Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

Climbing toward Swallowsong Lane for the second time, he found his eyelids lowering. He tuned to a hard-rock radio station, cranked it loud.

None of that worked and he was considering pulling over for a catnap when high-intensity headlights snapped him alert.

Some idiot speeding toward him. Racing down the narrow street, passing within inches of the Crown Vic.

Moe strained to catch a glimpse of the fool.

Silver Porsche Cabriolet. Top up, driver's window open.

Aaron's face expressionless as he downshifted for the next curve.

When Moe was six years old, a girl in his class whispered in his ear: “Your brother's a monkey.”

Moe had just started first grade, didn't know if this was part of getting out of kindergarten. He ignored the girl and returned to his addition workbook.

The girl giggled. Later, out on the yard, she brought an older boy, probably a third-grader, to where Moses was bouncing a ball by himself, the way he liked to do.

“This is my brother,” she said.

The big boy smirked.

Moe looked around for Aaron. None of the fifth-graders were on the yard.

Bounce bounce bounce.

The big boy punched air and moved closer. He and the girl laughed.

He said, “Your brother's a monkey nigger ,” and placed his hand on Moe's chest.

Moe lowered his head and charged, churning his arms like they were a machine. His hands turned into rocks and his legs were real fast-kicking robot legs that couldn't stop.

Suddenly the big boy was on the ground and Moe was sitting on top of him, and he still couldn't stop moving. Tasting blood but not feeling any hurt anywhere and red was shooting out of the big boy's nose along with snot and the big boy was screaming and crying.

Each time Moe's fist pounded into the boy's head and his body he made a hopeless noise, kind of like Oh no.

It took two teachers to pull Moe off. The big boy did nothing but cry.

In the principal's office, Moe got a bad feeling from Mr. Washington and refused to talk until Mommy showed up. He whispered everything into her ear. She listened and nodded and translated for the principal. “That's certainly not good, Mrs. Reed. If it indeed happened that way.”

“It happened that way, Mr. Washington. Moses never lies.”

Washington, black as coal, broad as a garage door, said, “Indeed.”

“Trust me, Mr. Washington. You'll never meet a more honest child.”

The principal studied her, then Moe.

“Has he ever caused problems before, Mr. Washington?”

“This is first grade, Mrs. Reed. We've only been in session for two weeks.”

“Call his preschool. Moses had an impeccable behavior record. For him to do something like this, there had to be a good reason.” “There's never a good reason for violence, Mrs. Reed.” “Ah,” said Mom. “I wonder if the protesters in Selma, Alabama, feel differently. Not to mention residents of the Warsaw ghetto, the Navajo-”

“I don't believe I need a history lesson, Mrs. Reed.” “I'm sure you don't and I'm sorry for being presumptuous. However, if that kind of racist sentiment is common among your student body, it's no surprise there'd be some sort of-”

“Our student body is excellent, Mrs. Reed. Let's not get off target. Moses beat a boy bloody. Now, I'm sure you believe he's a good boy. But this isn't what you'd call a good start. Under no circumstances can any sort of physical acting-out be tolerated. No circumstances, whatsoever.”

“Of course not, sir. And he will be duly punished, I can assure you.”

Mommy never punishes me. Oh, no!

Moe tried to catch her eye but she kept looking at Mr. Washington like Moe wasn't in the room.

Mr. Washington said, “I suppose we can call this to a close with a warning. For Moses, and for your other son.”

“What's Aaron done?”

“Nothing. Yet. I'm trying to ensure it stays that way. There'll be no personal vendettas, absolutely no attempt on anyone's part to get even.”

“What about the other side?” said Mom. “Will they be warned as well?”

“Side?” said Mr. Washington. “That's confrontational terminology, Mrs. Reed.”

“I didn't mean it that way, sir. I just wanted to make sure that no one aggresses against my boys.”

“Your boys will not be aggressed against. What I need from you is an iron-cast assurance that they won't bother anyone else.”

“They will not, I swear.” Suddenly, Mommy was touching Moe, squeezing his hand like she did when holding him back from traffic. Maybe a little harder.

He looked at her. What was on her face had nothing to do with comfort or safety. Flat, like a mask. He shivered.

Mommy squeezed again.

Mr. Washington said, “Well, I sincerely hope you're right because here we are, just two weeks in, and already Moses is skating on thin ice.” He shuffled some papers.

Mommy said, “Everything will be perfect.”

“Perfect?” Washington smiled. His desk clock ticked. “So as not to keep this exclusively negative, Mrs. Reed, I will tell you that Aaron is one of our top fifth-grade students as well as an excellent athlete. That would imply a certain degree of self-discipline.”

“You bet,” said Mommy. “Aaron's always been super-disciplined.”

Washington lowered his eyes to Moe. “And this one?”

“This one as well, sir.”

Washington picked up a pencil, studied the eraser.

Mommy said, “Both my boys are wonderful. They never give me a lick of trouble.”

“It's good that you think so, Mrs. Reed. Have a nice day.”

“You, too, Mr. Washington. Thank you for your flexibility.”

The principal hoisted his enormity from a creaking chair, came over to Moe, cast a gigantic shadow. “Son, your mother says you're wonderful. Don't make her change her mind.”

Moe mumbled.

“What's that, son? Speak up.”

“Mom never lies.”

“An honest family,” said Washington, lowering a huge hand onto Moe's quaking shoulder.

Clutching Moe's now sweaty fingers, Mommy led him-pulled him- through endless beige school corridors into abrupt, stunning sunlight, across the play yard and past the guard at the gate.

“Morning, Mr. Chávez.”

“Morning.” Chávez, always friendly, turned away.

Mommy pulled Moe harder.

He said, “Ow.”

Silence.

She always talks. This is different. Oh, no!

When they were inside the van, she said, “Belt up, buster, we're going for a ride.”

“Where?”

“Baskin-Robbins.” Leaning over, she kissed the tip of his nose. “Even tough-guy heroes need Jamoca Almond Fudge.”

♦

By the time Aaron came home an hour later on the upper-grade bus, Moe and Mommy were waiting at the kitchen table with the ice cream and glasses of milk. Aaron breezed past them. The door to his bedroom slammed.

Mommy said, “Well, that was different,” and went after him.

Moe heard loud voices ringing through the door. He sat there for a while, finally got up to listen.

“… don't need his help!”

“… not the point, Aaron, it was a vile thing to say and he was trying to defend you-”

“… don't need his defending!”

“… what we call spur of the moment, darling. He didn't think, he just loves you, so he acted-”

“… loved me he'd mind his own business !”

“… think you're being a little harsh on-”

“… always embarrassing, he's so weird. Everyone calls him a retard because he stands around by himself and bounces that stupid ball and doesn't talk and I have to always stick up for him and say he's not a retard. Since he came to school it's been-”