The Blood On Our Hands by Jonah Ellersby

satisfied. Pressed, Womack had little choice but to follow up and initiate inquiries.
    By nine-thirty that evening he’d confirmed that Shelly had parted company with the girls on the sidewalk fronting the Big Top Diner, about the time they had separated from the boys. Shelly had claimed as her reason a previously scheduled engagement to drive to Albany with her mother, to meet for dinner with her dad, a claim disputed, subsequently, by Mrs. Hayden. By midnight, the child had neither reappeared nor telephoned home. Womack was compelled to notify the State Police.
    Three days after Shelly disappeared and the day after her body was discovered wedged among the rocks at the base of the Church Falls dam, Womack made a follow-up visit to the home of Leland and Neal McMaster.
    Earlier that same evening he had questioned Keith Chislett, Andy Pardoe, Seamus Mcteer, and Ed Dojcsak. Dojcsak was a distant cousin to Womack, twice removed and whose antecedents—Womack imagined—had immigrated to America from Czechoslovakia on the same boat as his own ancestors. Aside from a passing physical resemblance between the two, the blood bond was tenuous. Of the four boys, only Dojcsak had been willing to speak. Though he had not incriminated Leland McMaster, he said enough in an effort to protect him that Sidney became curious, if not yet suspicious.
    Sitting across from Leland, he asked, “You say you were with them, but not really.”
    “Yes, sir,” the boy replied. “I was just hanging out, you know, not sitting with anybody in particular. The others were sitting at a table, drinking Cokes and eating fries.”
    “Why didn’t you join them?” Womack asked.
    “I don’t know them all that well.”
    “You don’t know them all that well?”
    It may have been his tone, or perhaps his demeanor, but Leland recognized something in Womack that caused him to add, “Well, I do. Just some of them not all that well.”
    Womack asked, “Who do you know, who don’t you know, son?”
    Leland was tempted to reply: You’re not my fucking father. Instead, he pushed a hand through his long blonde hair as if it might help him to recall, and said, “Dojcsak, Chislett, Mcteer and Pardoe. The girls? None of them all that well.”
    “ Shelly Hayden?” Womack asked.
    “No, sir, not her. Only to see on the street, you know.”
    “They’re your friends; why didn’t you join them?” Womack repeated the question, patient.
    Leland McMaster bowed his head. From beneath a strand of blonde hair, he looked to his father. Leland McMaster Sr. had been present during the interview. He had asked neither if he could stay, nor if he should leave.
    “Well, you see, sir,” he said to Womack, hesitant, “I smoke. They didn’t want me smoking at the table.”
    “Hardly a crime, Sidney,” Leland Sr. said, speaking for the first time in defense of his son, puffing on his own filtered cigarette. “Boys smoke.”
    “And you?” Womack said, turning his attention to the younger brother. “Were you at the table with Shelly, or do you smoke too?”
    “Me?” said Neal, startled, as if he were surprised to be asked the question. “Smoke?”
    “Did you sit at a table with Shelly Hayden?” Womack repeated.
    “Me?” Neal said again. “Yeah, I guess so. I guess I did, sure.”
    Womack studied the boys. Leland shared his father’s height and good looks. At seventeen, his shoulders had yet to fill out, though his bone structure indicated he would inherit the Senior McMaster’s physique. He was articulate, well mannered, excelled both academically and at sport and was what most in this small town referred to as an altogether “fine young man”. By contrast, Neal suffered from poor grades and refused to be involved in the extracurricular activities that might help to redefine his reputation as an outcast. His stubby arms and legs were visibly too short for his torso, his dark hair trimmed in a bowl shape around his skull. Neal resembled a Neanderthal, an