The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [59]
“I like Mrs. Lizbet,” Ree was volunteering. “But she and Mommy don’t play together. They’re teachers.”
“What do you mean?” Marianne asked.
“Mrs. Lizbet teaches seventh grade. Last year, she helped teach Mommy how to be a teacher. Now Mommy teaches sixth grade. But we still get to see Mrs. Lizbet at the basketball games.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, I like basketball. Mommy takes me to watch. Daddy works, you know. So it’s Mommy-Daughter night, every night. Yeah!” For a moment, Ree seemed to forget why she was in the room. Then, in the next instant, D.D. could see the realization crash down onto the child, the little girl’s eyes widening, then her whole body collapsing back into itself, until she was hunched once more over her stuffed rabbit, rubbing the poor bunny’s ears.
Behind D.D., Jason Jones finally flinched.
“When did you last see your mommy?” Marianne asked softly.
A muffled reply. “She put me to bed.”
“Do you know the days of the week, Ree?”
“Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” Ree sang in a little voice. “Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”
“Very good. So do you know what day it was when your mommy put you to bed?”
Ree looked blank. Then she began to sing again, “Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday …”
Marianne nodded her head and moved on; it was obvious the child knew a song about the days of the week, but not the days themselves. Fortunately, there were other tricks for establishing date and time when dealing with a young witness. Marianne would start asking about shows on TV, songs on the radio, that sort of thing. Children may not know a lot from an adult’s perspective, but they had a tendency to observe a lot, making it possible to fill in the necessary information, often with more credible results than a witness simply saying, “Wednesday night at eight P.M.”
“So tell me about your night with your mother, Ree. Who was home?”
“Me and Mommy.”
“What about Mr. Smith, or Lil’ Bunny or your daddy or anyone else?”
The anyone else was another standard interview technique. When presenting a child with a list of options, the last item always had to be “anyone else” or “something else” or “somewhere else;” otherwise, you were leading the witness.
“Mr. Smith,” Ree said. “And Lil’ Bunny. But not Daddy. I see Daddy during the day, Mommy at night.”
“Anyone else?”
Ree frowned at her. “Nighttime is Mommy and me time. We have ladies’ night.”
D.D. made a note.
“So what did you do for ladies’ night?” Marianne asked.
“Puzzles. I like puzzles.”
“What kind of puzzles?”
“Um, we did the butterfly puzzle, then the princess puzzle that takes up the whole rug. Except it got hard, ’cause Mr. Smith kept walking on the puzzle and I got mad, so Mommy said, maybe we should move on.”
“Do you like music, Ree?”
The girl blinked. “I like music.”
“Did you and your mommy listen to music while doing the puzzles, or maybe have the TV on, or the radio on, or something else?”
Ree shook her head. “I like to rock out to Tom Petty,” she said matter-of-factly, “but puzzles are quiet time.” She made a face, perhaps like her mother, embarking on a lecture with one wagging finger: “‘Children need quiet time. That’s what makes brains grow!’”
“I see.” Marianne sounded suitably impressed. “So you and your mother had quiet time with puzzles. Then what did you do?”
“Dinner.”
“Dinner? Oh, I like dinner. What is your favorite dinner?”
“Mac-n-cheese. And gummy worms. I love gummy worms, but you can’t have them for dinner, just for dessert.”
“True,” Marianne said sympathetically. “My mother never let me eat gummy worms for dinner. What did you and your mommy eat for dinner?”
“Mac-n-cheese,” Ree supplied without hesitation, “with little bits of turkey dog and some apples. I don’t really like turkey dogs, but Mommy says I need protein to grow muscle, so if I want mac-n-cheese, I have to eat turkey