Us fools, p.10
Scratch The Surface, page 10
“None taken,” my boss assured her, taking her hand when she reached for her.
“But instead of sitting him down and talking to him like every other counselor tried to do, Jeremiah took him outside and had him help clean the rain gutters.”
“They needed cleaning,” I stated flatly.
“They did,” Betty agreed.
“I was there, watching, and they didn’t say one word to each other, and yet…when we got home, for the first time in ten months. Ten,” she repeated for emphasis, “Creese told his father that they should clean the rain gutters.”
“I nearly passed out,” Mr. Robinson told the ADA. “But it took another month for him to speak to his mother. I watched him and Jeremiah move a beehive from a tree in our backyard. Jeremiah touched Creese that day, and for the first time, my son didn’t flinch away.” He took a deep breath. “To you, these are unimportant milestones, but for us, this…” he rasped, gesturing at Creese and Fiona, now standing together, Creese with his arm around his sister, listening to her and nodding. “We are completely and utterly…thankful.”
We were quiet then, and Fiona came back with slate-blue house paint in the tips of her hair, on the right side, and that fantastic blue streak down her leg.
“We’re gonna play Minecraft when we get home,” she announced with a squeal, her big brown eyes welling with tears. “He said I could go in his room and play like I used to. And he said if the controllers had to charge, we could watch videos until they’re ready.”
Mrs. Robinson nodded, and Fiona turned and slammed into me hard, arms wrapped around my waist as she pressed her face into my chest.
Would I have paint on my T-shirt? Of course. Was it more important than comforting a thirteen-year-old girl who was overwhelmed that the brother she adored had finally spoken to her after a year of silence? Absolutely not.
“Oh man,” I griped at her. “You know your hair’s still wet.”
Her giggling was muffled, since she was still using my chest like a pillow.
“How did I get stuck doing this by myself?” Creese whined from across the room.
“I’m coming,” I yelled back, and Fiona let me go and crashed into her father next. He got extra squeezing, and paint and snot on his sweater, along with tears.
“I’ll see you guys in an hour,” I told the Robinsons. “If you need me before our regular Monday session, you have my number.”
Mrs. Robinson had to hug me, I got a handshake from Mr. Robinson, and then I bolted back over to Creese and his dog, Riley, who was, as far as I could tell, the sweetest Doberman pinscher on the planet. Though, if someone she didn’t know came into the room, that person would see a different side of the ninety-pound good girl.
I got right back to work with the long-handled roller, the twin of the one he was using.
After a few minutes of us working in companiable silence, he turned to look at me. “Will you come see me get my brown belt?”
One of the things I had suggested was some form of self-defense to help him feel not so vulnerable out in the world. I was a Tae Kwon Do guy myself, but he had taken to karate. Robert Shimizu, who owned the dojo in town, had first given him private lessons and then insisted that he join in with others. Once Creese realized no one was watching him, all the students much too focused on their sensei, he relaxed, and his progress increased as rapidly as his confidence.
“Of course,” I assured him. “Tell me when.”
“Okay,” he affirmed, but it was soft, and I could barely hear him.
“What?” I prodded, because he had to use his voice. When he was with Barnum, he and Kurt were forced to be quiet at all times. I made him speak up now, and I had watched him find his own volume again, especially in karate class.
“I said okay,” he repeated, his voice strong, not faltering, which was a huge difference from just three short weeks ago.
“God, don’t yell at me,” I complained with a wink to let him know I was being a wiseass. “And get outta my way.” I shoulder-checked him gently away from the paint tray.
He made a noise of disgust. “You’re too slow, old man.”
I scoffed. “In your dreams.”
“It’s ’cause you’re old.”
“Old my ass,” I snapped at him.
We went back to painting, and when we reached one of the doors that had to be painted by brush around the frame, he said something I didn’t catch.
“I missed that,” I informed him.
“I said…I think I wanna talk to Detective Turner.”
“Oh yeah?” I took a breath, unsure what to say but deciding the only way to know was to ask. “About what happened to Kurt?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
“You sure?”
He nodded. “I just—it’s not what everybody thinks, and they’re gonna be mad and tell me I’m lying or brainwashed or—but I swear, it’s the truth.”
Eighteen months ago Creese and his best friend, Kurt, both sixteen, had ditched school, borrowed Kurt’s mother’s car, and driven to Citrus Heights to spend the day seeing movies at a multiplex. What they didn’t know was that Edison Barnum was at the theater as well, looking for his next victim. He’d been an internist at one time, but his license had been revoked for a number of offenses, the least of which was performing unneeded out-patient surgery. He liked cutting people open, and not being a doctor anymore had not curbed his desire. That day, Barnum had injected Kurt with a syringe full of haloperidol in the bathroom of the movie theater, which rendered him unconscious, and had taken the boy out the back, telling workers his son was sick, and was at his car, ready to drive away, when Creese showed up, screaming at the man to let his friend go. Those facts were indisputable, as a video released by the Citrus Heights Police Department, along with the Amber Alert, had gone viral in hours after the two boys were reported missing by their parents. Creese had been labeled a hero, trying in vain to stop the man, who had ended up putting him in a sleeper hold and throwing him in the trunk of his car along with Kurt.
Three weeks later, Kurt had plummeted to his death, having been pushed from the roof of a warehouse down near the trainyard. Creese had run after Barnum pushed Kurt, and luckily, when he slammed the door to the roof, the old, rusted lock broke off and Barnum was trapped. Unless he wanted to jump off the side of the building, he wasn’t going anywhere. The police found him there. They found Creese sitting beside his dead friend on the pavement below.
Now all Creese had to do was tell the police exactly how Barnum had murdered his friend. Had it been a push, a throw?
The cuts, the bruises, the broken bones, and the burns were all obvious signs they’d been tortured. Creese was stitched back together now, and his body would heal. Fear took longer. Barnum was not a rapist, and both sets of parents had been thankful for that, but he was a sadist, and the pain he inflicted meant Creese also suffered from touch aversion. He’d hugged his dog before his parents, but one day that changed, and today, the circle now included his sister again.
“Jere?”
“Sorry, just thinkin’ about you.”
He nodded.
I cleared my throat. “You know, once you talk to the police and your statement goes on record, your folks and Kurt’s folks can read the transcript. They’ll know what happened even if you don’t tell them yourself.”
“No, I know but…reading it is different than hearing it, and I won’t have to see their faces or listen to Mr. Adams yell at me again.”
“You’re right”—I nodded—“I agree.”
He exhaled sharply. “That’s what I thought.”
“Well, good, then. Detective Turner seems nice.”
“And…strong.”
I was with him on that. Detective Faith Turner carried herself in a way that made me never want to cross her. She made direct eye contact, had an air of confidence about her, and most importantly, with kids she always sat down, like she had all the time in the world for them, never perching, never standing; she folded her hands and waited. It went a long way toward letting them know she truly cared.
She was new to the case, and the press had made a big deal of her being the only Black detective on the Barrett Crossing police force, having taken over from Detective Isaac Patterson, who could not handle the pressure of hunting for a serial-killing child abductor who had gained national media attention. She had been the one, along with the FBI, to figure out it was Barnum, tied him to the kidnappings and murders in 2019, and to put the cuffs on the man. She was the one who had held Creese’s hand until the EMTs arrived, and she was the one who rode with him to the hospital. She had been the first to tell him he couldn’t have done anything against a man with a knife and a gun. It wasn’t surprising that he would turn back to her now, and trust her with his memories of the horror. She’d seen it, after all, and carried the same images in her head.
“Jere?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you could sit in there with me when I talk to her?”
“If your folks say it’s okay, I absolutely will.”
He took a shaky breath. “Could you go ask now so I’ll know?”
“I would, but they’re probably sitting out on the benches by the office. If I go, that leaves you in here alone for a few minutes.” He might not want to talk, but being alone would send him into a panic that included cold sweats and hyperventilating. Only in his bedroom, which now had bars on the windows, where a lamp was always on, and where Riley slept every night, could he be by himself.
He’d asked for a deadbolt on the door too, at one point, that he could lock from the inside, but his parents were afraid he’d hurt himself—or worse—even though they never voiced that fear to him. That was, in fact, how he ended up with Riley.
“How about getting him a therapy dog?” I’d suggested. “Like, a big dog that would make him feel safe and, you know, is geared to his needs. Someone to talk to and be his buddy.”
When they had brought it up to him, he’d agreed, but only as long as the dog they got was big and strong and basically invincible. It was a tall order. He liked golden retrievers and beagles, and he loved pit bulls, but he didn’t want anything, any dog, that he could imagine getting hurt, and every pit bull he’d ever come across, like his grandmother’s three, were sweet and trusting. He couldn’t lose anything else.
“You know,” I told him as we walked together around the woods near his house, “any dog you have could conceivably be hurt.”
“I know, but there are certain dogs people don’t even try to mess with in the first place.”
“That’s valid.”
When he turned, I’d gotten a rare smile.
His parents found two Dobermans, brother and sister, Riley and Rhett, each trained as service dogs, and adopted them both. Riley, the female, took to Creese immediately, and sleeping on one side of his bed every night suited her just fine. His parents had both been overwhelmed when they’d checked on him that first night and found him sleeping peacefully rather than passed out from sheer exhaustion. He’d always refused to be medicated, he could never be vulnerable again, but now, with Riley there, he didn’t need to be hypervigilant. He could wear his AirPods again and drown out the noise around him, because his dog was there. He’d seen her go from lying on the floor, splayed out, looking dead to the world, to rolling to her feet, head down, teeth bared, snarling like a hellhound, in seconds. It was extremely comforting for a seventeen-year-old boy who’d been abducted and assaulted.
Now, confident in his karate training as well as in his pet, he scoffed at my concern as though I were ridiculous. Even that little sign of normalcy was such a step in the right direction.
So I headed down to the office, and everyone turned to me when I reached them at the benches. They were all sitting, except Detective Turner and Fiona.
“Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, Creese has a request.”
Mrs. Robinson gave her daughter the keys to their minivan, parked only a few car lengths away, and sent her to sit in it while we talked.
When I explained what their son wanted, they immediately agreed.
“He has a lot of confidence in you, Detective,” I told her.
She nodded, evidently unable to speak.
“He knows you’ll protect him, and that’s”––I shrugged––“really the most important thing.”
More nodding.
I turned to the ADA. “And if you have a woman in your office, I think he would be open to letting her sit in with the detective. I’m not promising anything, but he sees Detective Turner as his champion, and at the moment, he’s far more comfortable with most women than he is with any man.”
“I understand. It makes perfect sense,” McCauley agreed.
I was surprised, and it must have shown on my face.
“God, what you must think of me.”
Detective Turner cleared her throat, and I refocused my attention on her. “There’s an associate in the DA’s office, we can have her sit in instead of ADA McCauley, and at trial, I can arrange for Creese to testify via two-way closed-circuit television instead of in court with Barnum.”
“Thank you.”
“We can also have you appointed as his adult attendant so you can remain with him during the trial. If it actually goes to trial.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Robinson asked her.
Detective Turner glanced at McCauley, who nodded, and then she spoke to us. “We’re expecting an insanity plea from Barnum’s defense team, so this thing may take years. If his attorneys proceed as expected, the burden is on them to either prove he’s incompetent to stand trial or, if that fails, that Barnum was mentally incapacitated at the time he committed the crimes. There’s a reason the insanity defense is rarely used and only succeeds in maybe one out of every four cases, and I believe their bid to see him institutionalized rather than imprisoned for the rest of his life is a long shot. But whatever his lawyers come up with, we’re years from this going to trial.”
“Creese needs to get out from under this and put it behind him,” Mr. Robinson told her. “I want him to explain once and then be done.”
“That may not be possible,” Detective Turner informed him, “but the good news is, if this ultimately does go to trial, even two or three years from now, Creese will be in a much better place to deal with the trauma. We’ll take his deposition now, and the DA will make the argument that it should be used going forward.”
Mrs. Robinson nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Detective,” I interrupted, exhaling sharply. “I think you should prepare for the events Creese will relate not aligning with what everyone expects. I think maybe he’s been holding things in because he thinks the truth would hurt Kurt.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ve suspected for a while now that Creese has been holding off giving his statement because he didn’t want to be told that his friend was in hell for jumping off that roof, having heard Mr. and Mrs. Adams’s beliefs about suicide.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Robinson cried, turning into her husband, who tucked her against his chest.
ADA McCauley turned to Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. “Sir, ma’am, Detective Turner only just made me aware of her suspicions after we left your son. I can’t stress to you how imperative it is we hear his account now, and if the events occurred as she suspects, I can assure you that even if Edison Barnum doesn’t get the needle, he will never be free again.” McCauley extended his hand to Mr. Robinson. “I apologize for being combative earlier. I assure you I only want justice for Creese and Kurt. And the others. I want it for them as well.”
Detective Turner nodded in agreement with McCauley. “I believe that Kurt had taken all he could, so he found his own way out of what seemed an impossible situation,” she apprised us, crossing her arms, her expression somber. “Creese has survivor’s guilt because Kurt jumped and became the distraction that enabled Creese to get away and trap Barnum on the roof.”
“He’s dealing with multiple traumas,” I summed up, my voice dropping out on me.
“Yes,” she agreed.
After shaking hands with Mr. Robinson, McCauley offered his to me. “I apologize to you as well. I know I’ve been…intense.”
He’d been a dick, but I took his hand anyway. “I appreciate it, but that kid is a miracle, and he’s only even a little bit okay because of his amazing family,” I declared. “Speaking as a person who never had a family, I can assure you it’s all the unconditional love and support that’s getting him through this.”
Before I could finish speaking, Mrs. Robinson grabbed hold of me. Admissions like that apparently called for furious hugging.
Detective Turner made sure to shake my hand and thank me, confirming that she would set a time for Creese to come into her office and talk. She would email all of us with the date.
I was locking the doors a few hours later, making sure the only one left open was to the main building, for the adult support groups; those convened later in the evening. When I turned and found ADA McCauley, I guessed, from the way he was looking at me—trying to smile but his face twisting into more of a grimace—that he’d finally put things together. I, of course, had recognized him immediately, which had not helped at all with my patience. Willing myself to look past our shared history, I practiced what I preached to the kids, and judged him on who he was now, not who he’d been then.
Crossing my arms, I waited.
“It’s…uh—” He coughed. “—been a long time.”
I nodded, waiting.
He raked his fingers nervously through his hair. “Mrs. Chow said you’re working on your master’s now, and I wanted you to know we have several unlicensed positions at the DA’s office. I could put in a––”
“I’m good,” I assured him, slipping by and heading for the main building to let Helen and Bailey know I had locked up the outer rooms so they didn’t have to bother after they finished with their last group.
“Shit,” he muttered behind me, hurrying to catch up, stepping in front of me and barring my path so I either had to stop or slam into him. “I just meant that from everything I’ve heard from other police officers, and from my boss, and from Mrs. Chow, you’re an amazing youth counselor, and they can’t wait until you finish up your master’s, so I thought maybe––”
