Seven

The crime scene was cordoned off and Det. Milton Hessler was being very clear in his opposition to Ms. Washburn and I entering it, which made me wonder why he had asked us to come here. “You’re civilians,” he said. “You stay out until the yellow tape comes down.”

Detective Hessler had called Questions Answered after he arrested Tyler Clayton because he had spoken to Tyler’s sister, Sandy, who had informed him that her brother had been utilizing our services. I had tried to call Sandy but had gotten a voice mail message; no doubt she was dealing with Tyler’s arrest and could not respond. Being thorough, Hessler had followed up on every possible angle to the crime, which he described as “as open-and-shut a case as I’ve ever seen.”

That struck me as odd, but as Hessler explained, Tyler had apparently not been very careful about his escape after entering the Quik N EZ and shooting Richard Handy four times with a 9mm handgun. Richard had died instantly, as the gun had been fired at close range and none of the shots had missed him. One had passed through him and shattered the glass on a refrigerated case of dairy products, Hessler said. Milk and blood mixed on the floor.

“We have no interest in seeing the crime scene,” I informed Hessler as we stood in a light drizzle outside the convenience store. Ms. Washburn looked surprised but I could not understand why she would find my statement at all unexpected. “We are not answering a question involving the death of Richard Handy. We came here because you asked us to come, presumably because you want to know about Tyler’s business with Questions Answered.”

“I’m not sure we’re going to be able to help you there,” Ms. Washburn said, her voice strong and steady. It had been a difficult drive for her, I could tell. She had barely spoken since she got off the phone with Hessler and told me we were to go to the convenience store. She had moved her hands on the steering wheel more often than usual and had bitten her lower lip almost to the point of bleeding. “We keep all client information confidential.”

That was technically true, although I have always been careful about sharing data with the authorities when questions have become involved with the business of the police or the government. I do not believe Questions Answered would qualify as a business that could legally maintain confidentiality if an agency filed for an injunction in court and besides, I believe in cooperating with authorities until there is some reason to think corruption might be involved. There was no such suspicion here. But I did not contradict Ms. Washburn directly.

“Tell me what you need from us, detective,” I said. “We’ll be happy to help if we can.”

Hessler took his gaze away from Ms. Washburn and focused it on me. “This Tyler Clayton was a client of yours? What kind of service do you offer?”

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “This is our agency,” I said, and handed the card to Hessler.

He studied it. “Questions Answered?” he said. “So what is it you do?”

That flummoxed me, but it was not the first time someone had reacted to my business name in that manner. “We answer questions,” I said slowly.

Hessler seemed to be waiting for more, but since that is what we do, I offered no elaboration. “You answer questions? Isn’t that what Wikipedia is for?”

“It’s a specialized business that will answer any question within reason,” Ms. Washburn interjected. “We aren’t able to help if you want to know whether there is life after death. We can’t tell you what the future will bring. But if you have a question that can be researched and answered with precision and certainty, we will do that for you.” I had heard her say exactly those words to clients a number of times; it was a sales speech she had devised and perfected and she delivered it well.

“Uh-huh,” Hessler said. “So what question did you answer for Tyler Clayton?”

Before Ms. Washburn could protest, I answered, “He asked if Richard Handy was truly his friend.”

Hessler blinked.

“He paid you money to find out if a guy at the convenience store was his friend?” The detective seemed astonished at the very concept.

“That is correct,” I said. “Tyler’s behavior is classified as being on the autism spectrum so it is difficult for him to read many social cues. He could not be certain if the young man he knew, with whom he had played video games and talked, was truly a friend. So he made use of our service.”

Ms. Washburn looked agitated. “Samuel means that Tyler was trying very hard to be a good friend and wanted to know if there was something he was doing that might have been less than what a good friend would do.” Her syntax was somewhat tortured, and her meaning was actually backward—Tyler did not ask if he was a good friend; he asked if Richard was indeed his friend. I did not attempt to correct her statement for Hessler, however. I felt it was the detective’s job to interpret the information he received without unrequested perspective.

“That’s your business? People just ask you questions and you answer them?” We had covered this particular aspect of the conversation already, and I saw no reason to elaborate. Hessler simply shook his head in wonder, assuming I understood his body language. Deciphering movements, particularly the unconscious ones people make, is a very tricky business for someone like me.

“What has Tyler told you?” I asked him. “Does he admit to shooting Richard Handy?”

Hessler’s face seemed to flatten into an expression of irritation. “You want to hear what Tyler has told me?” he asked. Before either Ms. Washburn or I could respond, he said, “I’ll show you what Tyler has told me.”

He gestured for us to follow him and we walked across the street to one of the four police cruisers parked in front of the Quik N EZ store. He casually tapped on the passenger-side window. It lowered and Hessler gestured toward the back seat.

“Open it a crack,” he said.

The officer in the driver’s seat nodded and hit the button for the rear window. It lowered about a quarter of its capacity. Ms. Washburn and I looked inside.

In the back seat of the cruiser behind the protective barrier was Tyler Clayton, hands held behind him with handcuffs. He could not flap his hands, as I knew he most likely wished to do. Instead, he was rocking forward and back rapidly, sweating heavily and breathing with some effort although there was no evidence from our perspective that he had been in any way badly handled by the arresting officers or anyone else.

Tyler was saying, “Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn … ”

Ms. Washburn’s breath caught audibly. “Tyler,” she whispered.

Hessler gestured to the officer in the car with a circular motion and the officer raised the rear car window again. It struck me as interesting that Hessler continued to use the gesture for a manual window crank when virtually every vehicle on the road now has power windows. But that was a discussion for another time, I’m sure Mother would have said.

“That’s all he’s been saying since we got here,” Hessler said. He started to walk away from the car back to the spot where we had been standing previously. In order to hear what he had to say, I followed and Ms. Washburn followed me. “When you met him before, he could talk?”

Both Ms. Washburn and I nodded. “Tyler is not nonverbal,” I said. “Or to be more accurate, he was not on the two other occasions we have met him. What happened in the convenience store appears to have affected his ability to form coherent speech.”

“Maybe he’s just faking it,” Hessler suggested.

Ms. Washburn stepped between Hessler and myself. “He’s not pretending,” she said emphatically. “Whatever he saw in that store really traumatized him. I’d suggest you make sure he sees a really good psychologist, preferably a neuropsychologist, and you get all his previous records, including the ones from his schools. Talk to his sister and his brother. Get experts involved. A man Tyler thought was his friend has been shot and killed and Tyler is being blamed for it. Anyone would be upset by that. For Tyler, it’s ten times worse.”

Hessler, perhaps reacting to the fact that Ms. Washburn had not spoken much before since we’d arrived, stared at her for a moment. “We’ll get him evaluated. Don’t worry. But what happened in there is what he did to his ‘friend,’ so it can’t be much of a surprise.”

“How can you be sure Tyler was the one who shot Richard Handy?” I asked. “Is there security video in the store?”

“Yes, but we haven’t seen it yet and it looks like someone tampered with the cameras. What I can tell you is that when the first officers arrived, Handy was on the floor in front of the dairy display, dead from gunshot wounds. Tyler Clayton was standing over him, making the noise you just heard him making, and he was holding the gun in his right hand.”

“That just means someone handed him the gun,” Ms. Washburn said. “Did anyone see Tyler actually shoot Richard?”

Hessler gave his head a small tilt and raised his eyebrow, a movement I have studied in social skills training. It most often means that the speaker is largely certain of his statement, but allows for the possibility that he could possibly be mistaken. It is a sophisticated signal and one that takes a great deal of practice to recognize.

“None of the witnesses have actually said they saw him pull the trigger,” he admitted. “But there wasn’t anyone else in that area of the store and they all heard the gun go off four times. The one other employee and one customer ran back there and saw Tyler Clayton standing over the body holding the smoking gun. Literally.”

“That sounds awfully circumstantial to me,” Ms. Washburn volunteered.

“I don’t prosecute the cases, ma’am,” Hessler said. “I just make the arrest. And we’ve made the arrest because there wasn’t anyone else there who could have done it.” He nodded in our direction. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch because I’m sure there’ll be more questions.” Then he looked directly at me. “You should be used to that, huh?” Hessler turned and walked back to the police cruiser holding Tyler Clayton.

“That guy is not going on my Christmas card list,” Ms. Washburn said as she watched him walk away. That seemed an odd comment, so I turned toward Ms. Washburn, who looked at my face and shook her head. “I don’t mean that literally, Samuel. I would have no reason to send Detective Hessler a Christmas card.”

“You don’t even know if he celebrates the holiday,” I pointed out.

She held up her hands defensively. “I get that. Let’s move on. What can we do to help Tyler?”

I felt my brow furrow. “Help Tyler?” I asked. “We are under no obligation to help Tyler. His question has been answered. Our business with him is concluded.”

Ms. Washburn stared at me with what I can only assume was an expression of shock. “You mean you’re just going to walk away and move on to the next question?” she asked.

“Of course. That is what we do. You know that.” I looked back at Hessler, who struck the roof of the cruiser twice, a signal that it should be driven away. The officer behind the wheel did so immediately. Hessler walked slowly back into the Quik N EZ.

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “A young man came to us for help and the answer we gave to his question might very well have ruined his life. Don’t you think we have some responsibility for that? Shouldn’t we be doing our best to find out if he really did kill Richard, and if not, who did?”

I began my walk back to Ms. Washburn’s Kia Spectra. She seemed to want to remain at the crime scene but followed me to continue our conversation.

“I do not believe we have any responsibility for what happened here today,” I said. “Tyler asked the question. We were extremely clear that the answer would be accurate, but might not be pleasant. We delivered the answer. The actions Tyler took after that are his own responsibility.”

Ms. Washburn seemed to have a word stuck in her throat; she coughed a bit. “So you think Tyler really did kill Richard?” she asked.

“I think there is a good deal of evidence that he did, but as you pointed out, it is all circumstantial at this point. But circumstantial evidence is not by definition inaccurate. I am not a judge. I have no reason to question the way Detective Hessler is conducting his investigation.”

We arrived at the car and I waited by the passenger door for Ms. Washburn to open her side and then allow me access. But she stood there and looked at me for a long moment.

“That boy has a lot of similarities to you, Samuel,” she said in an unfamiliar tone. “You’re turning away someone who’s like you because you don’t want to admit that.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort. My job is not to investigate crimes; that is for the police to do. My job is answering questions. I answered Tyler’s. Our best move here is to go back to our office and work on the next question.”

She shook her head, just slightly. Then she opened the driver’s side door and sat down on the seat. Her hand hovered over the control button that would unlock the other doors in the car.

“Ms. Washburn,” I said. “May I get in?”

She pushed the button.

I sat down and attached the safety harness. Ms. Washburn started the engine. Before she engaged the transmission, however, she turned to look at me.

“Samuel,” she said. “I’m taking from what you said that you don’t intend to do any more research on what happened between Tyler and Richard today.”

I had said precisely that. “Yes, you have interpreted me correctly.” I said.

“Then I assume you have no objections if I do.”

Her words took me by surprise, but I had no right to object. It had been Ms. Washburn’s husband, soon to be her ex-husband, who had objected to her working at Questions Answered. That had kept her out of the office for three months. Even as she clearly believed me to have some similarities to Tyler Clayton, I did not want her to think there was any connection in her mind between myself and her husband.

“Of course not,” I said. “But I am dubious as to your chances of finding anything helpful to Tyler’s circumstance.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

It took me a moment to comprehend. “I am not casting aspersions on your skills,” I told Ms. Washburn. “I believe there is not very much to be found.”

She did not turn her head because she was driving, which I appreciated. But I did see her mouth tighten and there was some movement around her eyes. “You’re giving up awfully fast, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said.

“I am not giving up because I never began.”

The drive to the Questions Answered office took eleven minutes to complete. Ms. Washburn and I did not discuss Tyler Clayton’s question or the murder of Richard Handy any further in that time.

When we arrived at the office, however, we found a large man standing outside the locked door. We approached the entrance and he turned toward us.

“Are you the guy who runs this place?” he asked. He had a gruff voice and his face appeared to express something just short of anger.

“I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”

The man reached over and aimed a punch at my face.

Luckily, I am trained as a second-level black belt in tae kwon do, something Mother insisted on when I was in my teens. She thought it would help me develop a sense of discipline and she says now it was meant to introduce me to people my age with “similar interests” who might become friends. That did not happen, but I did acquire some self-defense skills.

I ducked. The man, already starting to breathe heavily, turned to throw another punch even as Ms. Washburn shouted, “Hey!” He did not turn toward her but remained fixed on me as his target, which I preferred. I would not like to see Ms. Washburn hurt in any way.

As he lunged, I put up my hands in a defensive pose but the man’s training was poor and his emotion, whatever it might be, was not allowing him to think through an effective strategy. He came at me leaning forward quite pronouncedly so I leaned back as I swept his legs with my left foot. He fell heavily to the pavement.

“What is wrong with you?” Ms. Washburn demanded. I did not understand the question, even though it was not aimed at me. Did Ms. Washburn expect the man would lay out a litany of his psychological or emotional troubles simply because she had requested some information? Was it not possible that the man could have made a basic error in judgment or mistaken me for someone else? It was not a given that he had some flaw or medical condition that had precipitated his attack.

Taking another approach, I stood over the man, who was on his back looking up at me, the rage in his face now replaced by what appeared to be exhaustion. For someone who apparently believed he could successfully overcome me physically, he was not in very good condition.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” I said. “I am Samuel Hoenig. Who are you?”

He was still breathing rather heavily and sweat had dampened his shirt collar and was rather badly permeating his hairline. It took him six seconds to gather his breath before he spoke.

“I’m Mason Clayton,” he said. “What did you do to my brother?”