area. I started doing this when they boarded up the flats along the corridor."
"Right, could you pass me the relevant license plates and, if they match the dates ..."
"Are you ready?" he repeated.
"Yes. Yes, Jay, we are very eager to—"
It was as if a key had been turned at the side of his head. Without hesitation, he began to list the car-registration numbers from memory. Over and over again, Anna had to ask him to pause, as she couldn't keep up. He was able to describe the make and color of the cars as well. Gordon was writing in his notepad too, but Jeremy spoke so quickly, as if on automatic pilot; sometimes, when they asked him to pause, it took a while for him to pick up where he had left off", but he continued reeling out registration after registration.
Anna said nothing to Gordon until they were on their way back to the station. Then: "Do you believe that?"
Gordon shrugged. "Did you ever see the film Rain Man, with Dustin Hoffman?"
Anna nodded.
"What makes a mind able to recall all those numbers, and yet he can only work pushing grocery trolleys around?" Gordon shook his head. "Look at the way he keeps his room."
"Obsessive-compulsive syndrome. Heartbreaking really; he's such a handsome young man."
"Yeah, his mother keeps him well turned out, doesn't she? I mean, he was immaculate: hair cut, trousers creased, even his shoes were polished. You don't think all those car numbers were just his nuttiness, do you?"
"1 hope not." Anna sighed. "We've got pages of figures and dates. Let's hope something comes of them."
Jeremy was still cleaning his room. He used Febreze on the canvas chairs, wiping the wooden arms down. He then wiped the window blind, especially where Anna had lifted it. He took out his own small Hoover to check over the carpet. Then he stripped naked and folded his clothes into his personal laundry basket. He showered and scrubbed his body, washed his hair, and made sure his nails were clean. He then carefully got dressed. No one but his care worker was ever allowed into his room; his mother only stepped inside to pass him his meals, and to clear away his tray.
Mrs. Webster tapped on his door. "You ready for lunch, Jeremy?"
"Yes."
"Everything go all right? They were with you for a long rime."
"Yes."
"Were you able to help them at all?"
"I'm hungry."
"Won't be two ricks."
He ate grilled chicken, broccoli, mashed potatoes and gravy every day followed by fresh fruit. By the time she brought his tray, he was waiting just inside the door. He took it without a word and ate at his desk, keeping all the food as separate as possible, chewing each mouthful carefully. When she came to collect the tray, he was still sitting there, his plate empty, his cutlery placed neatly together.
"That was very nice," he said.
"Good." As she bent forward for the tray, she could smell Pears soap, the only soap he would ever use. His shampoo was a brand for children, so it would not burn his eyes when he washed his hair. His freshness never ceased to move her. When she leaned forward to pick up his tray, she was close enough to touch the soft peach cheeks that she had longed for years to kiss, but was never allowed to.
Mrs. Webster returned to her kitchen and washed his dishes. It wasn't exactly a prison; he loved his room. In many ways, she was the prisoner, and had been from the time Jeremy had been diagnosed. She wondered what he had been talking about for so long with the policewoman, totally unaware that her son might have given the murder inquiry a mind-blowing breakthrough.
CHAPTER 4
Cunningham looked at the lists with an open mouth. "You're not serious?"
"Yes, we are. These are all the pages of license-plate numbers we have to check out."
"Work backward. Don't for Christ's sake go from the top of the list. Use whoever we need to get onto the D andV Licensing Agency. Give this over to Gordon; you can come with me to the path lab. Then we have to pay another visit to Frank Brandon's widow."
Anna was relieved not to
"Right, could you pass me the relevant license plates and, if they match the dates ..."
"Are you ready?" he repeated.
"Yes. Yes, Jay, we are very eager to—"
It was as if a key had been turned at the side of his head. Without hesitation, he began to list the car-registration numbers from memory. Over and over again, Anna had to ask him to pause, as she couldn't keep up. He was able to describe the make and color of the cars as well. Gordon was writing in his notepad too, but Jeremy spoke so quickly, as if on automatic pilot; sometimes, when they asked him to pause, it took a while for him to pick up where he had left off", but he continued reeling out registration after registration.
Anna said nothing to Gordon until they were on their way back to the station. Then: "Do you believe that?"
Gordon shrugged. "Did you ever see the film Rain Man, with Dustin Hoffman?"
Anna nodded.
"What makes a mind able to recall all those numbers, and yet he can only work pushing grocery trolleys around?" Gordon shook his head. "Look at the way he keeps his room."
"Obsessive-compulsive syndrome. Heartbreaking really; he's such a handsome young man."
"Yeah, his mother keeps him well turned out, doesn't she? I mean, he was immaculate: hair cut, trousers creased, even his shoes were polished. You don't think all those car numbers were just his nuttiness, do you?"
"1 hope not." Anna sighed. "We've got pages of figures and dates. Let's hope something comes of them."
Jeremy was still cleaning his room. He used Febreze on the canvas chairs, wiping the wooden arms down. He then wiped the window blind, especially where Anna had lifted it. He took out his own small Hoover to check over the carpet. Then he stripped naked and folded his clothes into his personal laundry basket. He showered and scrubbed his body, washed his hair, and made sure his nails were clean. He then carefully got dressed. No one but his care worker was ever allowed into his room; his mother only stepped inside to pass him his meals, and to clear away his tray.
Mrs. Webster tapped on his door. "You ready for lunch, Jeremy?"
"Yes."
"Everything go all right? They were with you for a long rime."
"Yes."
"Were you able to help them at all?"
"I'm hungry."
"Won't be two ricks."
He ate grilled chicken, broccoli, mashed potatoes and gravy every day followed by fresh fruit. By the time she brought his tray, he was waiting just inside the door. He took it without a word and ate at his desk, keeping all the food as separate as possible, chewing each mouthful carefully. When she came to collect the tray, he was still sitting there, his plate empty, his cutlery placed neatly together.
"That was very nice," he said.
"Good." As she bent forward for the tray, she could smell Pears soap, the only soap he would ever use. His shampoo was a brand for children, so it would not burn his eyes when he washed his hair. His freshness never ceased to move her. When she leaned forward to pick up his tray, she was close enough to touch the soft peach cheeks that she had longed for years to kiss, but was never allowed to.
Mrs. Webster returned to her kitchen and washed his dishes. It wasn't exactly a prison; he loved his room. In many ways, she was the prisoner, and had been from the time Jeremy had been diagnosed. She wondered what he had been talking about for so long with the policewoman, totally unaware that her son might have given the murder inquiry a mind-blowing breakthrough.
CHAPTER 4
Cunningham looked at the lists with an open mouth. "You're not serious?"
"Yes, we are. These are all the pages of license-plate numbers we have to check out."
"Work backward. Don't for Christ's sake go from the top of the list. Use whoever we need to get onto the D andV Licensing Agency. Give this over to Gordon; you can come with me to the path lab. Then we have to pay another visit to Frank Brandon's widow."
Anna was relieved not to
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