said.
“Rand
never got his name on any lists.”
“Troublemaker
lists?” said Milo.
She
nodded. “We met with Troy a couple of times, tried to get him involved with church
or sports or a hobby, but we never really connected. Then,
after . . . he must’ve mentioned us to his lawyer because she
contacted us and said it would be a great time to start counseling him
spiritually.”
Bible
in a cell. Smooth talk about sin.
“Why didn’t
you connect initially?” said Milo.
“You
know how it is. Kids don’t always take to talking.”
She
looked to me for confirmation. Before I could offer any, Milo said, “Being
arrested help Troy’s communication skills?”
She
sighed. “You think we’re naive. It’s not that we were unaware of the enormity
of what Troy had done. But we recognized that he’d also been victimized. You
met his mother, Doctor.”
“Where
is she?” I said.
“Dead,”
she said. Snapping off the word. “After Troy’s body was ready for burial, the
Chino coroner’s office contacted us. They couldn’t find Jane and we were the
only other people on his visitor list. We contacted Ms. Weider but she no
longer worked for the Public Defender. Troy’s body sat at the morgue until our
dean agreed to donate a plot in San Bernadino where some of the faculty members
are buried. We conducted a service.”
She
touched her crucifix. Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. She made no
effort to dry them. “That day. My husband and myself and Dr. Wascomb— our dean.
A beautiful, sunny day and we watched cemetery workers lower that pathetic
little coffin into the ground. A month later, Detective Kramer called us. Jane
had been found under a freeway ramp, one of those homeless encampments, wrapped
up in a sleeping bag and plastic tarp. Which is the way she always slept, so
the other homeless people didn’t think anything of it until she still hadn’t
budged by noon. She’d been stabbed sometime during the night. Whoever killed
her wrapped her back up.”
She
shuddered, pulled out the tissue paper bookmark and wiped her face.
Milo
said, “How long was that after Troy’s death?”
“Six
weeks, two months, what’s the difference? My point is, these were lost boys.
And now, Rand.”
“Any
idea who’d want to hurt Rand?”
She
shook her head.
“What
was his mood like?”
“Disoriented,
as I told you. Reeling from freedom.”
“Not
happy at all about getting out?”
“To
be honest? Not really.”
“Did
he have any plans other than getting a job?”
“We
were taking things slowly. Helping him settle in.”
“Could
we see his room?”
“Sure,”
she said. “Such as it is.”
* * *
We
followed her through a compact, tidy living room; a dim galley kitchen and
eating area; then a low, narrow corridor. One bedroom, the master, with barely
enough room for the furniture that filled it. A single bathroom served the
entire house.
At
the end of the hall was a windowless space, eight-foot square. Cherish Daney
said, “This is it.”
Cheap
paneling covered the walls. Capped off pipes sprouted from the vinyl floor.
Milo
said, “This used to be a laundry room?”
“Service
porch. We moved the washer and dryer outside.”
A
framed Bible scene— Nordic Solomon and two Valkyrian women claiming motherhood
of the same fat, blond infant— hung over a foldable cot. A white plastic lamp
sat on a raw wood nightstand. Milo opened the drawers. Well-thumbed Bible on
top, nothing in the bottom.
A
dented footlocker served as a closet. Inside were two white T-shirts, two blue
work shirts, a pair of blue jeans.
Cherish
Daney said, “We never even got a chance to buy him clothes.”
We
walked back to the front of the house. She peered through a window. “Here’s my
husband. I’d better go help him.”
CHAPTER 14
D rew Daney came through the gateway gripping two large
bags of groceries in each arm. An even larger mesh sack filled with oranges
dangled from his right thumb.
Cherish
took the
“Rand
never got his name on any lists.”
“Troublemaker
lists?” said Milo.
She
nodded. “We met with Troy a couple of times, tried to get him involved with church
or sports or a hobby, but we never really connected. Then,
after . . . he must’ve mentioned us to his lawyer because she
contacted us and said it would be a great time to start counseling him
spiritually.”
Bible
in a cell. Smooth talk about sin.
“Why didn’t
you connect initially?” said Milo.
“You
know how it is. Kids don’t always take to talking.”
She
looked to me for confirmation. Before I could offer any, Milo said, “Being
arrested help Troy’s communication skills?”
She
sighed. “You think we’re naive. It’s not that we were unaware of the enormity
of what Troy had done. But we recognized that he’d also been victimized. You
met his mother, Doctor.”
“Where
is she?” I said.
“Dead,”
she said. Snapping off the word. “After Troy’s body was ready for burial, the
Chino coroner’s office contacted us. They couldn’t find Jane and we were the
only other people on his visitor list. We contacted Ms. Weider but she no
longer worked for the Public Defender. Troy’s body sat at the morgue until our
dean agreed to donate a plot in San Bernadino where some of the faculty members
are buried. We conducted a service.”
She
touched her crucifix. Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. She made no
effort to dry them. “That day. My husband and myself and Dr. Wascomb— our dean.
A beautiful, sunny day and we watched cemetery workers lower that pathetic
little coffin into the ground. A month later, Detective Kramer called us. Jane
had been found under a freeway ramp, one of those homeless encampments, wrapped
up in a sleeping bag and plastic tarp. Which is the way she always slept, so
the other homeless people didn’t think anything of it until she still hadn’t
budged by noon. She’d been stabbed sometime during the night. Whoever killed
her wrapped her back up.”
She
shuddered, pulled out the tissue paper bookmark and wiped her face.
Milo
said, “How long was that after Troy’s death?”
“Six
weeks, two months, what’s the difference? My point is, these were lost boys.
And now, Rand.”
“Any
idea who’d want to hurt Rand?”
She
shook her head.
“What
was his mood like?”
“Disoriented,
as I told you. Reeling from freedom.”
“Not
happy at all about getting out?”
“To
be honest? Not really.”
“Did
he have any plans other than getting a job?”
“We
were taking things slowly. Helping him settle in.”
“Could
we see his room?”
“Sure,”
she said. “Such as it is.”
* * *
We
followed her through a compact, tidy living room; a dim galley kitchen and
eating area; then a low, narrow corridor. One bedroom, the master, with barely
enough room for the furniture that filled it. A single bathroom served the
entire house.
At
the end of the hall was a windowless space, eight-foot square. Cherish Daney
said, “This is it.”
Cheap
paneling covered the walls. Capped off pipes sprouted from the vinyl floor.
Milo
said, “This used to be a laundry room?”
“Service
porch. We moved the washer and dryer outside.”
A
framed Bible scene— Nordic Solomon and two Valkyrian women claiming motherhood
of the same fat, blond infant— hung over a foldable cot. A white plastic lamp
sat on a raw wood nightstand. Milo opened the drawers. Well-thumbed Bible on
top, nothing in the bottom.
A
dented footlocker served as a closet. Inside were two white T-shirts, two blue
work shirts, a pair of blue jeans.
Cherish
Daney said, “We never even got a chance to buy him clothes.”
We
walked back to the front of the house. She peered through a window. “Here’s my
husband. I’d better go help him.”
CHAPTER 14
D rew Daney came through the gateway gripping two large
bags of groceries in each arm. An even larger mesh sack filled with oranges
dangled from his right thumb.
Cherish
took the
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