City of the Sun by David Levien Read Free Book Online Page B

actually closer to a resolution in the case. He had to ask the couple if they were involved in their son’s disappearance.
    After the question had left his mouth, he would gauge them closely as they answered. There were myriad clues, both verbal and nonverbal, in people’s answers to direct, probing questions. Most cops with careers of any length and activity developed powerful abilities in deciding whether or not people were lying to them. For many it was merely the uncomfortable sensation that what they were being given wasn’t the truth. The proverbial gut feeling, so often referenced, was a reality according to Behr’s experience. For others, distinguishing fact from fabrication was a science.
    Behr’s approach fell somewhere in between. He had good instincts, but that hadn’t satisfied him. After his second year on the force he’d gone to San Francisco on his own dime for a three-day seminar given by an ex-CIA interrogator called Tactical Behavior Assessment and Strategic Interviewing Techniques. His wife hadn’t appreciated it, as his dime was actually several thousand dollars that they couldn’t afford. It was there that Behr had learned the skills that he would hone over the years. Skills that had helped him make a living ever since. He wouldn’t say he was a human lie detector, nothing like the ex-spook who had given the course, but he’d developed a hell of a sniffer. Once he got a hit of deception, he had the tools to run down the truth.
    Behr cleared his throat and asked his question. “Did either of you have anything to do with Jamie’s disappearance?” He glanced from husband to wife, prepared for tics or protests or answers that were geared to convince him of their innocence rather than just convey information.
    “No,” said the father. The mother just shook her head, wept, and then uttered an “Uh-uh” sound.
    Behr believed them. He had an inestimably larger amount of work in front of him now. Nonetheless, he felt relief. Later, when he got home, he’d go on the Internet and comb through financial databases. He’d check the family’s assets and TRWs to make sure there were no irregularities, no large withdrawals indicating a gambling or drug problem that could’ve provoked a hideous crime.
    “If it’s all right, I’ll look at his room,” he said.
    They all stood.
    Behr entered the room and paused before turning on the light. Paul and Carol were positioned down the hallway several yards back, afraid to come any closer. Behr slid his hand along the wall and clicked on the light. What he saw hit him low in the gut. He kept his hand against the wall, steadying himself for a long moment. The room belonged to a well-cared-for American boy. A single bed covered by an NFL comforter was built into a tan Formica headboard and nightstand. There were wrapped gifts on the bed, birthday and Christmas presents for a son who wasn’t around to collect them. Two posters dominated the room: Albert Pujols turning on a ball and a red Ferrari F430 Spider. Both were matted on posterboard. A ten-by-twelve photo of a large African American bicycle racer had been torn from a magazine and tacked to the wall near the bed. A basic Compaq desktop computer sat idle on a small desk in a litter of school notebooks. They were next to a large cup from Pizza Pizzazz filled with coins and an old Reggie Miller bobble-head doll. Several Harry Potter books rested on bookshelves next to fairly neatly glued-together plastic model F-15s and battleships.
    He turned and opened the closet, pulling a string that switched a light on inside. Jeans hung on hangers next to button-down shirts and several jackets of different weights. A small dark suit was all the way to the left. Along the floor were basketball sneakers, soccer cleats, scuffed penny loafers, Teva sandals, and a pair of winter boots. Behr pulled the light cord and swung the closet shut. He turned to a small dresser, forcing himself to go on. The dresser held T-shirts,