Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

“There are some good teachers.”

“They try, Mama, but it’s a zoo. The classes are crowded, the books are old and boring, and I’m not interested in what they’re teaching me.” He looked desperately at his brother.

Marcus shrugged. “School’s not for everyone.”

“You shut up,” Dorothy said. “Now, you listen here, young man-”

“Mama, please!”

Dorothy started to speak but stopped herself.

“Can I finish ?” Spencer whined. When there was no comment from the big lady, he said, “I don’t like dodging knives and bullets and drugs and people asking you to prove yourself or showing off their shit. I know, I know. My mouth. But that’s what I deal with day in and day out.”

“And what do you think I deal with?”

“The same thing. Which is why I came to this conclusion. If I’m gonna deal with the stuff-see, I said stuff -I might as well get paid for it. I don’t want to go to no college. I don’t have a college brain like Marcus does. Wait, Mama, don’t interrupt.”

“I didn’t say nothing.”

“It’s on your face.”

“Sure is,” Marcus muttered.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut it?” said Dorothy.

“Yes, Queen Dorothy, I apologize for my untimely interruption.”

Despite herself, she smiled.

Spencer bit a nail and said, “Ma, I want to go to the academy. That’s what I want to do if I don’t make it in the pros.”

Dorothy stared at her younger son. “The police academy?”

“No, Exeter .”

“Don’t be fresh.”

“Yeah, the police academy. I wanna be a cop if I don’t make it in b-ball.”

No one spoke. Finally, Marcus said, “Your coffee’s getting cold, Ma.”

“I don’t care about my coffee.”

“Don’t yell,” Spencer said.

“I’m not yelling, I’m talking with excitement! Spencer Martin Breton, I don’t want you being a cop. You’re too good for that.”

Spencer looked down at the table. His lips quivered.

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

He kept his eyes averted. “I’m proud of what you do. Maybe one day, you’ll be proud of yourself, Mama.”

She had no answer for that.

“It’s not my first choice,” Spencer went on. “My first choice is playing pro ball. If I don’t make it into the NBA, I’ll go to Europe. I know even that’s a dream. And that’s why I have a backup plan. Still, I believe in myself. I really do. Our high school made it to the semis. I think I can bring them to the finals. My coach thinks I can bring them to the finals. He believes in me, too.”

“He’s right,” Marcus said.

“I believe in you, too, Spencer,” Dorothy said. “Because you are that good. Which is why you can get an athletic scholarship.”

“It’s a waste of time and money, Mama. Let ‘em give it to a kid that has a head for school. ”Cause I don’t. I hate it!“

“Everyone needs a college education these days.”

“No, Mama, everyone don’t need a college education. But everyone needs a plan and I got a good plan. And I want you to support me on this.”

Dorothy was silent.

“Or…” Spencer cleared his throat again. “Or if you can’t support me right now, at least think about it.”

“That seems fair,” Marcus said.

Dorothy glared at him. To Spencer she said, “You don’t know what you’re getting into. Being a cop is very serious stuff. It’s hard, it’s stressful, it’s long hours, and it isn’t the least bit glamorous.”

“I think I know what it is, Mama. This isn’t something that just popped into my head. I been thinkin‘ about this for a long time. And that’s all I have to say. Now, if you excuse me, I got studying to do.”

The boy picked up his pencil and started doing some computations.

Marcus and Dorothy exchanged looks. The young man shrugged, sat back down, and picked up his text.

So now Spence wanted to be a cop: her son’s flavor of the month. Teens changed their minds as often as they changed their socks. But the shooting did seem to add a new sobriety to Spencer’s demeanor. He had a plan. He seemed motivated. He spoke passionately and assuredly. Maybe it would last longer than three days, but Dorothy had her doubts.

Because Dorothy had seen the body riddled with bullet holes at the crime scene, watched it pulled out on its slab from the meat locker drawer, she had a visceral aversion to seeing the corpse yet again. Sliced and diced and reassembled-a human jigsaw puzzle.

This boy had been her son’s age, his teammate. It hit way, way too damn close to home. She asked the pathologist to speak with Micky and her in his office rather than around the cold steel table.

John Change was a fifty-year-old Harvard-trained forensic pathologist, born and raised in Taiwan. When applying to school thirty-two years ago, he’d thought the odds for acceptance greater with an Anglo name. Hence the e added to his surname. A modification that formed the basis for Change’s entire comedy repertoire: “Change is good. Look at me.”

He was a Boston fixture, did well in the marathon, had maintained the same height and weight for twenty-five years. The only visible signs of aging were silver streaks threading his sleek black hair.

The ME lab and his office were located in the basement of the morgue on Albany, clean, frigid, windowless, filled with a harsh bright light the sun wouldn’t deem worthy of reproduction. The office was a spacious room, but Change had stuffed it with books, notebooks, magazines, and jars of tissue preserved in formaldehyde. Most of the specimens were teratomas, which, Dorothy had learned, were bizarre tumors that stemmed from undifferentiated cells. Change’s favorites contained hair, bone fragments, and teeth; if you looked at some of them in a certain light, they appeared to be grinning gargoyles. Standing amid the anomalies were snapshots of Change’s pretty wife and two bright-eyed children.

Dorothy had been the last one to arrive, but Micky told her that he had gotten there only a few minutes before. He was looking worn around the seams; the kind of drawn expression that comes from lots of stress, very little sleep, and no resolution in sight. He sat in one of two chairs opposite Change’s desk, drinking coffee out of a paper cup. She took it from him, sipped, made a face.

“This is awful.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to warn you. Sit down.”

Dorothy debated whether to hang up her coat, then nixed the idea. The ambient temperature was worse than a frozen food aisle.

McCain said, “Delveccio was released a few hours ago.”

“What was the bail?”

“Fifty thou.”

“Who posted?”

“Ducaine, like we guessed.”

“Where’s the doc?” Dorothy asked.

“Change is changing.” McCain smiled at his own wit.

“Actually, I’m here.” Change stepped inside and shut the door. He was wearing a suit and tie, but his pant legs were rolled up and his feet were encased in rubber-soled work shoes. “My good shoes are upstairs. Lizard. It’s a bitch to get the smell out. The leather absorbs the odors, and reptilian hides seem more porous, which is counterintuitive, no? Not that I smell anything anymore, but my wife sure does. It’s our anniversary tonight.”

“Happy anniversary,” McCain said.

“How many years?” Dorothy asked.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Long time.”

“Denise puts up with a lot,” said Change. “Long hours and I’m a ghoul. Still, she knows where I am and that my profession doesn’t lend itself to cheating.” He sat down and placed his folded hands on the desktop. “I expected to find something routine. Instead, I found something interesting. Julius Van Beest bled to death but not from the gunshot wounds. By my estimation, none of them were fatal.”