Chapter 22 #2
He asked, “You gonna give me any hint how Benjamin is actually doing?”
“I told you. He’s going to therapy. He’s getting up on time. He’s not resisting. Not even complaining, actually.”
“So that’s good, right?”
I felt around in my body for some way to explain. “Not if he’s only using the time to find new ways to needle me.” But that wasn’t right, either. Not just needle. He was digging.
“Doesn’t the doc need to tell you what they’re talking about?”
“Absolutely not.” It was something I had prepared myself for as a high school counselor.
Parents nearly always want to be kept in the loop, but they have no right, and on top of that, allowing kids to develop autonomy is often one of therapy’s primary goals.
“Confidentiality applies even to minors as long as there’s no threat of harm to themselves or others.
” I quickly added, “No current threat. We’re not narcs, in other words. ”
“Sounds pretty dumb to me.”
“Robert, I’ve got to go. But I’m sorry about your job. Really.”
In a gruff voice, he mumbled. “Thanks. Hey listen—”
“Hey listen,” I said back, intercepting him before he tried inviting me to dinner. “I need to call the lawyer.”
It was nearly 6 P.M. when Ralph King returned my call.
“Did you see the news on channel seven?”
He gave me the short version: The police chief and the Scarlattis were pressing for public information about any man who might have been seen with Izzy at the Blue Moon, where she had died.
The Scarlattis had no patience with the police department’s policy so far, of keeping a lid on many of the case’s details.
They wanted the public to know and to start helping.
“Are they saying exactly how she died?”
“They’re talking drug-induced homicide, with no clarification on intent—in other words, whether it was on purpose or an accident. But they haven’t named the drug.”
“It was something she had an allergy to. The family told Dean Duplass, just like they told her about the phony suicide note. I heard it from another teacher.”
“Telephone game,” he said briskly. “You see the problem there? When the police share that info, I’ll believe it. For now, we should focus on the next likely development that could involve Benjamin directly.”
There was a motel maid, he told me, who’d heard a man’s voice coming from the room where Izzy died.
King said, “I wouldn’t put it past the detectives to do a sort of voice identification lineup.”
“How does that work?”
“They’d ask Benjamin to voluntarily come in and record the words the maid said she heard, then ask the maid if the voice sounds familiar.
” I started to object but he interrupted, saving me from a rant.
“Don’t worry. We’re not doing it. Voice testimony is even less reliable than eyewitness testimony.
I just wanted you to know what they’ve got so far and what they haven’t. ”
“If they’re so interested in sounds, are they doing anything with the car sound Benjamin described?”
“The dragging tailpipe?”
“That isn’t how he described it.”
King seemed annoyed with my correction. “I can’t say that they are, but listen. You are not obligated to pursue any information or form any hypotheses. Let the police find their suspect. Your son hasn’t been charged.”
“Yet.”
“In the meanwhile, how’s Benjamin doing? Learning some manners? Getting in touch with his softer side?”
Everyone wanted to know how my kid was doing in therapy, even the people who seemed to think therapy was a touchy-feely waste of time and money. I didn’t have a simple answer for King, so I lied.
“He’s doing great.”
“Good. Maintain a low profile and keep your boy out of trouble. It could be a long summer.”
When I got off with Ralph King, I did what I should have done a week earlier. I dialed up Grace, the Summit secretary.
“Looking for a time to pick up your monstera plant?” she asked in a sunny voice, as if I’d left my job voluntarily.
“If you like it and you’ve been watering it, it’s yours.
” I thought of the other things I’d left behind—the comfy blue chair, some books.
A lot of the staff took time off in late June.
If I waited until then, I wouldn’t have to run into many familiar faces.
“By the way, everything fine with you and your family? Summer plans?”
“I’ll be taking my break on July first, but I spend most of that time alone.”
“Doug doesn’t get vacation?”
“Heck no. He’s got more summertime business than he can handle.”
Doug was a foreign and luxury sports car mechanic.
That’s why I was calling. “This is going to sound strange, Grace, but Benjamin heard a noisy car—maybe a beater—without seeing it. It had a hard time starting up, and then it kept making a repetitive sound. The owner of that car matters, if we can find him.”
“Is this about the girls?”
“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound tense. “Do you think if I called up all the mechanics in our area and described the sound for them, they might be able to recall if any old car came in for a repair in the last couple of weeks?”
“Gosh. No idea. But you could go to YouTube. There are all kinds of automotive sound libraries and diagnostic videos on there. Car owners are pretty fanatical. If it’s a beater and the person is a DIY kind of guy, he may not have gone to a mechanic. What’d the car sound like?”
I tried to remember Benjamin’s exact words. “Like a typewriter.”
“That’s called tappets. A lot of engines make that sound. Not low-value beaters, exclusively. Fancy vintage cars, too.”
“That’s fantastic. Thanks, Grace.”
“Doug can confirm it. You want him to call you, or the cops?”
“He’d call the police directly?”
“If it helps the girls’ families. Of course.”
“That would be incredible. Ask for Detective Hernández or Wood. You can mention that I was the person who asked about the sound, and he’ll understand why. But I’m sure they’ll be happier to hear from Doug than from me.”
Not a beater, necessarily. It could even be a fancy vintage car. More suspects. More possibilities. Ralph King thought that sleuthing was none of my business, but if no one was going to ask the right questions, I had little choice.
On my worst days, I’d been a fool, hiding information in a confused panic.
But I could make up for that, as long as I believed Benjamin had done nothing wrong.
If he had, Curtis wouldn’t be looking so relaxed and upbeat each time I showed up to collect my son.
I had to cling to that assumption. For now, I had nothing else.