The Interrogation by Thomas H. Cook

A small drawing, eight inches by eleven, no more, done with crayon, but remarkably detailed. It showed a girl draped in white, with long dark hair that tumbled nearly to her waist. Her bare arms were outstretched and imploring, as if pleading to be rescued from the tangle of green that surrounded her. Her flesh was pale, her eyes sunken. It was like some vital spark was drained from her.
    “Christ,” Pierce muttered.
    “You think Smalls drew this?” Cohen asked him.
    Pierce studied the drawing, his eyes on the terror in the child’s face. “If he did, he’s one sick bastard,” he said.
    8:07 P.M. , September 12, Interrogation Room 3
    “Remember the drawing, Jay?” Cohen said. “The one in the drainage pipe. Of the little girl?”
    “Yes.”
    “She looked like Cathy, remember? Same age. Long dark hair. Did Cathy … pose for that drawing, Jay?”
    “No.”
    “But it was Cathy, wasn’t it?”
    “No.”
    “Okay, fine, but tell me this. Why did you draw this little girl in that long white robe? I was just wondering how you got the idea to dress her that way. Were you ever around people who were dressed like that?”
    “No.”
    “Never lived in any sort of institution?”
    “No.”
    “All right, but I have to go back to the drawing, Jay. Because the thing is, my partner thinks the little girl in the robe is Cathy. He thinks you had your eye on Cathy. He thinks you’d had your eye on her for quite some time. She played in Dubarry Playground, after all. Not far from the tunnel.”
    Smalls leaned forward and lowered his face into his open hands.
    “Is my partner right, Jay?”
    Smalls straightened himself again. “I’d seen her before, that’s all.”
    “Tell about the times you’d seen her.”
    “I already have.”
    “Let’s go over them again.”
    “Where do you want me to start?”
    “When you saw her.”
    “The first time?”
    “Yes.”
    “I saw her in the playground, that’s all. With other kids. She comes there on Sunday afternoons. With her mother. I’ve seen her there several times.”
    “Always with her mother?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, but one time you saw her when she wasn’t in the playground, right? You know the time I mean, don’t you? The one you told us about.”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me about that incident.”
    “She left the playground.”
    “And went where?”
    “They have some benches. Outside the fence.”
    “And you were sitting on one of those benches?”
    “Yes.”
    “When was this?”
    “A few days before it happened. Before someone … hurt her.”
    “And she saw you, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay, where were you when Cathy saw you?”
    “Sitting there. On one of the benches.”
    “Just minding your own business.”
    “I wasn’t hurting anybody. I was just …”
    “Watching the children in the playground.”
    “I wasn’t hurting anybody,” Smalls repeated emphatically.
    “Okay, let’s get back to Cathy. This time she left the playground and sat down near you. She was near you, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “How far away would you say?”
    “She was on the bench across from me.”
    “Did you talk to her?”
    “No.”
    “What did she do after she saw you?”
    “She didn’t do anything.”
    “She just kept sitting there?”
    “Yes.”
    “For how long?”
    “Just a few minutes.”
    “Then what?”
    “She went back into the playground.”
    “So, why do you think she left Dubarry Playground in the first place, Jay?”
    “Maybe there was a man. Like I said before. A man in the playground.”
    “Some guy who scared her.”
    “Yes.”
    “Because this guy was creepy, or something like that.”
    “Yes.”
    “And so Cathy left the playground and went and sat on a bench outside the fence and that’s where she ran into you, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “And that’s the closest she ever came to you?”
    “Yes.”
    “So she was never in the tunnel with you, Jay?”
    “No.”
    “Okay, where did Cathy go after she left the bench where you saw her