David Bell - Never Come Back

But the phone call that woke me wasn’t from Paul. I reached for the phone and looked at the display screen. I saw a local number, one I didn’t recognize. I wondered if maybe it was the hospital, but I didn’t answer. My mind was too foggy, my brain and body too tired from the week. If it’s important, I thought, they’ll leave a message or call back.

A few moments later the phone chimed, letting me know I did have a message. But I rolled over and closed my eyes. I kept them shut, trying to drift back to sleep. I had slept surprisingly well, considering that it was my first night alone since the break-in, and my body and mind wanted more. Only, when I closed my eyes, everything from the day before tumbled through my mind. Elizabeth Yarbrough. Ronnie wanting to leave the hospital. The bank statement, the picture, the “cousins”—

The phone rang again.

“Okay,” I said.

Maybe it was important. A message and a call back.

I rolled over and picked up the phone. The identity of the caller made my heart jump.

It was Paul. I held the phone in front of me, staring at the screen. My strategy hadn’t worked—I was plenty awake. And nervous to talk to him. For a split second, I thought about ignoring it, but I knew I couldn’t. He had reached out. And with everything going on, I couldn’t make it the way I always made it. I couldn’t do it all alone.

I needed help.

“Hello?” I said.

“Elizabeth…”

He sounded tired, almost as if he too were still half asleep.

“Paul? Are you okay?”

“I’m here,” he said.

“Where?”

“I’m here. On the phone.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Did the police call you?” he asked.

I knew—the message I hadn’t listened to. The call I hadn’t taken.

“Someone just called. But the police? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said. “It’s Ronnie.”

“Oh, God.”

A burning pain crossed my midsection. It felt as if someone had placed a hot poker there, just rested it against my flesh and didn’t move.

Ronnie. What happened to Ronnie?

“Is he dead?” I asked.

A long pause. I heard Paul breathing.

“Paul?”

“He’s not dead,” Paul said. “It’s worse. He confessed, Elizabeth. This morning he told the police he killed your mom.”

I expected to walk into a scene of chaos at Dover Community—police officers talking into phones and radios, doctors and nurses scurrying to and from Ronnie’s room. Maybe even television cameras, a reporter in front of the building with a news van and a live remote. Wouldn’t a murder confession, especially the confession of a man with Down syndrome to the crime of murdering his own mother, warrant all of that activity?

But the hospital corridor looked just as it did any other day. An elderly patient shuffled by me, muttering about the condition of her slippers. The nurses worked at their stations. The only addition to the scene was Detective Richland. He stood outside Ronnie’s room, talking on a cell phone. He didn’t move his eyes toward me as I rushed down the hallway. I was wearing the first clothes I had found on the floor of my apartment—a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, running shoes without socks. I hadn’t brushed my teeth and had only smoothed down my hair with my hand while I drove.

I tried not to make eye contact with Richland. I angled for Ronnie’s room, and as I did, he stopped his call and held his hand out to me, a traffic cop’s gesture.

“You can’t go in there,” he said. His hand was huge, the size of a dinner plate.

“Why not?”

“You just can’t,” he said, sounding a little petulant. He didn’t meet my eye either. “We’re working on your brother’s case.”

“Is he in there?” I asked. “Is my brother still in that room?”

“Why don’t you wait in the lounge?” He pointed with his phone toward the consultation room where I had spoken to Dr. Heil.

“Did you take my brother away?” I asked.

“Please wait in there,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I stood in the hallway, hanging between two impulses. As a good girl, one who was raised to respect authority and always do what I was asked to do, I felt compelled to just slink off to the room and wait. My mother was gone and Ronnie in custody—did my family need any other drama, like a run-in with the police?

But I wanted to see my brother. It was bad enough for him to be left alone in that hospital for the past week, away from everything he knew, everything that brought him comfort, even at the time he mourned the loss of the most important person in the world to him.

Richland made another gesture toward the consultation room, his body language more insistent. He indicated that I wouldn’t be getting many more warnings from him. So I took the out he offered me. Why? Because I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to see Ronnie right at that moment after all. What would I say to him? And what would he have to say to me?

What if what he had confessed was true?

I turned away and entered the small room. As I did, I heard Richland go back to his phone call. I tried to listen to what he was saying, to pick up on some sense of what he was talking about, especially if it related to Ronnie, but he spoke in a low, muffled voice so I couldn’t hear.

Inside the room, I sat alone. There weren’t any magazines to read and no television. This room meant business. If you were in there, you weren’t supposed to be distracting yourself from whatever difficulties you were facing. I had my phone, though. Paul said he was coming to the hospital as well, but I hadn’t seen him anywhere. I texted him, asking where he was. I started to text Dan, but what would I say? At hospital. Brother confessed to murder. LOL. I thought about calling, but even then, how would that work? What would I want from him? Dan would insist on coming, on sitting by my side and riding the rapids with me. I wasn’t sure I could ask anyone to do that, not when things were getting as deep as they were.

I waited, my hands folded in my lap.

Why, Ronnie? Why?

And, Mom—why? Why did you let things get so far out of control?

I rested my elbows on my knees and brought my hands up to my face. I buried my face against my palms, which were sweaty and warm. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb it all.

Why?

I don’t know how long I sat that way. It felt like hours, but it must have been only a few minutes. I looked up when I heard the door open. Detective Richland came into the room, still holding his phone and nothing else. He didn’t make eye contact with me or offer a greeting. He took the seat across from mine, folding his extended frame into the compact chair. He didn’t pull out his little notebook or anything. I wasn’t sure why he was there.

“Are you doing okay, Ms. Hampton?” he asked. He met my eye this time. He seemed to be trying.

“No.”

“Do you need some water?” he asked.

“Why do you cops always offer me water?” I asked. “Do you think that’s going to make anything better?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m trying to be nice.” His hands fluttered a little, then quickly stopped.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” I said. “My uncle called me this morning and said Ronnie confessed to killing my mother. That has to be a mistake.”

“Just to be clear,” Richland said, “we tried to call you first. You’re the next of kin, of both the victim and the perpetrator. We did call you, and you didn’t answer. That’s when we called your uncle.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you what I can right now,” he said. “We’re still putting things together and tying up some loose ends. But this morning I came by here to consult with Dr. Heil about your brother’s situation. I had some follow-up questions about the report Dr. Heil had submitted after he examined Ronnie. And let me just state this up front—Dr. Heil’s report assured me that Ronnie is capable of understanding the difference between right and wrong and understanding the consequences of his actions. The report spoke very highly of his intellectual capabilities.”