Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

It wasn’t that Dorothy was nosy. She was going through the backpack because it stank. Five days’ worth of rotted food leaked from brown lunch bags-a microbe’s dream. After carefully extracting the olfactory offense with her fingertips, she saw something at the bottom, partially buried beneath crumpled papers and textbooks. Just the merest wink of metal, but it spoke to her with malevolence.

Her heart slammed against her chest.

Gingerly, she pushed away the junk on top until the object was completely exposed-a Smith & Wesson revolver, an old one. Taking it out of the knapsack, she examined the weapon. Nicked, scarred, rust around the muzzle. Poorly maintained. Six blank chambers, but that was meager comfort.

Her face registered shock, then the rage set in.

“Spencer!” Her normally deep voice had turned shrill. “Spencer, get your sorry ass in here right now!”

Her screaming was futile. Spencer was down the block, shooting b-balls in the Y with the gang: Rashid, Armando, Cory, Juwoine, and Richie. The fifteen-year-old had no idea that his mother was home, let alone that she (a) was in his room, (b) was going through his personal belongings, and (c) had discovered a gun in his book bag. She heard the stairs creak under heavy footsteps. It was her elder son, Marcus. He stood at the doorway to the room like a sentry-hands across his chest, legs spread apart.

“What’s going on, Ma?”

Dorothy whirled around and shoved the empty gun in his face. “What do you know about this?”

Marcus grimaced and took a step backward. “What are you doing ? ”

“I found this in your brother’s backpack!”

“Why are you going through Spencer’s backpack?”

“That is not the point!” Dorothy spit out furiously. “I am his mother and I am your mother and I don’t need a reason to go through your backpack or his!”

“Yes, you do,” Marcus countered. “Our backpacks are personal. There are privacy issues-”

“Well, right now, I don’t give a good goddamn about privacy!” Dorothy screamed. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing!” Marcus screamed back. “Nothing at all, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay! I find a revolver in your brother’s backpack and that’s not okay, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Damn right okay.” Dorothy’s chest was sore and tight, and she gasped for each intake of breath. It was hot and sticky and smelly. The heating in the building was erratic and unreliable, the temperature vacillating between Saharan scorcher and arctic freeze. Unceremoniously, she plunked herself down on Spencer’s bed and tried to regain composure. The mattress sagged under her weight. She had a too thick layer of fat, to be sure, but it did cover a body of strong, steely muscle.

The tiny room was closing in on her: twin beds pressed so close together a nightstand couldn’t fit between them. The closet was open and overflowing with T-shirts, sweatpants, shorts, socks, shoes, books, CDs, videos, and sports equipment. The blinds hadn’t been dusted in a month. The boys had a hamper, but dirty clothing was strewn over what little floor space existed. The area was littered with papers, candy wrappers, empty bags and boxes. Why couldn’t the boys keep the place at least minimally clean?

Marcus sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am not all right!” She knew she was snapping at the wrong person. She was overworked, worn-out, and disillusioned. She dragged her hands over her face. Rubbed her eyes. Forced herself to soften her voice. “You don’t know anything about this?”

“No.”

“Good Lord,” Dorothy said. “What next?”

Marcus looked away. “He’s going through a rough period-”

“This is more than a rough period!” She clutched the firearm. “This is illegal and potentially lethal!”

“I know, Ma. It isn’t good.” The twenty-one-year-old regarded his mother’s face. “But if you’re going to handle it, you can’t be hysterical.”

“I’m not hysterical, goddammit. I’m… I’m maternal! With maternal concerns!” Again, she snapped, “Where’d he get this?”

“I have no idea.”

“I suppose I could run it through the system.”

“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

Dorothy was silent.

“Why don’t you talk to him first?” Marcus looked at his mother. “Talk, Ma. Not scream. Talk.” A pause. “Or even better, I’ll talk-”

“You are not his mother! This is not your job!”

Marcus threw up his hands. “Fine. Have it your way. You always do.”

Dorothy bolted up, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just what does that mean?”

“It’s self-explanatory.” Marcus kicked his backpack over, then brought it up to his arms by hooking a shoe under a strap and flipping it upward. He rummaged through the contents and took out a book. “In case you didn’t already know, I’ve got a game tonight plus two hundred pages left in European History. Not to mention I’m doing the morning shift at the library after five-thirty a.m. practice tomorrow. Do you mind?”

“Don’t you sass me.”

“I’m not sassing anyone, I’m trying to get my work done. Jesus, you’re not the only one with obligations.” Marcus got to his feet, then plopped down onto his own bed, nearly breaking the sagging springs. “Close the door on the way out.”

It was time for Dorothy to reevaluate. She remembered to keep her voice down. “So what do you think I should do? Just let it go? I’m not going to just let it go, Marcus.”

He put down his book. “No, I don’t think you should let it go. But a little objectivity might help. Pretend he’s one of your suspects, Ma. You always brag that you got the soft touch in the department. Use it.”

“Marcus, why is Spencer carrying a gun?”

He forced himself to look straight at his mother’s eyes. Big brown eyes. Big woman; her no-nonsense cropped kinky hair made her face loom larger. Prominent cheekbones. Lips compressed into a pout. She was a half inch shy of six feet, with big heavy bones, yet she had long and graceful fingers. A beautiful woman who’d earned the right to be respected. “I know you’re worried, but it’s probably no big deal. It’s a rough world out there. Maybe it makes him feel secure.” He focused in on Dorothy’s eyes. “Doesn’t it make you feel secure?”

“For me, it’s standard equipment, Marcus, not boasting rights. And we’re not talking about a cigarette or even marijuana. Guns are killing machines. That’s what they do. They kill people. A young boy like that has no business carrying a weapon no matter how threatened he feels. If something’s wrong, he should talk to me.”

She eyed her elder son. “Has he said anything to you?”

“About what?”

“About what’s troubling him so bad he feels the need to pack iron.”

Marcus bit his lower lip. “Nothing specific. Look, if you want, I’ll go by the Y and walk him home. But he’s going to be pretty pissed that you went through his things.”

“I wouldn’t have done it except his book bag was stinking up the place.”

“Yeah, the room does smell like a big fart.” He laughed and shook his head. “Mama, why don’t you go out, catch a quick dinner with Aunt Martha before the game? Or maybe do some Christmas shopping.”

“I don’t feel like spending money, and I don’t feel like hearing about Martha’s GERD.”