somebody had to bring it up.
Her voice became more serious. “Aaron, a man was shot to death in North Brunswick Tuesday night, and one of our children is suspected of killing him.” In the Asperger realm, a parent never says “kids with AS.” They say “our children.” It’s a form of shorthand. We insiders know what it means. The accused had Asperger’s. “I know it’s not true,” Lori continued, “but nobody’s trying to help this boy. They’re so set on tying it all up neatly that they’re ignoring the facts.”
“What facts?”
“Well, if you knew Justin, I wouldn’t even have to tell you. He’s so gentle, so sweet. You know how these kids can be, Aaron . . .
“Those aren’t facts, Lori,” I told her. “That’s you being an Asperger’s mom. You know perfectly well that people with AS are just as capable of anger as anyone else, and that impulse control isn’t at the top of their abilities list.”
Abby, listening to my end of the conversation, looked baffled and concerned. I covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Lori’s calling about an AS kid accused of murder.” Abby’s eyes widened. “When?” she whispered back.
“Tuesday,” I whispered back, and she began to rummage through the pile of newspapers we keep under the kitchen counter so our disheveled house will look slightly more sheveled.
“If you’d just meet him, Aaron,” Lori said, “you’ll see.”
“Why do the cops think he did it, Lori? I realize you have the incontrovertible evidence that Justin is a nice kid, but are they relying on that pesky evidence thing?”
Abby came up with a copy of the Star-Ledger and started leafing through it. “They have some evidence,” Lori said, her voice suddenly smaller. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“What doesn’t mean anything?” Abby found the article she was looking for in the Middlesex County section of Wednesday’s newspaper, and started reading.
“Like, they found . . . the gun . . . in Justin’s room.”
“The murder weapon?”
“Yes.” Lori paused, waiting for me to make a skeptical noise. I didn’t. “Justin’s special interest is guns,” she said.
For an Asperger’s kid, a “special interest” is the one subject in the world that’s so fascinating, so utterly engrossing, that it takes them to the brink of obsession (and, to be honest, sometimes beyond). By those with a taste for kitschy nicknames, AS is sometimes called the “little professor” syndrome because the person with Asperger’s can go on and on ad infinitum about whatever the special interest subject happens to be—doorknobs, train schedules, the migration patterns of Canadian geese, whatever.
I groaned. A special interest in firearms wasn’t going to help prove this kid’s innocence. Finding the murder weapon in his bedroom was even worse. What was Lori getting me into?
Abby picked up the paper and walked toward me. “Does this Justin have a lawyer, and while we’re at it, a last name?” I was hoping Abby would at least know what the legal standards were for getting the kid prosecuted as a juvenile rather than an adult.
“Justin Fowler. And yes, he has an attorney, J. Bernard Tyson.”
Abby held the paper up for me to see, then handed it to me when it became obvious I wasn’t looking where she wanted me to look. I held it in one hand and she pointed.
The second paragraph of the article (which was written by a staff member whose name I knew) read: “Justin Fowler, 22, was arrested late last night and is expected to be charged with the crime this morning in North Brunswick municipal court.”
Twenty-two?
“Lori,” I said, as calmly as possible, “when you say, ‘one of our children . . . ’”
“I know,” she admitted. “Justin’s not a child. He’s twenty-two years old.”
There went charging him as a juvenile.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me—like they found him hovering over the body with blood on his hands? Some other little detail you might have overlooked?”
“Well,” Lori said, “did I mention he’s confessed?”
“No,” I told her. “I think that might have slipped your mind.”
Chapter Four
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Abby said.
I was in the bedroom, unpacking my bag, and she was almost through putting the bed back together. We almost never make the bed in the morning, and since I hadn’t been there today, only Abby’s side was mussed. I took a pile of clothes out of my travel bag and dumped them into the hamper.
“You’re not going to tell me you’re really a man, are you?” I asked. “Because I was present at the births of