Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  “These are the kind of houses that hold secrets,” Kate says, putting on her blazer.

  I follow suit and put on my jacket. “So, because they live in this perfect-looking neighborhood, now you suddenly think this isn’t a suicide.”

  “I didn’t say that, but you never know.”

  We walk to the door and ring the bell.

  A woman answers. “Mrs. Moore?” Kate asks in a comforting voice.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she answers.

  Margaret Moore is an attractive woman. Her hair’s pulled back, but some of it is hanging in her face. I’m not sure if she’s wearing makeup or not, another sign of her natural beauty.

  I was expecting her to be more upset. Don’t get me wrong; I understand that after someone dies, you can’t spend the rest of your life in mourning, crying into your pillow, wishing life would end. I thought maybe it would take a week or two for that phase to pass. When my dad was killed, I didn’t want to go on. Didn’t even leave the house for a week. Then my friend Casey came to my house, dragged me out of bed, and played video games with me for a whole day. The next day he took me to a baseball game, even if it was just his little brother’s. And then he told me to get back to life. I didn’t forget; I think about my dad every day, but I healed.

  This woman seemed like she’s healing really fast.

  “I’m Detective Hutchinson and this is my partner, Detective Kirkpatrick. Would you have a few moments to chat with us about your daughter Lana’s death?”

  She gives us a blank stare for a split second, then suddenly her face drops, as though the mere mention of her daughter changed her entire mood.

  “Sure,” she says, though she doesn’t sound sure at all. She opens the door all the way and allows us to come in. We follow her to the kitchen, where she gestures for us to sit down.

  “What can I help you with, detectives?”

  “First, let me offer condolences on behalf of the department.”

  Mrs. Moore smiles politely.

  “We have a few questions about your daughter’s death,” Kate says.

  “She killed herself. What more is there to say?” Margaret Moore coldly replies.

  “We received a call on the tip line about your daughter’s death; it’s just routine to follow up.”

  Mrs. Moore’s facial expression takes me by surprise. I can’t really identify it with one emotion; instead, it was a combination of confusion and shock, with maybe some anger mixed in. She doesn’t say anything for a good minute or so of awkward silence, during which I nervously loosen my tie, a habit Tracy constantly nags me about. She says it makes me look like a loser who’s uncomfortable in my own skin, and in social situations. That’s not too far from the truth a good portion of the time, including this moment.

  “I’m confused,” Mrs. Moore says. “What do you think happened? What kind of tip did you receive?” she asks, that same mix of emotions in her voice.

  “We received information that this may be something other than a suicide, but like my partner said, following up is just routine,” Kate says.

  “So you think it’s a homicide? Who do you think killed her? Who gave you this ludicrous tip?” Margaret Moore asks frantically.

  “We aren’t able to identify tipsters,” I say.

  “Do you have any ideas who could have killed her?” Kate asks. “Did Lana have any enemies?”

  “No, my daughter did not have any enemies. What do you think—she was in the mob?”

  Margaret Moore is talking a little too fast, as though she’s going to change our minds and make us turn around and leave. “Her funeral was packed,” she continued. “There’s no one who wanted her dead.”

  “We just have to cover our bases, ma’am,” Kate says. “Did she mention wanting to kill herself?”

  “Yes, she did. Regularly. We sent her to therapy, talked to her, bought her things—we did everything we could. I thought it was working.”

  “Did you consider in-patient treatment?”

  “She wouldn’t have stood for that.”

  “Most people don’t want it,” Kate presses her.

  “There are only so many things you can make a grown woman do.”

  “That’s not always the case.”

  “Is there something you want to accuse me of, Detective?”

  “I’m just sorry for your loss,” Kate says.

  I watch the back-and-forth, like a tennis match. I don’t even think about whether or not I believe Margaret Moore; I just want to watch the show.

  “So are we. Whether you believe it or not, we did the best we could for her. I guess it wasn’t enough.”

  Mrs. Moore looks away from us like she’s going to cry, but I never see any tears fall on her face. I don’t even think her eyes glisten. I know I’m not supposed to say this as a detective, but I don’t like this woman. Something is off here.

  “May we speak to your husband?” Kate asks, while I look suspiciously around the kitchen, totally unreasonably, expecting to find some evidence that things aren’t as they seem.

  “Of course,” Margaret Moore answers, in a somber tone. “You know,” she continues, “Dave’s having a very difficult time dealing with Lana’s death.”

  You seem to be doing just fine, I want to say, but refrain as Margaret describes her husband’s sorry state.

  “He spends most of the day crying. He practically drinks himself sick every night. He won’t eat, even when I make his favorite meal, and he hasn’t gone to work. I’m afraid he’ll never be the same.”

  “We just need to speak with him, alone, for a few minutes,” I say, putting emphasis on alone. It’s not going to help us one bit to talk to Dave Moore with his wife lurking over his shoulder, finishing sentences for him.

  We follow Margaret over to a closed door. She knocks gently and then opens it the tiniest bit, peeks her head in. We can hear her talking to him.

  “Dave . . . Dave,” she says gently. “Honey, the police are here. They want to talk to you about Lana’s death.”

  I can’t hear his response, but he must agree, because Margaret pulls her head out and opens the door for us to walk in. She leaves and shuts it behind her. I hope she walks away, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed right outside the door to listen. I can’t do anything about it. I’m not taking these people down to the station to be formally interrogated. Sure, this Margaret character is a little off, but all we have is an anonymous tip about a suicide. We know that grief does strange things to people; they react in many different ways.

  Mr. Moore is in a sorry state. As much as Margaret looks like she’s already over Lana’s death, her husband looks like he’ll never recover. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes, his hands shake, and his veins are bulging. What I don’t notice is the smell of alcohol. His skin is pallid, not red. As far as I can see, this isn’t a guy who’s on a path toward the grave because he can’t put down the bottle.

  I look down and notice there’s blood seeping through his sleeves, at both wrists, coming through some clumsy bandages. Grief too much for him? Another possible suicide attempt in this family?

  “I’m Detective Hutchinson, and this is my partner, Detective Kirkpatrick,” Kate says.

  “You have some questions for me?” he asks. Although his voice is hoarse, he’s not slurring his words.

  “Are you up to answering them?” I inquire, genuinely not sure if this guy can answer questions. Not sure if he should.

  “Sure, but is this the best place? Shouldn’t we go down to the station?”

  He can barely get the words out, like each one cuts a wound in him, and he’ll die if he has to say the words again.

  I move on from his demeanor and focus on the answer. Never once in my career has someone asked to go down to the station. Here we are in the comfort of his own home, ready to perhaps complete our questioning,
and this guy wants to go to the station?

  “Anyway,” he adds hastily, “my daughter killed herself, so you can’t have many questions.”

  “We’re investigating to see if it was something other than a suicide,” I say.

  “What?” he asks. His tone is accusatory. “But how is that possible? Who would want to kill Lana?” He’s angry about the suggestion, not in shock from it.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Kate says.

  “She was a nice girl with a big heart,” he continues. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly, so I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt her.”

  “Your wife said the funeral was crowded,” I say.

  “I wish it would have been crowded. Lana was always a very social girl, popular, but she isolated herself when she moved back home with us. She shouldn’t have come home for Margaret, but there was no talking her out of it.”

  I look at Kate. Neither of us knows what to say.

  “She came home for Margaret?” I repeat, hoping for more information. I rest my hand on my gun.

  “Margaret has some . . .”—he lowers his voice—“. . . issues.” His eyes dart around the room as though he is waiting for her to pop out of some corner. He must believe she is at the door, listening, like I do, and I’m sure Kate does, as well.

  “Sir,” Kate begins, seemingly sensing how flustered I am, “are you sure you’re remembering things correctly? You’re clearly not feeling well.”

  “I think I know why my daughter left a successful career and moved back home, Detective. I also know that she and Margaret had a sometimes-hostile relationship.”

  “Will your wife remember it differently?” Kate asks.

  “I don’t know what Margaret remembers. I think Lana’s death has been hard on her, as well, but in a different way,” he is saying. “She’s been weird since Lana died. I don’t know how to help her. I guess she doesn’t know how to help me, either.” He looks down and pulls his sleeves over his wrists.

  I look away. To do that to yourself . . . He must be going through some serious shit.

  Margaret bangs on the door. “Everything okay in there? Dave, do you need me?” she asks. The knob twists.

  It stops when Dave yells back, “Margaret, we’re fine. Go away!”

  “We’re gonna need you both to come down to the station with us,” I blurt out.

  I don’t know where it comes from. My instinct takes over, and I’ve suddenly changed my mind. I know I can’t let these people talk to each other before we have the chance to formally interrogate them. And I know when someone asks to talk at the station, we should talk at the station.

  Kate looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am, but I have to go with my gut feeling about the strange tip, even if it’s just that.

  Sarge is pissed the moment he sees us walk in with Margaret and Dave Moore in tow. I see him glare at us from his office. We take them to separate interrogation rooms and leave them there. When we walk out, Sarge is waiting for us.

  “What were you two thinking?” he shouts, then lowers his voice, not wanting the attention of the entire station. “I told you to check things out, not bring them down to the station. This is not good. You cannot interrogate two grieving parents.”

  “But there’s something off here,” I say.

  “I don’t give a fuck if one of them says they’ve been to Mars. You don’t have any evidence to bring them in here.”

  “No, Ryan’s right. Something feels weird about this,” Kate says.

  “You have five minutes, during which time you better pray to God they don’t lawyer up and call the media the moment they get out of here. The public is on their side, certainly not yours.”

  He’s looking at me. I appreciate the five minutes, but he’s right: People don’t like us. People don’t like me. I’m a good detective, I swear. It’s just, other people don’t always see it that way. I’ve been investigated a couple times. It’s no big deal, really. I was exonerated in both cases. It’s just, once you’ve been investigated, Internal Affairs is always a little suspicious, and the public is, too.

  The first time I was investigated was during my very first case as a detective. It was a simple drug bust, so I felt pretty confident I could have a win under my belt, with my very first case as lead. Sarge tries to do that for us. Give us a little confidence. It’s not easy to start as a detective. It’s not easy to start as a beat officer. People don’t give cops enough credit; it’s one of the toughest jobs out there.

  Everything had gone according to plan. The undercover officer set up a meet, and we busted in at just the right time and found enough pot to keep the entire city high for the rest of the year. The problem was, they said we planted the pot. Can you believe that? They said we planted all those drugs. It’s impossible. Well, I suppose nothing is impossible, but it’s pretty damn close. No one really believes a drug dealer, and even if I did do it, which I didn’t, I couldn’t have done it alone. But since I was in charge and the guy apparently had some evidence that I’d planted the pot, which he must have fabricated, I had to be investigated.

  Like I thought, the evidence must have been bullshit, because I was cleared after a week and back on full duty. I was so relieved. I mean, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I wasn’t worried, really, but there’s always that little thought in the back of your mind that maybe they’d think I framed this guy. Plus, I couldn’t handle desk duty. I felt like I was literally chained to the desk.

  The second investigation wasn’t too long ago. Just last year, in fact. It involved a gun that I’d shot, and more time sitting at that damn desk.

  Serial bank robbers were practically terrorizing the city at the time. Who wants to go to a bank when one is being robbed practically every other day? I was put in charge of the task force, since I had been successful at catching bank robbers before. The robbers had taken hostages in this bank, right in the middle of the busiest part of town. After hours of unsuccessfully trying to talk them down, we had to go in. We just had to do it. We couldn’t let those people die, and we had to catch these robbers. When we went in, we secured all the hostages and the robbers, except one, who ran.

  I ran after him, on pure instinct and adrenaline. When I had him cornered, he pulled a gun. I tried to talk him down again, and really thought I could, but it just didn’t happen. I swear, I thought he was going to shoot me. I saw my life flash before my eyes. So I shot him first. Fatally.

  It turns out, he had a fake gun.

  When I saw it up close, held it in my hands, even, I knew instantly it wasn’t real. I’d never been in any real danger. But in that moment, it had all felt so real. I’d never been so scared in my life. I wasn’t ready to die, so I decided I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  I don’t regret it. Not at all. I did the best I could with the information I had in that moment. There was no other option but to make a split-second decision, so I fired. I killed him.

  If I could go back with all the information I have now, I wouldn’t kill him. I’d just take him down and grab the fake gun and arrest the son-of-a-bitch. Then again, if I could time-travel and retain necessary information, I would have won the lottery a long time ago, and much as I love it, I wouldn’t be on the force a second longer.

  Every day I think about that man. I dream about the shooting. I relive it over and over again, especially when I’m in a similar situation. Practically every time I hold my gun in my hands, I flash back to that moment, that decision, even after all the therapy the station mandated for me. I don’t want to make the wrong decision again.

  Sometimes I have to shake my head to snap myself out of the dangerous reverie that takes me out of the situation I am in. One day, killing that man is going to cost me my life.

  The investigation declared me within my rights as an officer. No one would have known the gun wasn’t real. I’m sure it didn’t hurt t
hat the guy was a total scumbag, and that the streets are safer without him. Still, it’s not good to have two incidents on my record.

  Kate says she thinks it would be better if I interrogated Margaret Moore. I protest briefly, but she’s probably right, so I walk into the interrogation room.

  Kate’s the toughest cop I know, certainly tougher than me, but people have misconceptions about female officers. I wish they didn’t, but I suppose I’m guilty of making snap judgments too.

  I’m not sure what I expected; maybe a nervous, distraught, crying mother. Instead I find a steely-eyed, cold-faced woman, lips pursed, casually twisting a strand of her hair around her fingers when I walk in. She glares at me.

  “More questions, Detective?”

  “First, I’d like to go over what you said at your house.”

  “Having some short-term memory loss?” she asks.

  “No, I want to make sure we have it on the record. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Actually, I do. My daughter killed herself. Dave found her; that’s why the poor thing can barely stand up straight. Well, that, and all the alcohol he consumes. We are the victims here, and should not be holed up in your dingy interrogation rooms.”

  “Dave didn’t seem drunk to me.”

  “He’s gotten very good at pretending,” she says, rubbing her crimson lips together and swallowing. “He took acting classes in high school and college; some skills stick.”

  “I didn’t smell any on him.”

  “Did you do a breathalyzer or a blood test? I assume your nose isn’t binding evidence.”

  I take a drink of water. She should be the one who’s nervous, drinking water, but instead, I feel like I’m the one on the hot seat.

  “What about the funeral? You said it was crowded.”

  Margaret puts her hand on her heart and sniffles. “It was really something to see.”

  “Your husband disagreed.”

  “There you go, taking Dave’s word again. My friends were there, Dave’s colleagues, Lana’s old friends and classmates, as I told you. Do you not realize how difficult it is to relive your daughter’s funeral?”