Lisa Black - Evidence of Murder

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“I need to check one other thing.” She began to search the closets-Jacob’s, Ellen’s, and then the small one by the front door. On the floor, in a jumble of shoes and boots, she found a pair of rubber overshoes with plain tread lines crossing the sole.

Theresa glanced to her left, where Ellen Wheeler rested in an armchair, one hand holding up her head.

“Yes,” she said.

Theresa waited, still crouched. Frank, with that cop’s instinct, waited as well.

“Yes, those are the boots I wore when I killed Jacob.”

Theresa straightened slowly, still holding the comic book. “Is this what you argued about?”

“He stole it. He insisted he didn’t, but I know he didn’t have any money. He stole everything. I might have been able to cope if he’d at least told me the truth, but the constant lying wore me down.”

Unobtrusively, Frank pulled out a notebook and a pencil.

Ellen lifted her head from her hand, as if finding just enough strength to tell her story. She nodded at the boots. “My husband left those rubber boots behind when he left us. I can pull them right over my shoes.”

That explained why the size of the shoe print seemed too big for Ellen Wheeler, the depth of the print too shallow for the size of the shoe.

“I told Jake it had to stop. The same thing I’ve told him every day for the past four years, more or less. So finally he said it was my fault, that he wouldn’t have to steal things if I’d only give him more money, if I’d only be a decent enough mother to provide for him. I moved toward him. I would have tried to kill him with my bare hands right then if he’d given me the chance. I still want to, sometimes. But when I think about him before his teens, when we would spend the summers thinking up new things to do-”

“What happened then?” Frank prompted.

“He snatched the comic off the counter and started to leave. I pulled it out of his hands.”

Theresa said, “A piece ripped off. He had it in his fist.”

“Did it? I didn’t notice. He stalked out of the house. I put on my rubber boots and followed him, not difficult in the snow.

I was screaming at him. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t notice-but then it wasn’t anything new. He kept walking away, ignoring me.” Her chin sank to her hand again. Frank scribbled a note, obviously not concerned with Miranda rights. Technically, since Ellen Wheeler had not been placed under arrest, they did not apply. But Theresa knew anyway that she would not recant her confession. Unlike Evan, Jacob’s mother had not tried to destroy the evidence of her guilt. She had brought it home and kept it safe.

“He always ignored me, as if I only existed on this planet to serve him. I gave him life . And then I gave him the best life I could provide. Why the hell did I deserve so much contempt?” She didn’t look to them for an answer. Theresa guessed she had given up expecting one.

“So you circled around the back of the tree to get in front of him.”

“Yes.”

“And picked something up?”

Ellen took a while to answer that one, a sob brewing underneath the skin of her face. “A piece of wood. A branch, I suppose, but it was fairly big. I don’t know why. I didn’t even know it was in my hand until I hit him with it.”

The sob began to leak out, in tiny but steady teardrops.

“What happened then?” Theresa prompted.

“He stood there and glared. I saw blood start to ooze from under his hair, but he didn’t seem hurt. Furious enough to kill me, though he didn’t raise a hand. I was so angry”-she looked to Theresa for understanding, one mother to another-“and at the same time I was horrified . I’d never struck him before in his life, never. I couldn’t believe it.”

Theresa had been there, so angry with her child that she had felt sickened at herself for such rage. But never, thank God, to the point of violence.

“I walked past him. He didn’t say a word. I threw the branch away somewhere, I don’t remember where, I just didn’t want to touch it anymore. I turned and looked back, but he didn’t follow me, didn’t want to come home. He had sat down next to the tree.”

Now she turned her face up to Frank. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? My baby sat down by that tree and just died. I came back here and drank coffee and let him freeze to death.”

His mouth worked once or twice before he found a gentle way to ask, “You didn’t go back to check on him?”

She wiped the moisture from her face with a quick, cat’s-paw-like gesture. “I wasn’t going to go chasing after him this time. He was going to have to face the fact that he needed me, or he could…freeze to death. The one time I decided to be firm with him and stick to it, and he died. He died.”

She let her head fall back against the armchair, spent. The story had ended. Theresa didn’t know whether she should feel sympathy or revulsion, or what would be wrong with both.

“Ellen Wheeler,” Frank began. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Jacob Wheeler…”

“It’s about time.” Rachael slammed her textbook shut and had her coat on before her mother even thought about taking hers off. “They’re leaving at seven and you know how cranky Dora gets if she has to wait for me.”

“Huh?”

“Skiing tonight! Can I borrow twenty bucks too? In fact, can I just have it, since I kind of lost track of what I owe you so far? Forget the skis, I’ll just rent some. Come in, into the garage, go go go!”

Theresa did not mention that she had just solved another teenager’s murder, or how precious life could prove to be, or that Rachael should be glad she still breathed instead of fretting about a social engagement. Theresa merely slid her body back into the driver’s seat, which had managed to cool to frosty in the approximately ten seconds since she had left it, and pulled out onto the road. “Skiing?”

Rachael tossed an impossibly large sack over the seat back-no doubt containing her boots, gloves, scarf, phone, makeup, and probably her iPod, so that she could add the peril of deafness to an already hazardous sport. “You never pay attention, Mom. Remember the birthday party last weekend? Dora and Jenna said I should come on this ski trip with them? Gun it, you can make this light.”

Theresa hit the brakes on purpose. Since Rachael had gotten her license, it had become important to demonstrate safe driving skills. “When will you be home?”

“Probably eleven.”

“More like ten.”

“No, eleven.”

“How about nine thirty?” The light changed, and they moved forward.

“Why ten?”

“What part of ‘school night’ don’t you understand?”

“Okay. But it’s your cousin who’s going to pick us up, so if I’m home late you’ll have to take it up with her.” Rachael had mastered the art of the preemptive strike.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You know, if I had my own car, this wouldn’t even be an issue.”

Theresa, however, had mastered the art of selective hearing. “Uh-huh. Are you dressed warm enough?”

“Warmly. It’s an adjective, l-y.”

“Do you want a ride or not?”

“I’m perfectly warm.”

She eyed her daughter’s pants. “They don’t look like snow pants.”

Rachael bubbled up at the interest. “Exactly! They’re new. They’ve got this cottonlike fabric but it’s practically waterproof, like good nylon.”

“Nylon isn’t waterproof. It’s the weave and the treatment-”

“But it’s thin and flat, so you don’t have to look like a toddler in a snowsuit. They’re great. You can tell I have a butt in them.” She put her hands underneath her as if making sure.