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“They’re not saying.”
“Have you heard anything else, unofficially?”
“Just that time of death was tonight. Otherwise they’re keeping it tight.”
“Were there any witnesses? Did you guys interview anybody?”
“No.”
“Is next of kin down there? They must have been notified or the cops wouldn’t have made it public.”
“Nobody’s there from the family. We gotta go, buddy. Good luck.” The cameraman slid up the window.
The rain was driving, drenching me, but I hustled from the lot, hurried across the street between cars, and jogged down to Dutton Run Park. There was nobody protecting the perimeter from the side, only from the front along the road, and I angled down to the parking lot to see around the screen.
Klieg lights were everywhere, and the coroner and crime techs clustered around the car in question, but it wasn’t a maroon Volvo. It was a white Mercedes sedan, C-Class.
What?
I shielded my eyes against the rain, my mind racing. I knew it was a Mercedes because its grille was distinctive.
I didn’t get it. Lemaire was found dead in a car that wasn’t his—or the Mercedes was his and the maroon Volvo hadn’t been. Or he owned both cars for some reason. I myself owned three, but then again, I was nuts.
Suddenly a cop came over, grim-faced under a cap covered with plastic. “Sir, I need you to—”
“Officer, I’m a freelancer.” I flashed him my office ID, its lanyard hanging. “I heard that the victim was identified as a Neil Lemaire. Can you confirm that?”
“Sir, please contact our media office. I’m going to need you to leave now.”
“Do you know if it was murder or suicide?”
“Sir, I need you to leave—”
“Who’s his next of kin? Who did they notify?” I looked around but didn’t see any civilians.
“Now go!”
I jogged back to my car in the downpour and climbed into the driver’s seat. I fished around for some Dunkin’ Donuts napkins and wiped my face and head. I kept an eye on Dutton Run Park. Bright flashes of light came from the screen, so I knew they were photographing the body.
In time the flashes stopped, so I knew they were finished. The coroner’s van moved closer to the screen, and shadowy figures in windbreakers unloaded a gurney, barely visible in the gloom. They must have been putting the body into the van, and in the next few minutes, they closed its doors.
My stomach churned, and so did my thoughts. I felt sad, regardlessif it was murder or suicide. It made me sick to remember that I’d thought about suicide myself, at my lowest point. It had been in prison, and it was the first time after my parents visited.
I knew something was wrong the moment they entered the visiting room, noisy with families talking and laughing. My mother was in a dark pantsuit with her hair pulled back, but something was off about her expression. My father guided her by the elbow, which was strange.
Mom, you okay?I went to hug her, but the guard waved me off.
No contact, Devlin!
I stepped back, mortified.Ma? Are you okay?
My mother nodded but didn’t answer. Tears filmed her eyes, which darted around the visiting room.
Dad, what’s going on? What’s the matter with Mom?
She’s fine, TJ, but she can’t talk. My father eased her onto the bench and sat down.She has lockjaw.
What’s that?I asked, shocked.
