The Question of the Felonious Friend (8 page)

Mason shrugged. “Maybe when he was in school. My parents might have done it when he was diagnosed, but they never told me. Why?”

“I do not have an accurate answer about Tyler's IQ,” I told Hessler through the phone. “Why do you ask?”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Because the guy who shot Richard Handy was smart enough to wear a ski mask and nondescript clothes before spray painting the lenses of two security cameras when he entered the Quik N EZ,” Hessler answered. “All I've gotten from the kid is ‘nnnnnnnnn,' so I'm asking for your assessment of his intelligence. Would he have thought of that?”

“I don't know yet,” I told him, and disconnected the call. Then I turned toward Mason Clayton. “I think there is a strong possibility that your brother did not kill Richard Handy, or if he did, that he was not acting alone. Are you interested in our answering the question?”

“Actually, I think I am.”

“Then ask the question.”

Nine

“What is your first
move?” Mother asked.

It is my custom to have lunch with my mother every day at twelve thirty p.m. in our house not far from the Questions Answered office. Since much of the day had been spent dealing with Tyler Clayton, the crime scene at the Quik N EZ, and Mason Clayton's visit to our office, I had not eaten lunch at all, but had called Mother on my cellular phone—which I touched in my front pocket every few minutes to confirm its presence—and let her know I would not be able to come home at the usual time.

Now, hungry and charged with a new question to answer, I was having dinner with Mother in our kitchen. She had prepared a steak, well done as I prefer, baked potatoes, and broccoli. I am aware I should eat more vegetables and indeed a wider range of food generally, but menu additions are something of a challenge for me. The concept of “comfort food” is something I take seriously. Tonight, Mother knew I'd had a difficult day and had decided not to introduce anything unfamiliar to our evening meal.

“My first move?” I asked.

“In finding out whether your client shot that other man,” Mother said. “How will you go about doing that?”

I chewed carefully as I always do and was careful not to speak with food in my mouth, a disgusting habit I have noticed in others that I will never practice. “I have already taken a few steps in that direction,” I told Mother.

“What have you done?” Mother likes to discuss my work with me. I think she is somewhat relieved I am able to operate a business and likes to revel in the fact that it was her idea to turn my research skills into a going concern. Mother is, as with almost all people, not without some ego.

“First, I established that Mason Clayton's favorite Beatles song is ‘Fixing A Hole,'” I said.

Mother smiled. She knows I use this technique to learn something about people I have not met before, but I believe she still finds it amusing. I don't understand why; it works quite well a good percentage of the time. “And what does that tell you?” she asked.

“He is dedicated to work, somewhat practical, and perhaps a little afraid of uncontrollable impulses.”

She shook her head a little. “You get all that from a song.”

“I do, but that was not the most important development. Mason gave me the name and phone number for Tyler's therapist. Tyler had told Ms. Washburn and me that he goes to group therapy with three other people once a week.”

Mother looked concerned. “You know a therapist isn't going to discuss a client with you, Samuel. Confidentiality is very important. Dr. Mancuso doesn't even tell
me
anything about his sessions with you.”

I nodded. “I am well aware of that, Mother,” I said. I took another bite of steak, which was very well prepared (although the potato was a bit dry, but I chose not to mention that to Mother), so it was a gap of thirty-two seconds before I added, “I don't expect the therapist, Dr. Lisa Shean, to divulge any confidential information. I already know the names of the other people in Tyler's group. But I do believe I can ask questions in a general enough context that some information might be gained. But that, too, is not the most important development.”

Mother, who had made a separate smaller steak for herself that was, in my opinion, seriously undercooked, drank some water from her glass while she considered that. “Of course not. What else did you find out?”

“Tyler played Swords and Sorcerers with some people he knew online. He never met any of them, according to both Mason and his sister Sandy. But they might know more about his psychology than either of his siblings or even the people in his group. A young man like Tyler, considerably entrenched on the autism spectrum, might reveal more about himself in a safer fictional environment than in the real world. Ms. Washburn and I will definitely try to find his group online and see if any of them is in the area. They could be valuable sources of background and insight.”

Mother's eyes took on a wry quality. “But I'll bet that was not the most important development.”

I smiled. This was an inside joke between the two of us. “You know me so well.”

“Okay, I give up. What
was
the most important development of the day?”

“I discovered that Richard Handy had a police record.” I knew that was unexpected information, so I watched Mother's face. I practice interpreting facial expressions by trying to provoke one in people I know and then storing the visual data when the emotion I am trying to elicit is expressed.

I have seen Mother show most emotions, of course. But in this case, it was not a simple surprise that would be evoked; this was more in the area of a combination. Mother would show some concern, some surprise, and some worry, I would think. Facial configurations that exhibit more than one feeling at the same time are very tricky and therefore valuable to observe.

Mother's face barely registered any reaction at all. It was a great disappointment.

“Well, I would have almost expected that,” she said.

“Really?” No doubt my face was betraying more emotion than hers had. Mother had outplayed me again.

“I always know when you're testing me, Samuel,” she said. “I'm not terribly surprised about Richard. I think it's because of the way he manipulated poor Tyler. What was he arrested for before?”

My mother rarely fails to amaze me. I shook my head a little in wonder. “Not very serious crimes, but a number of them: trespassing, attempted fraud, burglary, petty theft, intention to distribute a controlled substance.”

This time Mother's eyebrows rose. “He was a drug dealer? That's not a serious crime?”

I smiled. The deception had been unintentional, but I did file her expression away. “He was reselling packs of cigarettes he had pocketed at the convenience store,” I said. “Tobacco is controlled, even if it is not illegal to sell to someone over the age of nineteen.”

Mother looked irritated. “It oughta be illegal,” she mumbled. She doesn't like it when I catch her off guard.

“Perhaps, but that is not our concern at this moment.” I finished my last bite and stood to bus the dishes off the table. If I do it quickly enough, Mother's knees prevent her from having to stand and clean the kitchen. She allows me to do so, but not always willingly. “Given that he had been involved in some criminal behavior, it is not entirely out of the question that there was a motive for Richard's shooting other than Tyler's disappointment in him.”

“Ah!” Mother stood up, a little stiffly. “I see what you're getting at. So what can you do to follow that lead?” She started toward the sink with her plate, which I intercepted as she walked.

“You know the routine,” I said. “Pardon me—the
ritual
.” When I was younger, Mother referred to my usual order of activities before bed each night as a “ritual” from which I would not deviate. “I am very rigid in my ways and will not allow for any changes.”

She put up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me,” she said and sat back down. Mother is one of the few people I know who understands my sense of humor; Ms. Washburn acknowledges it, but most others seem to believe my Asperger's Syndrome has robbed me of any comic instinct. More often than not, I try to amuse people and receive a reaction of blank stares. “What about Richard's police record?”

“Detective Hessler told me that much but was not interested in saying more,” I said. I washed our two plates and put the skillet Mother had used to cook the steaks into the sink to soak for a few minutes. “However, once Richard was no longer a minor, these transgressions became a matter of public record, so they are easier to track down. I believe my first step will be to speak to the owner of the Quik N EZ.”

Mother absorbed that, nodding. “Why him first?”

“It will be interesting to find out why the owner of a business who discovers an employee is stealing from him allows that employee to continue to work in the store.”

“He told me he didn't do it.” Mr. Raymond Robinson was a short man, only about five-foot-five by my estimation. But he stood straight with an almost military bearing that increased the illusion of height, which very well might have been his intention.

He was also, rather incongruously given the surroundings and the tasks at hand, wearing a dark gray business suit, which was almost certain to be stained or damaged. We were standing in the Quik N EZ store Mr. Robinson owned and he was about to begin cleaning up the mess left behind when Richard Handy had been shot there.

Ms. Washburn looked up from her notepad. “But you pressed charges against Richard and accused him of stealing cigarettes from behind the counter,” she pointed out.

“I dropped the charges later,” Mr. Robinson said. “The cops didn't see it that way and went ahead with prosecuting him anyway. He just got fined, didn't do any jail time. I think they were trying to find his ‘supplier,' but the supplier was the back of the store counter. Eventually even the judge lost interest and fined Richard four hundred bucks. That was it.”

The Quik N EZ was not yet open to the public. The police crime scene tape was mostly removed except in the area where the shooting had taken place, which was not where we had taken up positions. Ms. Washburn had stood—strategically, I thought—with her back to the refrigerated container where milk was normally sold.

It had a good deal of its glass missing but there were still gallons and half-gallons of milk on its shelves. The shattered glass from the contact of the bullet Richard Handy had not completely stopped with his body was more inside the container than outside, although there was some on the floor as well.

“Have the police not yet cleared the area of the shooting?” I asked. I knew the answer but wanted to hear what Mr. Robinson might say about the incident without seeming like we were investigating the crime.

I had simply called the owner of the Quik N EZ, whose name and phone number were on county records registering the business and on a number of licenses (including, ironically, the one allowing the retail outlet to sell cigarettes) and told him I was endeavoring to answer a question about Richard Handy. He asked if I was a police officer or a detective and I had quite honestly said that neither myself nor Ms. Washburn was affiliated with any law enforcement agency.

He had to come to the store anyway to better assess the damage (“The cops wouldn't let me in at all until after dark yesterday”) and to meet a representative from his insurance agency who would arrive, he said, in approximately one hour. For now he was answering our questions as if it had become a somewhat wearying but unbreakable habit.

“They said the forensics people might have more tests to do,” Mr. Robinson answered. He looked skeptical. “I don't see what the question might be. The kid walked in here with a gun and shot him a bunch of times. How complicated is that?”

“But you weren't here,” Ms. Washburn reminded him. “You didn't see it happen, and the security cameras were painted over. As far as we're aware there were no eyewitnesses. How do you know Tyler shot Richard?”

Mr. Robinson looked surprised, as if Ms. Washburn had suggested a scenario he had not considered. “The cops said that's what happened. Why?”

“Well, maybe that's
not
what happened.” Ms. Washburn didn't glance toward the crime scene, but she gestured toward it with her right hand. “Maybe someone just wants you to think that's what happened.”

“Why would they want that?”

I felt it was best to quell this exchange. Ms. Washburn was reacting emotionally because she didn't want Tyler to have killed Richard. Mr. Robinson, clearly not having considered any alternative scenarios, was simply restating what the police had told him. An escalation of this conversation was not going to serve anyone well.

“It is possible that someone else killed Richard Handy and used the best possible scapegoat, Tyler Clayton, to divert the attention of the police,” I said. Before either of them could interrupt me, I added, “We simply don't know enough yet to form a proper theory. Did you know Tyler Clayton, Mr. Robinson?”

He half shrugged. “I knew
about
him. He was this kid who used to come in every day at the same time and buy a drink or something. The guys used to talk about how he would stare at Richard. I guess maybe he had a crush on him or something. You see a lot of stuff in this business.”

“We believe that was not the case,” I told Mr. Robinson. “Were you aware that Tyler would leave Richard extravagant tips in the jar on your counter? Possibly as much as one hundred dollars a day?”

Mr. Robinson's eyes widened. I could not interpret the emotion behind the expression; it might have been amazement, fear, pain, or disgust. I made a definite note to ask Ms. Washburn for her interpretation as soon as we were out of Mr. Robinson's earshot.

“A hundred dollars?” he asked, probably in wonderment. “Why?”

“That is something else we need to discover before we can offer an informed theory,” I said.

Mr. Robinson might not have been a contemplative type, but he was not unintelligent. “What do you need to know in order to form that theory? And what question did you say you were hired to answer?” His eyes narrowed a bit, perhaps in suspicion. Again, I would check with Ms. Washburn later. Since I rarely believe myself to be the proper object of suspicion, it is sometimes difficult for me to imagine that someone would doubt what I say. I very rarely lie.

I chose to respond to Mr. Robinson's first question and hope he would forget his second, which was less simple to address. “Your security cameras were spray painted black before the shooting occurred,” I said, acting on information I'd gotten from Detective Hessler. “That seems quite out of character for the Tyler Clayton with whom we are
acquainted, and it speaks to a level of premeditation that doesn't seem to jibe with the theory that Tyler killed Richard Handy in an emotional fit, as an impulse. So to answer your question, Mr. Robinson, in order to adequately determine who killed Richard, we would do best with a witness who saw the incident. Failing that, we need some physical evidence pointing to either Tyler or someone other than Tyler. May I examine the crime scene if I promise not to cross the police line?”