Faye Kellerman: Blood Games

“He was bullied?” Decker asked. “And by bullied, I mean physical contact.”

“All I know is he was transferred.”

“When was this?” Marge asked.

“About six months ago.” The woman looked down. “But that wasn’t Gregory. No sirree. If Gregory were being picked on, I would have known about it. I would have done something. I’ll tell you that much.”

Precisely the reason why Gregory might not have told her. Decker said, “He never came home with unexplained bumps or bruises?”

“No! Why don’t you believe me?”

“I do believe you,” Decker said. “But I have to ask certain questions, Mrs. Hesse. You want a competent investigation, right?”

The woman was quiet. Then she said, “You can call me Wendy.”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” Decker said.

Marge said, “Any girlfriends in his life?”

“I didn’t know of any.”

“Did he go out on the weekends?”

“Mostly, he and his friends go to each other’s houses. Joey’s the only one old enough to drive.” Wendy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Mine never will.” Instant sobs. Decker and Marge waited until the hapless woman could find her voice again. “A couple of times”—she wiped her eyes—“when I went to pick him up … I saw a few girls.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I asked Gregory about them. He said they were Tina’s friends.”

“Who’s Tina?” Marge asked.

“Oh … sorry. Tina is Joey’s little sister. She and Frank, my younger son … they’re in the same grade.”

“Did Joey and Gregory go to the same school?”

“Bell and Wakefield. In Lauffner Ranch.”

“I know it,” Decker said.

Bell and Wakefield was the North Valley’s exclusive prep school on twenty acres with a state-of-the-art football field and indoor basketball arena, a movie studio, and a computer lab worthy of NASA. It prized sports, dramatics, and academics in that order. Lots of pro athletes and actors lived in the area and B and W was a natural repository for their children. “About fifteen hundred students?”

“I don’t know exactly, but it’s a big school,” Wendy said. “A lot of breathing room to find your special place.”

And if you don’t find your place, it’s a lot of room to get lost, Decker thought.

Wendy said, “Joey’s a goofy kind of kid. About five eight and weighs about a hundred pounds. He wears big glasses and his ears stick out. I’m not saying this just to be mean, just to tell you that there were lots of other kids that would have been bullied before Gregory.”

“Do you have a picture of him?” Decker said.

Wendy rummaged through her purse and pulled out his grade-school graduation picture. It showed a baby-faced boy with blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. Puberty was years away, and high school never treated those boys kindly.

“May I keep this?” Decker asked.

Wendy nodded.

He closed his notebook. “What would you like me to do for your son, Wendy?”

“Find out what really happened to my boy.” There were tears in her eyes.

Decker said, “The coroner has ruled your son’s death a suicide.”

Wendy was resolute. “I don’t care what the coroner says, my son didn’t commit suicide.”

“Could it have been an accidental shooting?”

“No,” Wendy insisted. “Gregory hated guns.”

Marge asked, “So how do you think he died?”

Wendy glanced at the detectives while kneading her hands. She didn’t answer the question.

Decker said, “If it wasn’t accidental death by his own hand and if it wasn’t intentional suicide, that leaves homicide—either accidental or intentional.”

Wendy bit her lip and nodded.

“You think someone murdered your boy?”

It took a few moments before Wendy could speak. “Yes.”

Decker tried to be as gentle as possible. “Why?”

“’Cause I know he didn’t shoot himself.”

“So you think the coroner missed something or …” Wendy was silent. Decker said, “I have no problem going to the school and talking to some of Gregory’s friends and classmates. But the coroner is not going to change her determination unless we find something extraordinary. Something that would directly contradict a suicide. Usually, it’s the coroner who comes to us because he or she suspects foul play.”

“Even if it was … what you say.” Wendy wiped her eyes with her fingers. “I don’t have … a clue … to what happened.” More tears. “If he did do it … I don’t know why. No idea whatsoever! I couldn’t be that dumb.”

“It has nothing to do with brains—”

“Do you have children, sir?”

“I do.”

“What about you, Detective?” She had turned to Marge.

“A daughter.”

“So what would either of you do if you suddenly came home one day … and found your child … had committed suicide?”

“I don’t know,” Decker answered.

Marge’s eyes watered. “I can’t imagine.”

“So tell me,” Wendy continued. “How would you feel if you knew there was absolutely no reason for your child to do this? He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t moody, he didn’t take drugs, he didn’t drink, he wasn’t a loner, he had friends, and he never ever handled a gun. I don’t even know where he got the gun!” She burst into sobs. “And no one … will … tell me … anything!”

Decker let her cry it out, handing her the box of tissues.

Marge said, “What do you want us to do, Mrs. Hesse?”

“Wen … dy.” She answered between sobs. “Find out what happened.” Her eyes were imploring. “I realize this is probably not a police matter, but I don’t know where to turn.”

Silence.

“Should I hire a private investigator? I mean, at least maybe he can find out where Gregory got the gun.”

“Where is the gun?” Decker asked.

“The police took it,” Wendy told him.

“Then it should be in the evidence locker,” Marge said. “It’s also in the files.”

“Let’s pull it out and find out where it came from.” He turned to Wendy. “Let me start with the gun, and we’ll work it from there.”

“Thank you!” A new fresh round of tears poured out of Wendy’s eyes. “Thank you for believing me … or at least thinking about what I said!”

“We’re here to help,” Marge said.

Decker nodded in agreement. The woman was probably in massive denial. But sometimes, even in these situations, parents really did know their children better than anyone else.

SITTING ON THE living room sofa, Decker pop-topped a can of Dad’s and basked in the warmth of his wife’s presence and the aftertaste of cured meat. “Thanks for picking up my dinner.”

“If I knew you were that close to coming home, we would have waited for you at the deli.”

“It’s better this way.” He took Rina’s hand. He had showered before he ate, changing from his suit to a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “Where’s the kid?”

“Practicing.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Seems to be okay. Did you know that Terry contacted him?”

“No, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. When was this?”

“About a week ago.” Rina recapped the conversation. “It obviously upset him. He wasn’t himself over dinner tonight. Whenever he gets uncomfortable, he talks about his upcoming competitions. Paradoxically, competition seems to calm him down. Renting him a piano is a lot cheaper than therapy.”

The baby grand was in the garage—the only place where they had enough room. Gabe shared his music studio with Decker’s Porsche, workbench, and power tools and Rina’s planting and potting station. They had soundproofed the space because the kid practiced at the oddest hours. But since he was homeschooled and was basically done with high school, they let him march to his own drummer. He wasn’t even sixteen and had already gotten into Juilliard and early action at Harvard. Even if they were his legal guardians—which they weren’t—there was really no guidance left to give him. At this point, they were just providing him with food, a safe shelter, and a little company.