Neely Tucker - Murder, D.C.

“Why-why do you care so much about what happened to Billy?”

He nodded. People, they either wanted you to do more or to get the fuck out of their lives. You were wrong either way. “Because his death happened to come into my scope of work, and it seemed wrong to dismiss it. I could pay attention to it, or I could lump it in with every other killing in the city. I chose to pay attention to it, because something went wrong. Billy, I can’t see a reason for him being in the Bend, but you know and I know he was there that night. And because the police, well, you can’t entirely trust the police.”

“You are persistent.”

“It’s why I get paid.”

She opened the door a few inches wider and stepped back.

The house was dark, quiet. The bustle of the staff that had been so prominent the other day was gone. As they passed through the front room into a hallway, he realized she was leading him back to the kitchen.

“They’re handling the funeral preparations at the office,” she said, reading his mind. “It’s at the National Cathedral and there’s just so much involved to place an event there. A production. Shellie is taking care of everything.”

“That’s good. It’s a relief-a small one, at least-not to have that burden.”

“I don’t think you two got along, from what he relayed to me. A shame. Under other circumstances, I think you would like him.”

“I really sort of doubt that.”

“Water? Coffee?”

“No ma’am, I’m fine.”

She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a slim green bottle, and pulled down a wineglass from the cabinet. She held the bottle out as a question. He smiled but shook his head no and took a seat at the kitchen table. She poured herself a glass, filling it well beyond halfway, and sat at the kitchen table. “So what have you discovered about Billy’s death, Mr. Carter?”

“That’s sort of what I wanted to ask you. I can tell you what I imagine the police already have-that he almost certainly was killed in the Bend. That he was a regular at the gay clubs on O Street, which are only a few blocks away, and that probably had some connection to how he came to be in Frenchman’s Bend.”

Her face tightened, but she only nodded. “And… and… anything else?”

“Well. I know that gay business doesn’t make you happy. But I’m asking about three things. One, Billy’s school friends say he did not show up for that last day or so of classes, and apparently there had been some sort of family argument that last weekend. I was wondering if… if that was about his narcotics, ah, problem. Perhaps you were trying to get him back in treatment, something like that? Could you tell me what happened that last weekend?”

“You said three things.”

“Ah, yes. Three. The other two were names. Did Billy ever mention the Hall brothers to you? Or perhaps a man named Sly Hastings?”

“I may have heard them. I don’t know. Billy had a lot of friends. Many of them I did not approve of. Are they-they the type of people who go to those O Street clubs?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh.”

“They’d be more in the narcotics line.”

“Well then I certainly wouldn’t know them. But, ah, Billy, he… he thought drugs were glamorous. I don’t know why. He was a wealthy, privileged young man. He was quite proud of that, of our family name. Every class project he wrote in school was about some aspect of our name, our heritage in this city, how my family had become wealthy so early on, the hard work and sacrifice. But-and this is all between you and I, yes? You’ll not print any of this?”

“Not if you tell me I can’t.”

“Well. You can’t. You… you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. Then okay.” A long breath.

“Billy was unstable,” she said. “He was an unstable young man to begin with. You should know that. You absolutely must keep that in mind. He lost his father at six. I think he never quite found his footing again. He was different, lesser, after that. It broke my heart.

“There were meetings with counselors, with headmasters, to be sure they understood. His grades were good, if not excellent, but something underneath had cracked. There was… was a birthday party at the ice rink at Cabin John. He was ten? Eleven? It was a great success. Nearly his entire class came. I was speaking with one of the other parents when Shellie-he was his godfather, and was there for everything-came to get me.

“Billy was alone on the ice, skating. Everyone else had come to get refreshments. And yet, there was the guest of honor, alone out on the ice, going in smaller and smaller circles, some sort of concentric rotation. With the most absentminded, blank expression that I have ever seen. Like, I don’t know. Like what you picture when you think of someone who has been lobotomized. Just skating, barely moving his feet anymore, these circles, just coasting…

“So I went over to the gate onto the ice and called him. He did not hear. Then one of the attendants realized something was wrong. He skated out there. There was a commotion. The other children knew something was happening.

“The man finally reached him. It could not have taken more than ten seconds once he was on the ice. Possibly less. But it seemed an eternity. He was saying, ‘Son? Son? You all right?’ He was right beside him and Billy said nothing. Did not stir, did not blink, did not react in any way. And then the man reached out to take Billy’s hand. Just reached out and touched it. And Billy just… reanimated . He came back to life. He did not blink or startle or jump. It was like a mannequin taking on life, going from plastic to flesh. Billy was suddenly there, the light back behind the pupils.

“He skated right over to the plexiglass, waving at his friends, sliding to a stop by the gate, stepping over it into absolute silence. They all just looked at him. And he noticed it. You could see that he noticed it. It went over his face like a shadow. And then it went away and he was giggling, laughing, a ten-year-old boy at his birthday, and he said something about video games and there was a burst of activity and laughter and shouting; all of a sudden it was just ten-year-olds at a birthday party again.

“Then it started happening when he was fifteen or sixteen. Episodes like that. Depressive spells. Outbursts. Days when he could not or would not get out of bed. Would not look at, or speak, or acknowledge that anyone was speaking to him.

“It was eventually diagnosed as bipolar disorder. They tried lots of medications. Elavil, early on, when he was down, and then they stopped that. Lithium. Others. They mixed, matched. Therapy twice a week. But on the whole, we were able to keep this quiet. I would imagine some of his classmates wondered, but I don’t think he really told any of his peers. He got into Georgetown. We did not think we were out of the woods, but we were beginning to think his future would be bright to very bright.”

She paused, looking at him. He waited.

“And then he started playing with cocaine,” she said, letting out her breath in a rush. “Apparently it made him feel just fabulous, at least for a little while. And with that, he started having relationships that-that were not healthy, that-”

“You mean to say he was gay.”

“No. I would not say that. I would say he was experimenting.”

“Elliot, his, ah, friend at Georgetown, says they were having sex for two years, and that Billy was experienced when they started dating.”

“Elliot is a depraved sort and is not, in any sense of the term, reliable.”

“Okay.”

“It just got all confused in Billy’s head. He wanted to be like, I don’t know, rap stars or some such.”

“So you argued about that last weekend.”