attention on her. “There’s an associate in the DA’s office, we can have her sit in instead of ADA McCauley, and at trial, I can arrange for Creese to testify via two-way closed-circuit television instead of in court with Barnum.”
“Thank you.”
“We can also have you appointed as his adult attendant so you can remain with him during the trial. If it actually goes to trial.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Robinson asked her.
Detective Turner glanced at McCauley, who nodded, and then she spoke to us. “We’re expecting an insanity plea from Barnum’s defense team, so this thing may take years. If his attorneys proceed as expected, the burden is on them to either prove he’s incompetent to stand trial or, if that fails, that Barnum was mentally incapacitated at the time he committed the crimes. There’s a reason the insanity defense is rarely used and only succeeds in maybe one out of every four cases, and I believe their bid to see him institutionalized rather than imprisoned for the rest of his life is a long shot. But whatever his lawyers come up with, we’re years from this going to trial.”
“Creese needs to get out from under this and put it behind him,” Mr. Robinson told her. “I want him to explain once and then be done.”
“That may not be possible,” Detective Turner informed him, “but the good news is, if this ultimately does go to trial, even two or three years from now, Creese will be in a much better place to deal with the trauma. We’ll take his deposition now, and the DA will make the argument that it should be used going forward.”
Mrs. Robinson nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Detective,” I interrupted, exhaling sharply. “I think you should prepare for the events Creese will relate not aligning with what everyone expects. I think maybe he’s been holding things in because he thinks the truth would hurt Kurt.”
She nodded. “I know. I’ve suspected for a while now that Creese has been holding off giving his statement because he didn’t want to be told that his friend was in hell for jumping off that roof, having heard Mr. and Mrs. Adams’s beliefs about suicide.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Robinson cried, turning into her husband, who tucked her against his chest.
ADA McCauley turned to Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. “Sir, ma’am, Detective Turner only just made me aware of her suspicions after we left your son. I can’t stress to you how imperative it is we hear his account now, and if the events occurred as she suspects, I can assure you that even if Edison Barnum doesn’t get the needle, he will never be free again.” McCauley extended his hand to Mr. Robinson. “I apologize for being combative earlier. I assure you I only want justice for Creese and Kurt. And the others. I want it for them as well.”
Detective Turner nodded in agreement with McCauley. “I believe that Kurt had taken all he could, so he found his own way out of what seemed an impossible situation,” she apprised us, crossing her arms, her expression somber. “Creese has survivor’s guilt because Kurt jumped and became the distraction that enabled Creese to get away and trap Barnum on the roof.”
“He’s dealing with multiple traumas,” I summed up, my voice dropping out on me.
“Yes,” she agreed.
After shaking hands with Mr. Robinson, McCauley offered his to me. “I apologize to you as well. I know I’ve been…intense.”
He’d been a dick, but I took his hand anyway. “I appreciate it, but that kid is a miracle, and he’s only even a little bit okay because of his amazing family,” I declared. “Speaking as a person who never had a family, I can assure you it’s all the unconditional love and support that’s getting him through this.”
Before I could finish speaking, Mrs. Robinson grabbed hold of me. Admissions like that apparently called for furious hugging.
Detective Turner made sure to shake my hand and thank me, confirming that she would set a time for Creese to come into her office and talk. She would email all of us with the date.
I was locking the doors a few hours later, making sure the only one left open was to the main building, for the adult support groups; those convened later in the evening. When I turned and found ADA McCauley, I guessed, from the way he was looking at me—trying to smile but his face twisting into more of a grimace—that he’d finally put things together. I, of course, had recognized