Free Homicide Related by Norah McClintock Page B

You don’t think that’s odd?”
    â€œNo,” Dooley said. “Like I said, Lorraine and I weren’t close. My uncle knows that.”
    â€œRight.” Randall took a sip of his coffee. “You’ve had some trouble with the law, haven’t you, Ryan?”
    Here we go, Dooley thought.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou want to tell us about that?”
    No, he didn’t. But he knew if he didn’t, they would find out anyway and wonder why Dooley didn’t just own up to it, seeing that they knew that Dooley knew they’d have no trouble checking him out, if they hadn’t already, which they probably had. Dooley gave them the two-minute rundown.
    â€œDidn’t your mother visit you?” Randall said.
    â€œNo.” What were they fishing for?
    Randall stared at him for a few moments, probably to see if he would squirm or say something to try to fill the silence. Dooley did neither.
    â€œWhere were you the night your mother died, Ryan?”
    Dooley tried not to take the question personally. His uncle had warned him the cops would want to talk to him. This was a death investigation. There were procedures. Still: “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her.”
    Randall glanced at his partner. They both stared at Dooley. Jesus, cops.
    â€œI went to the library,” Dooley said. “The one downtown.”
    Randall looked amused. “You like to go to the library, Ryan?”
    â€œI’m in school. I have homework.”
    â€œYou go with anyone?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow long were you there?”
    â€œI don’t know. A while. I was working on a homework assignment.”
    Randall grinned, as if he were picturing Dooley reading a picture book or taking notes in crayon.
    â€œWhat about after you left the library? Where did you go?”
    â€œHome.”
    â€œYeah? What time did you get there?”
    â€œEleven. Look, why are you asking all these questions?”
    â€œWe’re just trying to get a picture of what happened. Can anyone verify what time you got home?”
    Finally, his chance to shake Randall loose.
    â€œI called my uncle as soon as I got in. He keeps track of me. I’m on a supervision order. He’s got call display on his cell. He can tell you when I called and where I called from.”
    â€œDid you go out again that night?”
    â€œNo.” Jesus, why was he asking that?
    â€œCan anyone back you up on that?”
    â€œNo, I guess not.”
    Randall didn’t press the point. Instead, he said, “Where was your uncle that night?”
    â€œPlaying poker with some cop friends.”
    â€œWhen did he get home?”
    â€œI don’t know. It must have been late. I didn’t hear him come in.”
    â€œSo you have no idea when he got home?”
    â€œNo.”
    That seemed to be that. Both cops closed their notebooks. Randall’s partner went to pay for the coffee. Dooley headed for the door.
    â€œWe can give you a lift,” Randall said.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Dooley said. No way was he going to arrive at school in a cop car, not even an unmarked one.

    Dooley thought about school as he walked. He’d gone every single day since he’d moved in with his uncle. Well, almost every single day. He’d never been absent without a good excuse. But his mother had just died. If you couldn’t be excused for skipping school then, when could you be?
    The answer, of course, at least for Dooley, was never. Because if he skipped, Mr. Rektor would call his uncle. That was the deal. Dooley, apparently, was not to be trusted. Any and all absenteeism was to be immediately reported to his uncle. And then his uncle, who had more or less ordered Dooley to school and who was already in a pissy mood, would get even pissier, and Dooley would have to live with that on top of everything else. It wasn’t worth it. So he went to school, and after that, he went to work.