Homicide Related

by Norah McClintock

  Randall glanced at his partner, whose name Dooley wished he had asked. Then he turned back to Dooley.

  “One of the security guards remembers you, Ryan,” he said. “He says you left the library at about ten minutes to nine.”

  “Yeah?” Dooley tried to look doubtful. “I’m pretty sure I was there longer than that. Maybe he made a mistake.”

  “He’s pretty sure,” Randall said. “You know how he remembers?”

  Dooley was thinking, how could the guy possibly remember? There had been hundreds of people in the library that night, coming and going.

  “Seems you picked a busy time to leave,” Randall said. “Seems an entire class of Korean English-as-a-second-language students was leaving at the same time you were. Seems you stuck out like a sore thumb. What do you have to say to that?”

  “I don’t know,” Dooley said. “Is he sure it was me? Maybe it was some guy who looked like me. You know what they say about eyewitness identification.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Detective Randall said. “People make mistakes all the time.” Dooley waited. “But this particular security guard”—here it comes—“is a retired cop, Ryan. And you know what? He was a pretty good cop in his day. And he says he’s positive it was you who left at the same time as those Korean students. The Korean students left at ten to nine. They were on their way to a restaurant nearby where they had a nine o’clock reservation.”

  Dooley concentrated on looking mystified.

  “You have anything to say to that, Ryan?”

  “I guess I must have lost track of the time,” Dooley said, realizing when he heard the words that he sounded just like his uncle.

  “You were seen leaving the library at ten minutes to nine. You told us you walked home. You said you got home at eleven o’clock. You said as soon as you got home, you called your uncle. Ryan, you could have crawled home from the library on your hands and knees and you would have been home in an hour, max. You want to tell us where you were between ten minutes to nine when you left the library and eleven o’clock when you called your uncle?”

  Why were they asking that? Why were they pushing on him so hard? Did they think he had something to do with what had happened to Lorraine? How could he have? They knew she was alive at ten when she called Gloria Thomas. And, according to what his uncle had said, they figured she’d died a little after eleven. Had they checked what he’d said before? He’d been in his uncle’s house at eleven. Phone records would prove it. He started to have some sympathy for his uncle. For sure, if he’d known the first time he’d talked to the cops that they were going to be back asking more questions, he would have played it differently. He bet his uncle would have, too. Now, no matter what he said, it was going to come back and bite him—hard.

  “It’s time to come clean, Ryan,” Randall said. “You don’t want us to think you’re hiding anything from us, do you?”

  Dooley tried not to panic. But, Jesus, it sounded like they were trying to nail him for something. He thought back to that night. He thought of anyone who might have seen him after he left the library—who might remember him. He had taken the bus. Maybe, if they asked, the bus driver would remember him. Or maybe it would turn out that one of the passengers was a regular on that route and would remember him. After he’d got off the bus, he had walked to the apartment building. Maybe, if they asked, there were some people on the street who would remember him. Then …

  The man.

  There had been a man coming out through the security door when Dooley got there. Dooley had turned away and pretended to fumble in his pocket for his key so that he could catch the door before it clicked shut. He was pretty sure the man hadn’t seen his face. But what if he had? Or—knowing Randall—what if the cops had already asked around, based on what the security guard at the library had told them? What if someone had seen him waiting for the bus? What if someone had seen him get on? What if the driver had not only remembered Dooley but had also remembered where he had got off? What if they’d already nosed around there? Boy, when all he’d been trying to avoid was not coming off as a total screwup—again. He didn’t believe that honesty was always the best policy, but it sure was less complicated than trying to work through all the permutations and ramifications of lying.

  “Okay,” he said. “So I made a stop before I went home.”

  Randall leaned back in his chair and waited.

  Dooley hesitated. There was no way this wasn’t going to come back at him somewhere down the road. But how could he possibly have known what was going to happen that night? He drew in a deep breath, wished he believed in prayer so that he could say one, and told the two detectives exactly what he had done after he’d left the library that night. Neither of them interrupted. After he had finished, Randall asked him a dozen questions, some of them the same question but asked in a different way, as if he were testing Dooley, which, Dooley knew, he was. They both wrote everything down, including the address of the apartment building. Finally Randall said, “Why didn’t you tell us this when we talked to you the first time?”

  “Because I didn’t think it mattered. I had nothing to do with what happened to Lorraine.” It wasn’t the real reason, but Randall seemed to buy it. “Besides, my uncle said it was an overdose.”

  The two cops exchanged glances.

  “How did your uncle and your mother get along?” Randall said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Randall looked into Dooley’s eyes. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I told you.” Cops and their stupid games. You could tell them something a million times and they’d still ask you to see if you’d screw yourself by telling it differently the million-and-first time. “I wasn’t close to her. Neither was my uncle, as far as I know.”

  “As far as you know? What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, I haven’t known my uncle that long.”

  “Exactly how long have you known him?”

  “Two years.”

  “You’ve only known your uncle for two years?”

  “Yeah.” Jesus, wasn’t he listening?

  “And before that?”

  “Before that, what?”

  “You never met him before that?”

  “No.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, he and Lorraine weren’t close. I didn’t even know I had an uncle. Lorraine never mentioned him. She never told him about me, either.”

  “Is that right?” Randall said. It was always Randall, never his partner, who limited himself to scowling at Dooley.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “So your uncle and your mother weren’t close,” Randall said. “That happens in a lot of families, am I right, Bob?” He glanced at his partner, who merely grunted. “You have any idea why they weren’t close, Ryan? Did your mother ever say anything to you about it?”

  “I told you,” Dooley said. Shithead, I just told you. “I didn’t know I had an uncle.” So figure it out yourself, Einstein. If I didn’t know I had an uncle, how could I possibly know why my mother wasn’t close to him?

  “Right,” Randall said. “So you have your mother, who had you … how old was she when you were born, Ryan?” Acting like he didn’t know, trying to get under Dooley’s skin. Dooley just stared at him. “Math not your strong point, huh, Ryan?” Randall said. “Seventeen. She was seventeen when you were born. And you never knew you had an uncle. Makes you wonder what happened, doesn’t it—you know, why your mother never told you she had a brother? And, from what you say, why she never told her”—he paused for a fraction of a second—“brother that she had a son. Why do you think that is, Ryan?”

  “How would I know?” Dooley said. “Like I said …”

  “Right. She never told you that you had an uncle. What about your father?”

  His father? Boy, one of Dooley’s least favorite subjects. “What about him?”

  “Where is he?”

  And there it w
as—the reason Dooley hated the subject.

  “I don’t know.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember the last time you saw your father?”

  “I don’t remember if I ever saw him. If I did, it was when I was a baby.”

  “He doesn’t come around?”

  Dooley shook his head. Why were they so interested in his father?

  “Did he keep in touch with your mother?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Dooley something,” Dooley said. “Or something Dooley. I don’t know.” Lorraine had told him he was named after his father—the Dooley part, anyway.

  “Did your mother ever talk about him?”

  He shook his head, even though that wasn’t quite true. Sometimes, when she was fucked up or weepy, she bawled about him. But Dooley had stopped listening years ago.

  “You don’t think that’s strange?” Randall said.

  Boy, what he didn’t know about Lorraine.

  Randall pulled something out of his jacket pocket and slid it onto the table in front of Dooley. “What do you know about this, Ryan?”

  Dooley glanced at the photograph, determined not to be interested, then, despite himself, he stared at it. What the hell?

  What was that?

  He picked it up and took a closer look.

  Three stones.

  Three names.

  Three sets of dates.

  He squinted at them, double-checking that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He looked up at Randall.

  “What are those?” he said.

  “What do they look like? They’re headstones, Ryan.”

  Dooley looked at them again. “Where are they?”

  “Where do you usually find headstones?”

  In a cemetery. But: “Which one?”

  “You know that big one uptown, right near where the subway goes? They’re in there.”

  Dooley couldn’t take his eyes off the picture.

  “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “Have you ever been to that cemetery, Ryan?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen these stones before?”

  “No.”

  “Your uncle never took you there?”

  “No.”

  “Your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Did either of them ever mention those stones?”

  “No.”

  Randall looked across the table at him.

  “It’s a family plot,” he said. “But your uncle didn’t see to it that your mother was laid to rest there.”

  Dooley looked at the stones again, at the names and dates.

  “Why do you think that is, Ryan?”

  “How would I know?”

  Randall gazed at the photo for a moment. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he said.

  If it wasn’t cops sitting across the table from him, Dooley would have agreed.

  “Maybe you should talk to your uncle,” Randall said. “Maybe he can clarify things for you.” He threw some money onto the table to pay for the coffees. He left the photo. He and his partner slid out of the booth. They were sitting in their car outside of the video store when Dooley went in to work but were gone when he looked out the window half an hour later.

  Dooley closed the store with Kevin, impatient with how long Kevin was taking, cursing under his breath as Kevin fumbled to lock the door. Then he was off, striding home. He let himself in the front door. Jeannie’s purse was on the little table in the front hall. Dooley didn’t care. He took the stairs two at a time and hammered on his uncle’s bedroom door. Inside, his uncle yelled: “Jesus Christ!” Dooley heard his bare feet thump down onto the floor. A pause. The sound of a zipper—his uncle doing up his pants. The bedroom door flew open and his uncle’s angry face appeared. He came out into the hall, closed the door softly behind him, and hissed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Dooley thrust the photograph at him.

  It took his uncle a moment to stop glowering at him and to focus on the photo.

  “Where’d you get that?” he said.

  “What is it?” Dooley said.

  His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. He went back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Dooley heard his voice, soft, talking to Jeannie. Then he was back again, brushing past Dooley and padding down the stairs. Dooley followed him.

  His uncle went into the kitchen, heading for the scotch again, Dooley thought. But, no, he opened the fridge and pulled out some soda water, which he offered to Dooley. Dooley shook his head. His uncle poured a glass for himself and carried it to the kitchen table. He dropped heavily onto a chair. Dooley sat opposite him and slapped the photo onto the table between them.

  “What is it?” he said again.

  “Where’d you get this?” his uncle said again.

  “The cops.”

  “When did you see them?”

  “This afternoon. They were waiting for me when I got to work. A cop named Randall and his partner.” He nudged the photo across the table to his uncle and watched him look at it again. “That’s my grandfather, right?” he said, pointing to the first stone, the first name, the first set of dates. The second date on the stone matched when his uncle had said Dooley’s grandfather had died. “And that one,” he said, pointing at the second stone. “That’s my grandmother, right?” She had died earlier than his grandfather, before Dooley was born.

  His uncle nodded.

  “What about this one?” He pointed to the third stone.

  Dooley’s uncle ran a finger lightly over the name on the stone.

  “My sister,” he said.

  “Your sister Lorraine,” Dooley said. That was the name on the stone.

  “Yes,” his uncle said, but it seemed to Dooley that he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Your sister Lorraine who died”—Dooley tapped the second date on the stone—“thirty-five years ago.”

  “Yes,” his uncle said.

  “Not your sister Lorraine who died last week,” Dooley said.

  “No.”

  “So you had two sisters named Lorraine?” What kind of sense did that make?

  “Yes.” Pause. “No.” Pause. “Sort of, I guess.”

  “Sort of ?” Dooley said. “You guess?”

  “I had an older sister.”

  “Older ?” Lorraine—Dooley’s mother, Lorraine—had been almost fifteen years younger than Dooley’s uncle.

  “A couple of years older. She died. It was an accident. My mother, your grandmother, took it hard.” He looked at the glass of soda water on the table. “She took it really hard. By then she couldn’t have any more kids. So they adopted a baby girl.”

  Adopted.

  Dooley thought that one over, conscious of his uncle’s eyes on him.

  His uncle.

  He thought that one over, too.

  “Your parents adopted a baby that just happened to be named Lorraine?” he said finally. What kind of weird coincidence was that?

  “I don’t know what the original name was. My mother named her Lorraine.”

  “You’re kidding,” Dooley said. How fucked up was that?

  “She was grieving,” his uncle said. “If you ask me, she was clinically depressed. She didn’t get out of bed for eight, nine months. Back then, they didn’t have the kind of drugs they do now. My father thought …” His uncle looked him in the eye. “Look, I know it sounds …” He groped for a word, came up empty, and shook his head. “But that’s what happened. They adopted a baby. It gave her a reason to get up in the morning.”

  If that’s what it took, Dooley thought, it didn’t say much about his grandmother’s feelings for the rest of the family. Maybe that was part of it.

  “How did Lorraine”—this was going to get confusing—“how did the new Lorraine take it when she found
out?”

  There was a long pause before his uncle said, “To the best of my knowledge, they never told her.”

  That didn’t make sense. “How could she not know? Someone must have said something. There must have been pictures, something.”

  His uncle shook his head.

  “You have no idea what it did to my mother when Lorraine died. No idea.”

  “So … what? You all just pretended the first one never existed?”

  His uncle’s eyes flashed.

  “It wasn’t like that. We just … we just tried to make it easy on her. I never forgot my sister. And I’ve never pretended she didn’t exist.”

  “But no one told Lorraine—my Lorraine? No one told her she was the second one?” The replacement.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Dooley couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  “Is that why you didn’t like her, because she was adopted, because she made your mother happy when you couldn’t?”

  “I never said I didn’t like her.”

  Technically, Dooley had to admit, that was true. But: “You never said anything good about her. You always told me how screwed up she was and that I was better off with her out of my life.”

  His uncle straightened up in his chair, bristling again. “You going to tell me you don’t think that’s true?”

  “You going to tell me you liked her?”

  His uncle looked at him for a few moments. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not.”

  “Were you jealous of her? Is that it?”

  His uncle snorted. “No. I didn’t like her because she killed my mother.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “She was one of those girls, they’re fine when they’re little, then they hit puberty and all hell breaks loose,” his uncle said. “She was wild—crazy wild. She ditched school more than she attended. Got kicked out regularly, too. She lied—about everything. If she didn’t like someone, she made trouble for them—other kids, teachers, you name it. She was into partying—booze, drugs, whatever. She came home in the middle of the night when she bothered to come home at all. She’d disappear for days, sometimes weeks, and never call, and there would be my mother, frantic with worry, crying, not sleeping, sending me out there to look for her.” By then, Dooley guessed, his uncle had been a cop for a while.