The Word of a Child (4 page)

Mariah nodded.

"Unless DNA is recovered, however, the exam won't be
conclusive. Well," she corrected herself, "unless she's never had
sexual intercourse at all and the entire story is fabricated.

"Detective McLean will be conducting an investigation.
I fear parents will demand that Mr. Tanner be suspended during the course of
it. I'm undecided about that yet. Students have been known to make frivolous
accusations. I don't want to overreact."

"Tracy's grades are suffering in my class," Mariah
said. "She may be flunking his."

"And yet, the fact that she is a poor student can have
no bearing on our response to her allegation," Noreen Patterson pointed
out. "In fact, I suspect her failing grade explains why she responded to
his … um, blackmail. He wouldn't have had the same leverage with a better
student."

Mariah nodded. "Yes. I understand. It's just
that…"

"That?" the principal prompted.

"It occurred to me today while we were talking that she
and I were alone in a classroom with the door shut. She could have claimed I'd
said or done anything. How will you ever know the truth?"

The police officer stirred. "I doubt a
thirteen-year-old girl who is a poor student has the sophistication to have
built an airtight case. She'll have talked to friends, for example, possibly
bragging about how she was going to get rid of her computer teacher and make
everybody feel sorry for her. Clearly she didn't understand that her accusation
would go outside the school. In the stress of having to repeat her story to me,
other officers, somebody from Child Protective Services, even a D.A., she'll
likely slip up."

"If she's not telling the truth," Mariah felt
compelled to say, surprised at her sharpness.

He lifted a brow. "Exactly."

She started at a rap on the glass inset in the door.

Galvanized, Mariah leaped to her feet. She said hastily,
"I know you'll want to talk to Gerald without me here. Unless you need
anything else, I'll be going home now."

Detective McLean's light eyes flicked from her face to the
man who stood behind her.

"Actually, Mariah, I was hoping you could stay."
Noreen cleared her throat. "I'd like your thoughts."

Thoughts?

She was backpedaling, careful to avoid looking at the police
officer who remained by the window, as though he imagined he could ever be
unobtrusive.

"I don't know what else I can add."
Please don't make me do this,
she begged the principal with her eyes.
You don't know what you're asking.

But
he
did. And, damn him, remained silent.

Noreen Patterson said firmly, "I'd appreciate it if you
would stay."

Mariah stood for a moment, so near rebellion that she
trembled. Nostrils flaring, she stared at Detective McLean, knowing what was
coming, hating it and him. He could have rescued her, could have said in that
quiet voice, "I don't think we need Ms. Stavig to be here."

But he said nothing of the kind, and after an intense inner
battle Mariah went back to her seat and waited, head bowed.

Noreen Patterson raised her voice. "Come in."

"You wanted to see me?" Gerald Tanner looked wary.

The principal asked him to take a seat. The remaining one
was right beside Mariah. She stared down at her hands.

"Mr. Tanner, one of your students has accused you of
trading a passing grade for sex."

His body jerked, as though he'd been struck by a bullet.
"What?"

Sounding calm, nonjudgmental, Noreen Patterson summarized Tracy's story.

"Who is the student?" he asked, strain making his
voice shake.

"Tracy Mitchell."

"God." He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes
shut. "I've had conferences with her—I know she can do the work if only
she'd try—but I've never…" He drew a breath that was painful to hear.

Unable to prevent herself, Mariah turned her head to see the
bewilderment and shock on his face.

"You don't seriously think I…" He looked from face
to face and saw that they did. "Oh my God. This can't be happening!"

"I'm afraid it is, Mr. Tanner." Detective McLean spoke quietly. "Any accusation of this magnitude has to be taken
seriously."

"But she's thirteen years old! A … a child!" His
Adam's apple bobbed. "I have never been interested, would never be
interested…"

They began to ask questions, and Mariah watched his
horrified disintegration.

"You're going to take her word over mine?" He
shoved his chair back. His frenzied gaze encountered Mariah. "Why is she
here?"

Mariah opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"The student chose to confide in Ms. Stavig," the
principal said coolly. "Since she's involved this deeply, I asked her to
stay."

He looked at her with deep hurt. "You couldn't have
come to me?"

"I…" Her voice stuck, unstuck. "You know I
have to…"

"Set up an ambush?" He shot out of the chair as if
he couldn't bear to be so close to her.

"Ms. Stavig did nothing but what she is required by law
to do, and you know it," Mrs. Patterson said sharply.

"This is unbelievable!" He paced, his agitation
making his gait jerky and his bony limbs look like sticks strung together.
"Do I even get a chance to answer these charges? Does anybody care if I'm
innocent?"

"Of course we care…"

He swung to face Detective McLean. "Are you going to
arrest me?" he shouted. He stuck out his arms. "Here! Handcuff me
now. Let's get it over with. Apparently we can skip the trial, too. The judge
and jury are right here!"

He had passed the point of listening to reason, and Mariah
couldn't blame him. They
had
ambushed him, and she understood his terror as the snares
whipped shut on his ankles.

No matter the outcome, his life would never be the same
again. Rumors would start, whispers would follow him. Even his best friends
would feel doubt. Everyone would wonder: Did he do it? Even if Tracy Mitchell
eventually recanted her story the doubts wouldn't be completely erased. Maybe
she was afraid of him; maybe that's why she says it never happened. Maybe…

"I'm sorry," Mariah whispered.

The only one who seemed to hear her was Detective McLean,
whose mask slipped briefly to reveal a flash of—what? Compassion? Some inner
anguish?

Or was it pity, because twice she had been fooled by
monsters who walked as men?

The next moment he looked back at Gerald Tanner and said in
that quiet, steadying voice, "Mr. Tanner, I have every intention of
hearing your side. Teenagers do make up stories like this. You will not be
railroaded, I promise."

Mariah stood up and left, not caring whether the principal
would be annoyed.

God help her, she would never look at Gerald Tanner again
without hearing the whisper of doubt.

Already those doubts murmured in her ear as she made her way
blindly through the office and out the double doors to the parking lot.

But the ones that were not content to murmur, that clawed
deep, had nothing to do with a high school computer teacher. Always, always,
they had to do with Simon, the man she had loved.

If he had done what they said—of course he hadn't, but if he
had—would he one day touch Zofie in a way no father should?

She got into her car, locked the door and rested her
forehead on the steering wheel. She tasted the salt of her own tears.

"What else could I do?" she asked aloud, and
didn't even know if she was talking about Simon or Gerald Tanner.

Chapter
2

«
^
»

C
onnor took a long swallow
of beer and announced, "I'm starting to hate my
job."

He and his brothers, policemen all, had gathered for their
traditional weekly dinner and couple of beers at John's. John was the only one
of them with children and a wife, which meant the sofa coordinated with the
leather chair and the Persian rug, the kitchen table wasn't covered with old
pizza boxes and takeout Chinese cartons, and instead of an overflowing hamper,
the bathroom had clean, matching towels and, tonight, even flowers in a
stoneware vase.

Connor was beginning to think a life of domestic happiness
didn't look so bad. Not that he had any prospects for marriage, but … hell, he
could buy a house. A man didn't need a wife for that.

Right now, the three were slouched in the living room.
Natalie, John's wife, had shooed them out of the kitchen and insisted that she
and their mother would clean up. The kids were doing homework upstairs. Whether
Mom was here or not, somehow Natalie always managed to give the brothers time
to talk. After finishing in the kitchen, Mom usually left, while Natalie was
likely to pop in long enough to kiss their cheeks and wish them good-night,
exchange a slow, deep look with her new husband, and disappear upstairs to read
in bed. And wait for John, who would start getting antsy in an hour or so. Who
could blame him, with a luscious woman like Natalie waiting?

Even the idea of a wife wasn't sounding so bad to Connor.
Must be a symptom of age, he figured; his thirtieth birthday had come and gone.

His comment about his job still hung in the air when his
mother appeared in the doorway. Voice sharp, she said, "Don't say things
you don't mean. You sound like a teenager, making too much of some little
complaint."

Surprised by her agitation, Connor raised his brow.
"How do you know it's a little complaint?"

In the act of snatching up a coffee mug left on the end
table, she demanded, "Well, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "Just a case I was going to tell Hugh and
John about."

"Hardly your 'job,' then," she chided him. A regal,
fine-boned woman, Ivy McLean departed for the kitchen.

After a moment of silence during which none of the brothers
moved, Connor cleared his throat. "What's with Mom?"

John gave him a look. "You know how important she
thinks our work is. You aren't supposed to bitch. You don't have a job,"
he said dryly. "You have a calling."

"We're making the streets safe, et cetera, et
cetera," Hugh added.

Connor grunted. As a kid, he hadn't been conscious of
pressure from Mom to become a cop, the way John claimed to. He'd become one
because his big brother had. There was no question, however, that Mom was proud
of the fact all three sons were in law enforcement. And maybe she had no
understanding of the need to grumble. A stoic herself, she had raised her three
sons alone with grit and without whining.

John gave himself a shake. "Back to your job. Why are
you starting to hate it?"

Hugh, the youngest and best-looking of the three McLean brothers, slumped lower in his chair. "It's that fuzzy, did-he-or-didn't-he
crap," he announced. "Here's free advice—go back on patrol. Do some
real
police
work."

John grabbed an empty and tossed it, connecting with Hugh's
chest. "You don't think raping a thirteen-year-old is a crime? Arresting a
rapist isn't real police work?"

Unoffended, Hugh crumpled the can in one hand. "I
listen to Connor. These cases aren't clear-cut. This one with the schoolkid
isn't a rape, it's a … jeez, I don't know." He gestured vaguely.

"A knife at the throat isn't the only kind of
force," Connor said. "The power an adult—and at that a teacher, a
figure of authority—wields over a kid is considerable."

"I know that. I'm not excusing it. I'm just saying, you
may never know who's lying. Don't you ever hunger for a good, old-fashioned
shooting at a convenience store?"

Connor grunted. "Maybe."

"Maybe" wasn't the real answer; "no"
was. Sometimes he wasn't sure he was cut out to be a cop at all. Going back
into uniform didn't appeal, and he wasn't sure investigating murders or arson
or bank robberies as a Major Crimes Unit detective like John would make his
view of the world any sunnier.