Devoted(59)

A second pair of deputies arrived within a few minutes of the first, and for whatever reason, perhaps seniority, they seemed to take charge, though they hadn’t been the first-responding officers. One of these was a thirtysomething woman, Deputy Carrickton according to the black letters on the white name bar clipped to the breast pocket of her uniform shirt.



Carrickton was a cross-trainer with solid forearms, attractive, with Scandinavian features, blond hair cropped short, and Wedgwood-blue eyes. She seemed efficient, producing a notebook and pen to memorialize Megan’s statement, which the first two deputies had not done.

Megan was relieved to have a woman in the room, someone who could better relate to what she’d been through. Soon, though, she began to realize that, however capable Carrickton might be, she seemed to have a visceral dislike of Megan and therefore distrusted her without reason.

After Megan gave them a shorthand version of what had happened, Deputy Carrickton said, “What’s wrong with the kid?”

“He’s a high-functioning autistic.”

“What’s that mean—‘high-functioning’?”

“He’s a natural autodidact, reads at a college level, doesn’t act out, not ever. But he can’t bear to be touched by anyone other than me or Verna Brickit, the housekeeper. And he doesn’t speak.”

Carrickton stood too close, violating Megan’s personal space, staring down at her and Woody. “The way the kid’s just lying there, as though he doesn’t even know I’m here. Is he always that way?”

“No. Shacket traumatized him, like I said.”

“Did he molest the boy?”



“He threatened him, tormented him. When I found Shacket here, he had control . . . he was touching Woody’s face. That’s the worst for him, having his face touched by a stranger.”

“I’m asking is he traumatized because he was raped?”

“No. Shacket meant to rape me. And torment me by terrifying Woody.”

“We’ll have to get the boy examined by a physician within the next few hours.”

“He wasn’t raped,” Megan said. “We don’t need to put him through an exam.”

“We’ll see what he says. I’ll need a statement from him.”

“As I told you, he doesn’t speak.”

“Not ever?”

“It’s not uncommon in autism.”

Carrickton’s partner, Deputy Argento, alternated between watching the interrogation and returning to the hallway to confer with other deputies. A third car had arrived. The flashing red and blue beacons of the lightbars washed the wind-shaken night beyond the windows. Perhaps six deputies were in the house. The night crackled with traffic on police-band radios and on the various deputies’ belt-clipped walkie-talkies. Megan wondered into what rooms they were venturing, what they were examining. She was glad they were here, that they had arrived in time to frighten Shacket away, but she felt violated all over again.

“You dated this Lee Shacket,” Carrickton said.

“A few times, yes, many years ago.”

“You had a relationship with him.”

“Not sexual, no. A few dates. Nothing more. A long time ago.”



“You said he called you earlier today.”

“Yesterday now. He wanted me to go to Costa Rica with him. It was crazy. I turned him down.”

They had been through this before. Megan understood that Carrickton was using a circular technique, repeatedly returning to ground already covered, to see if Megan’s story changed, but it was nonetheless annoying.

“If Shacket didn’t have a key, how did he get in the house?”

“I think he came in while Verna was here. She leaves the back door unlocked sometimes because she has to go in and out.”

“And Shacket just hid somewhere until you went to bed?”

“That’s what I assume.”

“Hid out for hours. That sounds awfully patient for a guy who’s as crazy as you say.” She made a note. “You were sleeping, but he didn’t come straight for you, he came here to the boy’s room.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t sleeping. I was reading, and then I got sleepy, decided to turn in. That’s when I realized my pistol had been put back in the gun safe in the wrong position and the magazine had been emptied.”

“Was the gun safe locked?”

“Yes. I don’t know how he got the combination.”

“How long have you owned the weapon?”

“Three years.”

“You purchased it legally in California?”

“Yes.”



“I’ll need to see the registration.”

“I’ll get it when you’re done with your questions.”

“You took a safety course in firearms?”

“Like I said, I practice with it once a month. And, yes, I took a safety course.”

“Did you get the weapon because of Lee Shacket?”

“No. Why would I? By the time I bought the gun, it had been years since I’d seen him. And he wasn’t batshit crazy back then.”

“So you said you wounded him.”

“Not severely. Maybe tore off part of his left ear.”