The coroner’s report had found traces of Budweiser in Kristal’s tiny stomach. Her lungs, too- the child had aspirated beer.
I said, “It was Rand’s idea to give Kristal beer.”
“I said that.”
“Why do you think Rand had that idea?”
“He’s stupid.”
“Rand is.”
“Yup.”
“You hang out with him a lot.”
“He hangs out with me.” Flint had come into his voice. He realized it. Smiled. “Most of the time, he’s okay.”
“What happens when he’s not okay?”
“He does stupid things. Like that.”
“That?”
“Giving the baby beer.”
“How’d Kristal like the beer?”
“Not too good.”
“She throw up some more?”
“She made puffy noises.” His cheeks inflated and he exhaled noisily. “Stuff started coming out of her nose. Then she started yelling.”
“Yelling loud?”
“Kind of.”
“Pretty annoying.”
His eyes were hyphens. “It wasn’t cool.”
“What’d you do about that?”
“Nothing.”
“Kristal threw up on you and yelled loud and annoyed you but you didn’t do anything at all?”
“Didn’t have to,” he said. A tiny smirk skipped across his lips. Lasted for less than a second before his features settled into childish innocence. If I’d been writing notes, I would’ve missed the whole thing.
“Why didn’t you have to do anything, Troy?”
“Rand did.”
“Rand solved the problem.”
“Yup.”
“How?”
“Shook her and hit her and put his hand on her neck.”
“Rand put his hand on Kristal’s neck.”
“He choked her.”
“Show me how Rand choked Kristal.”
He hesitated.
I said, “You were there, Troy.”
“Like this,” he said, grazing his own neck with a limp hand. Pressing ineffectually with the back of the hand, then releasing.
“That’s how,” he said.
“Then what happened?”
“The baby blooped over.” He tilted to one side, in demonstration, lowered himself in slow motion to the cot. Sat up again. “Like that.”
“Kristal fell over after Rand choked her.”
“Yup.”
“How’d you feel when you saw that?”
“Bad,” he said, too quickly. “Very bad. Sir.”
“Why’d you feel bad, Troy?”
“She wasn’t moving.” Fluttering eyelashes. “I shoulda stopped it.”
“You should’ve stopped Rand from choking Kristal.”
“Yup.”
His lips curled upward and I watched for the return of the smirk. But something happened to his eyes that softened the expression.
The resigned, world-weary smile of one who’d seen it all but had managed to maintain his dignity.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “It was up to me. I’m the smart one.”
He was.
Full-scale I.Q. score of 117, which put him in the top twenty-five percent. Given an abstract reasoning subtest in the ninetieth percentile and spotty school attendance that weakened his knowledge base, I figured it for an underestimate.
Worlds apart, intellectually, from Rand Duchay.
I shoulda stopped it.
Maybe Sydney Weider’s coaching had fallen short. Or she’d told him the facts and he’d blocked them out.
Or he’d simply chosen to lie, figuring me for a gullible jerk.
I’d read the coroner’s report.
Traces of Kristal Malley’s skin had been found under Troy’s fingernails, not Rand’s.
For the rest of our sessions he cooperated fully, blithely lying every step of the way.
When I asked about his mother he told me she was trying to be an actress and that she visited him all the time. The logbooks said she’d been there once. Deputy Sherrill told me Jane Hannabee had been obviously stoned, the visit had lasted ten minutes, and she’d left looking angry.
“Once you see her, Doc, maybe you understand something about the kid. But not all of it, right? Other punks have crackhead skanks for mothers and they do bad stuff, but not this bad.”
According to Troy, his father had died “in the army. Shooting terrorists.”
When I asked him what a terrorist was, he said, “It’s like a criminal but usually they’re niggers and they blow stuff up.”
I revisited the murder several times and his position remained the same: Kristal had gone with him and Rand voluntarily; Rand had committed all the violence. Troy felt bad about not intervening.
On the sixth session, he substituted “guilty” for bad.
“You feel guilty.”
“Real guilty, sir.”
“About what?”
“Not stopping it, sir. It’s gonna delay my life.”
“Delay it, how?”
“I was gonna be rich soon, now it’s gonna be later.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause they’re gonna lock me up somewhere.”
“In jail.”
Shrug.
“How long do you think they’ll lock you up?”
“You could tell them the truth, sir, and maybe it wouldn’t have to be so long.” He cocked his head, almost girlishly. His smile had a feminine cast to it, too. He had a dozen smiles; first time I’d seen this variant.
“You think that if I tell them the truth, your sentence could be shorter.”
“The judge likes you.”
“Someone tell you that?”
“Nope.”
When most people lie they give off a “tell”- a shift in posture, subtle changes in eye movement, tone of voice. This kid could fabricate so coolly I was willing to bet he’d fool the polygraph.
“Troy, do you ever get scared?”
“Of what?”
“Anything?”
He thought. “I get scared of doing bad things.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t want to be bad.”
“Are you ever bad?”
“Sometimes. Like everyone.”
“Everyone’s bad sometimes.”
“No one’s perfect,” he said. “Except God.”
“Are you religious?”
“Drew and Cherish say I am, sir.”
“Who’re Drew and Cherish?”
“Ministers.”
“They visit you?”
“Yup. Sir.”
“Do you find that helpful?”
“Yessir. Very helpful.”
“How do Drew and Cherish help you?”
“Tell me I’m gonna be okay. Tell me everyone makes mistakes.”
“So,” I said, “you think sometimes you’re bad. Like how?”
“Not going to school. Not reading books.” He stood, took a volume from the bottom shelf. Black cardboard covers. Holy Bible in green script.
“Drew and Cherish give you that?”
“Yessir. And I read it.”
“What are you reading about.”
A second’s pause. “Day Two.”
“Of creation?”
“Yessir. God made heaven.”
“What does heaven mean to you?”
“A good place.”
“What’s good about it?”
“You’re rich and you get cool stuff.”
“What kind of cool stuff?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Who goes to heaven?”
“Good people.”
“People who don’t do really bad things.”
“No one’s perfect,” he said and his voice tightened.
“That’s for sure,” I said.
“I’m going to heaven,” he said.
“After you’re delayed.”
“Yessir.”
“You talked before about getting rich. How’re you planning to do that?” I said.
Rebirth of the smirk. This time it endured, and his eyes drilled into mine and his delicate little hands became bony little fists.
“ ’Cause I’m smart,” he said. “Can I go to sleep, now? ’Cause I’m tired. Sir.”
The rest of the sessions were unproductive, as he wavered between claims of fatigue and feeling “sick.” My attempts to elicit specific symptoms were fruitless. A physical by a jail doctor had produced nothing. The last time I saw him, he was reading the Bible and ignored me as I sat down.
“Interesting?” I said.
“Yup.”
“What are you up to?”