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could mean that
Justin might confess to a crime he didn’t commit, if the
interrogators made it clear that his confession would please them,
or make them his friends. He might not have a very firm grasp on
the consequences of copping to a crime he didn’t do.”
    “Are you his lawyer, Mr. Tucker?”
    “I haven’t even met his lawyer, Chief. But I do know
something about Asperger’s. My son . . . 
    “Chief Dutton told me about you,” Baker said. “I
understand you have a personal stake in this. But the fact is,
Justin Fowler had the gun in his possession and he confessed to the
crime.”
    “What’s his motive? Why did he kill Michael
Huston?”
    “He said he had just gotten the gun, wanted to see if
it would work, and chose Mr. Huston completely at random.”
    I couldn’t help but curl my lip. “Oh, come on,
Chief,” I said. “There are a hundred ways Justin could have tested
out this weapon. He didn’t need to go out on a 10-degree winter
night and shoot the first person he saw walking his dog. Asperger
individuals might have poor impulse control, but they have to be
provoked. There has to be an impulse to control. Your detectives
put words in his mouth.”
    “Then explain how the murder weapon ended up in his
bedroom,” Baker said. “A gun with no serial number, a gun for which
there’s no record of purchase, and a gun for which there’s no
license. Clearly an illegal weapon, and one that would appeal only
to a collector, since it’s not nearly as powerful or efficient as
anything manufactured today. Who else would choose to shoot someone
with a single-ball deringer that has to be used at close range, Mr.
Tucker?”
    “It worked for John Wilkes Booth.”
    Baker stood. “I don’t have anything else I can tell
you. If you have further questions, you can direct them to
Lieutenant Rodriguez.”
    “Can I see Justin Fowler? Can you get me in for an
interview?”
    Baker’s lower lip twitched. “No need,” she said. “I
just got off the phone with the county jail. Justin Fowler made
bail ten minutes ago.”
     
     

Chapter Eight

    C hief Baker could offer no
explanation for Justin’s seemingly impossible bail-out, and I had
no time to go back to Mary Fowler’s house—I was needed at home.
    Other men might have considered the investigation of
a murder to be more urgent than being in a chair behind a desk when
a nine-year-old girl and her twelve-year-old brother got home from
school. I’m proud, however, that I’m the one who’s been there
pretty much every day since they started school. Besides, it gives
me an excuse for never having cleared what, in a civilized culture,
would be considered minimum wage.
    When I got home, Jeff Mahoney’s battered old van, the
one he calls the “Trouble Mobile,” was parked in front of my
battered old house. He was sitting in the driver’s seat with a cup
of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and the engine running, so the van’s
heater wouldn’t turn off. His green uniform and green hat—with the
logo of the rental car company whose vehicles Mahoney fixes on the
road—were greasy, which is not unusual. The green hat was pulled
over his eyes, and he was slouched back in the seat, which was unusual.
    I got out of the car, walked to the van, and knocked
on the window, producing a muffled sound because,
uncharacteristically, I was wearing gloves. Mahoney didn’t open his
eyes, but he did take a sip of coffee. Then he sat up and looked,
turned off the van, and got out. He wore no coat.
    “Mr. Tucker,” he said by way of greeting.
    “Mr. Mahoney,” I countered, showing off my
originality.
    “I need you to follow someone,” he said.
    I looked up at Mahoney, who stands a good ten inches
taller than me.
    “Who?”
    “Me.”
    “Well,” I said, “suppose I follow you into the house.
You don’t have a coat on.”
    He looked surprised, but walked up the steps and
waited for me to unlock the door. I thanked the powers of good for
the invention of the radiator (I