AT 10:00 A.M. sharp, Detective North visited Brad Jenkins. Or, to be more precise, North stood beside Brad Jenkins’s bed and asked questions that went unanswered. Not because Brad was resistant, but because he seemed quite unable to process what North was saying. He’d stare at North with clear eyes that seemed focused and alert. He’d nod as North spoke. But when North finished, he’d squint and tilt his head to the side and not say anything. He did not answer when North asked if he’d like to make a confession, nor when North asked if he’d done what he’d done out of guilt or fear. He simply stared, tilted his head. Like a dumb bird.
Or a smart fox.
The doctor had told North he’d give him fifteen minutes, and if any episode arose, for North to immediately notify a nurse by pressing the red button above the bed. North had expected there to be a network of tubes and monitors and machines hooked up to Brad, but there was no such circus of contraptions, other than an IV to keep Brad hydrated and his vital monitored.
The sun coming through the south-facing window above Brad’s bed washed out the colors of the room and made it pulse with a heat that made North sweat.
Afterward, North asked the if Brad could be faking. The doctor seemed offended.
“Faking what?”
“His lack of processing my questions.”
“He’s lucky he’s alive, let alone conscious. You’re lucky I gave you fifteen minutes.”
As North was leaving, he encountered Victor Jenkins surging down the hall at him.
By the earnest body language and facial expression on Jenkins, North expected to be accosted by the man, and prepared to rebuff him. Instead, Jenkins smiled. It was a smile with more than a touch of the wearied lunatic in it, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“You see,” Jenkins said, his eyes bright with the mania of the sleepless. “You see now he’s innocent. He’d never do this if he wasn’t so scared,” Jenkins said, grabbing North’s arm.
North took his arm from the man’s grasp and walked away.
“I’ve got something to share that will prove my boy did not do this!” Jenkins shouted.
The doctor came over and said, “Sir. I understand you’re upset, but we can’t have you shouting.”
“I have proof!” Jenkins shouted at North’s back. “Someone else did this. I know the motive! Get ready to release my boy!”
NORTH DEPARTED THE hospital thinking about what the doctor had said. Brad was lucky to be alive. Lucky to be in such good shape, considering. North wondered why a soul like Brad Jenkins should benefit from even a morsel of luck. And, despite the doctor’s adamancy, North could not help but feel Brad was playing North, and the doctor was being duped. Was Brad smart enough to know that if he were mentally incapacitated he’d not stand trial, and would be relegated to a relatively cushy environment compared to that of a maximum-security prison? Could Brad put up such a ruse? Could he fake mental illness so convincingly, even if it meant escape from such an existence? And for how long could he fake it, if he was faking it?
In two days North got his answers, when he was alerted by the doctor, with a certain satisfaction in the doctor’s voice, that Brad was “quite lucid now” and could “invite questions and answer them. Provided you go easy.”
In that next interview, Brad proved his old self, claiming innocence, insisting his lawyer be present, demanding bail.
When North asked why he’d tried to kill himself if he was innocent, Brad had spat in North’s face and said: “Fuck you.”
North could not have been more pleased.