Deeper Than the Dead

“Yeah.”

“That’s not the usual protocol.”

Mendez shrugged.

Dixon didn’t look happy. “I don’t want a circus here, Tony. I don’t want this guy talking to the media. I don’t want anybody talking to the media.”

“That doesn’t need to be an issue.”

“That includes you,” Dixon said, thrusting a finger at him. “Dial it down. I know this is a big case for you, and you’re excited about it. That’ll make you sharp. But I don’t want you running off the rails. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Mendez said, falling back on tried-and-true marine respect for rank.

“I don’t want anything said about there being a possible connection between these victims.”

“No, sir.”

“I’ve seen a couple of those BSU guys grandstand and shoot their mouths off. I won’t have it.”

“No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.”

Dixon stepped back, sighed, looked around. “Go radio for a uniform to pick you up. I’m going to take Jane home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dixon looked a little sheepish. “We’re friends.”

“Not my business, sir,” Mendez said.

“No, it isn’t.”

16

The Roache home was a modest bungalow in a slightly shabby part of town. The house could have used a coat of paint, but the place was otherwise neat. Someone had put a pot of rust-colored mums on the front step, adding a splash of fall color to the picture.

Anne rang the doorbell and waited. Cody’s mother had called the school that morning to say that Cody was ill and wouldn’t be in class. Anne had found her thoughts drifting to him off and on all day. He was the only one of the four children who had discovered the body she hadn’t seen for herself. At the end of the school day, she got in her car and drove directly to the Roache home.

A small dog yapped its way through the house, followed by Renee Roache. Cody’s mother was small and weedy with limp brown hair and a pale complexion. She worked days as a waitress at a diner near the college where the pace was hectic and the tips pathetic. Her husband was a maintenance man who worked nights at Mercy General.

“Mrs. Roache, I hope I’m not imposing,” Anne said. “I just wanted to check on Cody to see how he’s doing.”

Renee Roache looked perplexed, as did the dog at her feet, a fat brown-and-white terrier, tipping its head quizzically from one side to the other. “That’s beyond the call of duty, isn’t it? It’s just a stomach bug.”

It was Anne’s turn to look puzzled. “Um, well, I had a feeling, after what happened yesterday . . .”

“What happened yesterday? Did something happen at school?”

“Didn’t Principal Garnett’s office call you?”

“Not that I know of. I ran out to get something for Cody’s stomach this morning. Maybe they called then. We don’t have an answering machine.”

“Oh,” Anne said, at a loss. Cody had obviously not told his mother about finding the body in the woods. It was a hard idea to grasp that a child would keep that kind of information to himself.

“What happened?” Renee asked, getting anxious.

Anne took a deep breath. “You might want to sit down for this.”

They went into the Roaches’ tiny living room where the television was playing a Star Trek rerun. Anne expected to see Cody on the couch, watching intently. Spaceships were his obsession. But the couch was empty and Renee offered her a seat there.

Dinner was cooking, the smell of roast chicken drifting in from the kitchen. The little dog hopped up on the couch to give Anne a closer look.

Anne told the story for what seemed like the tenth time in twenty-four hours. Cody’s mother sat, stunned.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked, her voice as thin as she was. “He came running home yesterday with a bad stomach. He’d had an accident in his pants. I thought maybe it was something he ate at school, or there’s always a bug going around . . . He didn’t say a word.”

“Did he seem upset?”

“Well, yeah, but . . . He’s a ten-year-old boy. I thought he was upset about having the accident. He gets picked on a lot, you know.”

That was true. In the jungle that was childhood, Cody Roache was well down in the pecking order. Children could be cruel, their meaner instincts yet to be padded over by the layers of subterfuge, dishonesty, and social niceties adults accumulated over the years. And the kids who were a little different, a little slower, not as hip, took the brunt of it.

Cody was small and homely and a little odd. He didn’t really have friends, Anne had observed. He had Dennis Farman, but that relationship was symbiotic, born out of necessity. None of the kids liked Dennis because he was a bully. He had teamed up with Cody to have a sidekick who looked up to him because of his toughness, and Cody had made friends with Dennis because it was safer for him to be for Dennis Farman than against him.

“He was sick all night,” his mother said. “And still this morning. He stayed in bed all day. I can’t get him to eat anything.”

“Would it be all right with you if I spoke with Cody?” she asked. “I’ve had some training . . .”

She felt like a fraud saying it. She was no more a child psychologist than the man in the moon. But for the time being, she was the closest thing these kids had.

Renee Roache led the way down the short hall to a bedroom with Star Wars stickers all over the door, knocked once, and cracked the door open.

“Cody? You have a visitor. Miss Navarre is here.”

Not a sound came from inside the room.

Renee opened the door and went in. Anne followed. The room held the musky gym shoes smell of ten-year- old boys—a combination of sweat and dirt and less-than-meticulous hygiene. The room was dark, the shade pulled down on the single window. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Slowly she began to make out a small lump in the twin bed that was pushed up against the wall in one corner of the tiny room.

Cody’s mother sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on the lamp, and peeled the blankets back, exposing the boy’s head. He played dead, squeezing his eyes shut a little too hard.

“Cody, why didn’t you tell me what happened yesterday?” his mother asked.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

One eye cracked open. His mother handed him his glasses, newly taped together with adhesive tape. He sat up and put them on, blinking at the light.

“Hi, Cody,” Anne said softly. “I was worried about you today. How are you feeling?”

He rubbed his nose and scrunched his shoulders up around his ears, then pulled his knees up to his chest and bound them there tightly with his arms.

“Your mom tells me you’ve been really sick.”

She could see the little wheels spinning in his head, wondering just what she knew, what he should reveal, what he should admit to.

“I know what happened in the park yesterday,” Anne said. “I talked to Wendy and Tommy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Cody?” his mother asked again, her tone edged with hurt.

Cody looked at her, looked at Anne, looked down and scratched his shin through his red pajamas.

“Mrs. Roache,” Anne said. “Would it be all right if Cody and I spoke alone for a few minutes?”

Renee Roache looked uncertain, but she got up and left the room just the same. Anne sat down on the edge