“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Granted, our witness is young and traumatized, but his best guess is that the entire altercation took about three minutes.”
“Be brave, you said. Was there a note?” D.D. asked. “Everyone has to die sometime, yada yada yada.”
“Tucked inside the victim’s coat. Most likely written in advance, as, according to the witness, she didn’t have time to write anything at the scene. He saw her bend over the body, however, probably placing the paper in the victim’s jacket.”
“So definitely the same shooter. Refining her game now. Not just picking off pedophiles, but rescuing their victims.”
“In her mind, I’m sure she had a good night.”
“What happened after she shot the sixteen-year-old?”
“The shooter introduced herself to the witness, told him not to worry, then walked away.”
D.D. arched a brow. “Which way did she exit?”
“To the left. The boy didn’t follow, though. He stood there a minute longer, then bolted back to the library, where his mother had alerted the staff she couldn’t find him. They were going to lock down, police had just been called, when he came tearing up the steps. He was hysterical, she became hysterical. It took five or ten minutes to sort things out. Then uniformed officers immediately dispatched to this location, while broadcasting the woman’s description, but no hits.”
D.D. wasn’t surprised. Anyone could disappear in Boston. Which is why Charlene Grant had originally moved here.
D.D. thought about it. “That the Internet user was sixteen should’ve startled her. Made her pause, ask more questions, something. But it didn’t. Meaning your theory stands to reason-she’d been stalking her target for a bit, visiting his Facebook page, maybe even following him in person on other occasions. She wasn’t surprised by his age or his actions. She expected both.”
“Premeditation,” O supplied. “Planning. Strategy.”
“Smart. Adept with computers. Patient.”
“Controlled,” O added to their profile of the shooter. “She shot the sixteen-year-old, then walked away. No collateral damage, no fussing with the witness. Just in, out, done.”
“Where’s the witness now?”
“Back of a squad car with his mother. We’re arranging for a forensic interviewer who specializes in children to meet them at HQ.”
“Can he talk?”
O shrugged. “Last time I saw him, he clung to his mother and didn’t say a word.”
“I’d like to try.”
O hesitated. D.D. looked at her. “What?”
“You have any experience with kids?”
“Worked a case where a four-year-old was the prime witness.”
“Look, you may be older and wiser,” O drawled, “but I’m sex crimes, and unfortunately, most of my cases involve questioning kids. So take it from me, you can’t screw this up. You lead the witness here, and that contamination will carry. Then the entire interview will be tossed, and we’ll have no grounds for arresting our prime suspect, Charlene blah blah Grant. You gotta be smart.”
“Then I’ll leave the stupid questions at home.”
O still didn’t seem happy, but she turned away from the alley, returning in the direction of the flashing cruiser lights. The little boy and his mother were huddled in the back of the first patrol car. The door was open, probably to make them feel less like prisoners. But it also let in the chill, and both the boy and his mother were shivering. The mom held a cardboard cup of steaming beverage, probably coffee, but she wasn’t drinking it. Just holding it, as if willing the warmth to make a difference.
The little boy didn’t look up when they approached. He was leaning against his mother’s side, his tiny form nearly lost in an oversized black winter coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. D.D. had an impression of dark eyes and a pale pinched face, then he turned away from her.
The mother had her left arm around her son. She had the same pale features and haunted expression as the boy. But her jaw was set, her lips thinned into a resolute line.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. said to introduce herself. It sounded as if they’d already met O.
“Jennifer Germaine.” The woman nodded, as she didn’t have a free hand to offer. She nudged her son, but he didn’t look up. “My son, Jesse,” she said after another moment.
“How are you doing, Jesse?” D.D. asked.
The boy didn’t answer.
“Fair enough,” she agreed. “I’m not having the best night either.”
He turned slightly, stared at her with a wary expression.
“I’m supposed to be having dinner with my mother. She came all the way from Florida to see me. But I had to leave. She’s not very happy with me. It doesn’t feel good, to have my mom not very happy with me.”
Jesse’s lower lip trembled.
“But I also know she understands,” D.D. continued. “It’s the cool thing about moms. They always love us, huh?”
Jennifer’s arm tightened around her son. He pressed himself harder against her side.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice coming out hoarse and raspy. Maybe from crying now, or screaming earlier.
“Why are you sorry?” D.D. asked, keeping her voice conversational.
“I was a bad boy.”
“Why do you say that?” Open-ended questions. That was the deal with kids-can’t imply, can’t lead, can only ask open-ended questions.
“Stranger Danger. Don’t talk to strangers online. Don’t meet strangers. Don’t go away with strangers. My mommy told me. I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
The little boy started to cry. His mother stroked his hair, then leaned over his head, murmuring low words of comfort.
“Thank you for returning to the library tonight,” D.D. said.
The boy looked up slightly.
“That was quick thinking. You had to find your way back through the city streets, which I personally find very confusing at night. But you did. You found your mother, you notified the police. Very brave of you. Have you ever walked the city alone, Jesse?”
The boy shook his head.
“Then kudos. You kept a cool head. Bet your mom’s pretty proud of you for that.”
Jennifer nodded against the top of her son’s head.
“I need you to be brave for me now, Jesse. Just a little bit longer, okay? Just relax, snuggled up next to your mom, and think about a couple of things for me.”
The little boy nodded, just slightly.
“Can you tell us what happened tonight, Jesse? In your own words. Take your time.”
Jesse didn’t start talking right away. His mother bent over again. “Jenny and Jesse against the world,” D.D. heard her whisper to him. “Remember, Jenny and Jesse against the world. Hold my hand. We can do this.”
The little boy took his mother’s hand. Then, he began to speak.
It was a pretty straightforward tale. A sixteen-year-old boy named Barry spent his afternoons gaming online as a pink poodle. He racked up points, he gained attention. He sent out e-mails to other gamers, offering friendship and help.
Jesse had taken the bait.
He’d assumed he had nothing to fear from a poodle, a meeting in a public library, and a rendezvous with a presumed girl. And so it went, right up to the second Jesse found himself standing in a back alley, too scared to run, too shocked to scream.
He couldn’t tell them much about the woman. Her arrival had startled him. Her gun had terrified him. Mostly, he remembered her eyes. Bright, bright blue eyes.
