“Of what?”
“Everything associated with a case.”
“So Martin is… we still haven’t seen him. Not for days.”
Matter-of-fact, not the least bit upset.
I said, “What’s he like, Dr. Rollins?”
“In what sense?”
“What kind of kid is he, personality-wise?”
“I have no idea.”
“While he was here you didn’t have much contact with him?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No special attention,” I said, “despite his circumstances.”
“We were acutely aware of his circumstances. That’s why we paid to hire a tutor for him. Obviously
Irritation, not a trace of horror.
“So he got no other help besides tutoring?”
“Such as?”
“Counseling, maybe from someone on the faculty who knew him well.”
“Sir,” she said, “we have two hundred and ninety-three students preselected for intelligence, character, and the ability to reason independently. That means minimal need for babysitting.”
“Other than academic tutoring.”
“That is a matter among students, their families, and their tutors. Our paying was an additional courtesy we extended Martin. Obviously, it didn’t work out as we’d hoped. Now, in the future, if you people believe there’s something you absolutely
Milo said, “We like the personal touch.”
“Good day, gentlemen.”
“Thanks for your cooperation, Doctor.”
“I’m not cooperating,” said Rollins. “I’m acquiescing.”
When she was back behind the gates, Herb Walkowicz whistled softly through his teeth. “Welcome to my world.”
“Working with Stan Creighton was better, Herb?”
“Let me tell you something about Stan. He used to be a good guy before he got involved.”
“Involved with what?”
“Suits and weenies and other assorted bullshit artists,” said Walkowicz. His mouth tightened. “Kinda people send their kids to a place like this.”
As we headed to the car, Milo reached into the blue bag and drew out last year’s Windsor Prep yearbook.
Three-hundred-plus gilt-edged pages bound in royal-blue calfskin. Each student’s headshot in full, high-def color.
I said, “Nice production values.”
“Only the best for show-pooches.” He inspected a few photos. “Some of them even look happy.”
Gilberto Chavez remained curled on the floor of his cell.
“He been that way all this time?” Milo asked the uniform on duty.
“For the most part. He peed once, we made him clean it up. Hey, Dr. Delaware, how come the deceptive ones always sleep like babies?”
I said, “Minimal or no conscience.”
Milo said, “Pop the lock on Rip Van Winkle.”
The uniform opened the cell, made sure the door clanged loud. Chavez stirred but but didn’t awaken. When Milo called out his name, he opened his eyes briefly before clamping them shut.
Milo toed his shoulder. “Sit up.
Chavez groaned, struggled to his elbows, finally complied with theatrical sluggishness. Milo took him by the shoulder, propped him up, slid him to the edge of the bench. Flipping the yearbook to the freshman page, he placed it on Chavez’s lap.
“Start looking.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Uh-uh, what?”
“I dint do nothin’.”
“I know you didn’t. But those two girls you got weed from were involved in something bad so unless you want to take all the heat and go up for murder, you’ll show me who they are.”
“I dint—”
“Show me who they are, Gilberto, and we’re finished. Don’t cooperate and you’re never getting out of here.”
“I dint—”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Milo, softly. “Now start looking.”
Seventy minutes later, Chavez had been through every photo three times.
Same baleful head shake after each pass.
He tried to return the book to Milo.
“Again, Gilberto.”
“I don lie,” Chavez whined. “No in here.”
“You ever wear glasses, Gilberto?”
“No way.”
“Try again. And take your time.”
Fourth pass, same result.
Chavez looked ready to cry. “I wanna go home but they no in here.”
“Let’s talk about them, Gilberto. What makes you think they were eighteen?”
“I dunno—they wasn’t fifteen.”
“How do you know?”
“In a car.”
“What car?”
“Black Honda.” Retrieving memories that had eluded him.
“Anything different about the Honda?”
“No.”
Milo flipped to the front of the senior class. “These are eighteen-year-olds. Take another look.”
“Mister, they no
“The girls who wanted ice weren’t white.”
“One white, yes. Other Mexicana.”
“She speak Spanish to you?”
“English. But Mexicana.”
“A white girl and a Latina,” said Milo.
“Yeh.”
“First time I asked what they looked like you said you couldn’t remember.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Now you remember one was white and one was Latina.”
Chavez touched the side of his head, gave a dreamy smile. “I wake up, you know?”
Milo took the yearbook from him, held it at his side, like a bludgeon poised to bash. “Get more awake right
