Silence.
Bennett said, “I hot-wired the ignition.”
“How’d you do that?” McAdams said. “It takes some skill.”
“I’ve been around.”
“You knew how to ride a bike?” Decker asked.
“I did.” He faced Decker. “I took off and never came back.”
“What happened to the bike?” McAdams asked.
“Beats me. I got rid of it pretty soon afterward. I knew that someone would be looking for it.” A pause. “I lived off the streets for a long, long time. Big cities like New York, L.A., San Francisco—where they had liberal homeless laws. It took me about five years to contact my parents. Didn’t tell them where I was. I didn’t want to bring them into my mess. And I didn’t want them to bring me to the police.”
A pause.
“It was my mother’s idea to buy the trailer and hide it out here. Lots of people around living off the grid. She told me where it was. That she had cleaned it and stocked it and it was there if I wanted it. I didn’t trust her. But then I became sick . . . real sick.”
“A staph infection,” Harriet said. “He was riddled with sores, all over. You can see his arms—all the sores and scars. I told him to go to the trailer. I got him medicine and nursed him back to the living.”
“I’ve only been here two years,” Bennett said. “You can arrest me, but please don’t blame my mom. She’s . . . she’s my guardian angel.”
The room fell silent.
Finally, Decker said, “We have to sort this out officially, Bennett. I’ll need you to come down to the police station.”
“You’re gonna arrest me?”
“Yes.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, but I will tell you this. I’m not a district attorney, but if what you say is true, there are mitigating circumstances.”
“Every word of it is true.” Bennett began to tear up. Then he began to sob . . . deep, deep breaths that were as heart-wrenching as they were pitiable. Harriet was crying as well. She held out her hand to her son. He clutched it and brought it to his chest. “You’ll stay with me, Ma?”
“I won’t leave you, Bennett. Not even for a moment.”
Out came a pair of handcuffs. “For your protection and for mine,” Decker said. He clamped the bracelets on, but he needn’t have bothered. The beaten man followed, as meek as a bunny.
Chapter 26
It took hours to liaison with the proper authorities and to formalize the charges against Bennett McCrae and Harriet McCrae (for harboring a fugitive). His parents seemed relieved by the turn of events. Bennett was impassive as they brought him to his new home called a jail cell. It was cleaner and probably more comfortable than where he had been living.
Then Decker had the incredibly hard job of informing two sets of parents as to what might have happened that awful night. No one was sure, but the consensus seemed to be that some paranoid hermit living off the grid heard the gunshots that had been fired into the air. His brain slipped into a very dark place. Imagining himself under attack, he launched a couple of grenades in the direction of the noise, and then all hell broke loose. Perhaps the next day he was feeling calmer and remorse set in. Hence the burial of Zeke Anderson. It was assumed that he had stolen all the camp equipment. So whatever regret he had felt had been overcome by a desire to grab free supplies. Although there had been an extensive search for the students, no one had ever come across signs of someone living in the woods. Not surprising. All sorts of animals hide in the forests. The students had the misfortune of meeting a very deadly beast. Decker had seen this a few times before when he worked in the North Valley in Los Angeles. Hills hid drug labs, marijuana farms, outlaws and loners, paranoid schizophrenics and vets who never quite made it back into civilization. Most mentally ill people were harmless, but when delusions collided with self-preservation, chaos ensued. One of his past cases had been two dead hikers. The hermit who murdered them was found a week later, huddled and near starvation. Shipped off to Patton State, given proper food and medication, he recovered but lived in constant remorse for what he had done. Just like the pathologist had said.
For someone with PTSD, the sudden appearance of three strapping young men could look like a threat.
All this was strictly theoretical. But Bennett’s story matched the crime-scene evidence. If it didn’t happen exactly that way, Decker was fairly certain that the recitation had been close to the truth.
The problem was that shooting someone—even someone who was at death’s door—was still considered a crime. It was not a premeditated homicide but Decker suspected Henry and Wanda Velasquez saw it differently. To them, a bullet hole in their son’s head was nothing less than first-degree murder.
This was not a case where Decker celebrated getting a bad guy off the street. This was not a crime where he felt he could give justice to the parents. This was just an entire day of being a misery sponge to grieving people, and it was exhausting. Back at the hotel room, Decker felt his brain shut down. But sleep was still elusive.
The next day—at one in the afternoon—the two detectives were on a plane headed to Albany. With a long car drive back home, Decker hoped he could stay awake. He regarded McAdams, who looked as worn out as he was. “You okay?”
“Fine.” McAdams yawned. “At least no one shot me.”
“Thank God.”
“Missouri’s not going to send him back to Greenbury.”
“No. And whatever jail time Bennett gets, his lawyer will request that he does it in Missouri. I don’t see anyone objecting to that.”
“If he’s to be believed.” McAdams exhaled. “Did you believe him?”
“He certainly wasn’t trying to make himself a hero.”
“Or deflect guilt,” McAdams said. “He admitted shooting Max.”
Decker thought a moment. “He didn’t make a lot of eye contact as he spoke. He mostly stared into space. But he’s in a different mental time zone than the rest of us.” A pause. “Did you notice that as Bennett talked, he acted out his story? Like waving the gun or slinging Max over his shoulder or covering his ears as he heard an explosion. When someone lies, that doesn’t usually happen. Because they’re making things up as they go along and they don’t generally know what’s going to pop out of their mouths.”
Silence.
“For the most part, I believe him,” Decker said. “What about you?”
“His story fits all the moving parts,” McAdams said. “A little part of me is still skeptical. Maybe I’ll read the memoirs. Where are the pages?”
“Submitted as evidence.” Decker gave a weak smile. “I suppose Hollywood will have to wait.”
“You never know.” McAdams looked at the ceiling of the airplane. “I suppose we can now concentrate solely on Bertram Lanz.”
“That will be the next order of business after a good night’s sleep.”
“I’ll second that.” McAdams closed his eyes. “Think we’ll find Bertram?”
“Who knows?” Decker said.
McAdams said, “Probably not good to speculate right now. I’m zonked. I know you’re going to Zeke’s funeral. What about Max?”