Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

Ella Mancusi had baked her own birthday cake. Maybe her son was remembering.

When he stopped for breath, Milo said, “We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”

Mancusi worked himself to his feet. The change in his complexion was sudden and convincing.

From indoor pallor to green around the edges.

He hurtled six feet to a shabby kitchenette and vomited into the sink.

When the heaves stopped, he splashed water onto his face, returned to the ottoman with raw eyes and strands of pale hair plastered to a greasy forehead. A fleck of vomit had landed on his shirt, just beneath a wrinkled collar.

Milo said, “I know this is a hard time to talk, but if there’s anything you can tell us-”

“What could I tell you!”

“Is there anyone – anyone at all – who’d want to hurt your mother?”

“Who?”

“That’s what we’re-”

“She was a teacher !” said Mancusi.

“She retired-”

“They gave her an award ! She was tough, but fair, everyone loved her.” He wagged a finger. “Want the grade ? Do your work ! That was her motto.”

I wondered how that had meshed with a son who lived on disability and borrowed rent money.

C student, if he applied himself.

Milo said, “So there’s no one you can think of.”

“No. This is… this is insane.”

The vomit fleck fell to the carpet, inches from Milo’s desert boot.

“Insane nightmare.” Mancusi lowered his head. Gasped.

“You okay, sir?”

“Little short of breath.” He sat up, breathed slowly. “I get that way when I’m stressed.”

Milo said, “If you don’t mind, we’ve got a few more questions.”

Mancusi said, “What?”

“After your father passed, did your mother have any romantic relationships?”

“Romantic? She liked books. Watched a few soap operas. That was her romantic.” He flipped his hair, cocked his head, smoothed a peroxide strand from a sweat-soaked brow.

Effete symphony of movements that recalled the posturing Ed Moskow had observed.

“Any close friends, male or female?”

Mancusi shook his head, noticed the vomit fleck on the floor, and raised his eyebrows. The carpet was grease-stained, fuzzed by crumbs and dust bunnies. Some sort of beige, darkened to the hue of a smoker’s teeth.

“No social life at all?” said Milo.

“Nothing. After she retired, Mom liked to be by herself. All the L.A. Unified bullshit. She put up with it for thirty years.”

“So she became a private person.”

“She was always a private person. Now she could be herself. ” Mancusi stifled a sob. “Oh, Mom…”

“It’s a tough thing to deal with,” said Milo.

Silence.

“Did your mother have any hobbies?”

“What?”

Milo repeated the question.

“Why?”

“I’m trying to know her.”

“Hobbies,” said Mancusi. “She liked puzzles – crosswords, Sudoku. Sudoku was her favorite, she liked numbers. She had a math certificate but they had her teaching social studies.”

“Any other games?”

“What do you mean? She was a teacher. She didn’t get… this didn’t happen because of her hobbies. This was a… a… a lunatic. ”

“So no hobbies or interests that might have gotten her into debt?”

Mancusi’s watery brown eyes drifted to Milo’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“These are questions we need to ask, Mr. Mancusi. Did your mom buy lottery tickets, do online poker, anything of that nature?”

“She didn’t even own a computer. Neither do I.”

“Not into the Internet?”

“Why are you asking this? You said she wasn’t robbed.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “We need to be thorough.”

“My mother did not gamble.”

“Was she a person of regular habits?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she have routines – like coming out the same time each morning to collect the paper.”

Mancusi sat there, eyes glazed, not moving.

“Sir?”

“She got up early.” He clutched his belly. “Ohh… here we go again.”

Another rush to the sink. This time, dry heaves left him coughing and panting. He opened a space-saver fridge, took out a bottle of something clear that he uncapped, and swigged. Returned with the liquid still in hand.

Diet tonic water.

Grabbing a section of his own gut, he squeezed hard, rolled the adipose. “Too fat. Used to drink G and T’s, now it’s just sugarless T.” He drank from the bottle, failed to suppress a belch. “Mom never gained a pound from the day she was married.”

“She watched her diet?” said Milo.

Mancusi smiled. “Never had to, she could eat pasta, sugar, anything. I get it from Dad. He died of a heart attack. I need to watch myself.”

“The old cholesterol.”

Mancusi shook his head. “Mom – did they hurt her?”

“They?”

“Whoever. Was it bad? Did she suffer? Tell me she didn’t. ”

“It was quick,” said Milo.

“Oh, God.” More tears.

Milo handed him a tissue from the mini-pack he always brings to notifications. “Mr. Mancusi, the reason I asked about your mother’s social life is we do have an eyewitness who describes the assailant as around her age.”

Mancusi’s fingers flexed. The tissue dropped. “What?”

Milo repeated Edward Moskow’s description of the killer, including the blue plaid cap.

Mancusi said, “That’s nuts.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell?”

Mancusi flipped his hair again. “Of course not. Dad had a bunch of caps like that. After he went bald and didn’t want sun on his head. This is totally insane. ”

Milo said, “What about a black Mercedes S600? That ring any bells?”

“Don’t know anything about cars,” said Mancusi.

“It’s a big four-door sedan,” said Milo. “Top-of-the-line model.”

“Mom wouldn’t know anyone with a car like that. She was a teacher, for God’s sake!”

“Please don’t be offended by this next question, Mr. Mancusi, but did your mother know anyone associated – even remotely – with organized crime?”

Mancusi laughed. Kicked the vomit fleck. “Because we’re Italian?”

“It’s something we need to look into-”

“Well, guess what, Lieutenant: Mom wasn’t Italian. She was German, her maiden name was Hochswelder. Italian was Dad’s side, he grew up in New York, claimed when he was a kid he knew all kinds of Mafia guys. Had all these stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Bodies tossed out of cars, guys getting shot in barber chairs. But no way, no, that’s nuts, those were just stories and Mom hated them, called them ‘coarse.’ Her idea of suspense was Murder, She Wrote, not The Sopranos. ”

He returned to the kitchen, placed the tonic water bottle on a counter. “Gambling, gangsters – this is ridiculous.”

“I’m sure it seems that way, but-”

“There’s no reason for her to be dead, okay ? No reason, no fucking reason. It’s stupid, insane, shouldn’t have happened – could you stand up?”

“Pardon?”

“Stand up,” said Mancusi. “Please.”

After Milo obliged, Mancusi slipped behind him and yanked down on the Murphy bed. Halfway through, he breathed in sharply, slammed a palm into the small of his back, and straightened. “Disk.”

Milo finished the job, revealing a wafer-thin mattress, gray sheets once white.

Mancusi began easing himself down toward the bed. Sweat rolled down his cheeks.

Milo reached out to help him.

“No, no, I’m fine.”

We watched as he lowered himself in stages. He ended up curled on the bed, knees drawn to his chest, still breathing hard. “I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”