THE CAMERA IN THE CEILING CORNER STARED AT ME, ITS RED EYE unblinking. I wondered if I was being recorded. Probably. I tried to control my breathing. I’d never been in any real trouble in my life. But things hadn’t gone as planned.
My plan had been to hand over the missing property, explain how I’d found it on the street, then walk out of there. Simple as that.
Or so I’d thought.
Fifteen minutes later I sat in an interrogation room awaiting a detective.
“He just wants to ask you a few questions,” the first officer had said after he’d taken my statement. “Wanna call your parents, have them meet you down here while you’re waiting?”
“No, thanks,” I replied, trying to look more confident than I felt.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir. My mom’s at home with my little brother. I’ll fill her in when I get back.”
“If you insist.”
Nearly an hour passed.
What was taking so long? I rubbed my hands together to keep them warm in the overly air-conditioned room. I bounced my knees up and down. Rose called. Twice. Three times. Mom called a few times too. Dylan texted. I didn’t answer any of them. I’d explain later.
Finally, the door opened, making me jump.
A man wearing jeans and a black polo shirt walked in, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, a manila folder in the other. A lanyard and badge hung from his neck. On his hip, a gun. He appeared to be in his forties, with short salt-and-pepper hair and gray stubble on a chiseled jawline. I’d seen him before. It was the cop from the Open Mic.
He dropped the folder on the table between us.
“Mr. Gunderson,” he said without looking at me. He sat across the table and opened the folder. I couldn’t believe this was the same guy who’d sung “American Girl” at the Beauty Saloon.
“Hi.” My voice sounded like someone else’s. Higher, weaker.
The detective flipped through the folder for a moment before speaking. “I’m Detective Van Reusch.” Another long pause as he scanned a piece of paper from top to bottom. “No parent here with you? Lawyer?”
“No, sir. I’m not in trouble, am I?”
The detective looked up at me, but didn’t reply. The silence was deafening.
“I thought—” My words caught in my throat. I began to wonder if I’d made a huge mistake. “I just wanted to turn in the stuff I found. Do I need to have a lawyer or parent here?”
Detective Van Reusch sat back and folded his hands. “No, although you do have that right. I was told you walked in here of your own accord. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, you’re free to leave anytime,” he said, motioning toward the door. “I just have a few questions.”
“Okay.”
He held up the paper he was looking at and showed it to me. “Officer Higgerson informed me you found these items. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Detective Van Reusch nodded. “On the sidewalk?”
“Yes.”
“Just stumbled upon them?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded again. “And are you aware these items were reported stolen from Hilltop Nursing Home earlier this evening?”
I blinked. “I just found everything in the box and turned it in right away.”
Detective Van Reusch rubbed his chin and scanned the report. “So let me get this timeline straight. Property gets stolen from the residents of Hilltop Nursing Home, everything gets placed in a box, and then you find it on the sidewalk a couple hours later and turn it in.” He shot his eyes up at me. “That correct?”
“Correct.”
“Uh-huh.” Another long pause. “Tell me, Mr. Gunderson, were you at Hilltop Nursing Home earlier today?”
My stomach dropped. I remembered what Rose had said on the phone. “The detective said he wants to talk to you . . . someone told him they saw you two run out the front door.”
I hadn’t figured out an explanation for that part of the story yet. My mind raced, trying to come up with some plausible reason for running out of Hilltop.
“It’s a simple question. Were you at Hilltop Nursing Home earlier today?”
“Uh, yes.”
Detective Van Reusch took a deep breath and leaned forward on his elbows. “So was I. In fact, I took this report,” he said, wagging the folder at me.
I swallowed. My tongue felt dry and swollen.
“Look, multiple witnesses saw you and your brother running away shortly before I arrived. And that lovely director, Ms. Stouffer, said it was you who found Mr. Porter’s medals. Now, I’m not saying you stole the property.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. “But innocent people don’t run.” He let that sink in a while before continuing. “Are you sticking with your story?”
This isn’t going well. Why hadn’t I told Mom the truth, or just returned everything right away? I knew I was standing on thin ice. But I couldn’t change my story now. That’d look even worse.
“Yes, sir. That’s how it happened. I found the box on the sidewalk,” I replied.
“Mm-hmm.” The detective took another sip of coffee and grimaced as he swallowed it. “Mr. Gunderson, I’ve been doing this a long time. In my line of work, we call your story suspicious. Some might even say you’re interfering with an official police investigation by giving false information. Are you telling me the truth, Mr. Gunderson?”
By now, I felt certain the detective could see my heart thudding beneath my T-shirt. I began to speak, but nothing came out.
Detective Van Reusch continued. “That’s what I thought. Personally, I don’t think you stole the property yourself. But I think you know who did. Who are you covering for?”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I heard Grub crying earlier. Don’t tell Mom . . . promise me. Don’t tell anyone.
I heard Mom. There’s nothing wrong with that boy, do you hear me?
Rose. I don’t know what we’re going to do.
Me. I’ll take care of everything, I promise.
I couldn’t back down now.
I opened my eyes and cleared my throat. “I didn’t just find those things on the sidewalk, I took them myself,” I said. “No one else had anything to do with it.”
Detective Van Reusch tilted his head and studied me for several seconds. “Now you’re saying you took everything?”
I nodded.
“You, a kid with no criminal record—no motive at all, in fact—stole jewelry from nursing home residents?”
My new story didn’t sound very convincing to me either. But I was sixteen, a minor. How bad could the punishment be? I found a spot on the table to stare at.
“Mr. Gunderson, depending on the value of these items, this could be a class two felony. Grand larceny. And if you’re covering for someone else, that won’t go well for you either.”
Felony.
Larceny.
Jail.
“You want to tell me what really happened, son?”
Suddenly, I did want to tell him, but I could hardly piece it all together. The truth had been twisted and turned and stretched into something unrecognizable . . .
An old man’s shattered memory.
A young boy’s misguided game.
An older brother’s neglect.
I shut my eyes and tried to concentrate. After a minute, I took a deep breath and spoke.