It was frustrating to talk to Will Archer. Probably frustrating for Will too, but he didn’t show any signs of it. He didn’t show signs of much, really. Jericho tried talking to him in his cell, got no response, and decided to take him up to the interview room to see if a change of scenery would do any good. Will didn’t complain about being handcuffed, let himself be led, and then sat in the chair Jericho guided him to, his eyes locked on the mirror behind Jericho’s back. The public defender sat beside Will and shook her head at Jericho.
“What do you actually hope to achieve, here?” she demanded. Typical young lawyer, aggressive for no reason. “He’s mute. You’re questioning an illiterate mute. You think he’s going to confess via interpretive dance?”
“I’m not sure that would be admissible, but I’d love to see it, just for the artistic value.”
“Even if hecouldspeak, I’d be advising him not to. The prosecutor has already decided to lay charges, so what benefit could there be for my client to cooperate with you now?”
“He could exonerate himself.” Jericho turned to Will. “If you could tell us what happened the night before last, we might be able to help you.”
The lawyer leaned back in her chair, looking smug. “I’ve never had an easier client. Iknowthis one isn’t going to start blabbing and messing things up.”
Jericho pulled out the sheet of paper and crayons he’d brought in with him. It was pretty damn close to interpretive dance and he wasn’t sure if it would be admissible in court, but at least for investigative purposes it might be useful. “Could you draw me a picture, Will? Could you show me what you were doing the other night? What happened at Lorraine Mackey’s house?”
“My client will neither confirm nor deny that he was anywhere near that residence,” the lawyer said, but Jericho ignored her.
Will was still staring over Jericho’s shoulder. He’d shown no interest in the crayons or anything else since he sat down.
“You’re really good at that,” Jericho told him. “The no-eye-contact thing. I’m not bad at it myself—used to be military, went through all that ‘don’t you eyeball me’ bullshit—but I’m a rookie compared to you. But it makes it kind of hard to have a conversation, you know? Any chance you could look at me? You don’t have to talk, but you could nod or shake your head, if you wanted.”
Apparently Will didnotwant, because he didn’t shift his gaze.
Jericho had no strategies for this. He had a file of photos from the crime scene he could show a suspect, and he was pretty good at reading reactions, picking up on the tics people couldn’t control. But he’d use those clues in order to form better questions and clearer accusations, ways to shake a prisoner’s resolve and get him talking.
In this case? Will wasn’t going to talk. There would be no confession. So questioning him seemed like a waste of time.
But surely it was wrong to not even try, to not give himsomechance to defend himself against the charges.
Damn it. A noncommunicative suspect and a defense lawyer who was too green to look for compromises or take chances. Jericho was on his own with this one. He thanked the lawyer for her time and stood up. That was when Will reached for a crayon.
Jericho froze. The lawyer stretched for Will’s hand, but the man jerked it away, holding on to the crayon tightly. “Don’t take it from him,” Jericho warned her, his voice as calm as he could make it. “You’ve given your warning; he’s refused to listen. You’ve done your part, so now let him draw.”
Will seemed oblivious to their conversation. He was hunched over the paper now, the crayon held awkwardly in his hands. Two circles, then lines, black wax bold against the white printer paper. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Will was drawing.
A cartoon cat, the modified-snowman format that could be changed into a bunny with different ears and tail. A black-and-white cat. That was all. Maybe it was art therapy or something, but likely it was just a big waste of time.
Will stopped drawing, but stayed hunched over the page. Jericho and the lawyer waited, and after about thirty painful seconds, Will’s right hand snuck out and put the black crayon back on the pile. For a moment, Jericho thought art time was over, but then Will’s fingers poked through the crayons, and he lifted a new one delicately between his thumb and first finger. A red one.
Jericho and the lawyer both jumped when Will made a low growl and jerked the crayon toward his page. The strokes were wild, jagged spears of color, and Will emphasized each line with another low sound, almost a grunt. There was no pattern Jericho could see, just color, just an explosion of red covering the black-and-white picture.
The page was ripping and crumpling under the assault, and Jericho should probably take it away. The picture was evidence—evidence of something. But maybe it was also therapy, or release, or— He had no idea what the hell it was. But he left the page with Will until it was in jagged red shreds, and Will finally dropped the crayon. After a long moment of heavy breathing, he looked up, and his gaze returned to that imaginary spot over Jericho’s shoulder.
“Shit,” the lawyer whispered. “I’m not really trained for this.”
“Me neither,” Jericho admitted. “We’ve got a psychologist coming in to see him, but he should have another one from your side. And, I don’t know, maybe he should have one for treatment or something? Someone to help him deal with . . . whatever.”
“We’ve got a limited budget for an expert consultation. But we don’t pay for therapy.”
Of course they didn’t. “Will you object if we try to figure an alternative out? Try to find a way for him to, I don’t know, to get help?”
“The sheriff’s department has a budget for that sort of thing?”
“No, not that I know of. But I can try to figure something out anyway.”
She shrugged. “I’ll have to consult, see about the pros and cons. Maybe an extra confidentiality clause? I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
They both stood up this time, but Will showed no sign that he noticed. Jericho spoke his name, then laid a hand on his shoulder to urge him to his feet, but Will shrugged him off angrily. Damn it, Jericho didn’t want to have to wrestle this guy back down to his cell. “Hey, Will?” he tried. “We need to get some sweeping done downstairs. I heard you were good at sweeping, and it’s an important job. Can you come help me sweep? That’s what you do when there’s no other jobs, right? It’s time to sweep, Will.”
And, miracle of miracles, Will rose to his feet and followed Jericho out of the room.
