Damaged (7 page)

“What about the bad kids at school? There are bad kids at your school, aren't there?”

“Yes, but these are real bad guys, like, in the
world
.”

“Are they ever real adults, you know? Like a neighbor or somebody else?”

“No, no, no.” Patrick shook his head over the drawings. “They're bad guys, you know how there's bad guys everywhere? And you never know why bad guys are bad, they just are. That's why my Pops won't let me watch the news or go on the Internet by myself. Bad guys are there. You have to be careful.”

“I agree.” Mary thought it over. “How long have you been drawing these superheroes?”

“I don't know.” Patrick shrugged his knobby shoulders.

“Would you say it was years ago or months ago?”

“Since I was little.”

Mary hid her smile. “Who was the first superhero you invented?”

“Bullet Boy, then Knife Boy, they were the first two. I did them when I was really little.”

Mary got an idea. “If I wanted to see one of those early Knife Man drawings, could you do that?”

“Yes, they're not in my headquarters because my Pops saves them in the office. He doesn't like me to keep a lot of papers in here. He says it's a fire hazard.”

“He's right.” Mary's mood lifted. If she could produce early drawings of Knife Boy that would predate Patrick's meeting Robertson, then that would suggest that the bad guy in the drawing wasn't Robertson. The more she thought about the drawings, the better she felt. Even though they depicted bloody scenes, Patrick wasn't angry when he talked about them and not all of his drawings were violent. Mary was no psychologist, but if she could argue to a jury that it was normal for a boy who generally felt powerless to imagine alter-egos who could defeat bad guys, then the drawing that Machiavelli had shown her, in context, no longer tended to prove that Patrick had tried to stab Robertson. The only place that Patrick felt empowered was in the imagined world of his artwork.

Mary tried to get him to open up. “So you want to make comic books someday?”

“Yes.” Patrick looked over with a smile. “My Pops says I have a gift from God.”

“That's true.” Mary smiled back. “Talk to me about reading. That's a little bit harder for you, isn't it?”

“I can read,” Patrick shot back, defensively.

“I see.” Mary didn't want to challenge him directly, but she wanted him to be able to open up with her. Patrick was keeping his illiteracy secret, because he felt so ashamed, which was needless. “You know, Patrick, there are kids your age who can't read.”

“That's not true.” Patrick blinked. “Not in my class.”

“I'm talking about kids that are in other schools.” Mary had seen that dyslexic children could feel terribly alone. “Can you imagine a whole school full of children your age, but they can't read?”

“Why can't they?” Patrick eyed her directly, listening with a newly grave expression.

“Because everybody has a different brain and everybody learns differently. They go to a really great school where the teachers teach them differently and that's how they're learning to read. They're very smart, just like you, but they haven't been taught the way they need to be taught.”

Patrick turned to the window. “They're here.”

“The police? How do you know?”

“I hear them, don't you?” Patrick set down the drawings and went to the window, peeking through the blades.

Mary hadn't heard anything, but she looked out the window to see a police cruiser pulling up in front of the house, double-parking. She remembered that hyper-vigilance could be a symptom of dyslexia and also PTSD, but she didn't want to go there yet with Patrick.

“We'd better go downstairs.” Patrick scooted around her, heading for the bedroom door. “My Pops says it's rude to be late.”

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mary introduced herself to Officer Cindy Lee and Officer Jorge Muniz after Edward had introduced himself and Patrick, who had grown instantly quiet, looking up with wide eyes at the uniformed officers. Officer Lee was in her early thirties, with pretty features, an easy smile, and a shiny low ponytail, and she seemed to take the lead over her heavyset partner, perhaps because she was a woman.

Edward pulled in two wooden chairs from the kitchen, and the police officers sat down in them, their knees bumping the coffee table. Edward steered Patrick to the couch and sat down next to him, and Mary took the chair catty-corner to the couch, placing a notepad discreetly on her lap. She wanted to hear the story from Patrick's lips and resolved to listen objectively, even critically, to see what kind of a witness he would make, as well as resolve any doubts about the truth of what had happened.

The police officers slid skinny notepads from their back pockets, located some pens, and got settled, but Mary noticed that Patrick's demeanor had reverted back to his quieter, anxious self. He seemed to take in their every movement and he had resumed sucking his lower lip. He sat still on the couch cushion, neither bouncing nor swinging his legs, and he seemed to telescope down, roaching his back and hunching over, so that he seemed somehow smaller.

Officer Lee began by looking from Edward to Mary. “Folks, right now we're just going to get the bare-bones of what happened from Patrick. You'll need to take him to PCA, the Philadelphia Children's Alliance, after this for further questioning. We will give them a call that you're coming over and it shouldn't be a problem. They take walk-ins.”

“I understand,” Mary answered for her and Edward, because she could see him leaning forward, as if he hadn't heard. She remembered that Officer Diamond had mentioned PCA, too.

“Ms. DiNunzio and Mr. O'Brien, we ask you not to talk with Patrick about the incident between now and the time he's interviewed at PCA. It's procedure to keep the number of times he's interviewed to a minimum, for obvious reasons. That's why my interview now will be just enough to complete our file and begin our investigation.” Officer Lee turned to Patrick with a reassuring smile. “So, Patrick, we want to hear from you. How did you get that bruise on your face?”

Patrick didn't say anything.

“What happened to you? I know it was a while ago, but do you remember what happened?”

Patrick nodded, but didn't say anything, then looked down.

“Okay. Let's just start at the beginning.” Officer Lee consulted her notes. “You just started the fifth grade, right? I have a son in fourth grade, and his name is Adam.”

Patrick didn't reply, and Mary felt pained on Patrick's behalf. It couldn't have felt good to hear about another boy about his age, lucky enough to have a pretty mom who also happened to be a cop.

Edward nudged Patrick. “Patrick, tell them what happened. They don't have all day. They're very busy.”

Officer Lee pursed her lips. “Mr. O'Brien, thank you, but we have time. He can take his time.”

“Take your time, Patrick,” Officer Muniz added.

Patrick looked over at Mary, and on impulse, she winked at him. He flashed her a brief smile, which touched her.

Edward frowned. “Patrick, don't be rude. Tell her how you got hit at school, will you?”

Mary knew Edward was trying to speed things up, but he had put words in Patrick's mouth.

Officer Lee pursed her lips again. “Patrick, your grandfather means, tell us how you got the bruise.”

Patrick stopped sucking his lip. “The teacher's aide hit me. Mr. Robertson.”

“How did that come about, that Mr. Robertson hit you?” Officer Lee softened her tone.

“I was going to the assembly, and I started to get really, upset in my stomach, and I knew I was going to throw up, because sometimes I throw up in school and I get nervous.” Patrick started working his lips again, looking down, and Mary and Officer Lee exchanged sympathetic glances.

“I know how that is,” Officer Lee said, again modulating her tone. “I used to be very nervous in school. I didn't speak English that well, I had an accent, and the other kids teased me.”

Patrick listened, but didn't say anything.

“I get nervous sometimes on my job, too.”

Patrick nodded, his eyes flaring suddenly. “Because of terrorists.”

“Right!” Officer Lee smiled.

“Terrorists, they try to shoot police, I saw on the news.”

“Yes, that's very true.” Office Lee nodded. “So everybody gets scared and nervous, sometimes. It's okay to be scared sometimes and to get sick. So what happened, you threw up?”

Patrick nodded, blinking, meeting Officer Lee's gentle gaze.

“And then what happened?”

“Mr. Robertson got really mad, like, really mad. He said, ‘you better clean that out, you have to clean that up!'' Patrick's voice sped up, the story rushing out like a dam opening. “But it was on the floor and it has like a rug and it's like a blue rug and I didn't know how to clean it up, so I said to Mr. Robertson, ‘What do I clean it up with?' I didn't see any paper towels or anything that I could pick it up with and he said, ‘You have to lick it up.'”

Officer Lee blinked. “That's not very nice, is it?”

Mary masked her reaction. The very notion revolted her, and she also felt confused, in that this wasn't the story that Edward had told her. She didn't know if Edward had known this, he had just forgotten, or if Patrick was just telling it anew. She would have to clarify the time and location of the incident, but that was for another day. She looked over at Edward, whose expression had fallen into sorrowful lines.

Patrick shook his head no, in his exaggerated way. “I mean, it's my fault because I threw up but I didn't
want
to throw up, it came out of me, my cereal for breakfast. It was Special K.”

Mary's heart went out to Patrick, thinking it was his fault, but she didn't want to interrupt him. Officer Muniz's lip curled in distaste, and he leaned away.

Officer Lee nodded in a sympathetic way. “So then what happened, Patrick?”

“So I tried to lick it up but I couldn't swallow it again, I tried to, it tasted gross.” Patrick flushed under his freckles. “But then when I tried to eat it again, I started to throw up again, and then all of a sudden, Mr. Robertson picked me up and I started to cry and he hit me in the face with his hand.”

Mary swallowed hard because it was awful to hear, and she had no doubt watching Patrick tell it, that every word was true. She wondered what the reference to “again” was, but kept her own counsel, leaving it to Officer Lee to continue the questioning.

“Patrick, when he hit you, did he use his fist or was it a slap?”

“I don't know, his hand, and it hurt a lot and I don't know what happened, like it's not that I don't remember, but it happened all at once, and I went across the room, like I
flew
across the room.” Patrick's eyes flared with the memory. “And then when I looked up, I was on the floor and my face hurt really bad and I started to cry. I couldn't help it.”

Mary could visualize the scene, which turned her stomach. She noticed Edward blinking wetness from his hooded eyes behind his glasses.

Officer Lee nodded. “I understand, I would cry too. That's a terrible thing to have happen. Did he hit you once or more than once?”

“One time, this time. But, like, before…” Patrick stopped abruptly.

Mary held her breath, waiting for him to finish. She realized she hadn't taken any notes while he spoke, but she wouldn't forget what he'd said.

Officer Lee asked, “Had this happened before, that Mr. Robertson hit you?”

Patrick swallowed hard. “He didn't hit me before, but he pushed me and I hurt myself.”

“What happened that time?”

“I never used to throw up in school, like last year I didn't, but this year it's different, the teacher, Mrs. Krantz yells a lot and I feel more nervous, and I threw up the first day of school and that's when they said I was the Duke of Puke and then everybody started calling me that.”

“The kids were teasing you?”

“Yes, and they thought that name was so funny and so they call me that and they make noises whenever they see me, like they pretend they're gonna puke.” Patrick blinked, and his lower lip trembled, but he didn't cry. “Mr. Robertson got me another time, like before the last time, and he didn't hit me but he shoved me, like, pushed me into the wall and I hurt my shoulder.”

“Which shoulder was that?”

“This one.” Patrick pointed to his left shoulder.

“Did you tell your grandfather about that?”

Patrick shook his head, no. Mary glanced at Edward, whose eyes were still wet. He must not have known about the earlier incident, and she knew he would be feeling terrible.

Officer Lee continued, “The first time, did Mr. Robertson say anything to you?”

“He was saying I was the Duke of Puke, that I was a big baby and I should be ashamed of myself for being such a baby and so stupid.”

Mary wanted to wring Robertson's neck. It killed her to hear about Patrick being victimized, and he wasn't even hers. She wondered how she would ever be a mother.

Office Lee frowned. “Was there anybody else around the time that he hit you in the face?”

Patrick shook his head, no.

“Was anyone else around the time that he pushed you against the wall?”

Patrick shook his head, no, again.

“Where did this take place, the first time?”

“In a room near the classroom at school.”

“And the second time, was it the same place or a different place?”

“The same place.”

“What room was this?”

“I don't know. It had cleaning machines.”

Officer Lee consulted her notepad. “Now, I understand that the time he hit you in the face, that was on Wednesday, on September the 16. Does that sound like the right day to you?”