The detectives crossed in front of the camera and stepped through the door directly into the room where they had been only distant images in the computer monitor.

Duffy shook his head. “I’ve got nothing. He’s used to dealing with cops. I just don’t have anything to challenge him with. I’d like to let him sit there awhile and cool off, but I don’t think we’ll have time. His lawyer’s on the way. What do you want to do, Andy?”

“You’ve been going like this for how long?”

“A couple hours maybe. Something like that.”

“Just like this? Deny, deny, deny?”

“Yeah. It’s useless.”

“Do it again.”

“Do it again? Are you kidding? How long have you been watching?”

“I just got here, Duff, but what else can we do? He’s our only real suspect. A little boy is dead; this guy likes little boys. He’s already given you the fact he was in the park that morning. He knows the area. He’s there every morning, so he knows the routine, he knows kids walk through those woods every morning. He’s certainly big enough to overpower the victim. That’s motive, means, and opportunity. So I say stay with it till he gives you something.”

Duffy’s eyes flicked to the other cops in the room then back to me. “His lawyer’s about to shut it down anyway, Andy.”

“Then there’s no time to waste, is there? Get back in there. Get me a confession and I’ll take it to the grand jury this afternoon.”

“Just get you a confession? Just like that?”

“That’s why you get the big bucks, pal.”

“What about the kids at the school? I thought that’s where we were headed.”

“We’ll keep looking at it, Duff, but what do we have, really? A bunch of freaked-out kids running their mouths on Facebook? So what? Look at this guy. Just look at him. Name me a better suspect. We don’t have one.”

“You really believe that, Andy? This is the guy, you think?”

“Yes. Maybe. Maybe. But we need something real to prove it. Get me a confession, Duff. Get me the knife. Get me anything. We need something.”

“Okay, then.” Duffy looked resolutely at the Newton detective who was his partner on this case. “We do it again. Like the man says.”

The cop hesitated, appealing to Duffy with his eyes. Why waste time?

“We do it again,” Duffy repeated. “Like the man says.” Mr. Logiudice: They never got the chance, did they? The detectives never got back into the interrogation room with Leonard Patz that day. Witness: No, they did not. Not that day or any other day. Mr. Logiudice: How did you feel about that? Witness: I thought it was a mistake. Based on what we knew at the time, it was a mistake to turn away from Patz as a suspect so early in the investigation. He was our best suspect by far. Mr. Logiudice: You still believe that? Witness: Without a doubt. We should have stayed on Patz. Mr. Logiudice: Why? Witness: Because that’s where the evidence was pointing. Mr. Logiudice: Not all the evidence. Witness: All? You never have all the evidence pointing in one direction, not in a tough case like this one. That’s precisely the problem. You don’t have enough information, the data is incomplete. There is no clear pattern, no obvious answer. So detectives do what all people do: they form a narrative in their head, a theory, and then they go looking in the data for evidence to support it. They pick a suspect first, then they look for the evidence to convict him. And they stop noticing evidence that points at other suspects. Mr. Logiudice: Like Leonard Patz. Witness: Like Leonard Patz. Mr. Logiudice: Are you suggesting that’s what happened here? Witness: I’m suggesting mistakes were made, yes, certainly. Mr. Logiudice: So what is a detective supposed to do in this situation? Witness: He has to be wary of locking onto one suspect too soon. Because if he guesses wrong, he will miss evidence pointing him toward the right answer. He’ll miss even obvious things. Mr. Logiudice: But a detective has to form theories. He has to focus on suspects, usually before he has clear evidence against them. What else can he do? Witness: That’s the dilemma. You always start with a guess. And sometimes you guess wrong. Mr. Logiudice: Did anyone guess wrong in this case? Witness: We didn’t know. We just didn’t know. Mr. Logiudice: All right, go on with your story. Why didn’t the detectives go on interrogating Patz?

An older man with a battered lawyer’s bag came into the detective bureau. His name was Jonathan Klein. He was short, slight, a little stooped. He wore a gray suit with a black turtleneck. His hair was long and strikingly white. He swept it straight back over his head where it hung over the back of his collar. He had a white goatee as well. He said in a soft voice, “Hello, Andy.”

“Jonathan.”

We shook hands with real warmth. I always liked and respected Jonathan Klein. Bookish and vaguely bohemian, he was unlike me. (I am as conventional as white toast.) But he did not lecture or lie, which set him apart from his brethren in the defense bar, who had only a casual regard for the truth, and he was genuinely smart and knew the law. He was-there is no other word for it-wise. Also, it must be said, I had a childish attraction to men of my father’s generation, as if I still harbored a faint hope of being unorphaned, even at this late date.

Klein said, “I’d like to see my client now.” His voice was soft-it was naturally soft, this was not an affectation or a tactic-so that the room tended to grow quiet around him. You found yourself leaning in close to make out what he was saying.

“I didn’t know you were representing this guy, Jonathan. Kind of a low-rent case for you, isn’t it? Some crummy pedophile ball-grabber? It’s bad for your reputation.”

“Reputation? We’re lawyers! Anyway, he’s not here because he’s a pedophile. We both know that. This is a lot of cops to put on a case about ball-grabbing.”

I stepped aside. “All right. He’s right in there. Go on in.”

“You’ll turn off the camera and the microphone?”

“Yeah. You want to use another room instead?”

“No, of course not.” He smiled gently. “I trust you, Andy.”

“Enough to let your man keep talking?”

“No, no. I trust you too much for that.”

And that was the end of Patz’s Q amp;A.

Nine-thirty P.M.

Laurie lay on the couch gazing at me, her book tented on her belly. She wore a brown V-neck shirt with a wreath of chunky embroidery around the neck, and her tortoiseshell reading glasses. Over the years she had found a way to carry her younger style into middle age; she had upgraded the embroidered peasant blouses and ripped jeans of her brainy funkster teens for a more elegant, tailored version of the same look.

She said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“Jacob.”

“We already did.”

“I know, but you’re brooding.”

“I’m not brooding. I’m watching TV.”

“The Cooking Channel?” She smiled, warmly skeptical.

“There’s nothing else on. Anyway, I like cooking.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I like watching cooking.”

“It’s okay, Andy. You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

“It’s not that. It’s just there’s nothing to say.”

“Can I ask you one question?”

I rolled my eyes: Does it matter if I say no?

She picked up the remote from the coffee table and switched off the TV. “When we talked to Jacob today, you said you didn’t think he did anything, but then you turned around and cross-examined him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. You never accused him of anything, exactly, but your tone was… prosecutorial.”

“It was?”

“A little.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be. I’ll apologize to him later.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do, if that’s how I came off.”

“I’m just asking why. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever made you go after him that way.”

“I didn’t go after him. Anyway, no, I was just upset about the knife. And what Derek wrote on Facebook.”