Or he’d simply chosen to lie, figuring me for a gullible jerk.

I’d read the coroner’s report.

Traces of Kristal Malley’s skin had been found under Troy’s fingernails, not Rand’s.

* * *

For the rest of our sessions he cooperated fully, blithely lying every step of the way.

When I asked about his mother he told me she was trying to be an actress and that she visited him all the time. The logbooks said she’d been there once. Deputy Sherrill told me Jane Hannabee had been obviously stoned, the visit had lasted ten minutes, and she’d left looking angry.

“Once you see her, Doc, maybe you understand something about the kid. But not all of it, right? Other punks have crackhead skanks for mothers and they do bad stuff, but not this bad.”

According to Troy, his father had died “in the army. Shooting terrorists.”

When I asked him what a terrorist was, he said, “It’s like a criminal but usually they’re niggers and they blow stuff up.”

I revisited the murder several times and his position remained the same: Kristal had gone with him and Rand voluntarily; Rand had committed all the violence. Troy felt bad about not intervening.

On the sixth session, he substituted “guilty” for bad.

“You feel guilty.”

“Real guilty, sir.”

“About what?”

“Not stopping it, sir. It’s gonna delay my life.”

“Delay it, how?”

“I was gonna be rich soon, now it’s gonna be later.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause they’re gonna lock me up somewhere.”

“In jail.”

Shrug.

“How long do you think they’ll lock you up?”

“You could tell them the truth, sir, and maybe it wouldn’t have to be so long.” He cocked his head, almost girlishly. His smile had a feminine cast to it, too. He had a dozen smiles; first time I’d seen this variant.

“You think that if I tell them the truth, your sentence could be shorter.”

“The judge likes you.”

“Someone tell you that?”

“Nope.”

When most people lie they give off a “tell”— a shift in posture, subtle changes in eye movement, tone of voice. This kid could fabricate so coolly I was willing to bet he’d fool the polygraph.

“Troy, do you ever get scared?”

“Of what?”

“Anything?”

He thought. “I get scared of doing bad things.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want to be bad.”

“Are you ever bad?”

“Sometimes. Like everyone.”

“Everyone’s bad sometimes.”

“No one’s perfect,” he said. “Except God.”

“Are you religious?”

“Drew and Cherish say I am, sir.”

“Who’re Drew and Cherish?”

“Ministers.”

“They visit you?”

“Yup. Sir.”

“Do you find that helpful?”

“Yessir. Very helpful.”

“How do Drew and Cherish help you?”

“Tell me I’m gonna be okay. Tell me everyone makes mistakes.”

“So,” I said, “you think sometimes you’re bad. Like how?”