I shifted in the chair. My mouth had gone dry. It was impossible that Allison was lying on an operating table, down the hall behind double doors. Every instinct told me to be at her side. Then I remembered I had been at her side on Coldstream Road. She had bled in the street with me right there.
The thought made me furious, and inside I boiled over with rage at the carjackers, at the world, and most of all, at myself.
Daddy?
I spotted two men in suits entering the waiting room, looking around in an official way. They had to be the county detectives, who were supposed to meet us here.
I jumped to my feet.
Chapter Three
The detectives headed in our direction. The older one looked to be in his late fifties with a thick bristle of gray hair, hooded brown eyes, and a sunglasses-tan. His sunburnt cheeks were jowly, and his lips a somber line. He was tallish and lean, holding a folder with a gold emblem on its brown plastic cover. The other man was younger, and his dark sport coat looked boxy on his frame. His hair was slicked back and his nose had a pronounced bump.
I extended a hand to the older one. “I’m Jason Bennett, I assume you’re the detectives.”
“Yes. Bill Willoughby, Sergeant Detective of the Chester County District Attorney’s Office. This is my partner, Jim—”
“Did you get him?” I interrupted, unable to hold back.
“No, not yet. My partner is Jim Balleu. We’re sorry about your daughter. We know this is a difficult—”
“I gave the cops descriptions of the driver, the pickup, the license plate, everything. I don’t know if they told you—”
“Yes, they did. Now, if we could speak with you.”
“Sure, of course. Please.” I gestured to the chairs, then realized I hadn’t introduced Lucinda and Ethan, so I did.
Detective Willoughby sat down. “Mrs. Bennett, we’re sorry to disturb you now.”
“I understand.” Lucinda nodded.
“We won’t keep you long.” Detective Willoughby opened his folder, which held a fresh legal pad and a silver Cross pen. Detective Balleu sat down next to him and tugged a reporter’s notebook from his jacket pocket while I started talking.
“You shouldn’t have a problem catching the guy. He drove a black pickup, a Chevy. Maybe five or six years old.”
“We got that message.” Detective Willoughby made a note in his pad.
“Plus you have the other guy, dead at the scene. You must be able to find out who he is. His wallet or phone are probably on him. His fingerprints must be on the gun.”
“We will, rest assured—”
“I mean, you have to find the driver. He’s the guy who shot my daughter. He shot my daughter.” I spat out the words. I couldn’t help it. All that rage exiting my body, blowing through the doors. “I want you to catch him and prosecute him to the fullest extent. I want him in jail for the rest of his life.”
Lucinda dabbed her eyes. Ethan slumped, his hands in his lap.
“Okay.” Detective Willoughby nodded. “Now, if you could tell us what happened.”
“Like I told the cops, they pulled in front of us, then said they were going to take the car.”
“And you resisted?”
“No. Why would I? I care about my family, not a car.”
Detective Willoughby furrowed his short brow. “But one of the perpetrators was killed—”
“I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill anybody.” I realized they thought I had done it. I wished I had. I should have. “The other carjacker killed him. Didn’t the cops tell you? I told them.”
Lucinda recoiled. “My husband didn’t kill anybody. He would never.”
Detective Willoughby looked from Lucinda to me. “So you’re telling me perpetrator one killed perpetrator two?”
“Yes.” It bothered me the cops at the scene hadn’t told them. I wondered what else the cops hadn’t said. I needed to have faith in these guys.
Lucinda cleared her throat. “We were trying to help our daughter. We were bent over her, and Jason was trying to stop her bleeding. I heard another shot, and then, um, well—”
“I’ll tell it,” I interrupted, to save her from having to continue. “We heard the shot, turned around, and saw that the driver had shot the passenger.”
Detective Willoughby glanced skeptically at the other detective, which made me mad.
“Don’t tell me you don’t believe me.”
“We didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. Don’t start with me, not tonight. My daughter’s in there fighting for her life.”
Lucinda grimaced, her eyes flying open, and I realized I had said the wrong thing. We hadn’t acknowledged that Allison was fighting for her life. I hadn’t even known I thought it until it came out of my mouth.
“Mr. Bennett, you can understand, it’s unusual for one perpetrator to—”
“It’s what happened.” I raised my voice, unable to control my tone. It wasn’t like me, but I didn’t care. “I’m telling you the truth.”
Lucinda took my arm. “Honey, calm down. Really.”
Detective Willoughby pursed his lips. “Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Accusations will do that,” I shot back. I couldn’t apologize. Not tonight.
“So let’s begin at the beginning. What happened?”
“They pulled in front of us and blocked the road. Then they got out of the truck and walked toward us.”
“Were their weapons drawn?”
“No, not at first. They were talking.” I remembered something I hadn’t before. “The driver said to the passenger, ‘You go left, Junior.’？”
Lucinda looked over.
Ethan blinked.
I added, “Good, so you know his name, or his nickname, if you didn’t find out from his wallet.”
Detective Willoughby wrote in his pad. His Cross pen gleamed in the overhead lights. “You heard him?”
“No. I was still inside the car.”
“Then how do you know what he said?”
“I read his lips. I could see his face in the headlights.”
Detective Willoughby blinked. “So you don’t know what he said for a fact.”
“Yes, I do. I read lips.”
Ethan perked up. “He really does. My sister says it’s his superpower.”
I forced a smile for Ethan, then faced Detective Willoughby. “I lip-read, as a registered merit reporter.”
“Is that like a court reporter?”
“Yes, but licensed in specialized areas.”
“What does that have to do with reading lips?”
“My job is about accuracy. Lip-reading increases my accuracy.”
“You work in court?”
“No, we’re private. Court reporters in court are state or municipal employees.” I wanted to talk about my daughter, not my job, but Detective Willoughby was taking notes.
“Your business is located where?”
“West Chester. Can we get back to what happened?”
“Okay, please resume.”
I went on to explain, telling every detail as best as I could, remaining in emotional control by defaulting to work mode, as if the question-and-answer were a transcript. I visualized my sentences the way I would write them, in the old-school Courier font we still use, so heavy on the page that it was embossed. The testimony would form an official record, considered the truth in any court of law, and on the final page of the original, I would sign under my oath, warranting that the words were true and correct.