy." Let her stew for a few minutes, he thought.

Her mouth opened as if she wanted to flare defiantly back,
but the fear in her eyes gave her away. She closed her mouth with a snap and
sat down, hugging herself.

"Ms. Mitchell," Connor said to the mother,
"I'd like to speak with you privately for a moment."

She nodded. "Sure. Come on into the kitchen."

From there he could see the top of Tracy's head in the
recliner. In a low voice, he said, "Are you aware that your husband is
dead?"

"Dead?" She gaped.

"You didn't know."

"I haven't heard from the bastard in years," she
said bitterly. "He never paid a cent of child support, you know. He didn't
want to be a father. Like I wanted to be a mother then! But I was raised
Catholic, even if I don't go to Mass now, and I wasn't about to get an
abortion. He hung around for a while, but he yelled when Tracy cried and got
mad when I had to take care of her instead of him. One day, I got home from
work and picking Tracy up at day care, and he was gone. Just cleaned his stuff
out. The only decent thing he did was, he didn't take all my money. I guess he
saw I'd need it. I never tried to find him."

Connor nodded. "I wanted to be sure he hadn't been in
touch with Tracy. Maybe gotten curious about her. He died in the King County jail six years ago. He was in for thirty days after being picked up on a
warrant—unpaid tickets. He was knifed by another inmate." Feeling it was
called for, he said more gently, "I'm sorry to have sprung it on you this
way."

"No." She took a breath and squared her shoulders.
"I'm glad to know. I always thought he might show up again some day. I
never actually got a divorce. I swore I wouldn't remarry." She gave a
twisted smile. "Now I guess I might someday. I like having a man around.
It bugs Tracy. I can tell she wishes I was some kind of Susie Homemaker, always
making cookies and being Room Mother and that kind of stuff, but it's just not
me. I am who I am."

"Tracy's at the age when being dissatisfied with your
parent is normal."

"You mean, the one whose mother is the PTA president
wishes she looked like me?" She cocked her hip and splayed one hand on it.

"Could be."

Her laugh was raucous and somehow sad, as if she knew he was
lying. "I don't suppose Randy had any life insurance?"

"That, I don't know. You might contact the jail, see if
you can't find out whether he was employed. He might have had insurance through
a job. If you were still legally married…"

"Unless he got a divorce without me knowing, and I
don't think you can do that, can you? Besides, he knew where to find me."

"Check it out," he advised her.

"Yeah. I'll do that." She stole a glance at the
clock, her body language suddenly restive. "You probably want to talk to Tracy without me here, don't you? I gotta do things on the way to work. You being here
gives me a chance to leave without having to tell Tracy every step I'm
making."

What kind of mother, he thought again, would leave her
daughter, obviously upset, to be interviewed alone by a cop? He contrasted her
casual attitude with Mariah's willingness to sacrifice everything for Zofie's
sake. But Ms. Mitchell's suggestion suited his agenda, so he nodded.

"Yeah, I would just as soon speak to her alone. She's
more likely to open up." Translation: she was more likely to break when
she felt more vulnerable, without her mom to back her.

"Hey, honey," the mother said blithely, bustling
into the living room with her hips swinging. "The officer wants to talk to
you alone, so I'm heading off for work now."

Following close behind her, Connor got a bird's-eye view of
the way Tracy flinched from her kiss.

"Well." Her mother retreated, forced an artificial
smile and went to the door. A huge handbag that looked like it could hold two outfits
as microscopic as the one she wore hung over the top of the TV. She grabbed it,
said, "Be good," and was gone.

Tracy
sat
stone-faced.

Connor chose the end of the couch closest to her chair. He
picked his words carefully. "I shouldn't have implied that you're lying. I
don't know that you are. I just want to make sure you understand what's going
to happen to Mr. Tanner if we prosecute."

She didn't move, but she was listening.

"He will, of course, be fired. Losing his job for a
reason like child sexual molestation will mean he can never teach again. It
will certainly get in the way of him finding any work at all. He will have to
pay a lawyer to defend himself. I have the impression that will take every bit
of savings he has. Without a salary, he'll probably have to go stay with a
friend, give up his apartment. Say the jury believes you and he's convicted.
He'll go to prison. Probably not a real long term. Rapists never get the
sentences we cops think they deserve. But he'll spend time behind bars."

She shivered.

"If I were a woman, I wouldn't marry—heck, I wouldn't
date!—a man who had been convicted of a crime like this."

Tracy
's
mouth worked.

"His life won't be over, but it won't be the
same." Connor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said gently, "Is
that what Mr. Tanner deserves, Tracy? Because if it is, I'll get on with it. If
he did this to you, that
is
what he deserves."

A whimper escaped her, then another one. She seemed to
crumple, drawing up her legs at the same time so that she ended in a ball,
rocking as she sobbed.

Connor dropped to his knees beside her chair and tried to
hold her as she cried. At first she resisted him, shutting him and everything
else out in her misery, but finally she relaxed enough to cry onto his
shoulders.

And at last she mumbled something.

He patted her back. "What?"

The swollen, wet face that looked up at him bore little
resemblance to the pretty, brittle teenager he knew.

"He didn't do it. Mr. Tanner didn't do anything."

Suddenly the policeman
thrust
a huge white handkerchief at her. Tracy snatched it, then mopped her face and
blew her nose.

"I lied," she said, fresh tears filling her
swollen eyes. Why hadn't they just fired Mr. Tanner? Why did they have to call
the cops?

"Tracy." Connor waited until she looked at him.
"I didn't tell you what I did to make you feel sorry for your teacher. If
he pressured you into having sex, I meant it when I said he deserves everything
coming. Don't take back what you said now because you feel sorry for him."

"It was never him," she admitted miserably.

He got up from being on his knees in front of her and sat
back down on the couch. It was as if he couldn't get away from her fast enough.
"Then why did you say he did?" he asked.

Tracy
blew
her nose again. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. "I was afraid I was
pregnant!" she wailed. "I had to say it was somebody!"

"Tracy, do you have a boyfriend?"

She shook her head furiously.

"Did you voluntarily have sex?"

Her face crumpled again. She pictured the dark silhouette in
the paler rectangle of her bedroom door, the weight tilting her mattress, the
hand that covered her mouth. Somehow she was rocking and couldn't seem to stop
herself. Eyes downcast, she shook her head again.

"Who raped you, Tracy?" His voice was hard. He was
mad, probably at her. She didn't even blame him.

"I can't tell you." She gave him one wild look.
"I won't! You can't make me!"

"Why won't you tell me? Why would you protect someone
who did that to you?"

She shook her head. Kept shaking it, until her hair lashed her
cheeks. If she stopped, he might make her talk, and she wouldn't. She wouldn't!

But his voice was soothing, as if he could tell she was
about to break. "All right. Then tell me why you chose Mr. Tanner to
accuse."

"Because he's such a jerk!" Her eyes flooded with
tears, her mouth trembled, but this time she kept her chin up. "I hate
him! I … I did hate him. I don't know anymore."

"Why did you hate him?"

"He makes fun of students. It's like, he's teasing, and
everybody laughs, but it's not funny if you're the one he's … he's being mean
to."

"What kind of teasing?" he asked.

Tracy
sniffed. "Like, there's this boy in my class who isn't very smart. I think
he does special ed part of the day. Mr. Tanner is always saying stuff like,
'Does everybody get this? Does even
Kyle
get this?' And, like, everybody thinks that's funny, but I
see Kyle kind of hunch. You know?"

The policeman surprised her. "I was my current height
when I was in seventh grade," he told her. "Tripping over my own
feet, they were so big. I got teased, sometimes by teachers, too. They never
seemed to recognize that I was sensitive about being different."

"Well, I'm kind of, um,
mature
for my
age, too," she went on, cheeks red. "I mean, not tall, but … you
know." She stole a glance up to see if he got it.

His glance swept over her, but not offensively. She thought
maybe he did think of her as a child. That made her feel safe.