Thomas Craig: The Outkast

Brad nodded.

“What’s he doing in there with the dead?”

“He got here first,” Brad said. “In fact, he was already in here, screaming at the time we opened the door.”

“Yeah, but what’s his business in that corner right now? Isn’t he supposed to be with the rest of the kids?”

Donnie said, “He’s waiting for justice.”

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Wilson said with unmasked irritation, flogging Donnie with a disdainful look. “What’s this justice nonsense you’ve been spouting about, anyway?”

Donnie ignored her question, unlocked the door instead. “Are you ready to step out for some fresh air now, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Open the door and let me out,” she said, turning to Robert, who was now sobbing quietly in the corner. “And you-get your butt up right away and follow me.”

“Not in a million years, Mrs. Wilson. Unless you’re craving to be charged with abetting a criminal,” Donnie said, stomping towards Mrs. Wilson, as if in preparation to wrestle with her if she so much as moved an inch closer to Robert.

“What’re you talking about?” asked Mrs. Wilson. “Who’s the criminal?” She wheeled around towards Brad. “What’s this all about?”

Brad shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then, turning to Donnie, he said, “See, you can’t be so sure yet of what you’re accusing the boy of-”

“Stay out of this, Brad,” Donnie snarled like a wild dog. “He’s the culprit here, and I don’t need your okay to say what I know. He’s a murderer!”

Mrs. Wilson flinched.

“Yes,” Donnie pressed on. “He’s a murderer, and he’ll pay the full price that is required of a heartless killer like him.”

Outside, sirens and the wind wailed in unison.

“Mr. Murphy, you should have a sufficient understanding that a crime scene isn’t a place to violate but rather vacate. You-and your colleagues-weren’t supposed to be in that office after you’ve discovered the body and called the cops,” Sheriff Brian Stack said, standing in front of Donnie’s office after the men from the Coroner’s Office had set to work and the kids had been dispersed home.

“I know perfectly well, Sheriff. And trust me, I took every necessary precaution to avoid screwing something up back in there. I made it my responsibility to warn the guys to stay away from touching anything-to not even try sweeping the sandwich that littered the entire floor,” Donnie said, as if anyone would have wanted to clean up the mess in the first place.

Brian shook his head gently. “Taking adequate precaution at a crime scene goes beyond keeping away from things while you’re still present at the place. Apart from the objects you’re liable to touch, which your consciousness forbids you from doing, there’re also myriads of things your movement displaces-things outside your awareness.”

Donnie made a move to say something, but then decided against it. The corners of his mouth twitched momentarily.

“Not to mention the alien particles you carried in there with you,” Brian added. “See why staying away from the crime scene altogether is the best choice?”

Donnie nodded.

“And why were you so bent on staying in there, by the way?”

“The kid, Sheriff. I didn’t want him to escape. I wanted him to be in there and get arrested when you arrive.”

“Come on, Donnie, I don’t think that should have been necessary.”

The men from the Office of the Coroner recovered the knife-six inches of glinting blade-from Robert Smallwood.

They found several strands of red hair in the bathroom as well as on the desk and floor. Robert was a redhead-the only one present at the scene of murder.

The stab wound on Trevor’s neck appeared to contradict the supposed weapon of murder. It wasn’t a gaping gash wide enough to poke a thumb through, but a narrow, near-circular impalement that seemed to funnel down into his flesh.

Although a few bits and pieces picked up at the scene were strongly indicative of the boy’s presumed act of homicide, forensic principles demanded that all necessary procedures be painstakingly executed first, leaving no room for rashness. A number of tests would be run to affirm that Robert indeed committed the crime.

Robert was brought to the Sheriff’s Office. His mother, Holly Smallwood, had been contacted at her home on Bran Street. She sat in the lobby of the department, the closest she was allowed to her son at that point in time.

“Coffee or tea?” Sheriff Stack opened a cabinet and brought out two cups. “I’ve got some orange juice in the fridge, too. Feel at home and take your pick.”

Robert shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Brian got himself some coffee and sat down in his chair, across the desk from Robert. “Listen, kid. Don’t you be afraid at all. I just wanna ask you some questions like your teachers do. Let’s just say I’m helping them to look after you so you don’t get all lazy and rusty.” He favored Robert with two winks. “Your school’s closed down now, and you might not be back till Monday, maybe a little later. You wanna be a lazy student?”

Robert shook his head again.

“Good boy.” Brian took a sip from his coffee. “What’s your favorite subject?”

Robert paused for a while, gazing at the floor. “Literature,” he said at last.

“Mine, too-especially back in the days when I was your age.” Another sip of coffee. “That makes two of us, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“And who’s your favorite author?”

His answer came with some alacrity this time: “Orobbs Porter.”

“Ah,” Brian said. “The famous horror writer?”

A quick nod.

“Don’t think your teachers recommend such a book, do they?”

“No, I read them on my own. Bought them with my pocket money.”

“Wonderful. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, I’ve read all of his books,” Robert enthused. “Have you, Sheriff?”

“Um… I’m not so sure. I know I’ve read a lot of his works.”

“You ever read The Black Mirage?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the best of them all. You should read it. I’ll loan you mine if you want.”

Brian had learned something very significant about the boy’s character within the brief duration of their chat. Robert Smallwood was very passionate about his books-his horror books. His level of rapport grew astronomically as soon as the topic veered towards his favorite author and his published books. “Oh, that’s really kind of you. I’m sure I’ll love it,” Brian said. “Have you read Oedipus’s Return?”

A look of confusion on the boy’s face. “Who wrote that? Orobbs Porter?”

“That’s right.”

Robert shook his head.

“Well, I guess you haven’t read all of his works, then,” Brian said with a smile.

Robert slumped in his seat, looking defeated-like a little boy who had just disappointed his beloved author by not guzzling all of the author’s pieces of work. “Maybe it just got published,” he said quietly. “I should have heard about it.”

“Oh, no. It’s been out awhile.”

Suddenly, Robert’s countenance brightened up. “Hey,” he said, “may I ask you for something Sheriff… Stack?”

“Anything, Rob.” Brian smiled again. “And you may call me Brian. We’re just a couple of good pals around here, aren’t we?”

Robert nodded. He looked down at his small feet while he said, “I wanted to know if you could loan me the book. I promise I’ll take good care of it, and I’ll return it next week. My mom doesn’t have so much money now, and I can’t buy new books.”