Russell Andrews - Hades

The morgue attendant was already standing by a body that was covered by a white cloth. The attendant had clearly been through this routine many times. He looked neither interested nor bored by the proceedings and he did absolutely nothing until Silverbush nodded that they were ready for the viewing. The attendant then pulled the cloth back in a firm, steady movement, revealing the upper half of a man's body.

The district attorney had seen more than a few dead bodies over the years. But as this corpse was revealed he couldn't help himself, he had to turn away. He recovered quickly, forced himself to turn back. He glanced over at old man Harmon, who still remained ramrod straight and unemotional. After several seconds-seconds that seemed like several hours to Silverbush-Harmon stepped over to his son's body. He stood, hovering over him as a parent might over a sleeping child. The father didn't touch the son, just stared down at him as if trying to convince himself that what he was seeing was real-or perhaps unreal-then turned slowly on his heels and walked out of the room. His gait going out was not as commanding as it had been coming in. He looked weaker, as if the sadness he was feeling and the loss he was experiencing had sapped most of his remaining strength.

Silverbush nodded to the attendant, who quickly drew the cloth back over Evan Harmon's body. The Long Island district attorney turned and headed after H. R. Harmon. The sound of his hard shoes echoed through the room. It was the only sound. Everything else in the room was still and silent.

In the hallway, Silverbush waited as Harmon caught his breath and composed himself. The DA once again held his hand out to grab the older man's elbow, but this time Harmon shook off the aid.

"You have children?" the man known as the senator asked.

"Yes, I do," the DA answered. "Two. The boy's twelve and the girl's nine."

"I've lost two now. Two children dead."

"I-I didn't know… I didn't know you had-"

"A daughter? Jeannie. We called her J.J. 'cause she was such a hot little number it seemed like there were two of her. One J wasn't enough."

"How long ago…?"

"Long time ago. Long, long time ago. She was five. Evan was two, somewhere around that. She had leukemia. Suffered like a sonuvabitch. They told us we should just let her die, that we shouldn't make her go through the treatment, that it would be too painful for her. But we didn't listen. Billi-that was my wife-she said doctors don't know everything. They don't know how much that little girl wants to live. So we took her wherever we had to, did whatever we could. Kept her alive maybe a year longer than otherwise. Maybe. You know what I did the day she died?"

"Got drunk as hell I'd imagine."

"Went to work, played nine holes of golf in the afternoon. She was dead, her suffering was over. Nothin' I could do to help her, no amount of mourning was going to make a damn bit of difference to either one of us. So I did what I always did-went to work and played some golf. It's how you gotta deal with death. You do what you usually do, 'cause nothin' you do's gonna change a goddamn thing."

Silverbush knew it was cold in the hallway, the air-conditioning was on high, but he still found himself sweating. He rubbed his right hand along the back of his neck, felt the dankness. When Harmon spoke again, Silverbush still had moisture on his fingers. It felt undignified and he did his best to wipe his hand, unnoticed, on the back of his sport jacket.

"He looked like he suffered a lot," Harmon said. "Evan."

"It's hard to say exactly, sir," Silverbush answered.

"I don't like bullshit, son. I much prefer truth."

Silverbush nodded. "Then I'm sorry to say that your son probably suffered a great deal. It was a very sadistic murder." Harmon didn't seem to have anything to say in response. The DA did not want him to fall back into silence, so he went on. "Do you have any thoughts… Do you know anyone who might have wanted to do this to your son?"

"Abby-my son's wife-she saw him? She saw him like this?"

"She saw his body at the scene of the crime."

"That must have been even worse," Harmon said. "Those marks all over him… they looked like burn marks… What are those?"

"I'm waiting for the final coroner's report, sir. But I spoke to him earlier today and his initial inclination is that they're the result"-he hesitated, but the senator had said he wanted the truth-"they're the result of contact with a stun gun. That's what the coroner thinks."

Silverbush saw something change in H. R. Harmon's eyes. Just a minor shift, a brief hint of recognition.

"Sir?" Silverbush said.

"Yes?"

"It's just that… it looked as if that meant something to you-the fact that a stun gun might have been involved."

"It's not a phrase that one hears very often."

"Does that mean you've heard it used recently?"

"What the hell's your name again? Silverberg?"

"Silverbush. Lawrence."

"Larry, you said. People call you Larry."

"Either one is more than fine."

"Well, Larry, I have heard something about a stun gun recently. But I don't want to be throwing around wild accusations."

"With all due respect, Mr. Harmon, I don't think accusations can be too wild at this particular time. Someone has brutally murdered your son, and we need to investigate any possible lead. I can assure you that no one will be treated unfairly."

Harmon nodded a few times, as if digesting that information. Then he said, "I never answered your question, did I? The one about knowing if anyone might want to harm my son."

"No, sir, you didn't."

"Will you give me a little bit of time? Not much, just an hour or two. I want to figure out exactly how to answer that question. Both questions, really, because they're connected to each other."

"All right. I suppose that's fair."

"And if I decide I do have an answer for you, either I or someone else will call you and give you the information you need."

"Someone else?"

"It's a delicate issue. It might be necessary for me to step back a bit. There are entanglements. Family entanglements."

"Do they have to do with your daughter-in-law?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because when I spoke to her, she said you'd accused her of murdering your son."

"As always, she got it wrong. I told her she was responsible."

"I'm afraid I don't understand the difference," the DA said.

"I was speaking philosophically, referring to a much grander sense of guilt. Do I believe that Abigail literally did what I just saw was done to my son? I doubt it very much."

"But you won't say for certain?"

"I won't say anything until I look into the matter we just discussed."

Silverbush nodded, although he wasn't satisfied. But he knew that H. R. Harmon didn't give a damn about his satisfaction. "Then I'll wait to hear from you."

The two men stepped into the elevator, took it one flight up, walked together back outside to the parking lot. They shook hands at the door, and Silverbush watched as a chauffeur in a dark suit opened the back door of a black Mercedes sedan and H. R. Harmon stepped inside.

Silverbush wondered what the chauffeur's salary was, if it was possibly higher than his own.

Sadly, he decided it probably was.

They were not more than a few feet out of the hospital parking lot when H. R. Harmon leaned forward and spoke to his driver. Harmon spoke quietly, as if there were someone else in the car whom he didn't want to disturb.

"I'd like to use your cell phone, please, Martin."

Keeping his left hand on the wheel, the driver handed his phone back to the senator with his right hand. He was not surprised when the old man in the back told him to close the glass partition that separated the front seat from the back. Harmon often made calls and had conversations he did not want the help to overhear. What wasn't usual was that the old man was not using his own phone. There was a permanent phone built into the armrest in the backseat. Martin thought about reminding the senator about the phone, then decided he'd be better off keeping his mouth shut. H. R. Harmon did not much like being reminded of anything. And particularly today, Martin thought. He was probably just a tad disoriented. After all, who wouldn't be on the day you found out your own son had been murdered. No, Martin thought, he should just keep quiet.