The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  “You mean skinny fingers, don’t you?” she said, referring to Holt’s thick hands and fingers.

  She knelt down beside him and stuck her hand underneath the hutch. She was able to shove her arm in up to her elbow. She searched with her fingers and then pulled her arm out.

  In her hand was a cell phone.

  “How’d you know it would be in there?” Fisher asked.

  “I didn’t,” Holt replied. “I assumed that if she was holding a cell phone when she fell to the floor, the phone would have flown out of her hand and landed somewhere near the hutch. I guess I turned out to be right.”

  Fisher pressed the power button, and the screen came to life. “It’s password protected,” she said.

  Holt grunted in frustration. It could take days or weeks for someone in IT to crack the password, if they managed to do so at all. Some smartphones, after several incorrect password attempts, would automatically reset to the factory specifications, wiping out all the user data.

  “We can always contact the service provider to see who called her,” Fisher suggested.

  Holt thought of something. “That might not be necessary.”

  He took the phone from Fisher. He leaned down and grabbed Nikki Jones’s right hand. He placed her thumb on the screen. It took less than a second for the thumbprint to scan and unlock the phone.

  Fisher smiled. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “Don’t congratulate me just yet,” he said. “Let’s see if we hit the jackpot.” He scrolled through the phone and shook his head. “According to the phone log, the last call was from an unknown number.”

  Fisher sighed. “So close, and yet so far.”

  Holt’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the cell phone. “I just thought of something.”

  “What?” Fisher asked.

  “Why did the killer wait for Nikki Jones to arrive at the center when she was already working with him?”

  Fisher rubbed her chin in thought. “Maybe she was supposed to call 9-1-1 but Angel beat her to it.”

  “You know what that means, don’t you?” Holt said.

  “What?”

  “The killer had always planned to kill Nikki Jones.”

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  After his visit to George Kamen, Callaway did not know where else to look. He had spoken to every person mentioned in Hope Parsons’s case file, but he did not want to go back to Milton empty-handed.

  Not my style, he thought.

  He was already in Erie Lake, so he decided to visit Noah’s school, which was a short distance from the Parsons residence.

  He glanced at his watch and frowned. It was late in the afternoon, and school had ended for the day. He pulled into the parking lot and saw a handful of vehicles. He was hoping there were teachers still at school.

  Maybe I can catch one of them.

  He hurried down the empty main hall.

  He followed the directions on the wall and made his way to the main office. There was no one there. He then moved down the hall and peeked through a glass wall. The lights inside were off, but he could make out that it was the school library.

  There is no one here, he thought. I should come back tomorrow.

  He was about to leave when a woman’s voice asked, “Can I help you?”

  He turned and saw a woman standing in the hall. She had silver hair and round glasses. She was clutching binders and papers to her chest.

  “Um…” Callaway said. “I’m actually looking for someone.”

  “I’m afraid most of the faculty has left for the day.” Her face then turned serious. “Is this about your child? Did they not get home safe?”

  “No, no, no,” Callaway said, waving his hand. “I don’t have a child… no, I do have a little girl, but she doesn’t go to this school.”

  The woman stared at him. He could see alarm on her face.

  He quickly said, “I’m looking for anyone who knew Noah Parsons.”

  He could see she was evaluating him. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m a private investigator. I was hired by Noah’s mother to find out what happened on the day he… died.” Callaway knew he could not lie and tell her he was writing a book on mothers who killed their children. The woman could be a teacher, and as such, she may not want to speak about the death of one of the school’s students.

  The woman stared at him in silence. “Do you have identification, Mr….?”

  “Callaway. Lee Callaway.”

  He gave the woman one of his real business cards.

  She read the card and looked at Callaway. “Noah was one of my students.”

  Callaway blinked as relief washed over him. “You knew him?”

  “I did, and I also knew his mother.”

  Callaway got closer. “Hope asked me to look into her case.”

  “I thought the case was closed,” the woman said.

  “It was, but… um… I’m taking another look.”

  The woman glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m supposed to be home right now. I forgot to take my students’ projects with me to evaluate them, so I came back to pick them up.”

  “I won’t take too much of your time.”

  “All right.”

  “What can you tell me about Noah?”

  She sighed. “I’ll tell you what I told everyone who interviewed me all those years ago. Noah was a smart and bright boy, and Hope doted on him like he was the only person in the world who mattered to her. She gushed over every little thing he did. During parent-teacher nights, she would beam proudly at all his accomplishments. To be fair, Noah was an exceptional student. There were hardly any complaints from any of his teachers. I taught art, and I could see from an early age that Noah had the creative gene. He spoke about becoming a comic book artist one day. He was always sketching in his notebooks. I truly believed he had a future in the arts. Whether it was as a painter, sculptor, or something else.” She shook her head. “It’s sad we will never get to see where that potential could have taken him.”

  “Did Noah show signs of the condition that affected his mother?”

  The woman smiled. “No, he did not. And believe me, as teachers, we keep an eye on children who, let’s say, require extra attention.”

  Callaway knew she was referring to children with autism or other neurological conditions. But Callaway wanted to know if Noah might have been suicidal.

  “Was Noah sociable? Did he have any friends?”

  “He was very friendly. And he always hung around this other boy.”

  “Who?”

  The woman thought for a moment. “Milo Newman. I believe his family lived next door to the Parsons. Noah and Milo were inseparable. They were best friends. Milo took it very hard when Noah was gone. He was never the same afterwards.”

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Fisher walked around the living room with her gaze fixed on the floor.

  “What are you looking for?” Holt asked.

  “The living room is next to the hallway. Nikki Jones’s body is in the middle of the living room. We know she was shot at close range, so that leaves us with two scenarios: Either the killer shot Nikki while she stood in the hallway, which is five or six feet from the body but still at close range, or the killer was in the living room when he shot her, perhaps a foot or two away from her.”

  Holt’s eyes narrowed. “We found no shell casings in the hallway.”

  “Right. And unless the killer made the effort to collect the evidence, they should still be here.”

  “But where?” Holt asked, looking around. “We’ve looked and we didn’t find them.”

  Fisher frowned. They had checked under the coffee table, sofa, TV stand, and any space that might hide something like a shell casing.

  “Don’t worry, someone from the crime scene team will scour the room with a fine-tooth comb,” Holt said.

  Fisher nodded. Any minute now, the house would be swarming with people to gather evidence. Fisher had received a message from Andrea Wakefield
. She was in the middle of an autopsy when Fisher had tried to contact her, but she would soon be on her way.

  Fisher sighed in frustration.

  Her eyes locked on a vent cover at the bottom of a wall.

  The grate has enough space to push your fingers through, she thought.

  Fisher pulled out her Swiss Army knife and used the tip of the blade to pry the vent cover out. She flashed her pocket light inside and shoved her hand in.

  She pulled out a shell casing.

  Holt raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “I only see one inside,” Fisher said. “The killer must have taken the other and assumed we would not look in there.”

  “Or he didn’t have time to look for it.”

  “Right,” she said. “The casing must have fallen and rolled into the vent.”

  “If we compare the casing to the ones found at Emily’s Place, I bet we’ll get a match.”

  “I don’t doubt it the least bit,” Fisher agreed.

  The front door opened, and a man wearing blue coveralls from head to toe entered.

  “Bag and tag this,” Fisher said, holding the casing up.

  “Right, ma’am,” he said, and he did as instructed.

  More people entered the house. One was holding a camera and another was carrying a large case with the tools needed to gather evidence.

  Holt and Fisher moved into the kitchen to give the team space to do their job.

  Fisher asked, “What are we missing here?”

  “What do you mean?” Holt replied.

  “There has to be something we can use to find who did this,” she said with a note of urgency in her voice.

  Holt’s eyes fell on a stack of mail on the kitchen table. He grabbed the top envelope. It was an unpaid cell phone bill.

  “Well, at least we know her service provider,” he said.

  Fisher nodded.

  She grabbed another envelope. “It looks like a notice from the bank. Nikki Jones was behind in her mortgage payments.”

  “How old is the notice?” Holt asked.

  “It’s from last month.”

  Holt searched the stack of envelopes and pulled out a bank statement. He scanned the statement and said, “Nikki Jones was having financial trouble. Her checking account was in the negative, and it looks like she was taking money from a line of credit.”

  His face suddenly creased into a puzzled look.

  “What’d you find?” Fisher asked.

  “Just last week, though, she deposited a check for five thousand dollars.”

  “Where do you suppose she got that kind of money?”

  “Maybe a family member lent it to her.” He went to the bank statement’s last page, which showed copies of all the checks deposited into the account.

  His eyes suddenly widened. “You won’t believe this,” he said.

  “What?” Fisher asked eagerly.

  “The five-thousand-dollar check was written by James Riley—Emily Riley’s husband.”

  EIGHTY-SIX

  The Newmans had moved out of the neighborhood soon after Hope was convicted of killing her son. According to their teacher, Milo and Noah were best friends, and Milo took Noah’s death hard so it made sense to Callaway that the family would choose to relocate after such a tragedy.

  Callaway could not imagine how a child dealt with the loss of a friend. The impact might be tenfold for someone at that age. They were still too young to grapple with all the emotions that came with death, especially one due to murder.

  Still, I’ve got to speak to Milo, he thought.

  Milo knew Noah better than anyone else, perhaps even better than his mother.

  Callaway hoped that maybe Milo could tell him Noah’s true relationship with his mother. Was Hope really as doting as people made her out to be? Did Hope ever threaten to harm Noah in a fit of mania? And how was Hope and Ian Parsons’s relationship? If their marriage was strained and there was talk of divorce, could that have pushed Hope over the edge?

  She may have wanted to end her life, but she could not fathom leaving Noah behind. Maybe on that terrible day, Hope had decided to kill Noah and herself, but Donny Brewer’s arrival at Erie Lake prevented her from doing so.

  But that’s just conjecture, Callaway thought as he searched the internet on his phone. I’ve got to find Milo Newman.

  As a private investigator, Callaway had access to certain databases that were out of reach for ordinary people. In one of those databases he found the address for Joyce Newman—Milo’s mother.

  The house was about an hour away from their previous address.

  Callaway was surprised Detective Hammel had not chosen to speak to the Newmans. He had found no mention of them in the case file. Although, when he thought about it, he could see why Hammel had decided not to interview Milo and his family. Milo was devastated by his friend’s death. No point in putting the boy through more trauma by asking him hard questions.

  Upon his arrival at Newman’s new address, Callaway found himself staring at a row house with a single garage, a bay window in the front, and a light-colored exterior.

  He had walked up to the front steps when a police cruiser pulled into the driveway. The officer got out and opened the cruiser’s back door. A young man stepped out. He wore a hoodie, baggy jeans, and he was wearing basketball shoes. There were whiskers on his chin, studs in both ears, and he sported a buzz cut. He was also carrying a backpack in his hand.

  The officer led the young man toward where Callaway was standing.

  The house’s front door opened.

  A woman appeared. She had long hair with highlights, wore casual clothes, her skin was tanned, and she had on bright nail polish and high heels.

  The officer moved past Callaway and went up the steps with the young man. “I found him selling pot behind his school,” the officer said.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “Thank you for bringing him.”

  “I’ve confiscated his stash,” the officer added, “but if I see him dealing again, I’ll have to take him down to the station.”

  “I promise it won’t happen again.” She turned to the young man. “We’ll talk about this later. Do you hear me?”

  “Whatever.” The young man shrugged and disappeared inside the house.

  The officer stared at her, as if understanding her plight as a parent. “Have yourself a nice day, ma’am.”

  He got in his cruiser and drove off.

  When he was out of view, the woman turned to Callaway. “Can I help you?”

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  “Are you Joyce Newman?” Callaway asked.

  She was still standing by the doorway. “I am.”

  “And was that your son, Milo?”

  Her face turned hard. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He pulled his business card out and gave it to her. “Lee Callaway,” he said.

  She stared at the card. “You’re a private investigator?”

  “I am.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Noah Parsons.”

  The blood drained from her face. “What about him?”

  “I just wanted to ask your son a few questions.”

  She stared at him. She then shut the door behind her and let out an audible sigh. “As you can see, Milo is going through a difficult phase right now. He’s acting out and getting himself in trouble. I really don’t think it’s the best time to ask him questions about what happened all those years ago.”

  “I understand,” he said. “It’s just that, I was hoping Milo could shed more light on who Noah was.”

  “He was a great kid,” Joyce said. “A wonderful, sweet, happy kid.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “He used to come over to our house all the time. He and Milo would play video games, watch cartoons, run around in the backyard. Sometimes Noah would even have dinner with us.”

  “When you say ‘us,’ do you also mean Milo’s father?” Callaway aske
d.

  She shook her head. “Milo’s father left us a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Joyce rolled her eyes. “Don’t be. He’s not dead. He lives in Vegas selling knock-offs to tourists. He once showed up unexpectedly to surprise Milo for his birthday, but that was almost a decade ago—before, you know, what happened to Noah.”

  Callaway’s mind flashed to Dean and how he had unexpectedly shown up at Joely’s house to spend more time with Josh. At least Milo’s dad wasn’t on the run, Callaway thought. I need to deal with Dean’s case as soon as I get back.

  “Did you get to know Hope?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Joyce replied. “We were neighbors, and our kids were friends.”

  “What was she like?”

  “I knew she was in therapy. I didn’t know the extent of her illness. But if you saw her, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong with her.”

  “Do you think she was capable of hurting her son?”

  “If you’d asked me before Noah’s death, I would have said no, but now when I think about it, yeah, she could have hurt him.”

  “Why do you say that?” Callaway asked.

  “One time she forgot something on the stove and nearly burned the house down with her and Noah still inside,” Joyce replied. “Another time she left Noah, who was still a baby, in the bathtub when it was filled with water. It was a miracle he didn’t drown. Then there was the time when Noah was a toddler, I saw him wandering the streets in his diapers. Hope had taken her medication and fallen asleep. It was a good thing I’d seen him. Who knows what could have happened had he gone into the road.”

  “How come I never read this anywhere?” Callaway asked.

  “I don’t know, but Ian—her husband—was always running back and forth from work. There was always something happening at the house.”

  Callaway pondered what Joyce had told him.

  Joyce said, “Listen, I’m sorry you had to come all this way, but Milo is in no shape to talk about Noah. He’s dealing with the loss even now. He won’t admit it, but I know it. I didn’t want to leave our old neighborhood. I had a lot of friends there, but every time we drove by the Parsons’s house, he would break down and cry. So, I had no choice but to move here. Please don’t come around here asking about Noah. I don’t want Milo to be reminded of that tragedy. He’s been through a lot as a child, and unfortunately, as he’s gotten older, he’s dealing with his own set of problems.”