"It wouldn't hurt to have some muscle along." He flexes his arms and growls. She laughs the way she knows he wants her to, but his concern feels overbearing. He used to trust that she'd take care of herself. He used to brag about it. "I don't need a bodyguard." She gives him a quick kiss, then she's out the door, alone. She and Judith work overtime on the juvi double homicide, making numerous trips to Eastlake, where Zeke is cooperative but quiet. The preliminary reports from the shrink and the PI reveal a grim history: the father has been in prison since before Zeke was born for beating a man to death during a burglary; the mother is a schizophrenic who's lived in halfway houses since Zeke was five. He was shuffled between foster homes, which resulted in a series of suspicious burns, bruises, and fractures until the grandparents took him in last year. Despite everything, he's had no other brushes with the law and he's an outstanding student with a genius IQ. He has emerged from his stupor over the past few weeks: his stubby fingers drum the table; his knees jiggle in their institutional blues. He's put on weight, from the meds and the starchy food. His hair has been shaved so close he might as well be bald. It makes him look more menacing, a better fit with the other boys and their flat, cold faces. Always he is polite, his speech littered with pleases and thank yous, but there's a watchfulness about him, like he's waiting for them to reveal something that will give him an advantage. Each time he sits down across from them, Claire is startled by her urge to bolt from the room. One day he arrives wearing glasses with thick lenses that magnify his eyes. When she asks where he got them, he says, "My grandma. She was always bugging me to wear them." He picks at an acne scab. "She was pretty good to me." "Then why?" Claire asks. He regards her steadily.
A WALK IN THE PARK I 17