J. Jance - Long Time Gone

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bonnie Jean Dunleavy.”

“Have you started school yet, Bonnie Jean?”

“I don’t think so.”

If she’s not in school then, that makes her four or five years old, I wrote. Either 1949 or ’50.

“What are you wearing?” Fred asked.

Homicide detectives do the same thing with suspects. They ask indirect questions, thus creating a fabric of story. If the suspect tells lies, those spur-of-the-moment fibs will fall apart later under more detailed questioning. Here Fred’s indirect questions-ones that weren’t related to the troubling memory itself-allowed Mary Katherine to answer. But even this cautious, roundabout approach caused visible agitation. During earlier questioning Mary Katherine’s hands had rested at ease in her lap. Now, as Fred MacKinzie moved closer to dangerous territory, her hands moved fitfully about. Sometimes she tugged anxiously at the hem of her skirt or the sleeve of her sweater. Sometimes she covered her eyes as if shielding herself from something too awful to face.

“A sundress,” she answered at last. This time she closed her eyes rather than shielding them. I wondered if shutting out her view of Freddy Mac’s office made it possible for her to see the dress she had worn so long ago. “A bright blue sundress with yellow sunflowers on it.”

I scribbled into my notebook: Time of year is summer. Where?

“What are you doing?” Fred asked.

“I’m standing on a chair by the sink, looking out the window.”

“What are you looking for?”

“My parents’ car.”

“So they’re not there with you?”

“No.”

“Is anyone else there, a babysitter? A friend, perhaps?”

“No. I’m alone.”

“Alone and looking out the window?”

“Yes.”

“What do you see?”

Her eyes remained shut. “The sun is shining,” she said slowly. “I want to go outside and play, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Mama and Daddy won’t let me. I have to stay inside and wait until they come home.”

“Where are they?”

Sister Mary Katherine shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Just out.”

“What can you see through that window?”

“Grass. And two driveways, ours and hers.”

“Whose driveway?” Freddy asked.

“I don’t know.” As Sister Mary Katherine delivered her answer, her body shifted uneasily in her chair. She squirmed in her seat like a little kid who has waited far too long to head for a rest room.

“Can you tell me your neighbor’s name?” Fred asked.

“No. I can’t talk about her at all.” Slumping in the chair, Sister Mary Katherine seemed close to tears. “Don’t you understand?” she pleaded. “I’m not allowed to talk about her. Ever. If I do, something bad will happen. Someone will hurt me.”

I jotted down: Who’s going to hurt her?

Fred was following the same track. “Who will hurt you, Bonnie Jean? Your father?”

“No, not my father!” she said forcefully.

Clearly the current line of questioning was so upsetting that Fred backed away from it for a time. “Tell me about your house,” he suggested.

“It’s an apartment in a basement. It’s cold here even when the sun is shining.”

“Who lives upstairs?”

“A lady who’s old and sick. Mama looks after her, and she lets us stay here.”

“Do you know the lady’s name?”

“No, but I know she doesn’t like kids. That’s why I have to stay inside when Mama and Daddy are gone. So I don’t bother her. She might make us move out.”

“Tell me about her house,” Fred said.

“It’s old and big and it’s made out of brick.”

“So it’s a nice house, then?”

“I guess.”

“And are there other children living nearby?”

“I don’t know.”

So she’s not in school yet. If she were, she’d know the other kids in the neighborhood.

“Your mama looks after the lady upstairs. What does your daddy do?”

“He works.”

“What does he do?”

“I dunno.”

“Does he dress up when he goes to work?”

“No. And he comes home all dirty. He has to shower before we can eat dinner.”

“Let’s go back to the window for a moment. What time of day is it?”

“Afternoon, I think.”

“And if you could go outside, what would you do?”

“Watch ants or play jacks or hopscotch or hide in my secret hiding place.”

“Where’s that?”

“Around behind the shed.”

“Who do you play jacks with?”

In answer, Mary Katherine twisted her hands and shook her head.

“The person you can’t talk about?”

Mary Katherine nodded.

We’re talking about a playmate then, I scribble into my notebook. But she just said she didn’t know any other children.

“How old is this person you play jacks with?” Fred asked. “About the same age as you?”

Sister Mary Katherine shook her head.

“Older or younger?” Fred asked.

“Older.”

“How much older?” Fred persisted.

I swear, the guy could have been a cop. Right down the line, he was asking the same questions I would have asked had I been there.

Mary Katherine shrugged. “I dunno.”

There was a long silence after that, as though Fred himself wasn’t quite sure where to turn next. Finally he said, “Bonnie Jean, do you ever play pretend?”

“Sometimes.”

“What’s your favorite game of pretend?”

“I pretend I’m a horse, running through the tall grass.”

“Would you play a game of pretend with me right now?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, so let’s go back to that chair beside the window-the one you were standing on a little while ago.”

Once again Sister Mary Katherine squirmed in her seat. “Please,” she said. “Don’t make me go back there.”

“You won’t,” Fred assured her. “We’ll pretend there’s a camera instead of you standing on that chair. A movie camera. If the camera tells us what you see outside the window, the camera might get in trouble, but you won’t. Do you think that would work?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Let’s try it. If it gets too scary, we’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about the chair. You said you were standing on it. How does that work?”

“I pushed it up to the front of the sink.”

“The kitchen sink?”

“Yes. And then I climbed up on it.”

“The chair or the sink?”

“The chair. I had to lean across the sink to see out. I had to hold on to the windowsill to keep from falling.”

“All right. Now we’re going to put a camera up there in exactly the same spot where you were. You won’t even have to be there. Okay?”

“Okay.” Sister Mary Katherine’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“Now you tell me. Is the camera in the same spot you were?”

“Yes.”

“What does the camera see?”

“A car.”

“Where?”

“Coming up the driveway.”

“Your driveway?”

“No. Hers.”

Need her to describe the car, I write. Make, model, year.

“What does the camera see next?”

“The car stops and a man gets out.”

“A passenger or the driver?”

“Driver.”

“Do you know this man? Is he someone you’ve seen before?”

Sister Mary Katherine shrugged. “Maybe,” she said.

“What does he do?”

“He walks away from the car. He goes up to Mimi’s back porch and knocks on the door.”

Mimi! I jot down. The name from the inscription in the book.

“What happens then?”

“She comes to the door. The camera can’t hear what the man’s saying, but it can see that he’s angry. He’s yelling at her.”