He sat. “You looked through my room?”
“I did, not your mother.”
“You searched it?”
“Yup.”
“Ever heard of privacy?”
“Jacob,” Laurie said, “your father was worried about you.” He rolled his eyes.
Laurie continued, “We’re both worried. Why don’t you just tell us what this is all about.”
“Jacob, you put me in a difficult position, you know. Half the state police are looking for this knife.”
“For this knife?”
“Not this knife; a knife. You know what I mean. For a knife like this. I just don’t understand what a kid like you is doing with a knife like this. Why do you need it, Jake?”
“I don’t need it. It’s just something I got.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You got it but you don’t know why?”
“It’s just, I don’t know, something I did. For no reason. It doesn’t mean anything. Why does everything have to mean something?”
“Then why did you hide it?”
“Probably because I knew you’d freak out.”
“Well, you got that right, at least. Why do you need a knife?”
“I just told you, I don’t need it. I just thought it was kinda cool. I liked it. I just wanted it.”
“Are you having problems with other kids?”
“No.”
“Is there someone you’re afraid of?”
“No. Like I said, I just saw it and I thought it was cool so I bought it.” He shrugged.
“Where?”
“This army-navy store in town. They’re not hard to find.”
“Is there a record of the sale? Did you use a credit card?”
“No, cash.”
My eyes narrowed.
“It’s not that unusual, Jesus, Dad. People do use cash, you know.”
“What do you do with it?”
“Nothing. I just look at it, hold it, see how it feels.”
“Do you carry it with you?”
“No. Not usually.”
“But sometimes?”
“No. Well, rarely.”
“Do you bring it to school?”
“No. Except once. I showed it to some kids.”
“Who?”
“Derek, Dylan. Couple others maybe.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause I thought it was cool. It was like, Hey, check this out.”
“Have you ever used it for anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, whatever you’d use a knife for: to cut.”
“You mean have I ever stabbed anyone with it in Cold Spring Park?”
“No, I mean, have you ever used it at all?”
“No, never. Of course not.”
“So you just got it and stuck it in your drawer?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“Why would you-”
“Andy,” his mother cut in, “he’s a teenager. That’s why.”
“Laurie, he doesn’t need help.”
Laurie explained, “Teenagers do stupid things sometimes.” She turned to Jacob. “Even smart teenagers do stupid things.”
“Jacob, I need to ask you, for my own peace of mind: is this the knife they’re looking for?”
“No! Are you crazy?”
“Do you know anything about what happened to Ben Rifkin? Anything you heard from your friends? Anything at all you can tell me?”
“No. Of course not.” He looked at me evenly, meeting my gaze with his own. It only lasted a moment but it was unmistakably a challenge-the sort of eye-fuck a defiant witness will flip you on the stand. Once he had outfaced me, his point made, he became a petulant kid again: “I can’t believe you’re asking me this stuff, Dad. It’s like, I get home from school and suddenly I get all these questions. I just can’t believe this. I can’t believe you actually think these things about me.”
“I don’t think anything about you, Jacob. All I know is you brought that knife into my house and I’d like to know why.”
“Who told you to look for it?”
“Never mind who told me.”
“One of the kids at school, obviously. Someone you interviewed yesterday. Just tell me who.”
“It doesn’t matter who. This isn’t about what other kids did. You’re not the victim here.”
“Andy,” Laurie warned. She had told me not to confront or cross-examine him, not to accuse. Just talk to him, Andy. This is a family. We talk to each other.
I looked away. Deep breath. “Jacob, if I submit that knife for testing, for blood or any other evidence, would you object?”
“No. Go ahead, do whatever tests you want. I don’t care.”
I considered for a moment. “Okay. I believe you. I believe you.”
“Do I get my knife back?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s my knife. You have no right to take it.”
“I’m your father. That gives me the right.”
“You’re also with the cops.”
“Are you worried about the cops for some reason, Jake?”
“No.”
“Then what are you talking about your rights for?”
“What if I don’t let you take it?”
“Try.”
He stood there looking at the knife on the table and at me, weighing the risk and reward. “This is so wrong,” he said, and he frowned at the injustice.
“Jake, your father’s just doing what he thinks is best because he loves you.”
“What about what I think is best? That doesn’t matter, I suppose.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
By the time I got to the Newton police station that same afternoon, they had Patz in the interview room, where he sat as still as an Easter Island head, staring into a camera that was hidden in the face of a schoolhouse clock. Patz knew the camera was there. The detectives were required to inform him and get his consent to record the interview. The camera was hidden anyway in the hope that suspects would stop thinking about it.
Patz’s image was piped to a small computer screen in the detective bureau, right outside the interview room,
