Sixteen

“Richard Handy’s parents are divorced,” Ms. Washburn said. “His father is in Arizona, and his mother remarried and moved to Delaware. As far as I can tell, neither of them had been in touch with their son for at least a year.”

She was driving us toward the home of Dorothy Brewer, a woman who had been part of Richard’s Swords and Sorcerers group, according to the aunt she had called just after we’d left the police department. The aunt, whose name was Audrey Seldin, was not close but was the only relative dealing with Richard’s funeral. She did not have time to see us, she said. Perhaps in three days, which I thought would be after the question was answered. But Ms. Washburn took Audrey’s contact information and stored it in her cellular phone.

“How did you find out about his parents and locate his aunt?” I asked. “You didn’t seem to know this before we went inside.”

“I flirted a little with the officer who was in charge of the records.”

That struck me hard because the admission was so unexpected. I stammered a bit and said, “Ms. Washburn, you are a married woman, at least for the time being.”

She laughed. “It was just a little flirting, Samuel. I wasn’t going to do anything about it. You really do need to get a better sense of this sort of thing.”

I had recovered sufficiently, although far from completely, to ask, “When?”

“When do you need to get a better sense?”

“No. When did you … flirt with the officer?”

“You went in first to see Tyler when Mason and Sandy were walking in. I hung back a little bit because I could see how the guy behind the desk was looking at me and I figured I could use it.” She did not look at me, but I must have made a sound that indicated my stunned condition. “We needed some help, Samuel. It wasn’t a big deal, believe me.”

It is true that I do not understand the practice of flirting. It falls into a nebulous territory between mild notice and romantic interest that does not fully make sense. Either a person has some intent or he does not; the blend that is both and neither is very confusing for someone like me. My mother has often intimated that she believes I have some romantic interest in Ms. Washburn, although I do not believe that to be the case. Still, there must be some behavior I exhibit which gives Mother the mistaken impression. I do not see it myself.

“Is it crossing a line to ask how Simon would feel about you doing something like that for your job?” I asked.

Ms. Washburn’s crooked smile faded a bit. “That’s not relevant,” she said.

We did not speak again until we arrived at the home of Dorothy Brewer in a suburban area of Bound Brook, a town on the eastern end of Somerset County, not a long drive from where Richard Handy had lived in Franklin Township. The house was modest, likely a product of the 1980s, and exhibited no frills. It was clean and carefully maintained.

Dorothy told us she was twenty-one years old, although she could have passed for a high school girl. She was small, perhaps five-foot-one, wearing no makeup and sporting eyeglasses she seemed ashamed of, as she removed them as soon as Ms. Washburn and I entered the kitchen, where she asked us to sit on barstools next to a pass through. “The living room is where my folks entertain,” she said. “I was just making myself a smoothie. You guys want anything?”

Ms. Washburn, probably cognizant of my rising anxiety level, said, “Could you hold up for a moment? We’d like to ask you a few questions, and it’s best if you’re not distracted because we need your best answers.”

But Dorothy waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I can do both things at once. Fire away.”

Ms. Washburn stole a glance in my direction. My face must have appeared grim, but I nodded slightly. “Fine,” Ms. Washburn told Dorothy. “Tell us how you knew Richard Handy.”

“I played S and S with him.” Dorothy poured yogurt into a blender pitcher. She reached into a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter next to the blender and pulled out a banana, which she started to peel. I wanted to turn away, but I could not bring myself to do so. “That’s really all I know.”

“How did the group organize itself?” I asked. Dorothy used a knife to cut the banana into slices directly into the blender. My stomach began to churn, and it was very unlikely this would be the end of the exercise. “How does a group of people decide to play a game like this together, assuming you never knew each other before you began?”

Dorothy scooped up some blueberries with her bare hand and literally tossed them into the mixture. I took a deep breath. I prefer to see foods separated, and the idea of these myriad textures being forced together was extremely disturbing. I did my best to focus on the questioning. But Dorothy, in creating her beverage, was not helping, taking time to think of how to answer my question, which I had considered simple.

“We met through the Painted Panel,” she said, as if that explained anything.

“The Painted Panel?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Into the blender went seven strawberries Dorothy removed from a plastic bag she found in her freezer, a few steps from the counter. She had not even removed the leaves at the top of each fruit. “It’s a comic book store in Somerville that runs some games. That’s where we used to play, on Wednesday nights.”

Dorothy put the top on the blender receptacle and positioned it on the rotators, about to set the machine in motion. “Before you do that,” I asked, “can you tell us about the dynamics of the group?”

“Sure, but I can do this at the same time,” she said. And I actually felt nauseated as she reached for the button on the keypad.

“It’s the noise,” Ms. Washburn interjected. “Just hang on until we can get your answers. You know, I’m recording this for later and we won’t be able to hear you.” She pointed to her cellular phone, perhaps intimating that it was the recording device. I was as grateful to Ms. Washburn as I have ever been.

“Oh, sure,” Dorothy said. “See, there was a flyer up on the wall at the Painted Panel about seven, eight months ago saying they were starting a game and you should sign up if you were interested, and I was, so I did. The three guys did too, and we started a couple of weeks later. Richard was just a player, not the SM.”

I recalled that the sword master was the player who actually concocted the storylines and created challenges for the players. Perhaps that was an area to explore. “Who was the SM?” I asked.

“Becky Tanenbaum. She likes telling everybody what to do.” She turned back toward the blender. “You guys sure you don’t want any?”

“Just one more thing,” I said, my voice perhaps sounding a bit more urgent than I intended. Getting out of here before Dorothy pulverized all those ingredients seemed terribly important at the moment.

I’d had the desired effect; Dorothy turned away from the blender and back toward Ms. Washburn and me. “What’s that?” she asked.

I gestured to Ms. Washburn, who produced the Tenduline in its plastic sandwich bag from her purse. She held it out toward Dorothy. “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

“Sure. It’s an S and S dice.” No one seemed interested in getting the word right except me. “So what?”

“Take a closer look,” I suggested.

Dorothy leaned in a bit and reached for the bag. “Don’t touch, please,” Ms. Washburn said. “This might turn out to be evidence.”

“In Richard getting shot?” Dorothy was not, apparently, the most quick-minded of women.

“Yes,” I said. “Please look at it carefully, but don’t touch.”

Dorothy’s eyes grew wide and she nodded. She looked at the die in Ms. Washburn’s hand. “Oh, it’s a Tenduline,” she said, her voice with a tiny shudder. “They’re cursed, you know. Where’d you get it?”

“We found it near where Richard was lying,” Ms. Washburn said. “You’ve never seen it before?”

“No, and I hope I never see one again. Somebody dies whenever—oh my god. You mean you found that right by Richard when he was dead?” Ms. Washburn nodded. “So the curse is true! Get that thing out of here!”

“We just want to understand,” I told her. I would have been perfectly happy to leave at that moment just to avoid the sight of the smoothie Dorothy was about to concoct. “That wasn’t Richard’s die?”

“Of course Richard died! Now take that thing and go!”

“No,” Ms. Washburn said, “that’s not what—”

But it was too late. Dorothy turned and violently pressed a button on the blender. My eyes couldn’t avoid the hideous vision of the fruit and yogurt merging into something that was not smooth and not really a drink, so it was misnamed and deceiving in its function. I felt my neck start to tremble.

“Let’s go,” I said to Ms. Washburn.

“But—”

“It’s fine.” I put a hand up to my right eye and turned to the left, where the front door was located. “Thank you, Ms. Brewer!”

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, but I was already halfway to the door.

It did no good. I couldn’t erase the image of that smoothie and it kept me awake far past my normal bedtime for the next three nights.

“Could the Tenduline be Tyler’s?” Ms. Washburn asked.

We had spent the ride back to Questions Answered debating my somewhat hasty exit from Dorothy Brewer’s home, but I believed that Dorothy had been clear the die was not Richard Handy’s, as she had played Swords and Sorcerers with him regularly and had never seen the item before. Ms. Washburn was careful to call Dorothy when we returned to the office, but the young woman did not answer her call, intentionally or not.

“At this moment, all we suspect is that it was not Richard Handy’s,” I said, finishing an exercise session and sitting at my desk. I had a bottle of spring water from the vending machine, but Ms. Washburn had said she did not want a diet soda. “It is possible that it belongs to Tyler, and it is possible it belongs to the person who killed Richard. It is equally possible, as when Richard answered my question about being Tyler’s friend, that Dorothy was simply mistaken.”

“Richard Handy was mistaken about whether or not he was Tyler’s friend?” Ms. Washburn asked.

I suspect Mother would say I was “pouting.” “You know what I meant.”

“How do you know for sure that Tyler didn’t shoot Richard?” Ms. Washburn asked. “Tyler insists he did.”

“Tyler continued to repeat his assertion that he had shot Richard no matter what was being said in the room. But when I asked him specific questions about the crime, he stopped saying he had shot Richard and simply stared. He didn’t know the answers.”

“That’s not much,” Ms. Washburn suggested.

“Perhaps not, but it convinces me. Besides, I do not believe Tyler, in a fit of rage over our answer to his question, immediately created a plan to blind the security cameras in the Quik N EZ and stole Mason’s gun to shoot his supposed friend,” I answered. I began a search on my computer for recent reports of large contraband recovery operations in the Somerset County area. There were no promising results immediately. It did not help that I wasn’t sure exactly what I was searching for. “You’ll recall that when Tyler left our office, he was adamant in his insistence that Richard was indeed his friend, and that he would prove it to us. What would have changed his view on that subject?”

A Somerset County investigator had taken credit for the recovery of three kilos of cocaine two months earlier, but had then been charged with possession and intent to distribute, indicating he had pretended to find his own supply when it was obvious the authorities were closing in. That was not the contraband I needed.

“It makes sense, but it’s all circumstantial,” Ms. Washburn pointed out. “It won’t stand up in a court of law.”

I shrugged, a gesture I had been taught by a classmate in ninth grade. “That is not our problem. We are attempting to answer Mason’s question, not to provide a definitive defense for Tyler.”

Ms. Washburn snapped her fingers. “That reminds me,” she said, and reached for the office phone on her desk. She dialed a number (although the word dialed has not really been apropos for decades) and waited a moment. “Mason? This is Janet Washburn from Questions Answered. No, we just wanted to meet with one of Richard Handy’s friends. What did Mr. Swain—oh? Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Yes. I’m glad to hear it.”

I searched for contraband grocery items. An initial trial turned up nothing of note. There were some bananas missing in Princeton.

“One question, if it’s okay,” Ms. Washburn said into the phone. “Tyler’s S and S group. Do you have any contact? You were going to bring the laptop computer and then … Yes. Okay, good.” She immediately grabbed a pencil off her desk and jotted something down on the blotter I’d insisted she use if she was intent on placing cold cans of diet soda on the desk surface. Ms. Washburn takes notes on the blotter and changes it whenever the blotter is filled. “Great. Yes, thank you.” She said good-bye to Mason Clayton—whom I assumed was the person she had called—and replaced the receiver on the phone cradle.

I was scanning my search engine on the seventh page of hits regarding stolen grocery shipments and finding nothing yet that met my criteria. “What did Mason say?” I asked Ms. Washburn.

“Mr. Swain managed to get Tyler out of jail for the time being. He arranged with a bail bondsman for Mason and Sandy, and he argued in a hearing that Tyler’s confession, because he wasn’t saying anything else, was a symptom of his ASD and therefore was not to be taken as a reliable statement.” Ms. Washburn absently chewed on the eraser of the pencil, and I averted my gaze. It’s not as bad as watching someone make a smoothie, but it isn’t my favorite sight, either.

“I would advise Mason to check and make sure there isn’t some prearrangement between Swain and the bondsman,” I said. “The interest rates charged, even when the client is not a flight risk, as Tyler is not, can be exorbitant. I hope the Claytons got at least two bids on the bail.”

Ms. Washburn sounded slightly irritated. “I didn’t ask about that and you know it,” she said. “Do you want to hear what was said?”

“You sound like an old married couple.” I looked up at the voice and saw Mother walking in from the parking lot. “I was in the neighborhood.” That is what Mother says whenever she decides to visit my office, although I have told her to feel free to drop in whenever she wants.

Ms. Washburn greeted Mother—they have become friendly—and guided her to her reclining chair. Mother’s knees have good days and bad ones, and the way she was walking today indicated this was not one of the good ones. She sat heavily on the recliner and let out what I’m sure she thought was a contented sigh. But I worried that it indicated a level of pain that was increasing lately.

“It sounded like you were talking about Tyler Clayton,” she said when she had sat and extended the footrest on the chair. She waved her right hand. “Don’t let me stop you. You’re working.”

I informed Mother of our progress, or at least our activity, since lunch when she had seen me last. She listened attentively. “So Tyler’s out on bail for now,” she said. “Maybe that will help him get back to speaking.”

“He is already speaking,” I pointed out. “He is restricting himself to saying only one thing.”

Ms. Washburn apparently decided not to argue that point—perhaps Mother’s comment about us sounding like a married couple had worried her, although it had simply puzzled me (how can a person sound married?)—and pressed on with her recounting of the call with Mason Clayton.

“Yes. Tyler is home now at Mason’s house. And according to Mr. Swain, the trial probably won’t happen for at least six months, if it happens at all.”

“If it happens at all?” Mother sounded concerned, leading me to wonder if I had missed some nuance in the news from Swain. “Does he not expect there to be a trial?”

Ms. Washburn hesitated before answering. “I didn’t get much about that, but Mason says so far Mr. Swain is recommending that Tyler let him negotiate a plea bargain.”

That would not be an unexpected turn. One of the ways an attorney like Swain retains a reputation for keeping his clients from being convicted is to rarely allow them to stand trial. Swain was simply protecting himself instead of his client. It was clear to me that Tyler had not shot Richard Handy, and I reiterated that stance to Ms. Washburn and Mother.

“You’re certain, Samuel, but the court is going to need proof.” Mother leaned back in the recliner, which made her appear to be preparing to sleep, although I knew it was a tactic designed to keep her knees elevated over her heart. Mother’s orthopedist had recommended she stay that way for three hours every day. She normally does so for an hour in the morning and another when she is preparing for bed. This would be the third. “Even if that’s not part of answering the question you got from Mason, if you want to keep that boy out of jail, you need to concern yourself with proof.”

“You make a good point, Mother. Ms. Washburn, what else did Mason tell you?”

Ms. Washburn sat and looked at me for a moment. “Didn’t I just say that? Didn’t I just tell you that proof was important, and didn’t you tell me it had nothing to do with answering Mason’s question, which was our only concern? How come it convinces you when your mother tells you but not when I say it?”

The words were coming at me too quickly. “Which question would you prefer I answer first, Ms. Washburn?” I asked.

Mother chuckled. “Just like an old married couple,” she said.

Ms. Washburn shook her head. “Forget it. The only other thing that happened on the phone was that Mason gave me two e-mail addresses, which he said Tyler gave him when he got home. Apparently Tyler is communicating better through the keyboard than through speaking.”

That was not unusual for people diagnosed with autism spectrum disorders. For some, the idea of writing or typing out a message is much less stressful than speaking. It is not common among those who until recently would have been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. We are known as “little professors” among those who have a taste for demeaning nicknames, because we tend to impart great amounts of information on specific topics.

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, focusing my attention on her once again, “did you hear me?”

“I’m afraid not. Could you repeat what you said, please?”

She did not roll her eyes in exasperation, which is one of the qualities I most appreciate in Ms. Washburn. “I said that Mason gave me contact information for two people in Tyler’s S and S group, Adam Pasternak and Margie Cavanagh. He said he wouldn’t call them Tyler’s friends, but they were people who knew him. Tyler won’t say anything more about them. He’s not communicating much, especially about Richard’s death, Mason said.”

“Have you attempted to contact the two players yet?” I asked.

Mother gave me a disapproving look I did not understand.

“You saw me get off the phone with Mason,” Ms. Washburn said. “When did you think I had time to get in touch with Adam and Margie?”

“That is a fair point.” Sometimes when my mind wanders the passage of time is a less definite thing for me. “Would you do that, please?”

“What should I ask?” Ms. Washburn wanted to know.

“Ask when we can meet with them, and if they would mind coming here.”

Ms. Washburn nodded, but looked up. “Why here?” she asked.

“Because our travel time might be limited,” I said. “We have a great many people to see.”

Ms. Washburn moaned a bit. “You can say that again.” Then she looked up at me. “But don’t.”

Mother chuckled. “An old married couple,” she said.