them down a broad corridor to a metal door set with a thick glass window that had chicken wire in it. He unlocked the door to let them into a tiny room with concrete block walls painted cream and a dark cafeteria-style table. Two dark chairs were on either side of the table. The napless gray carpet of the corridor continued in here.
Wannamaker sat down facing the door, gesturing briefly at the chair beside him, and put his briefcase on the table. He opened it and lifted out several legal-size documents, stapled to blue backs, and photocopies of official-looking reports.
Betsy, old enough to be affronted by this continued lack of manners, sat down in the chair indicated.
“Do you know Mickey’s parents?” she asked.
“You mean personally? No.”
“What do you think about this case?”
“Open and shut.”
“You mean you can get him off?”
He stared at her, momentarily nonplused. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Before Betsy could reply, the door’s lock rattled and it opened to admit yet another man in polo shirt and khaki trousers—this shirt was red—leading by the elbow a short young man with narrow shoulders, a trace of mustache, and a surly scowl.
“Mickey Sinclair,” announced the polo shirt. “Knock when you’re finished,” he added and left, locking the door behind him.
Mickey had dark brown hair shaved to a shadow on the sides and grown into unruly curls on the top. His pale blue eyes were half veiled behind the lids. His hands were very large but delicately formed, neither knobby nor work-thickened. He wore gray scrubs that hung off his shoulders and were too short in the legs.
Wannamaker indicated one of the chairs on the other side of the table and Mickey took it a little too casually. He folded his big hands loosely and studied the thumbs.
“Mickey, I’m Betsy Devonshire,” said Betsy, since Wannamaker apparently was not going to do the honors. “Your parents asked me to come and talk to you. Did they tell you about me?”
“Yeah,” said Mickey with a rude glance up and down her.
“We need all the help we can get, from whatever source,” said Wannamaker, agreeing with Mickey, by his tone, that she wasn’t much. “You are in very serious trouble.”
“They can’t convict me,” sneered Mickey. “I didn’t do it!”
“They found your shoes in the park—” began Wannamaker.
“They aren’t my shoes,” said Mickey.
“They found money hidden in your bedroom, an amount that matches what was taken from the cash box at the scene of the murder.”
“No, it don’t, not exactly. Anyhow, money’s money. It’s my money, and I didn’t steal it.”
“You have a job?”
“No, I saved it up out of my allowance, plus some aluminum cans I collected. I didn’t steal it. Plus I didn’t kill anybody. They can’t put me in prison for something I didn’t do.”
“Do you ever watch the news on television?”
He gestured dismissively. “News is boring.”
“Then you may have missed those stories about people sentenced to death row, people who were later found innocent.”
Mickey stared at him, and some kind of idea came to him. “Yeah, wait a minute, I did hear about that. It was a DNA test that proved they were innocent. That’s a kind of blood test, right? They took some of my blood already, could they give it that kind of test?”
“It wouldn’t help you,” said Wannamaker.
“Why not?”
“DNA will tell them whether you left some skin under the fingernails of Mr. McFey.”
“Which I didn’t,” Mickey interjected.
Wannamaker kept going. “It will tell them if you raped Mr. McFey. It will tell them if you are the father of Mr. McFey’s baby.”
“Dammit, quit making fun of me! Tell them I want a DNA test.”
“They’re already doing one. Now, listen a minute. Whose skin or hair will they find on Mr. McFey’s body? Yours or someone else’s?”
“Not mine! I never touched him! And he never touched me! So you see? That could prove it,
Wannamaker sat down facing the door, gesturing briefly at the chair beside him, and put his briefcase on the table. He opened it and lifted out several legal-size documents, stapled to blue backs, and photocopies of official-looking reports.
Betsy, old enough to be affronted by this continued lack of manners, sat down in the chair indicated.
“Do you know Mickey’s parents?” she asked.
“You mean personally? No.”
“What do you think about this case?”
“Open and shut.”
“You mean you can get him off?”
He stared at her, momentarily nonplused. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Before Betsy could reply, the door’s lock rattled and it opened to admit yet another man in polo shirt and khaki trousers—this shirt was red—leading by the elbow a short young man with narrow shoulders, a trace of mustache, and a surly scowl.
“Mickey Sinclair,” announced the polo shirt. “Knock when you’re finished,” he added and left, locking the door behind him.
Mickey had dark brown hair shaved to a shadow on the sides and grown into unruly curls on the top. His pale blue eyes were half veiled behind the lids. His hands were very large but delicately formed, neither knobby nor work-thickened. He wore gray scrubs that hung off his shoulders and were too short in the legs.
Wannamaker indicated one of the chairs on the other side of the table and Mickey took it a little too casually. He folded his big hands loosely and studied the thumbs.
“Mickey, I’m Betsy Devonshire,” said Betsy, since Wannamaker apparently was not going to do the honors. “Your parents asked me to come and talk to you. Did they tell you about me?”
“Yeah,” said Mickey with a rude glance up and down her.
“We need all the help we can get, from whatever source,” said Wannamaker, agreeing with Mickey, by his tone, that she wasn’t much. “You are in very serious trouble.”
“They can’t convict me,” sneered Mickey. “I didn’t do it!”
“They found your shoes in the park—” began Wannamaker.
“They aren’t my shoes,” said Mickey.
“They found money hidden in your bedroom, an amount that matches what was taken from the cash box at the scene of the murder.”
“No, it don’t, not exactly. Anyhow, money’s money. It’s my money, and I didn’t steal it.”
“You have a job?”
“No, I saved it up out of my allowance, plus some aluminum cans I collected. I didn’t steal it. Plus I didn’t kill anybody. They can’t put me in prison for something I didn’t do.”
“Do you ever watch the news on television?”
He gestured dismissively. “News is boring.”
“Then you may have missed those stories about people sentenced to death row, people who were later found innocent.”
Mickey stared at him, and some kind of idea came to him. “Yeah, wait a minute, I did hear about that. It was a DNA test that proved they were innocent. That’s a kind of blood test, right? They took some of my blood already, could they give it that kind of test?”
“It wouldn’t help you,” said Wannamaker.
“Why not?”
“DNA will tell them whether you left some skin under the fingernails of Mr. McFey.”
“Which I didn’t,” Mickey interjected.
Wannamaker kept going. “It will tell them if you raped Mr. McFey. It will tell them if you are the father of Mr. McFey’s baby.”
“Dammit, quit making fun of me! Tell them I want a DNA test.”
“They’re already doing one. Now, listen a minute. Whose skin or hair will they find on Mr. McFey’s body? Yours or someone else’s?”
“Not mine! I never touched him! And he never touched me! So you see? That could prove it,
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