repressing his brother's death. At fifteen, he talked quite freely about it. In fact, it's unusual how clearly he recalled the details. No, I'm looking for an event that he doesn't talk about."
"Sexual abuse?"
"Not likely. Teri denied it, and the interviews with Billy didn't show anything. There was physical abuse by his father, and many, many instances of emotional abuse. At this point, I just don't know." Sharon Vogelhut turned her warm eyes toward Anthony and smiled. "If only you hadn't worked so darn fast on that other case, I'd have had time to dig deeper. Do me a favor. Find out about this young woman who was murdered. What was she to Billy? I want some background before I see him again, and his mother doesn't have a clue."
"I'll call you." Anthony added, "Has Mr. Fadden come by this morning?"
"Not since I've been here. He knows about this, doesn't he?"
"He knows about the attempted suicide, but not the confession."
"Oh, dear. Someone should tell him. You do it, if possible. I'd be interested in his reaction." She put her glasses and notebook in her bag. "Now I really have to fly. By the way, who gets the bills, you or the Greenwalds?"
"Send them to me," Anthony said. He would find a way to route them to Martin, bypassing Lois. What she didn't see, she couldn't complain about.
Anthony knocked on the door and went in. "Good morning."
Someone on the staff had removed Billy's restraints and had changed the neck brace for a soft cervical collar. The IV was gone. A breakfast tray, still untouched, had been left by the sink. Billy's mother folded the sports section, which she had been reading aloud.
"Look, honey, it's Mr. Quintana."
Billy gave no sign of recognition. His platinum-streaked hair had been combed to one side, as only a mother would do it.
Anthony set the overnight bag on the floor by the bed. "Lois sent you a change of clothes."
Teri told him they were still waiting for Billy's doctor to check him over so they could go home. Anthony asked if he could talk to Billy privately. Teri said she would go down to the cafeteria to find her husband.
When they were alone Anthony said, "How's your headache?"
"Fine." Billy was looking out the window. The blue squares on the hospital gown matched the shadows under his eyes. His left hand was bandaged. Anthony hadn't noticed it last night.
"What happened to your hand?"
"I don't know." His voice had deepened to baritone in four years. A stubble of beard darkened his skin. Who was this young man? The connections they had developed were gone. Anthony hardly knew how to approach a client who might slide back into suicidal depression, but there were things to say.
"Billy, let me tell you why I'm here. Your mother and Martin have asked me to help you. You called the police yesterday and told them that you murdered Sandra McCoy. I don't believe you did. First, there's no physical evidence that connects you to the crime, and second, you told your mother a week ago that you were watching movies with Joan Sinclair the night Sandra died. Is that what happened? Were you with Miss Sinclair?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so."
"I don't remember."
"And you don't remember making the phone call to the Monroe County Sheriff's Office."
"No. Maybe they're lying."
"I am afraid not. They have it on tape. There's a homicide detective outside named Jack Baylor. When we take you out of here, he's going to ask you if you want to talk to him. Say nothing. If you do speak, it should be, 'I'm not talking, speak to my lawyer.' Do you understand that? Billy?"
He closed his eyes. "Yes. I understand." The drugs were slowing his words.
Satisfied that the boy was not going to throw himself into the arms of the police, Anthony said, "You can talk to Dr. Vogelhut or to me about this, but no one else. Not your mother, your father, your friends. That's important. All right?"
"Yes."
"I want you to tell me about Sandra McCoy. Her friends, her enemies, how you knew her, who she was. We'll talk
"Sexual abuse?"
"Not likely. Teri denied it, and the interviews with Billy didn't show anything. There was physical abuse by his father, and many, many instances of emotional abuse. At this point, I just don't know." Sharon Vogelhut turned her warm eyes toward Anthony and smiled. "If only you hadn't worked so darn fast on that other case, I'd have had time to dig deeper. Do me a favor. Find out about this young woman who was murdered. What was she to Billy? I want some background before I see him again, and his mother doesn't have a clue."
"I'll call you." Anthony added, "Has Mr. Fadden come by this morning?"
"Not since I've been here. He knows about this, doesn't he?"
"He knows about the attempted suicide, but not the confession."
"Oh, dear. Someone should tell him. You do it, if possible. I'd be interested in his reaction." She put her glasses and notebook in her bag. "Now I really have to fly. By the way, who gets the bills, you or the Greenwalds?"
"Send them to me," Anthony said. He would find a way to route them to Martin, bypassing Lois. What she didn't see, she couldn't complain about.
Anthony knocked on the door and went in. "Good morning."
Someone on the staff had removed Billy's restraints and had changed the neck brace for a soft cervical collar. The IV was gone. A breakfast tray, still untouched, had been left by the sink. Billy's mother folded the sports section, which she had been reading aloud.
"Look, honey, it's Mr. Quintana."
Billy gave no sign of recognition. His platinum-streaked hair had been combed to one side, as only a mother would do it.
Anthony set the overnight bag on the floor by the bed. "Lois sent you a change of clothes."
Teri told him they were still waiting for Billy's doctor to check him over so they could go home. Anthony asked if he could talk to Billy privately. Teri said she would go down to the cafeteria to find her husband.
When they were alone Anthony said, "How's your headache?"
"Fine." Billy was looking out the window. The blue squares on the hospital gown matched the shadows under his eyes. His left hand was bandaged. Anthony hadn't noticed it last night.
"What happened to your hand?"
"I don't know." His voice had deepened to baritone in four years. A stubble of beard darkened his skin. Who was this young man? The connections they had developed were gone. Anthony hardly knew how to approach a client who might slide back into suicidal depression, but there were things to say.
"Billy, let me tell you why I'm here. Your mother and Martin have asked me to help you. You called the police yesterday and told them that you murdered Sandra McCoy. I don't believe you did. First, there's no physical evidence that connects you to the crime, and second, you told your mother a week ago that you were watching movies with Joan Sinclair the night Sandra died. Is that what happened? Were you with Miss Sinclair?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so."
"I don't remember."
"And you don't remember making the phone call to the Monroe County Sheriff's Office."
"No. Maybe they're lying."
"I am afraid not. They have it on tape. There's a homicide detective outside named Jack Baylor. When we take you out of here, he's going to ask you if you want to talk to him. Say nothing. If you do speak, it should be, 'I'm not talking, speak to my lawyer.' Do you understand that? Billy?"
He closed his eyes. "Yes. I understand." The drugs were slowing his words.
Satisfied that the boy was not going to throw himself into the arms of the police, Anthony said, "You can talk to Dr. Vogelhut or to me about this, but no one else. Not your mother, your father, your friends. That's important. All right?"
"Yes."
"I want you to tell me about Sandra McCoy. Her friends, her enemies, how you knew her, who she was. We'll talk
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