Decker looked around. The place had changed, too. The black sheets had ben removed, and in their place were photos of Lindsey, hundreds of them, papering the walls. The floor was a garbage dump—heaps of empty styrofoam hamburger containers, empty Coke cups, cigarette butts, half-eaten doughnuts and cookies, quart containers with melted ice cream oozing out, cupcake wrappers.

Twinkie defense, thought Decker.

“You shouldn’t have blown up the studio,” Decker said gently.

“We had to,” Chris said, looking at the walls. “Didn’t we, Lindsey? I told you we’d get the sucker, and we did, Babydoll.” He burst into applause and shouted. “Yea!”

“Chris, someone could have gotten hurt,” Marge said.

“Uh uh, no way. No way, José!” Truscott shook his head vehemently. “I made sure. I saw you guys go in, I waited for you guys to go out. I waited till everyone was far away. I made sure. I don’t want to hurt anybody except the fucker who hurt us. Right, Babydoll?”

He was talking to the wall again.

Marge looked at Decker. He shrugged.

“We’re going to call Santa Monica police now, Chris,” Decker said. “You’re going to be arrested. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Nope.”

“They’ll give you one,” Decker said. “Don’t say anymore until you’ve talked with your lawyer. All right?”

Truscott smiled angelically. “May I use the bathroom?” he asked politely. “I’d like to wash up before I go.”

“No,” Marge said. “Stay right here.”

“I have to make pee-pee,” Truscott babbled out.

“Make in your pants,” she said softly.

He did and smiled as his pants leg became saturated with urine.

“Suicidal,” Marge whispered to Decker. “I don’t want him alone in there.”

They waited in silence until the police arrived. The detectives gave their statements as Chris was led out whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Decker watched as they stuffed him in a blue and white cruiser. Involuntarily, he found himself planning the kid’s defense. A psych. eval.; the kid was obviously distressed—no, distraught. Much better word. Bring in a few of Lindsey’s friends as character witnesses. Mention that Lindsey’s father had been feeding Chris’s bottomless pit of guilt. The kid had no priors—Decker had checked that out when he’d suspected him in Lindsey’s death. No one had been injured in the blast. Even with a mediocre lawyer, Chris should get off with probation.

Decker rubbed his arms, remembering how he had held Chris, rocked him as he wept. A pitiful, broken kid, consumed with guilt. He made a mental note to call up Chris’s PD. The young man needed psychiatric counseling and his lawyer could request it. Decker hoped to God that the court would follow the recommendation. The last thing he needed was another body on his conscience.

26

“Think Cammy Boy will show?” Decker asked Marge over the radio.