David Bell - Never Come Back

I decided to use my mother’s death—murder—for whatever it was worth. If I was going to be the victim of a crime and be seen that way by the world, I might as well take advantage of that status when it could do me some good.

“They’re investigating my mother’s death,” I said. “Leslie Hampton? She was murdered a week ago.”

The invocation injected some life into the officer’s movements. His neck straightened and his eyes opened wider. “Did they ask you to meet them here?”

“No,” I said. “I called them. I wanted to see if they were in.”

“You called them here?”

“Cell phone,” I said. “Is one of them here or not?”

“I doubt they’re in today,” he said. “It’s Saturday, and I haven’t seen them. I can leave them a note, or you can call them back. Or you can talk to someone else.”

“Might they be back there?” I asked, tilting my head in the direction of the door behind him.

He stared at me for a long moment, as though considering whether to get up and look for the detectives or not.

I decided to give him a little push. “I have information for them about my mother’s case.”

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll check. But if they’re not here, you have to talk to someone. You can’t let that information go.”

He went into the back, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind him. I felt tired. It had already been a long day. A long week. My neck hurt and my eyes felt as if they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper. I remembered that I hadn’t showered, that my body had taken on that greasy, gritty feel of not having been washed. I surely smelled.

The door opened again, and the officer held it open for me. “You’re in luck,” he said. It was a strange turn of phrase to direct at someone whose mother had been murdered, and the officer seemed to realize that as the words came out of his mouth. A flush rose on his cheeks and he looked at the floor. “I mean, Detective Post is back here, and she wants you to talk to her.”

Post sat at her desk typing on her computer. She didn’t look up as I approached; she appeared to be getting down one last thought before she stopped. I reached the side of her desk and waited. I knew she sensed me there, and she hit the last key with more force than normal, the punctuation to something important. Then she stood up and reached out to shake my hand.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” she said.

It always felt weird for me to shake another woman’s hand. But I didn’t want to hug her or peck her on the cheek either. A handshake would have to do. My hand felt small in hers.

She pointed to a chair, and I sat. Post was wearing jeans and black boots. The sleeves of her navy blue shirt were pushed up to her elbows. She smelled good. Unlike me.

“I was going to call you back,” she said. “I got your message. I just wanted to finish here.” She pointed to the computer screen.

“Paperwork?” I asked.

“School,” she said. “I’m getting a master’s in criminology. Sometimes I study here on Saturdays because it feels like a place to get business done. You know, I can’t just turn on the TV. Or talk to my boyfriend.”

It was the most personal conversation we’d had. The notion that she led a life, that she had friends or parents or pets, hadn’t really occurred to me. I wanted something very simple from her: to make sense of my mother’s death, preferably in a way that didn’t land my brother in jail.

“Right,” I said. “Well, I’m sorry to just barge in on you like this. And I’m sorry to call you when you’re off.”

“It’s no problem,” she said. “The officer who showed you back said you had some information you wanted to share about your mother’s case.”

“I do,” I said.

“By the way,” Post said, “how is your brother doing?”

“He’s in ICU right now. I guess I’ll be going back later—”

“ICU? What do you mean?”

“At the hospital,” I said. “He’s at St. Vincent’s Hospital. He tried to kill himself earlier today.”

Post’s mouth opened. I saw her white teeth, a flash of dental work. She was silent a moment, then said, “Are you kidding me? I’m so sorry.”

“No. I figured they would have called you. Both of you.”

Post turned and reached for her cell phone. She checked it, shaking her head, then set the phone back down. “They didn’t call both of us,” she said, still shaking her head. “They called one of us. And he didn’t tell me.” She used her thumbs to send a quick text. Then she put the phone facedown on the desk and asked me to explain what had happened. I did, sparing no details about Ronnie’s suicide attempt. Post didn’t take notes, but she seemed absorbed by what I told her. As I spoke, her cell phone buzzed, but she ignored it and asked a few follow-up questions about Ronnie’s condition and his state of mind the last time I saw him before the attempt.

Once I’d told her everything—which wasn’t much—she picked up the phone. Whatever she read there didn’t make her any happier. If head shaking were an Olympic sport, she’d take the gold.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me about?” she asked. “Your brother’s suicide attempt?”

“No, it really isn’t,” I said. “I wanted to tell you about a few other things. Should I be telling them to both of you?”

“No,” she said. She clamped her lips tight. I saw the muscles in her neck clench as well. “You can tell me, and I’ll share the information with my partner.”

“Okay,” I said. I trusted Post more than Richland. I liked her. She maintained some semblance of a professional wall, but she also came out from behind it from time to time. I sensed she was doing that then. “I found out that my mother was married once before,” I said. “Her first husband came by to talk to me.”

Post tilted her head a little. “What do you mean, ‘found out’?”

“He told me all about it,” I said.

“But you didn’t know that before?”

“No, I didn’t. Did you?”

Post looked uncomfortable, as if maybe she’d sat on a nail. “We do background checks on anyone who has been the victim of a crime like the one involving your mother. It’s standard procedure during the investigation. We saw that she had married this—” She leaned forward and opened a manila folder, leafed through a few pages. “Gordon Baxter? Is that the man you spoke to?”

I nodded.

“She was married to him for a while,” she said. “And he came to see you? Why? How did he find you?”

“I’m in the book.”

“You know—”

I held up my hand. “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter. He found me. I didn’t let him in. We talked in public.”

“You should probably avoid contact with him in the future.” Post reached for the folder again. She brought it back and opened it in her lap.

“My uncle says he’s a crook.”

Post nodded. “He’s done time for larceny and assault. Make that twice for assault. And these are just things he’s been convicted of. Chances are there’s more. He didn’t threaten you at all, did he?”

I considered the word. Threaten . He didn’t threaten me. But…

“He wants money from me.”

“For what?”

“He says my mother was giving him money, helping him out. Now he wants me to keep doing it. I’m the executor of the estate. My mother got some money when my father died. A life insurance policy. And I’m sure there’s a policy on my mom as well. Gordon Baxter wants some of whatever money my mom had.”

“How much?”

“He didn’t say. But I found my mom’s bank records in her house. She’d withdrawn fourteen thousand dollars over the last year. That’s totally unlike her. She wouldn’t even eat at a fast-food restaurant. She wore the same clothes for the last twenty years. I have no idea what she took that money out for.”