Free Victims by Collin Wilcox Page A

She put a hand on his shoulder, turning him away from us. “Here, I’ll get it for you.”
    But he shook off her hand, turning to stare at me with his large, dark eyes. Irrationally, his eyes reminded me of the CARE posters that asked for food contributions to underprivileged children in foreign lands.
    “This is Lieutenant Hastings, John,” the woman said, still standing awkwardly beside her son, still weaving unsteadily on her feet. Still unable to touch him with a mother’s caress. “He’s a policeman, too. Like the—” She broke off, frowning. She’d forgotten what she’d meant to say.
    I smiled down at the boy, saying, “One of the reasons I’ve come, John, is that I’d like to talk to you—if your mother’s willing.”
    Before either the woman or the boy could speak, the well dressed man stepped forward quickly. He produced an alligator card case, handing over a business card with a smoothly practiced gesture.
    “I’m Michael Carmody, Lieutenant. I’m an associate of Alexander Guest’s.” He waited for me to glance at the card, then turned to Marie Kramer. “If you and John are going to be busy for a few minutes, Mrs. Kramer, I’d like to speak to the lieutenant.”
    She looked at the lawyer, looked at me, then looked down at her son, who was still staring impassively at me. Finally she nodded. She did it tentatively, uncertainly—as if she were accustomed to taking orders that she didn’t understand.
    “I don’t want any milk or cookies now,” the boy said, planting his feet firmly on the white wool carpet. He didn’t intend to move. “I want to talk to him.” He raised his arm full length, pointing at me with an imperious forefinger.
    “John. Please. Michael—Mr. Carmody—wants to talk to the lieutenant.” Tentatively, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go. Let’s—”
    “No.” Vehemently, he shook his head. “He said he wanted to talk to me. He just said it.”
    “John—” I stooped, lowered my voice. “You go with your mother. Later, we’ll talk. I promise. Before I leave, we’ll talk.”
    “Will you show me your gun?”
    I looked at the woman, searching her face for a reaction to the boy’s request. When she made no visible protest, I nodded. “Yes.”
    “And your handcuffs, too?”
    “Yes.”
    Dark eyes slightly narrowed now, face puckered with suspicion, he stood his ground for a moment, making up his mind. Then he nodded: a decisive, businesslike bobbing of his small head. “Good.” He turned abruptly and led the way to the stairs. Marie Kramer smiled at me, grateful for my help. It was our first moment of full, person-to-person contact. Then she turned and followed the boy upstairs to the third floor.
    Carmody walked quickly to one of the huge windows, the furthermost point in the living room from both staircases. Lowering his voice, he said, “You realize, of course, that you can’t interrogate John—not without parental permission.”
    “Or a court order.”
    “Yes. Well, I’ll check with Mr. Guest. But I doubt very much if he’ll approve of your interrogating John. Not now. Not so soon after—last night.”
    “Mr. Guest is John’s grandfather. Not his father. Legally, there’s a big difference.”
    “Where the boy is concerned—” The lawyer glanced over his shoulder toward the upstairs staircase. “Where John is concerned, Mr. Guest and Mrs. Kramer see eye to eye. Always.”
    I let a long, heavy moment of silence pass while I stared at him—and while I made up my mind how to handle his objections. Finally I decided to say, “I promised to talk to him, promised to show him my gun. I’ll do that—now. Right now. But I won’t interrogate him about what happened last night. Not without checking with the D.A. And, certainly, Mrs. Kramer will be present during the interrogation.”
    “I’d like to witness the conversation you’re going to have with him now.” He made it sound like a command, not a request.
    I shrugged. “Suit