Homicide Related

by Norah McClintock

  It was a photo of Lorraine from back a few years. She looked pretty good in it—smiling, her eyes with a real sparkle to them, although Dooley had no idea what had put it there—maybe a man, maybe a chemical—her hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her dark lashes—she never went anywhere without a couple of layers of mascara accentuating her pale blue eyes.

  “That’s her, right, Dooley?” Beth said again, her voice harsh now. “Your mother who you haven’t seen in years, right?”

  “Beth—”

  “That’s the woman you were talking to outside your school that day,” she said. She shook the newspaper clipping under his nose. “You were talking to her, but when I asked you who she was, you said she was—”

  Just some woman.

  “—just some woman. That’s what you said. You lied to me, Dooley. You keep lying to me.”

  Which was his cue to say: “I’m sorry.”

  “I would never lie to you,” she said.

  She said it so easily, as if it were indisputable.

  “I thought you were different,” she said. “I respected you, Dooley.” He couldn’t think of a single other person who had ever said that to him, and it made it all the worse that she’d used the past tense. “I respected you because you told me about yourself, even though I knew you were afraid to. I thought, someone who would tell me all that about himself would never lie to me.”

  He could have said again that he was sorry. He could have said it over and over, a hundred times, a thousand times, a million times. But he had a sick feeling that it wouldn’t make up for what he had already done.

  “Come on, Beth. She was high almost all the time.”

  “That’s not what it says here.” She waved the clipping at him again.

  “Her friends wrote that. A person’s friends say nice things when a person dies. But she was my mother. I know what she was like.”

  A cell phone trilled. Hers, not his. She reached into her pocket, pulled it out, glanced at the display. Dooley saw it, too. Nevin. He looked at her.

  “Are you seeing him?” Dooley said.

  “I told you, he’s on the debating team. We—”

  “Take each other on,” Dooley said. “Right. You going to take him on tonight?”

  She stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  She flipped her phone open. “Nevin,” she said, putting a smile into it. “Give me a minute.” She held the phone to her chest. “Goodnight, Dooley,” she said. She stepped back inside and closed the door.

  Eight

  Dooley left his cell phone on that night, hoping that Beth would call. It rang at five AM. Dooley groped for it and stared groggily at the display. He held the phone to his ear.

  Teresa. She was hysterical. Dooley felt himself go colder than ice as he listened to her pour out a stream of words, apologizing for waking him up, saying it was important, running on and on, faster and shriller, until Dooley told her, “Wait. Stop. Slow down, Teresa.” He glanced at the clock radio on his bedside table. “Tell me again,” he said. He repeated the address she gave him. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said. He pressed the disconnect button and reached for his jeans, which were on the floor beside his bed. He jammed his legs into them and stood up.

  Note, he thought as he crept down the stairs. He should leave his uncle a note.

  He scrawled one on the back of a grocery receipt and stuck it to the front of the fridge: Gone for a walk.

  A long one, it turned out, because the buses didn’t run often this early on a Sunday morning.

  Teresa and Jeffie lived in an apartment above a storefront Greek bakery. Dooley craned his neck so he could look at the window on the second floor. He saw a face appear and then disappear. Teresa, watching for him.

  The bottom door, wedged in between the Greek bakery and a knickknack store, was unlocked. Dooley pulled it open. Teresa, tears streaming down her face, was standing at the top of a set of dark, narrow stairs. He climbed them slowly, in no rush to get up there with her. As soon as he reached the top, she threw her arms around him. In no time, both his sweatshirt and his T-shirt were wet.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  There were four doors leading off the gloomy hallway—two at the front and two at the rear, each one leading to a different apartment. The one to his right at the front was ajar. He steered her inside.

  The place was small. Right inside the door was the kitchen—fridge, stove, microwave, sink, counter, small round table, four chairs, two of them jammed up against the wall under the window that looked out onto the street. He guided her through the kitchen into the living room. All the furniture was clean, but all of it was too big for the size of the room, as if it had been bought for someplace else, maybe some place Teresa wanted Jeffie to get where they could raise a baby. Poor Jeffie, Dooley thought, and then caught himself, remembering what had brought him here.

  He looked at the rest of the place. Gigantic flat-screen TV. Beside it, a sound system. Beyond that, a hall to the bathroom and bedroom.

  He made Teresa sit down on the couch and perched opposite her on a coffee table so big you could sleep on it. She was still crying. He hooked a tissue box with one finger and handed it to her. She looked blankly at it. He pulled out a couple of tissues and pressed them into her hand.

  “What happened?” Dooley said. “What did the cops say?”

  “He’s dead,” she said, the words liquid with tears. “Someone killed him.”

  “Killed him?” No way. “What happened?”

  “I had to go with them,” Teresa said. “I had to identify him.” Dooley wasn’t surprised. As far as he knew, Jeffie didn’t have any family. He’d told Dooley he didn’t know who his parents were. He’d been raised in foster care. “His head was all smashed in. His face—” She started to sob again. Dooley pressed some more tissues into her hand and waited. “He was wearing a ring I gave him. And he had those tattoos.” A ship—big surprise—that looked to Dooley like a pirate ship, on his left upper arm, and a skull and crossbones on his right upper arm. “Even then—” More sobbing. More tears. “They said he’s been dead for maybe four days, Dooley.”

  Jesus, no wonder she couldn’t get it together. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to look at a body four days gone, especially the body of someone you cared about.

  “Do you have any idea who did it, Teresa?”

  She looked up at him, startled. “No.”

  “What did you tell the cops?”

  “Just that I hadn’t seen him since Tuesday morning. He said he had to go out. He said he had some errands to do and then he was going to see you. He never came back. At first I was mad. I thought he’d run out on me. I’m pregnant. Jeffie was nice about it when I told him, but I think he was scared, you know? But he’s a sweet guy, so after a couple of days, when he didn’t even call me, I got worried. I called the cops. They didn’t do anything. Then, last night, they came to the door and told me he’s dead.” More tears. Dooley handed her another couple of tissues. “They asked me the same thing you did. They asked me if I knew who would want to kill him.”

  “You sure you don’t have any idea? Maybe he was in some kind of jam with someone?”

  “Jam? What kind of jam?”

  “You know him better than I do, Teresa.”

  She dabbed at her eyes. “Jeffie knows a lot of people, but he’s always saying he doesn’t know why he wastes his time with most of them. He says most of them aren’t worth knowing—well, except for you, Dooley. Jeffie likes you. He said it was good you were back in school, even if you had to live with a cop. Is that true, Dooley? You live with a cop?”

  “He’s my uncle,” Dooley said. “And he’s not a cop anymore. He retired.”

  Teresa digested this.

  “What did you tell the cops, Teresa?” he asked again.

  “Only that the last time I saw him, he was going to meet you. That’s all I could tell them. T
hat’s all I know.”

  Terrific. For sure the cops were going to want to talk to him—again.

  “Did Jeffie say anything about owing money to anyone?” Dooley said.

  “He owed money?” She looked like she was going to cry even harder now. “All he said was that he was going to meet you. He seemed really happy about it, too. He was going to meet you and when he came home we were going to celebrate.”

  “I was waiting for him, Teresa, but he never showed up. Remember? I told you when you called me the first time. Did you tell the cops that?”

  “I told them that’s what you said.”

  That’s what you said—like there was some doubt about whether it was true or not.

  “Did Jeffie say anything about some guy he was supplying?

  Some new guy?”

  “Supplying?” Teresa said, frowning, as if she had no clue what he was talking about. “You mean a customer at the garage?”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what?”

  Was she serious? Yeah, Jeffie collected a paycheck from a garage where he worked a couple of days a week, supposedly doing bodywork. But what he earned there didn’t begin to cover his expenses. There was no way Teresa could believe it did. There was no way she could be that stupid, even if Jeffie had lied to her and said that’s where the money came from. Maybe she just didn’t want to admit that she knew.

  “He borrowed money from me, Teresa. That’s why he was supposed to meet me. To pay me back.”

  “He owed you money?” she said. Clearly this was news to her—unpleasant and unwelcome news. “A lot of money?”

  “Enough,” Dooley said. He was pretty sure she’d be upset if he told her how much. “You sure he didn’t mention anything about a special customer? Maybe a new customer?”

  Teresa shook her head. “What am I going to do?” she said. “What am I going to do about the baby?”

  “You got someone you can call?” Dooley said. “Maybe someone who can come and stay with you for a while? Or someone you can go and stay with? You got family, Teresa?”

  “My dad lives up north,” she said, steel in her eyes now instead of tears. “I’d rather open a vein than see that piece of shit again.”

  Oh.

  “You got anyone else? A sister maybe?”

  She shook her head.

  “Some girlfriends?”

  She looked doubtful.

  “Maybe Sienna,” she said at last.

  “Sienna?”

  “She’s a waitress at this place Jeffie likes. Jeffie says she’s a good friend.”

  Friend? Dooley wondered what kind of friend. “You want me to call her?” he said. “Maybe she could stay with you a while.”

  “It’s okay. I can do it.” But she didn’t make a move. Dooley looked around. There was a cordless phone on a bookcase that was filled with CDs and DVDs. He brought it to her. She stared down at it.

  “You should call her,” Dooley said. “You should ask her to come over.”

  She punched in some numbers and started crying again as soon as whoever—Sienna, he supposed—answered. She kept crying—blubbering, really—so that Dooley couldn’t believe that whoever she was talking to could actually make out what she was saying. Finally she hung up.

  “Is she going to come?” Dooley said.

  Teresa nodded.

  “That’s good.” He wanted to get out of there, but: “I’ll stay until she gets here, okay?” No response. “Is there anyone else you want to call, Teresa?”

  She was sobbing now, her whole body wracked with loss and memories and probably the sight of Jeffie four days gone. Dooley didn’t know what to do.

  “You want me to make you some tea or something?” he said.

  She shook her head. She didn’t want tea. She didn’t want anything except Jeffie. Finally the buzzer sounded. Dooley got up and pressed the intercom button.

  “It’s Sienna,” said a smoke-filled voice from the sidewalk below.

  Dooley buzzed her up. Sienna turned out to be a bottle blonde in tight jeans, an even tighter sweater, and raccoon eye makeup. She smelled of cigarettes and was carrying a giant container of Tim Horton’s coffee. She looked vaguely familiar.

  “Dooley, right?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Wow, it’s been a while,” she said. “You remember me? I used to go with Jeffie.”

  Teresa hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe Jeffie hadn’t told her.

  “Is it true?” she said. “Is he really dead?” She didn’t look at all broken up.

  When he said yes, she wanted to know how. Dooley told her what he knew, which wasn’t much.

  “Shit. Poor Jeffie,” she said. “Do they know who did it?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Me?” She looked surprised. “He used to come by sometimes, you know”—she dropped her voice a little—“when he needed a change of pace. But we didn’t spend much time talking, if you know what I mean.” She swallowed some coffee and nodded to the interior of the apartment. “So how come she called me? I barely know her.”

  “She needs someone to stay with her for a while.”

  Sienna looked at her watch.

  “I have to be at work at three,” she said.

  Dooley was surprised to find his uncle at home, mostly because his uncle’s car wasn’t in the driveway or in the garage, which was standing open. He was even more surprised to find Annette Girondin, a lawyer friend of his uncle, sitting in the living room with him.

  “Where’s the car?” Dooley said.

  His uncle didn’t say anything. Annette glanced at him and then turned to Dooley.

  “The police got a search warrant. They seized it.”

  “What for?”

  “They want to examine it.”

  Again: “What for?”

  “It’s related to your mother,” Annette said.

  Dooley looked at his uncle, who said, “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I went out. I left you a note. How come the cops took your car?”

  “They have someone who says they saw Lorraine get into a car the night she died,” Annette said.

  “Your car?” Dooley said to his uncle.

  “A burgundy car,” Annette said—Dooley’s uncle’s car was burgundy—“that the witness is pretty sure is the same make as your uncle’s car. The witness is also pretty sure a man was driving the car. He didn’t catch the license number, though.” She sounded disgusted.

  Nine

  Two days later, second period English, Dooley was called down to the school office. Mr. Rektor, the A-L vice-principal, was standing at the counter. The way his eyes clicked in on Dooley told Dooley that he was the one who had summoned him. What now, Dooley wondered.

  The cops, that’s what.

  Detective Randall and his partner Bob Something-or-Other—Dooley decided he should find out what the guy’s full name was—were waiting for him in the office.

  “We’d like you to come downtown and talk to us, Ryan,” Randall said.

  Dooley glanced at Mr. Rektor, who wasn’t smiling but who might as well have been; he had a smug look on his face. Mr. Rektor had a low opinion of Dooley and was never happier than when Dooley seemed to be confirming just how right he was. Dooley wanted to ask why the cops wanted to talk to him—was it about his uncle? Probably. About Jeffie? Could be, although wouldn’t someone besides Randall have caught that one? But he didn’t know what the cops had said to Mr. Rektor, and he didn’t want Mr. Rektor to know anything more than he already did. So he said, “Okay. Sure.” The sense he was trying to convey: Hey, I’m a good citizen. I’ve got nothing to hide. The sense that he ended up conveying (to Mr. Rektor, anyway, judging from the look on his face): You want to play that old game again? Well, all right, let’s go. Catch me if you can, boys. Living down to Mr. Rektor’s low opinion again. Dooley also said, just to be clear, “Am I under arrest?”

  He knew he shouldn’t have bothered when Randall said, “Not
at this time.”

  He rode in the back seat. Neither of the two detectives said anything to him until after he was seated at a table in an interview room. The walls were bare. There was nothing on the table except an audiocassette player and a file folder that Dooley assumed had something to do with Lorraine. Randall told him that they wanted to talk to him again about Lorraine’s death (he called her “your mother”) but that Dooley didn’t have to talk to them if he didn’t want to.

  “I’m already here,” Dooley said.

  Randall said in a bored tone that let Dooley know that they both knew it was a formality, that because he was still a youth, he could have an adult present in the room while he talked to the police—a parent (which they knew he didn’t have), a guardian, even a lawyer if he wanted. Dooley thought about Annette Girondin. But she was his uncle’s lawyer, so maybe that would be some kind of conflict of interest.

  “No, it’s okay,” Dooley said. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s your right to have a lawyer present,” Randall said, making sure his ass was good and covered.

  “I know,” Dooley said.

  Randall told Dooley that they wanted to videotape the questions and answers, if that was okay with him. Dooley thought about Annette again. Maybe she knew someone he could call. But if he called a lawyer, for sure the cops would think he had something to hide. And who knew what they already thought, bringing him in here like this and videotaping everything?

  “You want to talk to me, go ahead,” he said. He told himself that everything would be okay as long as he kept his head and didn’t panic. They made him sign a piece of paper before they got down to it.

  As soon as the video camera was rolling, Randall asked Dooley again if he wanted a parent, a guardian, or a lawyer present, and Dooley said, for the camera, that he didn’t. Randall told him that he could change his mind at any time; he just had to say so. Dooley said he understood that. Randall looked at him for a moment. His first question came out of left field.