The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman

ignoring the steely looks of those who occupied the space. He said, “A place that does the wash. What’s your starting salary?”

      The woman actually cracked a smile. “It’s on the high side because all of our teachers have postcollege education.”

      An obvious slap in the face meant to put him in his place. Decker just shrugged. “I’m an attorney. Does that count?”

      She slowed, giving him a quick glance. “You’re an attorney?”

      “Once upon a time.”

      “You actually passed the bar?”

      “Now you’re getting insulting.”

      She blushed. “I didn’t mean—”

      “Yes, I passed the bar,” Decker said.

      Gently, Jaime guided Ernesto. “This way.”

      The annex was a blip of a room off the lounge. It was paneled, cozy, and held two tables, each with a computer, and several couches. It also had its own private rest rooms, which Decker found very impressive. They had interrupted a couple involved in a deep conversation. The young blond woman stood up, red-faced and red-eyed, smiling nervously at Dr. Dahl. The man—a bit older, in his thirties—remained on the couch, trying to adopt a casual demeanor, raking his hair with his fingers.

      Jaime said, “We need the room, Brent.”

      Slowly, the man got up. “Sure. Of course.” He walked out with the blond woman, a healthy distance between them.

      Jaime tried to stifle a sigh. To Decker, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?”

      “How about some water for the both of us?”

      Ernesto said, “I’m fine.”

      “I’ll bring some in, just in case.” Jaime left.

      “Where do I sit?”

      “Anywhere you want,” Decker answered.

      The teen looked around, deciding on the couch. “Are you really an attorney?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why are you a cop then?” Ernesto looked down. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

      “I like the job.” Decker took out his notebook.

      Ernesto said, “I saw this documentary once … about cops. Once they retire, they have a hard time readjusting to the civilian world. That’s what they call it, right?” He looked to Decker for confirmation, but Decker didn’t react. “Anyway, the moderator or narrator said something about cops being adrenaline junkies … that the regular world was a boring place compared to what they were used to. A high percentage of them commit suicide. Because they’ve been hooked on the adrenaline like others get hooked on drugs.”

      Decker said, “Are you hooked on drugs?”

      Ernesto shrugged. “Nah. Drugs are just for recreation. Something to do because the parties are so damn boring.”

      “Is that why you vandalized the synagogue? Because you were bored?”

      Jaime Dahl came back in the room with a bottle of Evian and two glasses. “Anything else?”

      “No, thank you.” Decker couldn’t keep the edge off his voice. He had wanted to say, Leave us the hell alone.

      Jaime picked up on it. “I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”

      “Where are my parents?” Ernesto asked her.

      “With Dr. Williams.”

      “Is Mr. Melrose there, too?”

      “Yes.”

      Decker said, “Any time you want to stop and consult your parents or lawyer, just let me know.”

      Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m all right. I can handle myself.”

      No one spoke. Jaime finally said, “I’ll be going, then.”

      Decker smiled. He even kept the smile after she closed the door, as he waited for the kid to speak. He tried to make eye contact. It lasted for a few seconds, then Ernesto’s gaze fell on other things. The computers’ screen savers, the candy machine, the landscape on the wall. His posture was casual, but the vein in the kid’s temple was pulsating, his jaw taut and bulging. He didn’t appear the least bit cocky. On the contrary, Ernesto was worried … troubled.

      “Actually, this is a good thing.”

      “What is?” Decker asked.

      “You and me here. I don’t want my parents or their lawyer to hear the full details of what happened.”

      “Their lawyer is your lawyer. You’re going to have to tell him.”

      “I will, but he doesn’t have to hear the details, either. I mean he needs details, but he doesn’t need …” Ernesto groped for the words.

      “Explicit details?” Decker tried.

      “Yeah. Exactly. I’ll tell you and maybe you can soften it around the edges.”

      “You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.”

      “No one was hurt, you know.”

      “Yes, that’s true.”

      “You think we can work something out?”

      “I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.”

      “And if you can’t work something out?”

      “Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”

      He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels …”

      Silence.

      “But you’re bored,” Decker said.

      “Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.”

      No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?”

      “No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this … obsession. I … had to do it.”

      “You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?”

      “Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”

      “I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.”

      “My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.”

      Decker waited.

      “I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need … a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

      “I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”

      “I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”

      If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely