Thomas Craig: The Outkast

Brian rested his elbow on the desktop, propping his chin against his palm. He wanted to caution Holly that running her eyes through the print in-between the lines wasn’t the point in question, and that even the best of guesses, every so often, could be nothing better than an instrument of misdirection. But he held his peace, letting her pour her mind out.

“So, they say my little Rob has murdered a man-he’s done a terrible harm. And what will be his penalty?” Holly shoved to the edge of her seat, stretching her hand towards the Sheriff, as if requesting a response in form of a handout. Then, she retracted it. “Oh, don’t even bother telling me,” she said. “I know exactly what his penalty will be. He’ll be taken away from me and locked up in a teen penitentiary, waiting till the time is ripe for him to feel the vicious stings of the law.”

Brian watched her vent.

“Isn’t that so, Sheriff?”

“There’s not a thing as teen penitentiary, Mrs. Smallwood,” he said at last. “And I want you to know that this-”

“There isn’t such a thing?” Holly said with wide eyes.

“Well, there’re juvenile detention centers all across the country, if that’s what you’re-”

“Teen penitentiary, juvenile detention-where does the difference lie? In the names?” She chuckled briefly, and then collapsed on the table, her head literally bobbing up and down as she wept.

Brian said, “Holly, are you okay?” and realized immediately how dumb he sounded.

“No, I’m not okay,” Holly said in a muffled voice, sniffling. “How on earth can I be when the whole world has chosen to come crashing on me?”

Grabbing a sheaf of tissue (he was doing a good job distributing tissue today), Brian walked around the desk and handed it to her. He squeezed her shoulder gently, feeling the bones, hoping he could sooth her, that he could give her an unspoken assurance that, the situation-not he-was responsible for her being shoved into this unpleasant corner.

He walked back to his seat.

When Brian had ascertained her eyes were clear enough to focus on him, he said, “I want you to know that this has nothing to do with what anybody’s saying.”

“You stated when all is said and done, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. What’s your point?”

“To me, it’s already done. Decisions have been made. We’re just footling around here, killing time.”

“Not the way you look at it. I called you in to ask you a few questions that might help both of us as this case progresses.”

“Sheriff Stack, I think I have my own question,” Holly said, wiping off the residual snot from her nose. “What actually made you believe Rob killed Mr. Carter?”

Brian shook his head. “It’s not about what made me believe Rob did anything. The question is more like, what could make anyone believe that Rob didn’t do it? What could convince the Coroner’s Office, the townspeople, the Sheriff’s Department that he didn’t do it? In fact, what could convince you -besides being your son-that he didn’t commit the crime he’s been suspected of?”

Holly’s jaw dropped as she listened to the Sheriff.

“And I can see what’s going through your mind right now. Yeah, you’re sitting down there and thinking, Oh, I was right about him, after all. He’s made up his mind together with the people. They’re coming to get my son.

“But you know what? I didn’t call you in to tell you how badly I want your son to be arrested. I called you in to let you know that the odds are stacked against him regardless of my own sentiment. Really stacked against him. The fact that he was the only one in the office at the time of Mr. Carter’s death, the bloody knife found in his hand, the hair. You see, all of these things-and even more-point in the direction of accusation.”

“They got his hair at the scene, too?”

“There were blood-soaked strands of hair-red hair-found at one corner of the toilet where he was sitting, as well as on the desk and the office floor. The Office of the Coroner made an educated guess the strands came from his hair.”

“Because he’s a redhead.” Holly chuckled. “They could have been from anyone’s hair. And you know that, Sheriff, don’t you?”

“Exactly,” Brian said, as if sharing Holly’s view with a profound enthusiasm. “That’s what I thought at first. And anyone would have thought so, too. But when you factor in the blood on his head and the drying wetness in the hair found at the scene, it makes you wonder some more. And I have to quickly point out that he was the only redhead present at that point in time, as far as anyone knows. But having said all of these things, no one has made a cut-and-dried decision on anything yet. I’m only making a comment about the situation as it stands.”

“But the odds are stacked against him nonetheless, right?” Holly said. “Oh, my God. I’m a dead woman.”

Brian looked at her for a brief moment, hoping his explanation had made any sense so far. Then, he said, “The hints at the scene were so revealing they made the guess appear terrifyingly true.”

She stayed silent.

For a long time, Brian didn’t speak, either. “I’ve pressed the boy, done everything possible to make him open up to me, but he’s maintained his stand. Said he didn’t do it.”

“Of course, he didn’t.” Holly’s voice was oiled with the grease of perfect ire, perhaps anger at the ridiculousness of the charge being leveled against her son. “How could my boy have killed a man?”

Brian dismissed her question. Not that it required an answer, anyway. “What have you noticed about him lately? Any unusual behaviours?”

She shook her head. “He’s as normal as any twelve- year-old to be.”

“What sort of things does he engage in during his leisure time? Sports, books, movies?”

“He likes watching and playing soccer. And like any other typical teenage boy, he likes action movies in addition to cartoons.”

“Books, Holly? Does he read books that are related to the kind of action-packed movies he watches?”

“Yes, he does. He watches action movies as much as he reads stories that depict them. He likes when the stories are really intense.”

“Intense as in thrilling or horrific?”

A hint of confusion on Holly’s face. “Thrilling is horrific as much as horrific is thrilling. What’s the difference?”

“I guess there’s none,” Brian said, deciding to bury that aspect of the interview to avoid unnecessary protracted debate. He smacked his palm against the desk lightly. “I’ll let you go now. But please, keep an eye on the boy.” He stood up to get the door. “And might I say you should be ready to see more of me, in case the test reports come back positive.”

“Get your sorry ass over here,” Trevor growled at the boy.

Robert inched closer towards the principal, trembling.

Since his enrolment at the junior high, he had always been going through hell. His two arch-tormentors had been the principal, Trevor Carter and the acting vice principal, Donnie Murphy.

“What’ve you got today? Any of your trollish pictures lurking around? Those miserable, misshapen creatures that look just like you, can I see them?” Trevor laughed, a creepy sound issuing from a sadist of a man.

Ordinarily, Trevor’s eyes were a shade of blue, but whenever he was busy bullying Robert, the boy always saw eyes as pale green as a wolf’s, something downright scary.

“Talk to me,” Trevor insisted. “Can I see any of them? Do you have them here?”

Robert shook his head, his trembling intensifying.

Trevor grabbed the boy’s collar and dragged him closer. “So, tell me a secret, runty one. How many people does your mother plan killing this year? Has she adopted a new power to lure another man into her fatal net yet?”