Janice Kay - The Word of a Child

“Of course we care…”

He swung to face Detective McLean. “Are you going to arrest me?” he shouted. He stuck out his arms. “Here! Handcuff me now. Let’s get it over with. Apparently we can skip the trial, too. The judge and jury are right here!”

He had passed the point of listening to reason, and Mariah couldn’t blame him. They had ambushed him, and she understood his terror as the snares whipped shut on his ankles.

No matter the outcome, his life would never be the same again. Rumors would start, whispers would follow him. Even his best friends would feel doubt. Everyone would wonder: Did he do it? Even if Tracy Mitchell eventually recanted her story the doubts wouldn’t be completely erased. Maybe she was afraid of him; maybe that’s why she says it never happened. Maybe…

“I’m sorry,” Mariah whispered.

The only one who seemed to hear her was Detective McLean, whose mask slipped briefly to reveal a flash of—what? Compassion? Some inner anguish?

Or was it pity, because twice she had been fooled by monsters who walked as men?

The next moment he looked back at Gerald Tanner and said in that quiet, steadying voice, “Mr. Tanner, I have every intention of hearing your side. Teenagers do make up stories like this. You will not be railroaded, I promise.”

Mariah stood up and left, not caring whether the principal would be annoyed.

God help her, she would never look at Gerald Tanner again without hearing the whisper of doubt.

Already those doubts murmured in her ear as she made her way blindly through the office and out the double doors to the parking lot.

But the ones that were not content to murmur, that clawed deep, had nothing to do with a high school computer teacher. Always, always, they had to do with Simon, the man she had loved.

If he had done what they said—of course he hadn’t, but if he had—would he one day touch Zofie in a way no father should?

She got into her car, locked the door and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She tasted the salt of her own tears.

“What else could I do?” she asked aloud, and didn’t even know if she was talking about Simon or Gerald Tanner.

CONNOR TOOK A LONG SWALLOW of beer and announced, “I’m starting to hate my job.”

He and his brothers, policemen all, had gathered for their traditional weekly dinner and couple of beers at John’s. John was the only one of them with children and a wife, which meant the sofa coordinated with the leather chair and the Persian rug, the kitchen table wasn’t covered with old pizza boxes and take-out Chinese cartons, and instead of an overflowing hamper, the bathroom had clean, matching towels and, tonight, even flowers in a stoneware vase.

Connor was beginning to think a life of domestic happiness didn’t look so bad. Not that he had any prospects for marriage, but…hell, he could buy a house. A man didn’t need a wife for that.

Right now, the three were slouched in the living room. Natalie, John’s wife, had shooed them out of the kitchen and insisted that she and their mother would clean up. The kids were doing homework upstairs. Whether Mom was here or not, somehow Natalie always managed to give the brothers time to talk. After finishing in the kitchen, Mom usually left, while Natalie was likely to pop in long enough to kiss their cheeks and wish them good-night, exchange a slow, deep look with her new husband, and disappear upstairs to read in bed. And wait for John, who would start getting antsy in an hour or so. Who could blame him, with a luscious woman like Natalie waiting?

Even the idea of a wife wasn’t sounding so bad to Connor. Must be a symptom of age, he figured; his thirtieth birthday had come and gone.

His comment about his job still hung in the air when his mother appeared in the doorway. Voice sharp, she said, “Don’t say things you don’t mean. You sound like a teenager, making too much of some little complaint.”

Surprised by her agitation, Connor raised his brow. “How do you know it’s a little complaint?”

In the act of snatching up a coffee mug left on the end table, she demanded, “Well, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Just a case I was going to tell Hugh and John about.”

“Hardly your ‘job,’ then,” she chided him. A regal, fine-boned woman, Ivy McLean departed for the kitchen.

After a moment of silence during which none of the brothers moved, Connor cleared his throat.

“What’s with Mom?”

John gave him a look. “You know how important she thinks our work is. You aren’t supposed to bitch. You don’t have a job,” he said dryly. “You have a calling.”

“We’re making the streets safe, et cetera, et cetera,” Hugh added.

Connor grunted. As a kid, he hadn’t been conscious of pressure from Mom to become a cop, the way John claimed to. He’d become one because his big brother had. There was no question, however, that Mom was proud of the fact all three sons were in law enforcement. And maybe she had no understanding of the need to grumble. A stoic herself, she had raised her three sons alone with grit and without whining.

John gave himself a shake. “Back to your job. Why are you starting to hate it?”

Hugh, the youngest and best-looking of the three McLean brothers, slumped lower in his chair. “It’s that fuzzy, did-he-or-didn’t-he crap,” he announced. “Here’s free advice—go back on patrol. Do some real police work.”

John grabbed an empty and tossed it, connecting with Hugh’s chest. “You don’t think raping a thirteen-year-old is a crime? Arresting a rapist isn’t real police work?”

Unoffended, Hugh crumpled the can in one hand. “I listen to Connor. These cases aren’t clear-cut. This one with the schoolkid isn’t a rape, it’s a…jeez, I don’t know.” He gestured vaguely.

“A knife at the throat isn’t the only kind of force,” Connor said. “The power an adult—and at that a teacher, a figure of authority—wields over a kid is considerable.”

“I know that. I’m not excusing it. I’m just saying, you may never know who’s lying. Don’t you ever hunger for a good, old-fashioned shooting at a convenience store?”

Connor grunted. “Maybe.”

“Maybe” wasn’t the real answer; “no” was. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he was cut out to be a cop at all. Going back into uniform didn’t appeal, and he wasn’t sure investigating murders or arson or bank robberies as a Major Crimes Unit detective like John would make his view of the world any sunnier.

He was a cop, he was good at his job, and what else would he do? Until recently he’d never questioned any of the above, but lately he had felt restless. No, worse than that: he saw himself for the home wrecker he was.

Today, he’d seen it in Mariah Stavig’s eyes. She hated him for what he had done to her family. And the little girl Simon Stavig had supposedly molested? She was probably still in counseling. She’d probably have hang-ups her entire life, and he, Detective Connor McLean, had done jack for her.

John got the conversation back on the track. “Something getting to you about this case?”

Connor rolled his beer can between his palms. “Just a weird coincidence.”

They waited.

He told them about Mariah Stavig, the teacher the girl had chosen to confide in, and how he had investigated her husband three years before.

“Her face was familiar so I looked up the file.” He continued his story. “The case was ugly. A three-year-old girl who said Simon Stavig molested her, but without corroborating evidence we were never able to arrest him.”

John studied him thoughtfully. “But you think he did it.”

“Oh, yeah.” Connor shook his head in disgust. “He was one of those guys who got seriously pissed because we’d come knocking on his door. He wasn’t shocked, the way you’d expect. I mean, wouldn’t you be stunned if you were accused by some friend of Maddie’s? Nah, this guy wasn’t surprised. He was angry that we’d take the word of a kid that age.”