The Truth Read Free

got him in the neck. The blood kept coming. The guy—not just a guy, a kid, younger than me—was looking at me, shaking, his eyes pleading, like he wanted to tell me something but couldn’t.
    â€œWe found the gun under his body,” Detective Fyfe says. “He must have fallen on it. So you wouldn’t have seen it after he was down.” Moving his chair closer to me, he sits again and puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Chris. Your father is still loved around here. What he did three years ago…” He hesitates, then says, “We owe him. So we’re gonna watch out for you. We’re gonna make sure this doesn’t turn into something it isn’t. But it’s important what you say to the assistant DA when she’s here. And how you say it. You need to be consistent. She’s gonna ask why you chose to go downstairs with a gun rather than call the police right away, especially since there was a phone right in your mom’s room. But you said it yourself. You weren’t sure; it could have been nothing. You took the gun because that was what your father would have wanted you to do. Watch out for your ten-year-old brother. You’re only sixteen yourself. Not too many adults would be brave enough to do what you did.
    â€œOnce you were in the kitchen, you hardly had time to react. There he was, pointing a gun at you, and you fired; you had to fire. Self-defense, plain and simple.” Detective Fyfe leans in, lowers his voice. “But you don’t have to make a big deal about not seeing the gun for sure. It was there; we found it. All you have to say is, he turned, pointed his gun, so you shot him. You saw how bad he was hurt and called 911 right away. Okay?”
    I take a deep, shuddery breath and nod. He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay.”
    He moves away like he might leave but stops, turns back, and stares at me a moment. “You don’t really remember me, do you?” he says.
    I hesitate. “No. I…I’m sorry.”
    â€œThat’s all right. I was already a detective when your dad died. I tried to get him to take the detective’s exam after me, told him he’d ace it. But he wanted to stay in uniform. Said he loved it. When we were both patrolmen, I remember you running around your backyard at the barbecues he’d throw. You were four, five years old.
    â€œAfter the funeral, I spoke to you at your house, shook your hand, but I’m sure you had too much to deal with.” He hesitates, sighs. “He was a great guy, your dad. What he did… He’s a hero. A lot of us still miss him.”
    Suddenly, I remember this guy. Can see him standing tall in front of me, hand extended, one of the many firm, solemn handshakes I’d gotten the day of Dad’s funeral. Just another cop telling me how sorry he was.
    Except that, when Mom left for a moment to take Devon to the bathroom—Devon had been very needy that day and refused to let Mom out of his sight—he leaned down close to me and said in a quiet, tense voice no one else could hear, “Don’t worry, son. The punk who did this is gonna pay.” Then he had straightened, tousled my hair, smiled, and said, “Don’t let your mom down. You’re the man of the house now.”
    â€œI’m gonna see if your mom’s here,” he says now, back at the table. “And I’ll get Devon and bring him in. You can have a few minutes till the ADA arrives. Your mom can stay during the questioning but not your brother. He’ll be questioned on his own, after you. But your mom can be with him as well.”
    â€œWho was he?” I ask. “The…the kid…”
    Detective Fyfe looks at me. “The intruder you mean. Don’t worry about that right now.”
    â€œI…I’m just…”
    â€œDon’t worry about it.” One more time he puts a hand on my