Fifteen

“I shot Richard. I shot him with the gun.”

Tyler Clayton looked agitated.

Arms swinging widely at his sides, he paced the conference room at the Somerset police department headquarters. He was awaiting transfer to Somerset County jail in Somerville, approximately sixteen minutes by car. If the public defender assigned to him was not able to convince the judge in the case that Tyler was not a flight risk or a danger, he would be sent there within the hour, according to Sgt. Thomas Pendleton, who had been at the desk when we had arrived.

Mason and especially Sandy were particularly concerned about this possibility, given Tyler’s level of social interaction and his anxiety at dealing with anything outside his routine. I agreed they were correct to be worried—this type of situation would be Tyler’s worst nightmare. Naïve, frightened, and barely verbal, he would be terrorized and victimized at even a minimum-security prison, which New Jersey county jails are not.

They had received the news of Tyler’s confession through Mason’s cellular phone while they were in his sport utility vehicle on the way to Questions Answered, or, Sandy said, they would have gone directly to the Somerset police and cancelled our meeting.

“We can’t leave him in the hands of a public defender,” Mason said. “I’m calling the guy from TV.”

Ms. Washburn winced. “T. Harrington Swain?” she asked. “Do you know any attorneys at all?”

Sandy scowled. “Not criminal lawyers,” she said. “Divorce lawyers, sure. But a murder charge? What do we look like?” I did not understand how Sandy and Mason’s appearance would indicate their previous level of criminal activity, but this did not seem the time to ask.

“I can make some calls,” Ms. Washburn offered.

“There’s no time.” Mason seemed firm in his stance. “We’ll call the guy from TV once we’re in the car. I want a lawyer in Tyler’s corner before we get to the cops.”

There was a great deal of disagreement, but we took two vehicles to the police station. I was not interested in testing Mason’s driving skills for the first time when he was upset and trying to hire an attorney for his brother via the cell phone in his car. Even with hands-free operation, studies have shown that having a conversation, particularly one on the telephone, while driving leads to increased risk of a vehicular accident. Ms. Washburn and I followed in her Kia Spectra.

“How will we get in to see Tyler?” Ms. Washburn asked. “You and I are not family and we are not part of his defense team. He doesn’t even have a defense team yet.”

“Police are not always completely rigid on the rules of visitation,” I told her. “We can only hope the people in Somerset will see the kind of character Tyler has, that he is not a typical offender, and let anyone who might be helpful in to talk to him.”

“Do you think Tyler will want to talk to us?” she said.

“I’ll be surprised if he is talking at all, despite what Sandy told us.”

Sergeant Pendleton did indeed allow the four of us into the conference room to see Tyler, whose hands were not cuffed. He continued to pace the area in front of the conference table where Ms. Washburn, Mason, Sandy, and I had gathered to confront him.

I was the only one seated.

“I shot Richard,” Tyler said. “I shot him. I took the gun and I shot him.”

“Why?” Mason asked him, his voice gentle as if attempting to modulate Tyler’s mood. “Why did you shoot him?”

“I shot Richard,” Tyler repeated. “I took the gun and shot him.” His gaze seemed fixed on his sister Sandy.

“The sergeant told us that’s all he’s been saying,” Sandy said. “He hasn’t given a reason. He hasn’t told them anything about how it happened. He just says he shot this guy and he repeats it no matter what you say to him.”

This was probably not going to be an especially useful interrogation if that was the case. “Tyler,” I said, “why did you paint the security cameras?”

Tyler stopped pacing and looked at me. His eyes bored into mine like he was trying to find the answer to my question inside my head. He held my gaze for what I believed to be an uncomfortable moment.

“I shot Richard,” he said again. “I shot him.” He resumed his pacing.

I looked at Ms. Washburn, who appeared very concerned. Oddly, I found myself wondering about her possible reconciliation with her estranged husband rather than Tyler’s predicament or Mason’s question.

“Tyler,” Sandy said, touching her brother on his arm, “tell us what happened.”

That seemed counterproductive. Tyler simply stared at her. “I shot Richard.” Tyler believed he had already explained exactly what had occurred.

“How many times did you fire?” I asked more loudly.

Sandy gave me a look that was not friendly.

Again, my question seemed to stump Tyler; he stopped his movement and looked this time at the ceiling. He did not repeat his new mantra, instead reverting to his previous sound of, “Nnnnnnnnnnn … ”

Sandy flung her hands into the air. “Well that’s a step backwards!” she exclaimed. “Will you leave so we can get to the bottom of this?”

“If you ask me to do so, I will go outside,” I told her. “But I have been getting more useful reactions from Tyler than you have. I am beginning to believe he did not shoot Richard Handy at all.”

Sandy opened her mouth to answer but had no time before the conference door opened and a man whose face was vaguely familiar entered the room. He scanned the gathered group with his eyes in less than one second and immediately began barking orders at us.

“Everybody out of the room,” said T. Harrington Swain. “I’m here to consult with my client and I don’t want anyone coloring his answers.”

“I shot Richard,” Tyler said. “I took the gun and shot him.”

“Let’s not broadcast that, son,” Swain said to his client. “We have enough of an uphill battle without you giving the other side ammunition against us.”

“Mr. Swain!” Sandy sounded offended. But the same words were coming from Mason at the same moment, and if my ear was hearing it accurately, his voice seemed considerably more pleased to see the lawyer. He stood up and offered his hand.

“I’m Mason Clayton,” he said. “We spoke on the phone.” This seemed information Swain would have already known, but Mason’s insistence on telling it to Swain did not seem ill advised. The lawyer smiled and nodded in his direction, then took his hand and shook it.

“Mr. Clayton,” he said, “thank you for calling me. I can see why you did.”

“I shot Richard,” Tyler insisted. “I shot him.”

“You might want to stop saying that, Tyler.” Swain looked at his client, who continued to pace, then back at Mason by way of Sandy. “What’s wrong with him, exactly?”

I did not care for the terminology Swain used in reference to Tyler, but I was not aware of the protocol the Clayton family had for dealing with such issues, so I did not object. In fact, the presence of Ms. Washburn and me had not even been acknowledged yet.

“He has a form of autism,” Sandy told the attorney. “He usually does better than this, though.”

Swain nodded. “All right.” He ignored Tyler’s continued pacing, arms constantly in motion, then trained his gaze first on me, then on Ms. Washburn, whom he seemed to find more interesting. He spoke to her. “And who are you? What is your role here?”

I wanted to introduce myself and my associate, but the more professional thing was to listen as Ms. Washburn said, “I’m Janet Washburn. My boss Samuel Hoenig and I were hired by Mason to answer a question.” She gestured toward me at the mention of my name.

Swain did not turn in my direction. “And what was that question?” he asked.

Normally it is the policy at Questions Answered not to discuss our clients or their areas of interest with anyone outside the research project. But in this case, Swain’s role fell into a gray area; he was involved, although not necessarily in answering the question but in dealing with its consequences—and after all, he had spoken again to Ms. Washburn and not to me.

“Who killed Richard Handy?” she informed him.

“Uh-huh. And what answer did you find?”

This time I felt it was necessary, as the proprietor of Questions Answered, to speak for my company. “We have not yet gathered enough information to answer the question definitively.”

Swain nodded curtly and then turned toward Mason and Sandy. “I need you all to leave the room, please. Your presence here is going to make it that much more difficult to get complete truth from my client.”

Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “We’re your client,” she said. “We’re paying the bill. So I think maybe we’ll stay in the room while you question him.”

“Sandy,” Mason admonished.

“No. I don’t like the way this guy waltzes in here and tells us what to do. I’ll sit here quietly away from Tyler and see how the magician does his job, okay?” She sat down in the chair farthest from Tyler, who was paying no attention to the drama before him and continued to pace, quietly repeating his admission of guilt more to himself than to anyone else in the room.

Swain looked at her, appeared to consider the situation, and nodded. “Very well. But these two should leave.” He gestured toward Ms. Washburn and me.

“Mr. Swain … ” Ms. Washburn began.

I stood. It was time for me to begin exercise anyway. I considered the dimensions of the room, decided they could not be calculated accurately, and said, “That’s fine. It is doubtful you will be able to persuade Tyler to say anything other than that he shot Richard Handy and he used the gun, which is not useful information and is likely not the truth. But our continued presence here will not contribute anything of use to Tyler’s defense and we have other avenues to pursue in order to complete our task.” I started toward the door.

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said.

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Washburn, I did forget.” I proffered my hand to Swain and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, proprietor of Questions Answered.” He took my hand probably more out of habit than thought. I shook his once, let go, and continued to the door.

Ms. Washburn followed, not saying anything else other than good-byes to the other three in the room. I did not see the need, although I am aware that is the social custom. We left the police station and headed toward Ms. Washburn’s car.

I will admit, however, that on the way out I turned to Mason and said, “It is a good thing that we had separate cars, isn’t it?”

He did not answer.