My parents were in the waiting room by the front desk when I was let out. Judging from the frown on my mother's face, they had been there for a long time. My father didn't seem to mind. He was entranced by the section of wall that listed all the police officers who had given their lives in the line of duty.
"There are a lot of guys with the first name Robert," he said. "If I were named Robert, I'd think twice before joining the force. It must be like having a target painted on the middle of your back."
"Shut up Harold," my mother said.
My mother was plenty ticked off and stared at me like she expected me to say something. I didn't know what I was expected to say. I couldn't think of anything that would maker her less angry. Anything I said would probably upset her more but maybe that's what she wanted. Knowing my mother, she was enjoying being angry but didn't feel like she was angry enough. She got even angrier when I didn't say anything so in a way, I think I did the right thing.
There was silence until we got to the car and my father was driving us home. Finally, my mother broke the silence. She was usually the one to speak first, and last, and do most of the talking in between.
"Do you know what the desk sergeant said to me?" she asked, turning around to face me.
I turned my head away and looked at the streetlights streaming by against the night sky.
"Well, do you?" she asked again.
At that age, I sort of knew what a rhetorical question even if I didn't know the term for it. At least I knew that there were some questions you weren't supposed to answer and I could have sworn this was one of those.
"I'll tell you what he said. He said that because of you, a dangerous criminal is going to go free. Since you couldn't be bothered to pick a murderer and rapist out of a line up, he will be back on the streets by morning. What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I didn't know that."
"Don't you lie to me."
"Honest, Mom, i didn't know he was a murderer and a rapist. Nobody ever told me they did it first."
"Oh for God's sake. Harold, did you hear what your son just said?"
"Sorry, couldn't quite catch it," my father said, turning up the volume on the car radio.
I always did like my dad.
When we got back to the house, my mother decided that I needed to be grounded. I was to come straight home from school and stay in my room reading comic books until it was time for dinner. Mom was really mad so this punishment was likely to go on for weeks, even months. I was OK with that.
Cindy Penn didn't have to go to school the next day because her sister was dead. She must have told Brock Dixon about what happened, or someone else did, because now he had a brand new reason to beat me up.
"You let a killer go free and I bet you laughed when you watched him kill Cindy's sister," Brock said.
"I didn't laugh," I said, which was true. I probably should have also said that I didn't see her get killed. She was already dead. Maybe he found her that way.
"I bet you laughed a lot. I always knew you were a little punk and now you've gone too far. You've had it. Just wait until after school."
"I have to go straight home after school," I said.
"You're not even going to make it home, punk. Count on it."
I expected Brock to slug me right then and there but he just walked away. He left me alone during lunch and recess periods as well. Whatever he had in store for me was going to wait until there were no teachers around to stop him.
The bell rang at the end of the day. Brock, who sat in the back of the class, was the first out the door. I left the same time as most of the students so I would be surrounded by as many kids as possible on the way out. Outside the school, people started to disperse. I decided to change from the usual path I took home. I cut over several blocks from the way I normally went and doubled back a few times, always looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed.
It took almost an hour extra to get to the street I lived on but I felt it was worth it. I thought I was home free until Brock stepped out from behind a hedge. He was holding the Louisville Slugger his dad had bought him when he started playing Little League.
"You've had it, punk," he said.
He swung the bat, hitting me with a glancing blow to the shoulder that almost knocked me down. It hurt like a lot where I'd been hit but I was too scared to stick around and cry. As I turned around and ran, he was yelling about how the next swing was going to be aimed at my head.
I could hear Brock's feet pounding the sidewalk behind me. He was a faster runner than I was and I was sure I'd never make it home before his bat smashed in the side of my skull. Then the sound of Brock's footsteps stopped. There was a muffled cry and then silence.
I turned around and saw the man from yesterday. He had grabbed Brock from behind and looked like he had no intention of letting him go. Brock's eyes were opened wide and tears ran out from the corners. He probably wanted to scream but there was no chance of that with the man's huge hand covering his mouth.
"Go home," the man said. "I'll take it from here."
I turned and ran the rest of the way home. When I got there. my mother was demanding to know what had taken me so long. I went upstairs to my room as she threatened to ground me until I reached voting age.
The next day, I was back at the police station. Lieutenant Simpkins sat me down and put a photograph on the table in front of me. It was Brock Dixon. He was dead. He had been set on fire and had almost his entire baseball bat shoved up his butt. I couldn't tell which had happened first. He demanded answers. I shrugged. There was another lineup, another meeting with the sketch artist (I described Brock's dad this time), and I was sent home.
This happened couple of more times, whenever a burned body was found on the street, which went on for about a year before it stopped for good. I didn't mind because I was grounded and had nothing better to do. At some point, Lieutenant Simpkins had started calling me "Little Mister Know-Nothing" but he was wrong. I knew enough not to tell on the only real friend I'd ever had.
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