Sharon nods. “I realize that I’m not the most objective person, given that I’m his mother,” she admits. “But I’m also the person who knew him better than anyone else in the world.” Her eyes well with tears and her voice is momentarily strangled with emotion. “I knew my son,” she insists. “He didn’t end his own life.”
A collective silence fills the room as the group gives Sharon time to get herself together. After a minute or two, Bill Nolan says, “If it wasn’t suicide, maybe it was an accident.”
Sharon swallows hard and nods. I can tell she wants to deny Bill’s suggestion outright, to once again state unequivocally that her son wasn’t using drugs. She doesn’t, though, and my respect for her increases. She wipes away the tears flooding her lower lids and straightens in her seat.
“Can you give us a timeline for the night he died?” Bill asks.
Sharon shakes her hands and rolls her shoulders, looking like an athlete about to start a marathon. I imagine whatever comes next will be a marathon of sorts for her, though an emotional one rather than a physical one.
“I work the graveyard shift,” she begins, grimacing at the descriptive term. “On the night Toby died, he seemed more chipper than usual. He came out of his room and ate dinner with me for the first time in weeks, and we talked about current events—politics, the environment, the economy, that sort of stuff. He and I have always enjoyed discussing and debating. He ate well, too, and for the first time in a long time I began to think he was turning around, on his way back to normal. At one point he even said something about going back to school in the fall and taking some summer classes to help him catch up.”
The smile on Sharon’s face, with all its fleeting hope and happiness, breaks my heart, knowing as I do how it all fell apart. She lost her child, a disturbing anomaly in the expected cycle of life and death, and one of the hardest losses to get over. Not that any parent truly gets over such a loss.
“Anyway,” Sharon goes on, “we had a nice evening together, like old times. And then, around nine o’clock, when I was heading up to take my shower and get ready for work, he got a text message on his phone. I don’t know who it was, or what it said, but the change in his mood was palpable.”
“Did you ask him about it?” I say.
“I did, but he dismissed it, saying it was just some stupid fraternity crap. He said they were trying to get him to come back, and some of the frat brothers were getting irritated with his constant refusal.”
“Did he talk about the fraternity much?” I ask. “Either before or after he dropped out of school?”
Sharon’s brows draw into a troubled V over her nose. “Not much. He did say once that he thought pledging the fraternity was a mistake, that he had hoped it would give him a leg up when it came to finding a job later on because of the connections, but that the brotherhood was tighter than he thought, and people like him . . .” She trails off and gives the group an embarrassed look. “By that I think he meant poor people, or at least not rich people. I mean, we managed well enough, and I make enough money to get by most of the time. Toby is . . . was a smart kid, and he earned a scholarship that paid for his tuition, room, and board. If not for that . . .” She doesn’t finish the statement, but she doesn’t need to. She does a quick visual circuit of the group and, apparently satisfied with the expressions she sees, continues. “Anyway, Toby told me once that there was a tight klatch of wealthy boys in the frat who maintained an exclusive club. They looked down on some of the boys who weren’t as well off.”
“Those social classes are everywhere,” Mary Martin says. “That hasn’t changed in centuries of human history. But from what you’ve told us about Toby, he doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who would be all that bothered by classist snobbery.”
“I don’t think that’s what made him drop out, if that’s what you mean,” Sharon says.
“What about the girlfriend?” Charlie asks.
“Or a boyfriend?” Bill throws out in a suggestive tone. “Is it possible your son might have had some confusion with regard to his sexual orientation?”
Sharon shakes her head, smiling. “Toby wasn’t gay, but if he was, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell me. I have a brother who’s gay, and there’s an aunt on my father’s side who used to be my uncle. Our family is open and accepting about that sort of thing.”
“The girlfriend, then?” Charlie asks, resurrecting his question. “Did it seem like a serious relationship?”
“This last one did,” Sharon says. “He had a few girlfriends earlier in the year. I didn’t know much about any of them, and there might have been some I didn’t know about at all. Toby tended to be a private person in that regard. I remember him talking about someone back at the start of the school year, but they broke things off after a month or so. Toby was disappointed, but not heartbroken. I know he dated a couple of other girls after that, though none of them seemed to stick. Then he met this girl named Lori when he started his second semester, and they seemed to really hit it off. He didn’t talk about her a lot, but when he did, I could tell there was something different, something special about this one. He said they met in an English lit class they were both taking, and that they had a lot in common. The last time I asked him about her, he said they were taking things slow.” She hesitates, squeezes her eyes closed, and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Let’s go back to the timeline,” Betty says with irritation. “What time did you leave the house to go to work?”
“At ten thirty. My shift starts at eleven and it’s a fifteen-minute drive. I like to get there a little early, so I have time to make myself a cup of coffee and get into the groove of things, you know?”
There are a few nods in the group.
“And when did you find out about Toby?” I ask.
Her eyes darken, her gaze growing distant, and the muscles in her face start to twitch, making me certain she’s reliving the horrific moment in her mind. “The police showed up at my work just before four in the morning,” she says in a tightly controlled voice. “There were two guys in uniform and they said they needed to talk to me. They took me to the employee break room and told me to sit down. I didn’t want to, but I knew that if I didn’t it would only delay things. I knew something was terribly wrong. When they asked me if Toby Cochran was my son, my heart was pounding so hard I could see my shirt moving with each beat. I said he was and asked them if he was okay. But instead of answering me, they asked me when I’d last seen him.”
She pauses, swallows hard, and squeezes her eyes closed, trying to block out an image I suspect will be branded in her mind till the day she dies. “I knew from their evasiveness that something bad had happened to Toby. I begged them to tell me, and they finally did, though they didn’t provide any specifics right away. They told me he had had an accident and that he was . . . dead.”
Her eyes snap open at this and she fixes her gaze on Mary Martin, her face an expression of disbelieving fury. “An accident,” she says in a tone of disgust. “That would make one think of something like a car wreck or a house fire, right?” Mary nods, as do several others in the group. “I asked them what kind of accident it was. They didn’t answer right away. They just kept exchanging looks back and forth. I finally got mad and yelled at them. I think I might have dropped an f-bomb or two,” she admits, looking mildly regretful as she finally releases Mary from her eye-lock. “Anyway, it did the trick. They told me they got an anonymous phone call to check on someone who was in that abandoned warehouse down by the waterfront, the one that’s slated for demolition later this year?” More nods, along with some impatient looks that say, Yeah, yeah, get on with it.
“The cops told me it’s a popular spot for druggies and that they chase people away from there on a regular basis. My first thought was that the building had collapsed and Toby was inside when it happened. The idea of a drug overdose wasn’t anywhere on my radar. When they told me they found him dead inside the building with an empty syringe hanging out of his
arm, I actually felt relieved for a moment.” She squeezes her eyes closed at this, lets out a humorless laugh, and sniffs. “I was relieved because I thought they’d made a mistake, that it couldn’t have been Toby they’d found, because no way would he have been shooting up drugs. Right?”
The question is clearly rhetorical since we all know the outcome to this story, so no one says yea or nay to this. Until we know for sure if Sharon’s denial is born of ignorance and blinders as opposed to some nefarious goings-on, no one seems inclined to speak or pass judgment of any sort.
Sharon swipes at her face again and then continues her tale. “It took them some time to convince me, and even then, I kept holding out hope. I wanted to go home, check the house, knowing I’d find him in his bedroom sound asleep. Instead, they took me to the medical examiner’s office, where I . . .” Her voice chokes off, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Several people in the group squirm uncomfortably in their seats, even though this sort of emotional wringing is something they’ve all encountered here before.
“You identified his body,” I say softly.
Sharon, taking small, gulping breaths, can only nod.
“Did they try to resuscitate him?” I ask. “The cops all carry Narcan now because overdoses are such a common thing these days.”
Sharon gives me a sad look. “No,” she manages in a shaky voice. “They said it was too late, that he was . . . he’d been . . .” She sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. “He was already cold and stiff.”
With this she hangs her head and begins to sob quietly. The group immediately converts into consolation mode, with murmurs of “Sorry for your loss” and “We’re here for you” and “It’s okay, let it out.”
I let this go on for a minute or two, knowing Sharon needs to vent and that the rest of the group needs to succor her. Then Mary Martin hands Sharon a fresh wad of tissues and the moment has passed.
“I assume the police talked with you about Toby,” I say, hoping to steer us back on course. “Who he hung out with? Who his friends were? What his activities were leading up to the time of his death?”
Sharon swabs at her nose, nodding. “They did,” she says nasally. “Though I don’t think their hearts were in it. To them it was just another junkie death, one less drug addict to worry about.” She sneers angrily. “I told them about the school thing, and how Toby reacted and behaved. I asked them to look into it, but they just kept telling me that that kind of behavior is typical among drug users.”
Unfortunately, the cops were telling Sharon the truth; that sort of behavior is typical among that group. But something about Sharon’s conviction regarding her son rings true to me. There is more to this story, I’m sure of it.
Now I just have to figure out how to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter Four
The rest of the group is as intrigued by Sharon Cochran’s story as I am, and several of them leap at the chance to become amateur investigators. It takes some convincing on my part to get them to see that this would be a bad idea, and it’s only after I promise to follow up with some of my “connections” that they back down, with the caveat that I must keep them informed and updated.
There is a small problem, however. I may have oversold my connections. They consist of two people I recently had dealings with on another case. One of those is a Sorenson detective by the name of Bob Richmond, and the other is Mattie Winston, a woman who works as a medico-legal death investigator for the ME’s office. I didn’t spend a lot of time with either of them, though I spent enough time with Detective Richmond to know that I’d like to get to know him better. He’s tall, handsome in a rugged, etched sort of way, and has an intensity about him that I found instantly appealing when I met him.
Of course, I haven’t seen him since, but Sharon Cochran’s son’s death is the perfect excuse to do so. For a brief second or two I question my motives in wanting to help Sharon, but I shove my qualms aside. I want to help her even if it doesn’t involve Detective Richmond. As someone who has experienced the loss of a loved one to murder, a murder that was never solved, I feel a kind of kinship for people in Sharon’s position. I’ve always been an avid reader of mysteries, and I suspect it’s my personal history that has given me this predilection.
Any initial reservations I had about letting the group take this detour from the planned agenda are assuaged when I see how the members swarm around Sharon when we’re done, taking her into their midst, offering her their support, and letting her know she isn’t alone. I can tell from the look on Sharon’s face that this support means a great deal to her, and as typically is the case, the injection of new blood into the group has invigorated the others.
The goodbyes linger longer than usual, but eventually it’s only me and Sharon left in the room, and I ask her to stay so we can talk some more.
“Sharon, I meant it when I said I want to help you figure out what happened to your son,” I tell her. “I’d like to begin by talking with you some more about the days leading up to his death, and if you wouldn’t object, I’d like to visit your home and take a look at his room.”
She hesitates, frowning.
“I know it must seem like an intrusion, but I honestly think it will help. And after you and I have talked some more, I’m going to have a chat with someone I know at the police department, a Detective Richmond, to see if he would be willing to look into the case. I also know someone I can talk to at the medical examiner’s office. Maybe there was something in Toby’s autopsy that was missed.”
“I already suggested that to Officer Joiner,” Sharon says, looking frustrated. “She didn’t take it well.”
“You know, they hear that sort of stuff from surviving family members all the time. Maybe if it comes from someone else, an objective outsider, they’ll be more willing to take another look.” I see hesitation lingering on her face and try one last entreaty. “What can it hurt?”
She shrugs grudgingly at this. “I suppose you’re right,” she says with a sigh. She glances at her watch, sees that it’s nearly nine already, and adds, “But it will have to wait until morning. I need to be at work soon.”
“I won’t need long,” I say. “You said you don’t leave for work until ten thirty. How far is it to your house?”
“Not far,” she says, resignation creeping into her voice. “I suppose we can do it now.”
“Good. I’ll follow you.”
I make a brief stop in my office to get my jacket, purse, and keys, and then we head out to the parking lot. Sharon’s car is an older-model Toyota I’m willing to bet she bought used. And judging from the blue smoke it belches as I follow her to her house, I’m also betting that it’s on its last legs.
Her house—a rental, she tells me as we traverse the sidewalk leading to the front porch—is on a side street near a park, and only five blocks from the warehouse building where Toby was found. Most of the houses on the street are Victorians, and while the neighborhood may have been populated with middle- and upper-class families back in the 1920s when the houses were built, many of the homes have now been split up into duplexes, their innards gutted and reorganized like those of a Thanksgiving turkey. The tenants are mostly younger couples and singles, people who can’t yet afford to buy their piece of the American dream.
Sharon’s house is an exception, a Colonial style box with two stories that is still a single-family home. It’s smaller than the other homes, but I note that the grounds are in better shape than most of the others, the front yard well kept, the house bordered with flower beds that are currently sporting a vibrant garden of daffodils and multicolored tulips typical for this mid-April time of year. The porch, a concrete stoop with wrought iron railings, has a small bench to one side with flowerpots on either side of it. In one of the pots there is a healthy-looking rosemary plant, and in the other is a collection of what looks and smells like basil and oregano. The combined fragrances of the herbs and the early spring flowers make for a heady, welcoming air.
The inside
of the house smells just as good, the air redolent with the scents of cinnamon and apple. I wonder if Sharon recently baked something to create these smells, or if they’re the result of some artificial air freshener. Standing at the base of a steep set of stairs that split the house in two, I see a living or family room to the right and a dining room off to the left. The furnishings I can see appear gently used, unmatched, but comfortable. The hardwood floors are in desperate need of a good sanding and refinishing, but they are clean.
I shuck my jacket and Sharon takes it and hangs it in the small coat closet, doing the same with her own. Then she points up the stairs. “Toby’s room is the one on the right,” she says. “Mine is to the left. There is a small third bedroom at the top of the stairs that I’ve been using for storage. This house doesn’t have any closets in the bedrooms.”
“That’s typical of some of these older homes,” I say. “Back when they were built a lot of people used wardrobes and dressers for all of their clothes.”
“My mother had something she called a chifforobe,” Sharon says with a fond smile. It’s fleeting, and the smile fades as she looks about worriedly, as if she’s assessing what I’m seeing and trying to see it through the eyes of a stranger. I sense she’s concerned I’m going to judge her, and I understand why. As the single parent of a child who has been labeled a junkie, and who apparently overdosed, I’m sure she has experienced people passing judgment on her parenting skills, some of them undoubtedly doing so with more than just sidelong looks and supposition.
“Your house is warm and welcoming,” I say to reassure her. “There are so many wonderful smells, and everything is very clean and tidy. It feels very inviting. I should get some interior design ideas from you. My house is a hot mess of junk, and I’m afraid my cleaning skills aren’t what they should be.” This isn’t true, but I doubt Sharon will ever see the inside of my house, and even if she does, I doubt she’ll remember me making this claim.
She smiles and blushes at the compliment, looking away. I see her shoulders relax, but one hand strokes at her hairline behind her ear in a nervous gesture that tells me she isn’t used to, or comfortable with, flattery.
Needled to Death Page 3
