Bad Thoughts by Dave Zeltserman Page B

got?”
           “Believe it or not, everything.”
           “Like what?”
           “Murder weapon with prints—” Aukland held up an eight-inch knife wrapped in a clear plastic bag. “—hair and skin samples from under her fingernails. We’ve also got a couple of drops of blood next to her pillow that I don’t think are hers.”
           “And,” DiGrazia cut in, “we’ve got the murderer in the second bedroom.”
           “What’s he doing there? Why haven’t you brought him in?”
           “Because he hasn’t shut down yet. I thought you, with that silver tongue of yours, could coax the truth out of him. Save us all some aggravation. I know it’s a lot to ask from you, since all the department is doing is paying your salary, but—”
           “Shut up,” Shannon ordered. Normally he could ignore DiGrazia, and more often than not get a good chuckle out of him. Now, though, the fat man was getting to him and he could feel a hotness flushing his cheeks. DiGrazia closed his mouth, a slow, satisfied smirk twisting his lips. Aukland bent over the desk, pretending to be oblivious to their spat.
           “Anyway,” DiGrazia said softly enough so Aukland wouldn’t be able to hear, “I thought it would be good to get you out of bed. Susie called me earlier this morning. Later, you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you. No bullshit this time.”
           “Fine.” Shannon found himself staring at the woman’s dead eyes. He shifted his gaze to the rest of her face. A heavy weariness seemed to pull at her features. Even in death . . .
           “So who do we have?” Shannon asked, looking away from the corpse.
           “This is a real beauty,” DiGrazia said, his eyes sparkling slightly. Aukland, sitting at the desk, shook his head, his lips pressed tight together.
           “Her son’s in the other bedroom,” DiGrazia went on. “He did it, buddy boy. He hasn’t talked yet, but there is no doubt about it. It’s a done deal, right up to the fresh scratch marks running up both his arms. And guess what we also found in his room?”
           “What?”
           “A collection of articles about Janice Rowley.” DiGrazia paused for a moment, and then his voice got lower, edgier. “This freak has probably been dreaming about this for months. If we take him in, Youth Services will shut him down. Let’s crack him now while we got the chance. If we’re lucky we might be able to get something to use to try him as an adult. Let’s have him spend his formative years in Walpole bent over at the waist.”
           DiGrazia spat on the floor, his eyes now shining like red hot coals. “I would love to bring the piece of shit in here and do the questioning, but well—” he shrugged, his shoulders slumping helplessly “—I don’t suppose the courts would be too happy about it.”
           “How old is the kid?”
           “Thirteen.”
           Bill Shannon stood, blinking at his partner. He felt cold for a moment, very cold, especially around the forehead. “What do you mean, thirteen?” he heard himself asking.
           “Just what I said,” DiGrazia muttered, annoyed.
           “A thirteen-year-old kid torturing and murdering his mother?”
           “That’s what it looks like,” Aukland agreed.
           “We’ve got to nail him, Bill,” DiGrazia said. “It would kill me if he got through this as a juvenile. You agree?”
           Bill Shannon found himself nodding. The coldness in his head was disorienting, like ice pressing hard against the inside of his skull. His eyes wandered around the room and focused on the gaping red hole carved out from the dead woman’s throat.
           “When I was a kid I used to spend my afternoons playing hockey. I guess times have changed, huh?” DiGrazia asked.
           Shannon nodded again and let his