“Very well.”
“I’d like to hear more about how you came to be in the house where the Monroe brothers died. Channing Shore had been missing for a day and a half. Is that correct?”
“Forty hours.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Not a day and a half. Forty hours.”
“And police were actively involved in the search?”
“There was speculation she was a runaway, but, yes. We had her description and were involved. Her parents had come to the precinct. They were very concerned.”
“They’d posted a reward?”
“And spoken to local television. They were convincing.”
“Did you believe her to be a runaway?”
“I believed she’d been abducted.”
“Based on what information?” Marsh asked.
“I’d spoken to her parents and been to her house, in her room. I interviewed friends, teachers, coaches. There was no sign of drug or alcohol abuse. Her parents were not perfect, but they weren’t abusive, either. There was no boyfriend, nothing unusual on her computer. She was going to go to college. She was a solid kid.”
“That was the sole basis of your judgment?”
“She had pink sheets.”
“Pink sheets?”
“Pink sheets. Stuffed animals.” Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. “The lives of runaways are rarely pink or fluffy.”
Hamilton stared at Elizabeth as if she were something dirty. Marsh shifted in his seat. “Channing was eventually discovered in the basement of an abandoned dwelling on Penelope Street.”
“Yes.”
“How would you describe that neighborhood?”
“Decayed.”
“Violent?”
“There have been shootings there, yes.”
“Murders?”
“A few.”
Marsh leaned forward. “Why did you go into that house alone? Where was your partner?”
“I’ve explained this.”
“Explain it again.”
“It was late. We’d been working Channing Shore’s disappearance since five in the morning. We were exhausted. Beckett went home for a shower and a few hours’ sleep. I went for coffee and a drive. We were going to meet again at five the next morning.”
“Go on.”
“I received a radio call from dispatch asking me to check out reports of suspicious activity at an abandoned house on Penelope Street. The report indicated activity in the basement, possible screams. I would not normally take a call like that, but it was a busy night. The department was stretched.”
“Stretched, how?”
“The battery plant closed that day—three hundred jobs gone in a city that can’t afford to lose three. There was rioting. Some burned cars. People were angry. The department’s resources were strained.”
“Where was Detective Beckett?”
“He’s married with kids. He needed the time.”
“So, you went alone to a dangerous neighborhood, then into an abandoned house where screams had been reported?”
“That’s correct.”
“You didn’t call for backup?”
“No.”
“Is that normal procedure?”
“It was not a normal day.”
Marsh drummed his fingers on the table. “Were you drinking?”
“That question is offensive.”
Marsh slid a paper across the table. “This is the incident report completed by your commanding officer.” He glanced at Dyer. “It says you were disoriented after the shooting. At times, nonresponsive.”
Elizabeth flashed back to the moment in question. She was sitting on the curb outside the abandoned house. Channing was in the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, catatonic. Dyer’s hands were on Elizabeth’s shoulders. Talk to me, he’d said. Liz. His eyes faded in and out. Jesus Christ, he’d said. What the hell happened in there?
“I wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t drunk.”
Marsh leaned back and studied her. “You have a soft spot for young people.”
“Is that a question?”
“Especially those who are helpless or abused. It’s reflected in your files. People in the department are aware of it. You respond with great passion to young people in distress. You’ve intervened with authorities, used force on multiple occasions.” Marsh leaned forward. “You feel a connection to those who are small and young and unable to care for themselves.”
“Isn’t that part of the job description?”
“Not if it interferes with the job.” Marsh opened another folder and began to spread out photographs of the dead men. They were glossy, full color. Crime-scene photographs. Autopsy photographs. They stretched across the table like a fan of cards: blood and blank eyes and shattered bone. “You went alone into an abandoned house.” He touched the photographs as he spoke. “There was no power. Reports of screams. You went alone into the basement.” He straightened the edges of the photographs until he had a perfect line. “Did you hear anything?”
Elizabeth swallowed.
“Detective Black? Did you hear anything?”
“Dripping water. Rats in the walls.”
“Rats?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Channing was crying.”