They had a floor plan; the rooms had numbers instead of names, Gallery 19A and Gallery 19B, numbers and letters in a mazelike arrangement all the way up to 27. “Were you here when the initial blast occurred?” Ray said, pointing. “Or here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take your time.”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, a bit frantically. The diagram of the rooms had a confusing, computer-generated quality, like something from a video game or a reconstruction of Hitler’s bunker that I’d seen on the History Channel, that in truth didn’t make any sense or seem to represent the space as I remembered it.
He pointed to a different spot. “This square?” he said. “That’s a display plinth, with paintings on it. I know these rooms all look alike, but maybe you can remember where you were in relation to that?”
I stared hopelessly at the diagram and didn’t answer. (Part of the reason it looked so unfamiliar was that they were showing me the area where my mother’s body was found—rooms away from where I’d been when the bomb went off—although I didn’t realize that until later.)
“You didn’t see anybody on your way out,” said Morris encouragingly, repeating what I’d already told them.
I shook my head.
“Nothing you remember at all?”
“Well, I mean—bodies covered up. Equipment lying around.”
“Nobody coming in or out of the area of the explosion.”
“I didn’t see anybody,” I repeated doggedly. We had been over this.
“So you never saw firemen or rescue personnel.”
“No.”
“I suppose we can establish, then, that they’d been ordered out of the building by the time you came to. So we’re talking about a time lapse of forty minutes to an hour and a half after the initial explosion. Is that a safe assumption?”
I shrugged, limply.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Staring at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“I don’t know,” I said again, and the silence that followed was so long and uncomfortable I thought I might break down crying.
“Do you recall hearing the second blast?”
“Pardon me for asking,” said Mr. Beeman, “but is this really necessary?”
Ray, my questioner, turned. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not sure I see the purpose of putting him through this.”
With careful neutrality, Morris said: “We’re investigating a crime scene. It’s our job to find out what happened in there.”
“Yes, but surely you must have other means of doing so for such routine matters. I would think they had all manner and variety of security cameras in there.”
“Sure they do,” said Ray, rather sharply. “Except cameras can’t see through dust and smoke. Or if they’re blown up to face the ceiling. Now,” he said, settling back in his chair with a sigh. “You mentioned smoke. Did you smell it or see it?”
I nodded.
“Which one? Saw or smelled?”
“Both.”
“What direction do you think it was coming from?”
I was about to say I didn’t know again, but Mr. Beeman had not finished making his point. “Forgive me, but I entirely fail to see the purpose in security cameras if they don’t operate in an emergency,” he said, to the room in general. “With technology today, and all that artwork—”
Ray turned his head as if to say something angry, but Morris, standing in the corner, raised his hand and spoke up.
“The boy’s an important witness. The surveillance system isn’t designed to withstand an event like this. Now, I’m sorry, but if you can’t stop it with the comments we’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“I’m here as this child’s advocate. I’ve the right to ask questions.”
“Not unless they pertain directly to the child’s welfare.”
“Oddly enough, I was under the impression that they did.”
At this Ray, in the chair in front of me, turned around. “Sir? If you continue to obstruct the proceedings?” he said. “You will have to leave the room.”
“I have no intention of obstructing you,” said Mr. Beeman in the tense silence that followed. “Nothing could be further from my mind, I assure you. Go on, please continue,” he said, with an irritated flick of the hand. “Far be it from me to stop you.”
On the questioning dragged. What direction had the smoke come from? What color was the flash? Who went in and out of the area in the moments prior? Had I noticed anything unusual, anything at all, before or after? I looked at the pictures they showed me—innocent vacation faces, nobody I recognized. Passport photos of Asian tourists and senior citizens, moms and acned teenagers smiling against blue studio backgrounds—ordinary faces, unmemorable, yet all somehow smelling of tragedy. Then we went back to the diagram. Could I maybe just try, just one more time, to pinpoint my location on this map? Here, or here? What about here?