The Rag and Bone Shop by Robert Cormier Read Free Book Online Page A

greeting but Senator Gibbons shook hands with a gentleness that surprised him.
    “Thank God you’re here,” he said breathlessly. “The suspect’s waiting and we know you’ll do your best, Trent. The town needs an arrest, families are upset.” He hesitated, frowning, then added: “Including my own.” An obvious reference to his grandson’s friendship with the victim. “We’re counting on you, Trent, and I will owe you much if you can see this through. You can write your own ticket.” He paused, for dramatic effect, Trent supposed. “I keep my promises.”
    Trent had no illusions about campaign promises. However, this was not a campaign but an investigation in which the senator was personally involved.
    Braxton, who had been moving impatiently at the senator’s side, said: “Let me show you the office.”
    Trent’s pulse quickened, his old enthusiasm for the pursuit of the confession renewed and revitalized, the game of thrust and parry accelerating his breathing.
    The office to which Braxton led him was perfect. Small and cluttered and claustrophobic. No windows, which eliminated the necessity of drawing the shades. No lamps on the desks, the light coming directly and harshly from a ceiling bulb. No air-conditioning, either. Trent, in fact, felt a slight wafting of heat as he entered the room. Two desks and a filing cabinet took up most of the space, which meant that he and the suspect would be in close proximity, their knees almost touching as they sat in the two chairs arranged opposite each other. That was the intent, of course, to conduct the interrogation in a small space with no room for the suspect to be comfortable.
    “Okay?” Braxton asked, a frown on his face. Did he ever relax? Trent wondered.
    “Okay,” he echoed. “Exactly what I need.”
    “We had the extra desk brought in to make it more crowded.”
    “Perfect.”
    “You’ll note that one chair is higher than the other as you requested. Need water? Snacks?”
    “Nothing like that. Austerity. No refreshments.”
    “Fine,” Braxton said, with a small sigh of satisfaction.
    “How much time do I have?” Trent asked.
    “The mother was a bit doubtful but not really suspicious,” Braxton said, leaning back against the doorjamb, seemingly relaxed for the first time. “Her husband’s away until tomorrow. I’d say you’ve got three hours, minimum. She may become curious after that and either call or visit.”
    “The other young people?”
    “It’s hard to fake long interrogations. We may have to let them go after an hour or so. Hard to predict. The quicker you can work, the better.”
    “It all depends, of course,” Trent said.
    Glancing around the room one more time, Trent sighed. Carl Seaton, Califer and now this boy, all in the space of a week. But a twelve-year-old boy should be easy enough to handle. He thought of Senator Gibbons and his words—
you can write your own ticket
—which provided the necessary thrust of energy he needed.
    “Bring in the suspect,” he said.

    T he boy. Pausing at the doorway before entering the office. On the thin side, black hair neatly combed, blue plaid shirt open at the collar, sharply creased chinos.
    Trent imagined the boy’s mother inspecting him prior to his departure for headquarters, checking his fingernails, perhaps. Checking the fingernails himself as they shook hands, Trent found that there was no evidence of their having been bitten. An indication. Everything was an indication.
    Trent ushered him into the office. The boy’s step was halting, blue eyes blinking in the harsh light. He appeared intimidated, which was to be expected, a glint of curiosity in his eyes, but no suspicion. Trent was expert at detecting suspicion.
    Arranging a smile on his face, he welcomed the boy with a raising of his arms, an attitude of praise for something not yet earned.
    “You’re Jason?” Omitting the family name, establishing a sense of familiarity but maintaining a degree of authority for