you forgot, I got a funeral to plan.’
‘I understand that. There will be time. There will be an autopsy. I’m really urging you to use this time to think hard about how you want us to proceed.’
I left her alone – not strictly true, since a uniformed officer would have remained in the room – but essentially alone, to plan her next move. I walked down the corridor toward the staff canteen. I had the feeling, or maybe I’d been told, that Harley would be there. Now, as a rule, the courts don’t let cops like me interview little kids. You’ve got to have a specialist and the whole thing has to be strictly regulated. Kids have a tendency to tell adults what they think they want to hear and, besides that, who knows what goes on in the brain of a three-year-old? They can sense trouble as well as the older kids, and they’re keen to dodge it, like anyone is. TheirAchilles heel – if you want to call it that – is that they don’t self-censor. They aren’t cautious. The other thing is, if they’re conditioned to lie – and a lot of kids we deal with are conditioned to lie – you can catch them out pretty quick. Their made-up stories have a fantastic quality. They keep adding details, stuff that doesn’t fit, and the whole thing soon unravels, and you think, ‘Bingo!’ And then the counsellors come in and say it’s all inadmissible because you tried to trick the kid or something.
I figured it would be all right to have an informal chat, though. Harley had a social worker with him. I’d make like I was gathering information about the attacker, and nothing to use in court.
The moment I entered the canteen, the counsellor said, ‘This isn’t official, right?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m just up for a chat.’
Harley was like every three-year-old you’ve ever seen. He was moving around the unfamiliar room, examining coffee cups and reaching for the sugar spoon so he could stick it in his mouth.
I said, ‘Harley, can you sit here?’ I held a chair out for him. He wandered over, climbed up on it and sat down, his feet swinging.
I said, ‘Harley, we need to ask you about what happened yesterday.’
He didn’t say anything. I continued, ‘Harley, your mum has told us that a man bashed you and your brother.’
‘Jacob was bashed by a man,’ he said, happily enough. He wasn’t being flippant – what does a three-year-old know of flippant? – he was merely uninterested. He’d answered these questions before. He couldn’t see why it was important. He was looking at the ceiling, looking at the walls, wondering when he might be able to get up and resume exploring the room.
I said, ‘Harley, did somebody hurt Jacob?’
He said, ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Jacob got bashed by a man.’
He inched forward in the plastic chair, moving on his buttocks, the way kids do, shuffling until his feet touched the floor. Then, before I could stop him, he was out of the chair and making his way toward some new object of interest. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to touch him, but I couldn’t help myself. I rose and ruffled his hair – I swear, it was irresistible, that hair – and left the room.
I saw no value in tracking down Hayley. How old was she? Eighteen months? She couldn’t even talk. But I did want to give Lisa more time to come to her senses. So, rather than go back to the interview room, I tracked down Lauren. After all, she was six years old. If something had happened in the house on DeCastella Drive, as opposed to in the school, she would have to know about it.
Almost by accident, I found her in the corridor. Shewas in the company of another counsellor. What can I say about how she appeared? I’ve thought about that so many times. Was she distraught? I don’t think she was, not then, anyway. She was quite interested in what was going on around her. The events of the previous day – the police and the ambulance – would have been pretty exciting, and now she was being treated the way kids
‘I understand that. There will be time. There will be an autopsy. I’m really urging you to use this time to think hard about how you want us to proceed.’
I left her alone – not strictly true, since a uniformed officer would have remained in the room – but essentially alone, to plan her next move. I walked down the corridor toward the staff canteen. I had the feeling, or maybe I’d been told, that Harley would be there. Now, as a rule, the courts don’t let cops like me interview little kids. You’ve got to have a specialist and the whole thing has to be strictly regulated. Kids have a tendency to tell adults what they think they want to hear and, besides that, who knows what goes on in the brain of a three-year-old? They can sense trouble as well as the older kids, and they’re keen to dodge it, like anyone is. TheirAchilles heel – if you want to call it that – is that they don’t self-censor. They aren’t cautious. The other thing is, if they’re conditioned to lie – and a lot of kids we deal with are conditioned to lie – you can catch them out pretty quick. Their made-up stories have a fantastic quality. They keep adding details, stuff that doesn’t fit, and the whole thing soon unravels, and you think, ‘Bingo!’ And then the counsellors come in and say it’s all inadmissible because you tried to trick the kid or something.
I figured it would be all right to have an informal chat, though. Harley had a social worker with him. I’d make like I was gathering information about the attacker, and nothing to use in court.
The moment I entered the canteen, the counsellor said, ‘This isn’t official, right?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m just up for a chat.’
Harley was like every three-year-old you’ve ever seen. He was moving around the unfamiliar room, examining coffee cups and reaching for the sugar spoon so he could stick it in his mouth.
I said, ‘Harley, can you sit here?’ I held a chair out for him. He wandered over, climbed up on it and sat down, his feet swinging.
I said, ‘Harley, we need to ask you about what happened yesterday.’
He didn’t say anything. I continued, ‘Harley, your mum has told us that a man bashed you and your brother.’
‘Jacob was bashed by a man,’ he said, happily enough. He wasn’t being flippant – what does a three-year-old know of flippant? – he was merely uninterested. He’d answered these questions before. He couldn’t see why it was important. He was looking at the ceiling, looking at the walls, wondering when he might be able to get up and resume exploring the room.
I said, ‘Harley, did somebody hurt Jacob?’
He said, ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Jacob got bashed by a man.’
He inched forward in the plastic chair, moving on his buttocks, the way kids do, shuffling until his feet touched the floor. Then, before I could stop him, he was out of the chair and making his way toward some new object of interest. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to touch him, but I couldn’t help myself. I rose and ruffled his hair – I swear, it was irresistible, that hair – and left the room.
I saw no value in tracking down Hayley. How old was she? Eighteen months? She couldn’t even talk. But I did want to give Lisa more time to come to her senses. So, rather than go back to the interview room, I tracked down Lauren. After all, she was six years old. If something had happened in the house on DeCastella Drive, as opposed to in the school, she would have to know about it.
Almost by accident, I found her in the corridor. Shewas in the company of another counsellor. What can I say about how she appeared? I’ve thought about that so many times. Was she distraught? I don’t think she was, not then, anyway. She was quite interested in what was going on around her. The events of the previous day – the police and the ambulance – would have been pretty exciting, and now she was being treated the way kids
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