Justice

“Bring him down,” Decker said. “You’ll find out.”

Anderson kneaded his hands. “Is he going to need a lawyer?”

“I can’t tell you that until I’ve talked to Steven.”

The man turned to his wife. “Get him down here.”

She obeyed without question. A minute later, a compact boy entered the room. He wore a tank shirt and shorts, the muscles and veins of his arms and legs inflating the skin like stuffed sausages. He wasn’t bad-looking—dark curly hair like Dad, square face and a strong chin. But his complexion was bad, acne pitting his cheeks.

“Sit down,” Anderson ordered his son.

The boy rubbed his nose and sat.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Peter Decker—”

“He’s from Homicide, Steven. What the hell is going on?”

“Homi …” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Dad, I … I … I …”

Decker said, “Mr. Anderson, please sit down and let me ask the questions.”

Reluctantly, Anderson sat down. Decker thought a moment, wondering how to play it. Straightforward came to mind. Eyes on Steven, he took out the Polaroids and spread them on the glass coffee table. The boy took a look, jerked his head back, and turned white. The missus gasped. The old man froze.

Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Steve?”

In the background, Decker heard a dry heave. Susan had run out of the room. Decker returned his attention to Steve. The boy had his massive arms wrapped around his barrel chest. “It’s … it’s … Cheryl, isn’t it?”

“Cheryl who?”

“Cheryl Diggs.”

Decker regarded the boy. “Do you need a glass of water, Steve?”

He nodded. Anderson screamed out, “Susan, Steve needs some water. Make it two.”

She didn’t answer. No one seemed perturbed by her lack of response.

Decker took out his notepad. “When was the last time you saw her, Steven?”

“Don’t answer that,” Anderson interrupted.

“Dad, I didn’t do any—”

“Shut up!”

“But I didn’t do—”

“I said shut up!” He turned to Decker. “We want a lawyer.”

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Steve protested. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Go to your room, Steven. Right now!”

“But—”

“NOW!” Anderson bellowed.

The boy stood, walked a couple of paces, then turned around. “No.”

Anderson stood up. “Steve, get out of here—”

“No, Dad, you get out of here. You get out of here. What the hell do you know about me? Or my friends or my life, you goddamn prick—”

“Steven—”

“Don’t you Steven me! You were never around. Only around to put me down—”

Anderson moved closer to the boy. “If you don’t shut up—”

“You shut up! I’m over eighteen, Dad. I don’t need your permission to talk. So you shut up!”

The boy gave his father a slight shove. Decker moved quickly between them and held out his arms. “BACK OFF NOW! BOTH OF YOU! BACK OFF!”

The room fell quiet except for heavy breathing. Decker seized the moment. “I need your help, Steven.”

The boy seemed suddenly deflated. He glanced at his father. That was all the room the senior Anderson needed to horn in. “You don’t have a warrant, Sergeant, I don’t want you in my house! Now, you do what you have to do, but my son isn’t talking until I’ve talked to him.”