On the floor, being completely ignored, is the body of Father Szyszynski.
Killing him was the right thing, Patrick thinks before he can stop himself. And then immediately afterward: Oh, God, what has she done?
"Patrick," Nina murmurs.
He cannot look at her. "Don't speak to me." He will be a witness at--Christ--Nina's murder trial. Whatever she tells him, he will have to tell a court.
As an aggressive photographer makes her way toward the holding cell, Patrick moves slightly to block the camera's view of Nina. His job, right now, is to protect her. He just wishes there were someone to protect him.
He jostles her in his arms so that he can shut the door. It will be easier to wait out the arrival of the Biddeford Police Department that way. As it swings closed, he sees the paramedics arriving, leaning down over the body.
"Is he dead?" Nina asks. "I just need you to tell me, Patrick. I killed him, right? How many shots did I get off? I had to do it, you know I had to do it. He's dead, isn't he? The paramedics can't revive him, can they? Tell me they won't. Please, just tell me he's dead. I promise, I'll sit right here and not move if you just go look and see if he's dead."
"He's dead, Nina," Patrick says quietly.
She closes her eyes, sways a little. "Thank God. Oh, God, God, thank God." She sinks down onto the metal bunk in the small cell.
Patrick turns his back on her. In the courtroom, his colleagues have arrived. Evan Chao, another detective-lieutenant in the department, supervises the securing of the crime scene, yelling over the crescendo of shrieks and sobs. Policemen crouch, dusting for fingerprints, taking photos of the spreading pool of blood and the broken railing where Patrick tackled Nina to get the gun out of her hand. The Maine state police SWAT team arrives, thundering down the center aisle like a tornado. One woman, a reporter sequestered for questioning, glances at what is left of the priest and vomits. It is a grim, chaotic scene; it is the stuff of nightmares, and yet Patrick stares fixedly, far more willing to face this reality than the one crying quietly behind him.
What Nathaniel hates about this particular board game is that all you have to do is spin the spinner the wrong way, and that's it, your little game piece is coasting down that big long slide in the middle. It's true that if you spin the right way, you can climb that extra tall ladder ... but it doesn't always work like that, and before you know it, you've lost.
Monica lets him win, but Nathaniel doesn't like that as much as he thought he would. It makes him feel the way he did when he fell off his bike and had this totally gross cut all across his chin. People looked at him and pretended that there was nothing wrong with him but you could see in their eyes that they really wanted to turn away.
"Are you going to spin, or do I have to wait until you turn six?" Monica teases.
Nathaniel flicks the spinner. Four. He moves his little man the right number of spaces and, it figures, winds up on one of those slides. He pauses at the top, knowing that if he only moves three instead, Monica won't say a word.
But before he can decide whether or not to cheat, something catches his attention behind her shoulder. Through the wide glass window of the playroom, he sees one policeman ... no, two ... five ... racing through the hallway. They don't look like Patrick does when he works--all rumply, in a regular shirt and tie. They are wearing shiny boots and silver badges, and their hands are on their guns, just like Nathaniel sees late at night on TV when he comes downstairs to get a drink and his parents don't change the channel fast enough.
"Shoot," he says softly.
Monica smiles at him. "That's right, a chute. But you'll have better luck next time, Nathaniel."
"No ... shoot." He curves his fingers into a gun, the sign for the letter G. "You know. Bang."
He realizes the moment Monica understands him. She looks behind her at the sound of all those running feet, and her eyes go wide. But she turns back to Nathaniel with a smile glued over the question that shivers on her lips. "It's your spin, right?" Monica says, although they both know his turn has come and gone.
When feeling returns to Caleb's fingers and feet, it comes slowly, an emotional frostbite that leaves his extremities swollen and unfamiliar. He stumbles forward, past the spot where Nina has just shot a man in cold blood, past the people jostling for position so that they can do the jobs they were trained to do. Caleb gives the body of Father Szyszynski a wide berth. His body jerks toward the door where he last saw Nina, being shoved forward into a cell.
Jesus, a cell.
A detective who does not recognize him grabs his arm. "Where do you think you're going?" Silent, Caleb pushes past the man, and then he sees Patrick's face in the small window of the door. Caleb knocks, but Patrick seems to be deciding whether or not to open the door.
At that point, Caleb realizes that all these people, all these detectives, think he might be Nina's accomplice.
His mouth goes dry as sand, so that when Patrick finally does open the door a crack, he can't even request to see his wife. "Get Nathaniel and go home," Patrick suggests quietly. "I'll call you, Caleb."
Yes, Nathaniel. Nathaniel. The very thought of his son, a floor below while all this has been going on, makes Caleb's stomach cramp. He moves with a speed and grace unlikely for someone his size, barreling past people until he reaches the far end of the courtroom, the door at the rear of the aisle. A bailiff stands guard, watching Caleb approach. "My son, he's downstairs. Please. You have to let me get to him."
Maybe it is the pain carved into Caleb's face; maybe it is the way his words come out in the color of grief--for whatever reason, the bailiff wavers. "I swear I'll come right back. But I have to make sure he's all right."
A nod, one that Caleb isn't meant to see. When the bailiff looks away, Caleb slips out the door behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time and runs down the hall to the playroom.
For a moment, he stands outside the plate glass window, watching his son play and letting it bring him back to center. Then Nathaniel sees him and beams, jumping up to open the door and throw himself into Caleb's arms.
Monica's tight face swims into the sea of his vision. "What happened up there?" she mouths silently.
But Caleb only buries his face against his son's neck, as silent as Nathaniel had been when something happened that he could not explain.
Nina once told Patrick that she used to stand at the side of Nathaniel's crib and watch him sleep. It's amazing, she'd said. Innocence in a blanket. He understands, now. Watching Nina sleep, you'd never know what had happened just two hours before. You'd never know from that smooth brow what thoughts lay underneath the surface.
Patrick, on the other hand, is absolutely ill. He cannot seem to catch his breath; his stomach knots with each step. And every time he looks at Nina's face, he cannot decide what he'd rather find out: that this morning, she simply went crazy ... or that she didn't.
As soon as the door opens, I'm wide-awake. I jackknife to a sitting position on the bunk, my hand smoothing the jacket Patrick gave me as a makeshift pillow. It is wool, scratchy; it has left lines pressed into my cheek.
A policeman I don't know sticks his head inside. "Lieutenant," he says formally, "we need you to come give a statement."
Of course. Patrick's seen it too.
The policeman's eyes are insects on my skin. As Patrick moves toward the door I stand, grab onto the bars of the cell. "Can you find out if he's dead? Please? I have to know. I have to. I just have to know if he's dead." My words hit Patrick between the shoulder blades, slow him down. But he doesn't look at me, not as he walks away from the holding cell, past the other policeman, and opens the door.
In the slice of room revealed, I see the activity that Patrick's kept hidden from me for the past few hours. The Murder Winnebago must have arrived--a state police mobile unit that contains everything the cops need to investigate a homicide and the key personnel to do it. Now they cover the courtroom like a mass of maggots, dusting for fingerprints and taking down the names and sta
tements of eyewitnesses. A person shifts, revealing a crimson smear that outlines a splayed, graying hand. As I watch, a photographer leans down, captures the spatter pattern of the blood. My heart trips tight. And I think: I did this; I did this.
It is a God's honest fact that Quentin Brown does not fancy driving anywhere, especially long distances, particularly from Augusta to York County. By the time he's in Brunswick he's certain that another moment and his six-foot-five frame will be permanently stunted into the position demanded by this ridiculously tiny Ford Probe. By the time he reaches Portland, he needs to be put into traction. But as an assistant attorney general on the murder team, he has to go where he is summoned. And if someone offs a priest in Biddeford, then Biddeford is where he has to go.
Still, by the time he reaches the district court, he is in a formidable mood, and that's saying something. By normal standards, Quentin Brown is overpowering--add together his shaved head, his unusual height, and his more unusual skin color, given this lily white state, and most people assume he is either a felon or a vacationing NBA draft pick. But a lawyer? A black lawyer? Not heah, as the locals say.
In fact, the University of Maine law school heavily recruits students of color, to make up for their rainbow deficiency. Like Quentin, many come; unlike Quentin, they all leave. He's spent twenty years walking into provincial courts and surprising the hell out of the defense attorneys who come expecting someone--or something--different. And truth be told, Quentin likes it that way.
As always, a path parts for him when he strides into the Biddeford District Court, as people fall back to gape. He walks into the courtroom with the police tape crossing the doors, and continues up the aisle, past the bar. Fully aware that movement has slowed and conversation has stopped, Quentin leans down and examines the dead man. "For a crazy woman," he murmurs, appraising, "she was a damn good shot." Then Quentin eyeballs the cop who is staring at him as if he's arrived from Mars. "What's the matter?" he deadpans. "You never seen someone six-foot-five before?"
A detective walks up to him, swaggering with authority. "Can I help you?"
"Quentin Brown. From the AG's office." He extends a hand.
"Evan Chao," the detective says, working his damnedest not to do a double take. God, how Quentin loves this moment.
"How many witnesses do we have to the shooting?"
Chao does some arithmetic on a pad. "We're up to thirty-six, but we've got about fifty people in the back room who haven't given us statements yet. They're all saying the same thing, though. And we have the whole shooting on tape; WCSH was filming the arraignment for the five o'clock news."
"Where's the gun?"
"Bobby grabbed it, bagged it."
Quentin nods. "And the perp?"
"In the holding cell."
"Good. Let's draft up a complaint for murder." He glances around, assessing the state of the investigation. "Where's her husband?"
"With all the other people, waiting to be questioned, I suppose."
"Do we have any evidence linking him to the crime? Did he participate in any way?"
Chao exchanges a glance with a few police officers, who murmur among themselves and shrug. "He hasn't been questioned yet, apparently."
"Then get him in here," Quentin says. "Let's ask him."
Chao turns to one of the bailiffs. "Roanoke, find Caleb Frost, will you?"
The older man looks at Quentin and quails. "He, uh, ain't in there."
"You know this for a fact," Quentin says slowly.
"Ayuh. He, well, he asked me if he could go get his kid, but he told me he'd come back."
"He said what?" This is little more than a whisper, but coming from Quentin's great height, it is threatening. "You let him walk out the door after his wife murdered the man who's charged with molesting his son? What is this, the Keystone Kops?"
"No, sir," the bailiff replies solemnly. "It's the Biddeford District Court."
A muscle jumps in Quentin's jaw. "Get someone to go find this guy and interview him," he tells Chao. "I don't know what he knows; I don't know whether he's involved, but if he needs to be arrested, do it."
Chao bristles. "Don't pin this on the police force; it was the bailiff's mistake. Nobody even told me he was in the courtroom."
And where else would he be, if his son's abuser was being arraigned? But Quentin only takes a deep breath. "Well, we need to deal with the shooter, anyway. Is the judge still here? Maybe we can get him to arraign her."
"The judge is ... indisposed."
"Indisposed," Quentin repeats.
"Took three Valium after the shots flew, and hasn't woken up yet."
There is a possibility of getting another judge in, but it is late in the day. And the last thing Quentin wants is to have this woman released because of some stupid bail commissioner. "Charge her. We'll hold her overnight and arraign her in the morning."
"Overnight?" Chao asks.
"Yes. Last time I checked, there was still a York County Jail in Alfred."
The detective looks down at his shoes for a moment. "Yeah, but ... well, you know she's a DA?"
Of course he knows, he's known since the moment his office was called to investigate. "What I know," Quentin answers, "is that she's a murderer."
Evan Chao knows Nina Frost; every detective in Biddeford has worked with her at some time or another. And like every other guy on the force, he doesn't even blame her for what she's done. Hell, half of them wish they'd have the guts to do the same thing, were they in her position.
He doesn't want to be the one to do this, but then again, better him than that asshole Brown. At least he can make sure the next step is as painless as possible for her.
He relieves the officer guarding her and takes up the position himself outside the holding cell. In a more ideal situation, he would take her to a conference room, offer her a cup of coffee, make her comfortable so that she'd be more likely to talk. But the court doesn't have a secure conference room, so this interview will have to be conducted on opposite sides of the bars.
Nina's hair is wild around her face; her eyes are so green they glow. On her arm are deep scratches; it looks as though she's done that to herself. Evan shakes his head. "Nina, I'm really sorry ... but I have to charge you with the murder of Glen Szyszynski."
"I killed him?" she whispers.
"Yes."
She is transformed by the smile that unwinds across her face. "Can I see him, please?" she asks politely. "I promise I won't touch anything, but please, I have to see him."
"He's gone already, Nina. You can't see him."
"But I killed him?"
Evan exhales heavily. The last time he'd seen Nina Frost, she'd been arguing one of his own cases in court--a date rape. She had gotten up in front of the perp and wrung him dry on the witness stand. She had made him look the way she looks, right now. "Will you give me a statement, Nina?"
"No, I can't. I can't. I did what I had to do, I can't do any more."
He pulls out a Miranda form. "I need to read you your rights."
"I did what I had to do."
Evan has to raise his voice over hers. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right ..."
"I can't do any more. I did what I had to do," Nina babbles.
Finally Evan finishes reading. Through the bars he hands her a pen to sign the paper, but it drops from her fingers. She whispers, "I can't do any more."
"Come on, Nina," Evan says softly. He unlocks the holding cell, leads her through the hallways of the sheriff's office, and outside to a police cruiser. He opens the door for her and helps her inside. "We can't arraign you till tomorrow, so I've got to take you down to the jail overnight. You're gonna get your own cell, and I'll make sure they take care of you. Okay?"
But Nina Frost has curled up in a fetal position on the backseat of the cruiser and doesn't seem to hear him at all.
The correctional officer at the booking desk of the jail sucks on a
Halls Mentho-Lyptus cough drop while he asks me to narrow my life down to the only things they need to know in a jail: name, date of birth, height, weight. Eye color, allergies, medications, regular physician. I answer softly, fascinated by the questions. I usually enter this play in the second act; to see it at its beginning is new for me.
A blast of medicinal mint comes my way, as the sergeant taps his pencil again. "Distinguishing characteristics?" he asks.
He means birthmarks, moles, tattoos. I have a scar, I think silently, on my heart.
But before I can answer, another correctional officer unzips my black purse and empties its contents on the desk. Chewing gum, three furry Life Savers, a checkbook, my wallet. The detritus of motherhood: photographs of Nathaniel from last year, a long-forgotten teething ring, a four-pack of crayons pinched from a Chili's restaurant. Two more rounds of ammunition for the handgun.
I grab my arms, suddenly shivering. "I can't do it. I can't do any more," I whisper, and try to curl into a ball.
"Well, we're not done yet," the correctional officer says. He rolls my fingers across an ink pad and makes three sets of prints. He props me up against a wall, hands me a placard. I follow his directions like a zombie; I do not meet his eyes. He doesn't tell me when the flash is going to go off; now I know why in every mug shot a criminal seems to have been caught unaware.
When my vision adjusts after the burst of light, a female guard is standing in front of me. She has one long eyebrow across her forehead and the build of a linebacker. I stumble in her wake into a room not much bigger than a closet, which holds shelves full of neatly folded hazard-orange jail scrubs. The Connecticut prisons had to sell all their brandnew forest-green jumpsuits, I suddenly remember, because the convicts kept escaping into the woods.