by Joe Stanley
III
One evening not long after, I was home watching the local news. A terrible tragedy had occurred. A house had burned to the ground killing the family in it.
While I sighed for the loss of life, the reporters noted that due to the intensity of the blaze, arson was suspected. I had wondered if this was some awful instance of domestic violence, but then I heard the family name.
It was Wells.
I sat in confused disbelief. For a time, I dared not indulge the idea, berating myself for such a thought. But it wouldn’t go away. I tossed and turned that night and began making plans to get to the truth.
I knew the boy was intelligent, very, very intelligent, but I was willing to pit my experience against it. I was hoping against hope that it wasn’t what I thought, but becoming more and more certain that it was exactly what I believed.
As the days ticked by, I made my plans and back up plans. I checked and rechecked them obsessively.
The next time Bobby walked into my office, I found myself wondering how this child, could be the monster I thought he was. He looked so innocent, so helpless and I was torn, but I resolved the issue quickly. I told myself that I had to find out the truth.
After a few minutes of our usual talk, I began.
“There’s something really important I need to talk to you about, Bobby.”
“Oh?” he asked in a way that almost felt mocking, “What is that?”
“There was a fire near your house. Did you hear about that?”
“I thought you might ask,” he smiled slightly, just ever so slightly, as he glanced out the window.
“A whole family died.”
“Mikey and his family died.” he told me coldly, “I know.”
“What do you think about that?” I asked, “How does that make you feel?”
“I haven’t thought about Mikey since the last time we spoke about him. He may be dead, but he was mean. I don’t feel any different about him.”
“You almost sound a little happy,” I said, lying.
“I never said that,” he informed me, “Why do you ask, are you?”
“You were happy when the bees burned up, weren’t you?” I pressed.
“Wasps,” he corrected me, “I never said that either, I thought the explosion was neat,” his tone had not changed in the least, I wondered how much mine had. I started to ask another question, but he started talking first.
“I remember every word I have ever said. I remember every word that has ever been said to me. Maybe your memory is not as good as mine?” He was actually challenging me in a subtle way and I was taken aback.
“Bobby,” I asked going for the throat, “did you have anything to do with that fire?”
He looked at me, his small blue eyes burning into mine and replied, “Your question is not a real question, it is an accusation. It is a serious one. If you think I did, show me the evidence you have.”
His response was perfect, almost professional. I recalled that his mother had studied law before she studied medicine. I knew at that moment that he had started that fire and that I had absolutely no evidence of it. “Bobby,” I began but he cut me off.
“I’m sorry you think I did,” he informed me with a note of regret in his voice, “That means I can’t come and see you anymore.”
“That’s up to your parents Bobby.”
“You think so? I think they’ll agree with me.”
We sat in silence for a moment, as the hopelessness sunk into me.
“What if I call the police?”
“Call them. They will want to see your evidence, too.”
“Why didn’t you answer the question Bobby? Yes or no?”
“I didn’t answer because it’s not a question. I don’t have to answer a so-called question like that. This will be our last session,” and here he glanced up at the clock, “and your time is running out.”
A few moments later, he got up, smiled and said “thank you” and walked out. I watched the little monster go, helpless.
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