Hollow Man (19 page)

“And you last saw him leaving for work.”

“Yes. I didn't talk to him all day, which isn't unusual. Normally we'll text to figure out dinner plans midafternoon, and he'd call from his office to let me know if he had some late meetings. But I didn't notice that he'd left his phone at home.”

“Was that unusual, for him to forget his phone?”

“I don't…I guess it's happened once before. He can be kind of scatterbrained, which I know is odd for a lawyer but…” She shrugged. “Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all. Nothing.”

Carruth hesitated. “Ma'am, excuse me for asking, but I have to. Is there any reason he might take off for a while. Y'all didn't argue or anything like that?”

“No,” she said. “Not at all, everything was fine between us. Like I said, everything seemed totally normal.”

“Yes, ma'am. And have you called hospitals or the jail to see if somehow he's at one of those places?”

“I did,” I said. “I'm a friend of theirs. I work at the DA's office, as a prosecutor. I checked the hospitals and the county jail, nothing.”

“Good. Can either of you think of anywhere he might be, anywhere he might have gone?”

We shook our heads in unison.

“No problem,” Carruth said. He tore off a page from his small notebook and handed it to Michelle. “That's the case number. If you think of anything else, just call 311 and ask for the detective in charge of the case. You can give the information to him, and if he's not available, the 311 operator will add it to the report.”

“So what happens now?” Michelle asked. “I mean, what will you do?”

“I'll write a report, put all this information in there. The report will be forwarded to a detective, I don't know who yet. He'll put out a notice on something called TCIC/NCIC, which will act as a notification system. So, if a cop pulls your husband over and runs his name, he'll show up as a missing person.”

“And then what, you'll bring him home?”

“Maybe.” Carruth shifted from foot to foot. “See, thing is, he's an adult. The officer will let him know there's a missing-person's report on him. And then, well, it's his choice what to do.”

“I don't understand.”

“If he tells the officer he's not missing, in other words he doesn't want to return home, then the officer will update the report and the detective will notify you.”

“That he was found but doesn't want to come home?”

“If that's his reaction, yes.”

Michelle's eyes widened. “So either he's dead in a ditch somewhere, or he's disappeared of his own accord. Either way, there's not much you can do to bring him home to me.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am.” From the distress on his face, I could see that Carruth hadn't given enough of these speeches to become indifferent. “I promise, we'll do what we can. I promise.”

After Officer Carruth had left, I told Michelle that I was surprised he'd not poked around the house a bit. “Probably a rookie and didn't want to upset you,” I said. “But if a man is missing, I don't know, I'd probably want to see if there are signs or indications why.”

“You think? How would he know what to look for?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes a pair of eyes from the outside can see things that might be missed by someone close to the situation.”

“Well,” she said, “you're kind of on the outside. And work in law enforcement. Would you look around, see if you see anything?”

“Sure, if you want,” I said reluctantly. “I don't want to be nosing in your stuff; you guys are my friends.”

“Gus is missing, Dom, and I've nothing to hide. Look where you want.”

“Sure, okay.”

I walked slowly up the stairs, keeping my eyes peeled. I was looking, of course, because the things that would explain missing Gus to her would explain them to me. And I knew there was a good chance I'd want to see them before she, or a cop, did. The fact that he'd not left a note, or sent one, was good. I tried to quell the frustration growing inside me. It had been a long time since my recklessness had pushed events out of my control, potentially beyond the point of redemption. A very long time because I'd learned that even recklessness can be channeled, and redemption wasn't necessary if it was
channeled into doing something good, or if someone else was there to take the fall.

My parents sent me to boarding school when I was ten, not because I was a bad kid but because it was the done thing, the expected thing in my family. My father and his brothers had gone when they were six, my grandfather, too. But, even though it was a family tradition, the looks of relief they wore as they hugged me and drove away from Maidstone Hall Preparatory School were unmistakable. I actually didn't mind. Growing up on a farm is hard for a kid who experiments with animals. And for a kid who has no one to blame his little fires on. So to be surrounded by wide-eyed little boys and teachers all too eager to bring out their canes was something to appreciate. The school itself was in the Scottish highlands, a rugged and often desolate place, but since I was familiar with the countryside and pretty much immune to atmosphere, I felt at home much quicker than most.

One time, in the dormitory just before lights-out, one of the kids was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I had the idea to give him an apple-pie bed, to short-sheet him. Two other boys thought it a splendid idea and leaped into action, stripping away his top sheet and folding up the lower one, then remaking the bed with military perfection. They landed on their own beds just as he came through the door. I'd suggested this particular victim not because I didn't like him but because I knew how he'd react. His name was Faisal, and he was the nephew of a Saudi prince. He and his little brother, Hakim, shared the same sense of entitlement—and the same hair-trigger temper. When they didn't get their way, or if someone didn't accord them the respect they felt they deserved, they would explode, fists flailing, screaming bloody murder. Hilarious if you weren't the subject of their anger.

We heard the headmaster in the dorm next door, so Faisal hopped straight into bed, jamming his feet down under the sheets. It took him a split second to realize what had happened, but when
he did, and when he looked up and saw us all snorting with laughter, his face darkened and the lid blew off.

“Who did this? Who did this?” he repeated over and over. When no one answered, he leaped out of bed and to the enormous chest of drawers that held our clean underwear and socks. On top were each boy's hairbrush and nail-scissors. He grabbed a pair of scissors and went straight for the kid laughing the hardest, Michael Moxon. Before Moxy knew it, a pair of scissors was sticking out of his shoulder. Our rugby captain and the toughest kid in the school, this merely served to annoy him, and he went for Faisal with a howl as we sat on our beds, gawking.

In seconds, the headmaster burst through the door.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded, his face as red as I'd ever seen it.

Faisal and Moxy got up off the floor, the former with a sulky, don't-you-dare-berate-me look, the latter with a pair of nail scissors still protruding from his shoulder. And what happened next was probably the first sign I'd become a lawyer, because when Faisal had explained about his apple-pie bed, as if that was the worst thing that could happen to a boy, the headmaster swiveled on his heels, glaring around the room.

“Who did that to his bed?” he growled.

Understand that there was a code of honor at Maidstone. You could misbehave, you could be naughty, but if your mischief was uncovered, you were expected to own up. No one would ever squeal on you, but you absolutely had to own up—not doing so wasn't an option. Not even for me.

So I parsed his words. “Who
did
that to his bed?” was the question. Not
Whose idea was that?
Not
Who suggested that?
And so I didn't put up my hand. It wasn't just about avoiding the cane. It was about not getting caught, about avoiding the opprobrium that comes with sinning. It was an aversion far more powerful than any fear of pain.

Jeremy Gorst and Anthony de Kruyff put up their hands, spindly arms poking up out of flannel pajamas, and were sent downstairs to wait outside the headmaster's study, which was directly below us. Faisal was ordered to escort his victim to the matron, a burly Scottish woman who lingered a little too long and offered a little too much help on our bath nights.

When the headmaster stalked out, we lay in anxious anticipation. There was only one penalty facing those two boys, and our dormitory lay directly above the HM's study. We whispered among ourselves, wondering how many they'd get. And as we listened to the cane swish through the air, as we heard the crack of it down below us, I looked around at the awe and terror on the faces of the other boys, like unwilling witnesses to an execution. And I looked long and hard into their eyes to see whether they blamed me for this or whether I'd gotten away with it.

The real test was when Gorst and de Kruyff returned. Both sported red-rimmed eyes, but only de Kruyff was still sniveling. Matron, of course, was on hand to inspect the damage, to oversee the ritual showing-off of the marks. She always managed to be there for that. And as she supervised the lowering of the pajama bottoms, I waited for recriminations from either boy, for dirty looks or a
Why didn't you own up?
I got none. No, they were too busy recounting what it was like and how they managed to hold position to their admiring colleagues, and, for a few fleeting seconds, I experienced envy at the attention they were getting. When their tale was over and they'd slid into bed, my role in the caper seemed to have been forgotten. So, as Matron flicked off the light on her way out, all I felt was the thrill of having instigated the crime, and gotten away with it, free and clear.

As I walked into Michelle and Gus's large bedroom, though, I remembered how Gorst and de Kruyff had taken the fall for me. Sure, they'd been guilty, but morally and legally I was in it with them. This time, though, I wasn't interested in seeing someone else
take the fall, especially my friend Gus. For one thing, he wasn't guilty. For another, I had no doubt at all that if he wound up on a hard chair in a small room, an experienced detective would have a field day with him. Maybe Gus would exercise his right to silence, but he'd realize pretty damn quick that the cops would be far more interested in his testimony than in pinning a crime on him that he didn't commit. Sooner or later, he'd tell all.

Easier for Gus, though, to avoid the whole situation. To pack a bag and head to his home country and disappear among the brown-skinned locals and the sun-seeking gringos. So that's where I checked first, his closet.

I looked for a row of empty hangers, for a stack of matching suitcases with one missing. Instead, I saw the three Hawaiian shirts he'd rotated, day after day, on the cruise I'd shared with him and Michelle. I saw a pair of flip-flops and only two empty hangers. I saw no sign he'd packed and left of his own accord.

I checked the bathroom next, opening the cabinet above his sink. I turned when I heard Michelle's voice.

“I did that already,” she said.

“You looked in here?”

“Toothbrush is there. So's his razor, shaving cream, and deodorant.” He could buy all that stuff new, and she realized that. “He loves that razor, I'm sure he'd have…”

“All his stuff looks like it's here,” I said. “Honestly, Michelle, I have a really strong feeling that he's fine. He loves you so much, and…” I cut myself off. “Of course, his guitar. Is that here? He's like me, he'd never go anywhere without his guitar.”

“I know.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It's the only thing that's missing.”

On Monday morning, I went to work as normal. It wasn't supposed to be my day in court, but Brian McNulty had called in sick, and Maureen Barcinski asked me to cover his docket.

“It's a short one, about four cases. Most are just reviews requested by probation. I think there's one case set for a plea, but Brian put notes in the system, so just follow his instructions.”

I carried my computer into court, barely paying attention to the proceedings. The best thing about being a juvenile prosecutor was that most of the action went on around you, judges and probation officers deciding the fate of the miscreant while we sat to one side and took notes. We only got really busy when a kid killed someone or committed some other kind of crime that caught the public's eye. That was pretty rare, and in my few weeks at juvie, the place had been unutterably dull. Note taking and a pretense at caring, those seemed to be the job requirements. Two things I could manage quite well.

My head snapped up when the judge called the case that was set for a plea. I'd not noticed the lawyer, a public defender, and his client set up at the defense table. I looked across to see Bobby staring straight ahead, smartly dressed and his back ramrod straight, as if he was trying not to look terrified.

“Is the State ready?” the judge said. She was looking at me like she'd said it a few times already, and maybe she had.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, standing. I glanced over my shoulder,
a rush of excitement that I might see little Bobby's sister. She was at the back of the courtroom, studiously ignoring me, but I had trouble dragging my eyes from that pure-white skin, the hair I could almost smell from where I stood.

“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Prosecutor,” the judge said, a half smile on her face. Judge Barbara Portnoy had been a prosecutor once, and I think sympathized with the marginalized essence of prosecuting juveniles, the lack of any meaningful involvement. She bought into the idea that kids needed to be rehabilitated and not punished, no doubt about that, but she understood the frustration for us, seeing the same kids spinning through the system time and time again. And it irked her that so often the victims of these little hoodlums were left with no justice and, to them even worse, the financial burden of these potential angels stealing their stuff and crashing their cars. So she cut me and the other ADAs a lot of slack and threw us frequent pitying smiles as she sentenced the next serial burglar to serve six months of probation, at home. With counseling.

“My apologies, judge,” I said. “I was looking over the notes for this case—it's Mr. McNulty's.”

“We have a plea agreement?” the judge asked, looking at defense counsel.

“We do,” Derek James replied wearily. “We'd love to avoid the felony, but, given my client's history, I understand why Mr. McNulty declined to waive the burglary paragraph.”

“Your client's mother, or father, not coming?” Judge Portnoy asked.

“No, Judge,” James said. “That's Bobby's sister at the back of the room. She basically raises him.”

I glanced over my shoulder again and saw her give the judge a sad smile, which she held on to for my sake.

“Your Honor,” I said, back on my feet. “I've looked on our system at Bobby's history. It doesn't look all that bad to me. Nothing violent, and he completed a period of deferred prosecution for his previous offense without any issues. As far as I can tell, anyway.”

“Meaning?” The
judge cocked her head and stared at me.

“I know a felony's harder to get off your record, and he's only twelve. Seems like a fair resolution would be a plea to a lesser-included. Maybe criminal trespass of a habitation.”

James about swallowed his tongue. “Your Honor, I'd have to consult with my client, but I'd certainly advise him to take such a generous offer.”

“This isn't your case, counselor,” the judge said to me. “Are you sure you can make that offer?”

“Yes, judge, absolutely.”

I wasn't sure that was true at all. When there was a victim, we were supposed to consult with them before any reduction of the charge. When it was someone else's case, we were supposed to check with the ADA who it belonged to, or Maureen, before reducing it from a felony to a misdemeanor. I hadn't done either, of course, but with a vulnerable and potentially grateful young lady sitting three rows behind me, the benefits seemed to considerably outweigh any likely fallout. And if one impetuous act gave me a sliver of power over Bobby's glorious sister and also pissed off Brian McNulty, so much the better. I didn't stop to think that people might figure out who his sister was, that I might be committing a crime by handling the case of a kid whose sister I was in lust with. Never mind the capital murder, I'd just placed my career on the sharp end of a small act of self-interest. I was manipulating the resolution of a case purely to further my own ends.

Morally dubious, of course, and something the American Bar Association forbade, through Standard 3-1.3, Conflicts of Interest, subsection (f): “A prosecutor should not permit his or her professional judgment or obligations to be affected by his or her own political, financial, business, property, or personal interests.”

“Good, then that's what we'll do,” said Judge Portnoy, giving me a grateful nod before putting on her formal voice. “Calling case number JV-45-969, In the Matter of Bobby…”

“Thank you,” she said, with a slight smile and a single bat of the eyelashes. She turned to her brother. “Bobby…”

“Thanks, Mr. Dominic,” he said, his voice small and his eyes downcast. “I really appreciate it.”

We were in the main reception area, packed with probation officers and parents, juvenile delinquents and witnesses, all milling around. It wasn't unheard of for a kid's relative to thank a prosecutor, if they'd been given a break. But if we hung around and chatted, curious eyes would lead to awkward questions.

“You're welcome,” I said. “Your new PO is probably waiting for you; maybe best not to say anything about knowing me.”

Bobby looked up. “I'm not dumb.”

“I know. Just…We probably shouldn't be chatting. I better get back to my office.”

She put a hand on my arm and spoke quietly. “Call me.”

I nodded and wandered away toward safety, the security door leading into the DA's office. Standing by it, looking directly at me, was Maureen. “What was that about?” she asked.

“She was saying thanks. I felt bad for them. That was the kid's sister, and from what the PO said, she's basically raising him by herself. They live in a shitty part of town and no parents in sight. PO said he's basically a good kid with some questionable friends, so I gave him a break on his burglary case.”

“A break?”

“Yeah, pled him to a criminal trespass.”

“You run that by Brian?”

“Brian, as you well know, is an idiot.”

She smiled, but like she was trying not to. “Fine. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Yep, fine.”

“Good. I'm headed downtown for a meeting. If anyone needs me, tell them I'll be back tomorrow. And I'll check e-mail tonight.”

“Sure. Doing something fun?”

“A meeting. There's an investigation, they think it might be kids so they want to make sure they have their juvenile ducks in a row, in case they arrest someone. Detectives, and patrol, often fuck up when they arrest juveniles, so we're making sure they know to not question them until they're magistrated. More of a training than a meeting, maybe.” She sighed. “Anyway, this is one case they don't want fucked up.”

“Oh? One I've heard of?”

“I expect so. The capital murder at the mobile-home park, a couple weeks back.”

I didn't miss a beat. “Yeah, I read about it.”

“Nasty business. They think maybe kids are responsible, but they're not sure.”

“They don't have any suspects?”

“No. It happened pretty quickly, and in the dark. Plus, out there people don't much like talking to the cops.”

“East Austin, right?”

“Yep,” she said. “But far east, kind of in the sticks almost.”

“Good place to commit a crime, then.”

“Maybe. But they'll catch them, is my bet. There aren't too many unsolved murders these days, especially double homicides.”

“You might be right about that.”

“I am. Plus, they have some evidence.”

“They do?”

“Yeah. The gun that was used, that killed those guys. They think they've found it.”