Silent Witness (12 page)

Saul and Tony sat on a park bench in front of City Hall.

The day had the clear bleached look of sunshine on a chill morning; there was a sheen of early frost, and the grass, no longer growing, was flat to the ground. When Saul turned to Tony, giving a heavy sigh, it turned to mist between them.

‘They wanted to see how you'd react,' he said. ‘Maybe hoped you'd blurt something out.'

Tony still felt numb. ‘I wanted to punch the fucker. But I couldn't even move.'

‘You did fine the way you were. Actually, you've got a lot of self-possession. Maybe they don't believe you, but now they know you'd be a problem for them as a witness. And that your prior statement is a problem too.' Saul pulled up the collar of his black wool overcoat. ‘Anyhow, we're through with them. From now on, I deal with the county prosecutor's office. They're the ones who'll decide whether to charge you – Johnny Morelli, the head of Criminal, and, in a case like this, the CP himself.'

Tony rubbed his eyes. ‘What were all the questions about? What we did, how we did it . . .'

Saul stared off into the distance, as if deciding how much to say. ‘It's a sex crime,' he said at length. ‘We know that much for sure.'

‘Why for sure?'

For a moment, Saul frowned, and then he spoke quietly. ‘They're not mistaking first-time sex for rape, Tony. This creep did something to her. I don't know what – maybe he made her suck him first, maybe penetration was pretty brutal. That's what they're not telling us
or
the press. It's why I asked for the autopsy report and why they wouldn't give it up.'

Mind reeling, Tony folded his hands in front of him, sickened. In that moment, all that he could think of was how much he hated the man who had done this to Alison – the things he knew too well, the things he could only imagine. Tonelessly, he asked, ‘Why not just say what happened to her?'

‘Because whatever her body told them, only they and the murderer know. They want to keep it that way. Morelli's hoping the case will get better, making damn sure he doesn't step on it somehow.' Saul ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I'll try to open his mind a little. Especially about the kind of person who strangled Alison and did whatever else to her that the police, and maybe the Taylors, are keeping to themselves. He could be a repeater, Tony. I should know – I've defended three of them. One of mine's out and running around, God help the world. And so may
this
one be.

‘I'm going to ask my friend Morelli to access any sex-crime file he can, looking for anyone like that who was anywhere close to here this fall.' Saul paused, eyes narrowing. ‘This morning Morelli wouldn't tell me a goddamn thing. So we'll just have to wait them out.'

‘How long will that be?'

‘As long as he wants. There's no statute of limitations on murder.' Saul turned to him again. ‘I guess you know things won't be the same for a while. A lot of people live in a town like this because they want to feel safe, to keep their kids away from people they're afraid of for some reason – blacks, Jews, whatever. When a girl like Alison Taylor dies, it tells them they're not safe after all. That makes them fearful, and angry. Somehow you're going to have to ride that out. Are you prepared for that?'

‘I'm not sure.' In his despair, Tony thought of his mother: fearful as
she
was, the one person she always had believed in was Tony himself. Tony would be like Bill Bradley, she told him, the Princeton basketball player and Rhodes scholar she had read about in
Look
magazine – the one they already mentioned for President. Abruptly, Tony realized he had come to believe that he was special; that if he worked hard and lived right, the world would reward him. ‘Do you know,' he asked Ravin, ‘what my mom used to tell me every night when I was a kid? “Every day, with God's help, you can make your life better and better.”'

Ravin gave him a look of irony and understanding. Not unkindly, he said, ‘Your mother probably didn't dwell on this small piece of history, but as late as this century, some of your Polish Catholic ancestors used to make their lives a little better by bludgeoning my Jewish ancestors to death. Many of those who led pogroms were frightened, of course – they thought that Jews were devils. But that's what inspired Grandfather Ravinsky to emigrate. In Poland, being an outsider could mean death.

‘Suddenly you're not just Catholic, Tony, but a real outsider – someone people are afraid of. And yet
you
know that
you're
no different – only their perception is. Learn from that, if you can.' Another faint smile. ‘Knowing that Sol Ravinsky's grandson will not let them make you the centerpiece of their personal pogrom.'

Tony tried to picture his next weeks and months at school – perhaps charged with murder, perhaps just waiting. With real bitterness, he said, ‘Easy for you to call this a learning experience. What's to learn from those pictures, Saul? What's to learn from people thinking I did
that
?'

Saul drew a breath. ‘Maybe that the world is unfair, and not only to you. Maybe just to rely on yourself and not on a round of applause.' He put a hand on Tony's shoulder. ‘What is it you want, Tony?'

‘Now? For this to go away. For Alison to be waiting by my locker when I go back to school tomorrow.'

‘I mean before this. When Alison was alive.'

It seemed like years ago, Tony thought. Finally, he said, ‘To go to Harvard. To get a scholarship – God knows I'll need it now. To live in a bigger place than this one.'

Saul looked at him keenly. ‘What else?'

Tony's mind went blank; when the answer came to him, he was too embarrassed to say it aloud. ‘What is it?' Ravin asked.

Tony faced him. ‘I wanted to beat Sam Robb. To the Athlete of the Year.'

Saul grasped Tony's shoulders, gazing intently into his eyes. ‘Then make sure that you do those things. Make
sure
.' His voice softened.

‘Don't let this murderer – these cops, these people – take that from you too.'

‘Killer . . .'

There were six seconds to play, and Lake City was tied with Riverwood at forty-two all. Both basketball teams were mediocre; by now, late January, the only thing at stake was pride. But the Lake City gym was packed: the home side because it was Riverwood, the Riverwood side because they wanted revenge. And now they had something to shout about.

‘
Killer
 . . .'

Tony Lord was about to shoot two free throws.

He stood at the foul line, the players in blue and red lining both sides of the basket, ready to fight for the ball if Tony missed the second shot.

Bending forward, Tony took a deep breath. The Riverwood chant grew rhythmic.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Tony took the ball from the referee. He gazed at the basket, trying to ignore the crowd.

After all, Tony told himself, he should be used to this.

For many at Saint Raphael, Tony had admitted his guilt; it was widely noted that he no longer took Communion, and his fellow parishioners assumed – correctly – that he had refused to make an act of contrition. His father was ashamed, his mother frightened for his soul. One Sunday after Tony had refused to go to Mass, Father Quinn came to see him.

He sat on the foot of Tony's bed; Tony stretched out, back to the wall, arms behind his head, gazing at his longtime priest with an indifference he did not feel. ‘You didn't give me much choice,' Tony said. ‘If I believe what you told me that day, Alison may be burning in Hell this minute, for the terrible sin of
not
believing. So I've decided not to, either.'

‘Anthony,' the priest said softly, ‘I advised you to pray for her soul –'

‘And I do, Father. All the time.'

Father Quinn blinked; beneath the red-gray crew cut, the seamed face for once looked, instead of severe, stricken by his failure to reach this boy who was his charge. For a moment, Tony felt sorry for him.

‘Your parents,' the priest ventured, ‘are worried for you.'

‘So am I. I may be charged with murder.'

‘For your
soul
, Tony. And because people who wish to believe in you are puzzled by your actions.'

Tony felt the burden of this; he wanted to respond with ridicule, and found that he could not. Finally, he said, ‘But I can't please other people by returning to a church whose answers I won't accept. Even for my parents' sake.'

The priest drew in a sharp breath, hollowing his gaunt cheeks. ‘Who are you to decide when the Church pleases
you
?'

That was right, the believing part of Tony felt: compared to his faith, he was insignificant, driven by the sin of pride.

‘This defiance, Anthony, is in itself a sin.'

Tony stood abruptly, opening his bedroom door, as much to protect himself as to dismiss the priest.

‘
Killer, killer, killer
 . . .'

Much of the school thought he was.

His return was eerie. Someone had painted flowers on Alison's locker; on his own locker, before he took it down, was Alison's year-book picture, with ‘How could you?' printed across it. Timidly, some people offered sympathy; except for Sam, the basketball team simply tried to act like nothing had happened, as if the coaches had lectured them on how to handle this. Others avoided him, the more so as weeks passed with no other suspect, and Tony could not talk about the murder. He had been a leader, Tony realized, in part because he had never looked to see who was following – he had no gift for seeking sympathy, or explaining how much the death of Alison, devastating beyond anything he could express, had driven him deep within himself. Few could see how much pain he felt, or that it never left him.

‘A lot of people think you're guilty,' Mary Jane Kulas informed him. ‘Why are you being such a snob?'

She had chosen to confront him as he walked into the lunchroom. The attitude she took was of a friend expressing hard truths; her intensity and manner reminded Tony of a stage actress playing to the balcony. Her aquiline face was chiding, and her blond shag haircut bobbed as she spoke. ‘No matter what happened between us,' she went on, ‘I'm telling you what the people who still care about you are afraid to say. Maybe they'll forgive you if you show you're sorry about how you've acted.'

In his dismay, Tony saw this was her revenge. ‘How have I acted?' he managed to say. ‘All I've been doing is trying to keep my grades up, get the scholarship I need –'

‘That's just it.' Her voice became officious. ‘You're thinking about yourself, like you don't care what people think. To be honest, it makes them wonder.'

All around them, Tony saw other students looking up from their lunch tables. Filled with humiliation and despair, Tony wanted to shout his innocence. Then he saw Sue Cash, sitting with her girlfriends across the room, a silent message of encouragement in her eyes.

He turned back to Mary Jane. ‘Could you tell these people something for me?'

Mary Jane gave a nod. ‘All right.'

He raised his voice just loud enough for the nearest table to hear. ‘Tell them that Alison was the best thing that ever happened to
me
, and that what happened to
her
was the worst. Ask them to be as understanding as you've just been.'

It took a moment for the outraged hurt to register in Mary Jane's cornflower-blue eyes, and then Tony saw the deeper hurt he had caused her.

‘Tony?' someone asked.

When he turned, Sue touched his elbow. ‘Can you have lunch with us?' Her smile, like her question, ignored Mary Jane.

Tony faced Mary Jane. ‘I'm sorry,' he said softly, and turned away.

As they walked to Sue's table, she whispered to Tony, ‘That wasn't very nice.'

‘Mary Jane, or me?'

Sue glanced up at him. ‘You,' she said with some asperity. ‘Mary Jane's a very caring person. From now on, you should try to be more like her.'

Sue's unexpected sarcasm so relieved his tension that Tony laughed aloud. People turned again, perhaps wondering how Tony Lord could laugh. . . .

‘
Killer, killer, killer
 . . .'

He could not escape it. Dana would come to school to question someone about Alison or Tony, then silently appear at basketball practice, watching Tony from the stands. When Sam remarked on this, Tony did not say much; he felt Sam waiting for him to open up to him. But Tony did not wish to talk about how he felt – not just on Saul's advice but because it made him feel worse, even hopeless. This shadowed his time with Sam and Sue. When they went to see
The Graduate
– which, as far as Tony could see, was about a girl who dumped her dorky boyfriend to run off with a lesser dork who'd been fucking her mother – Alison was as palpable as the empty space next to Tony, the void they never talked about but always felt. Tony had no heart for dating: even if he had felt like it, many parents would not have let their daughters go out with him, and any girl who did might have been chastised for sharing in Tony's callousness. He could not have borne this – the Taylors had done enough.

The
Lake City Weekly
, of which they were principal owners, demanded to know why Tony had not been charged with Alison's murder. The Taylors started the ‘Alison Foundation' to support public safety for girls; its meetings became a thinly veiled excuse to pressure the police and the county prosecutor to indict Tony Lord. Mrs. Taylor had once served on the school board; the day after Tony saw the Taylors slipping in to see the principal, he was summoned to his office.