“Good party on Friday night?” Murray asked, but Trip didn’t answer. “You guys did a number on that house,” Murray continued, watching Trip for any sign that he knew what Murray was talking about. There was a flicker, just a slight tightening of Trip’s jaw. He stared straight at Murray as he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he blinked three times, and Murray knew he was lying. Now he just had to catch him in it.

Murray proceeded as if Trip hadn’t said anything. “My guess is that you bought the booze. Is that why they still let you hang around?”

“You can keep talking,” Trip replied, “but I don’t know anything about it. You didn’t have shit to say to me on Friday night.”

“C’mon, Trip. I don’t want to play games. I was there. You were there. I’ve got you.” Murray leaned over the tractor, as if to have a look at the engine, then tried it out: “And your brother too, by the way.” With a sideways glance Murray saw Trip stiffen, and he pushed on. “No record on your brother, though. He might pull through this without doing time, but I don’t know. That’s up to the prosecutor.” He stood up and consulted his notebook again. “But not you, Trip. You fucked up. You’re looking at corruption of minors, vandalism, breaking and entering. And then there’s that pesky suspended sentence.”

Trip didn’t answer. He was working on the tractor again. Murray let him think it over for a minute. It was too easy, really, turning these kids. Murray tried not to think too much about whether he was wasting his time and talent with this small-town shit. He had a job to do here, and now it was more—he had to make things right with the chief.

It was Police Academy 101: keep quiet and the witness will eventually fill the void. Most people couldn’t bear a long silence. Murray folded his arms and peered out through his shades at the orchard. Long rows of stunted apple trees, stretching as far as the eye could see. He counted under his breath: one, two, three . . . bingo! Trip was turning around. He was ready to talk.