Scratch the Surface

I waited.

“Mr. Wolfe?”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with the case. And I also know that Kurt’s folks don’t speak to Creese anymore because he hasn’t agreed to testify, and that it hurt him when they yelled at him at the funeral.”

“I––”

“Just recently, they’ve asked to see Creese, and I think if it was to talk and spend time together remembering Kurt, he’d be up for it. But we’ve discussed it, and he’s pretty sure they just want to pressure him about testifying again, so he’s declined to meet them. I’m supporting him in that decision.”

Mr. Robinson reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Mrs. Robinson and I agree with you, and so we’ve asked them not to contact our son.”

“It’s very important that Creese have as much control of his life as possible, so him deciding when, and even if, he testifies”—I shot McCauley a pointed look—“is vital for his continued growth.”

“Mr. Wolfe––”

“Three months ago, that kid didn’t make eye contact, let alone speak,” I reminded the ADA. “And just now he spoke to his sister after a year of silence.”

“Creese is like a ghost haunting our house. He’s there, but he isn’t present. We can see him, but we can’t reach him,” Mr. Robinson chimed in. “We’ve seen every psychologist, psychiatrist, therapist, and counselor in Sacramento, and none of them helped him.”

“I can appreciate––”

“No,” Mrs. Robinson reproached him, her tone icy. “Unless you’ve had a child taken from you and brutalized, you can’t appreciate shit.”

Several moments ticked by, and then I looked at her and grinned, arching an eyebrow for good measure.

She gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth.

I snorted. She snickered behind her fingers.

Sometimes the horror was so great that all there was left to do was laugh.

Mr. Robinson leaned sideways and kissed his wife’s temple, then turned to the ADA. “Yeah. What she said.”

I chuckled as we heard laughter behind us. Fiona had somehow spattered paint down the right leg of her jeans, and her brother found that hysterical. Fiona stood there staring at him in mute worship.

Mrs. Robinson dissolved into laughter and tears, and Mr. Robinson smiled and nodded. They were absolutely undone, and that was okay. The two of them had been rocks for an entire year, and any relief of pressure, wherever it could be found, was welcome. I noticed Detective Turner pivot on the heel of her boot and turn away from us for a moment as she flicked tears off her cheeks before turning to face us again, her unflappable façade restored.

“Hey,” Creese called over to me, “is Mom okay?”

“Yeah, buddy, she’s great,” I assured him.

He nodded and went back to talking to his sister.

Betty pulled a packet of tissues from the pocket of her hoodie and passed it to Mrs. Robinson, patting her shoulder as Creese’s mom blew her nose. Betty took a breath too, and pulled herself together.

“As I was saying,” Mrs. Robinson began tiredly, sounding stuffy now, “we went everywhere. Finally, on the advice of friends, we brought Creese here. I thought when Mrs. Chow told us she wanted him to speak to Jeremiah, a man only a few years younger than Barnum, that she was out of her damn mind,” she explained, turning to Betty, who passed her a second packet of tissues. “No offense, Betty.”

“None taken,” my boss assured her, taking her hand when she reached for her.

“But instead of sitting him down and talking to him like every other counselor tried to do, Jeremiah took him outside and had him help clean the rain gutters.”

“They needed cleaning,” I stated flatly.

“They did,” Betty agreed.

“I was there, watching, and they didn’t say one word to each other, and yet…when we got home, for the first time in ten months. Ten,” she repeated for emphasis, “Creese told his father that they should clean the rain gutters.”

“I nearly passed out,” Mr. Robinson told the ADA. “But it took another month for him to speak to his mother. I watched him and Jeremiah move a beehive from a tree in our backyard. Jeremiah touched Creese that day, and for the first time, my son didn’t flinch away.” He took a deep breath. “To you, these are unimportant milestones, but for us, this…” he rasped, gesturing at Creese and Fiona, now standing together, Creese with his arm around his sister, listening to her and nodding. “We are completely and utterly…thankful.”

We were quiet then, and Fiona came back with slate-blue house paint in the tips of her hair, on the right side, and that fantastic blue streak down her leg.

“We’re gonna play Minecraft when we get home,” she announced with a squeal, her big brown eyes welling with tears. “He said I could go in his room and play like I used to. And he said if the controllers had to charge, we could watch videos until they’re ready.”