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Authors: J. A. Jance
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Every once in a while she would sniffle or mop away at the determined tears that continued to course down her reddened cheeks.
"Dead means he won't ever come back, doesn't it?" she asked eventually.
I nodded. "That's right. Not ever."
"How come?"
How come people don't come back after they're dead? Where the hell do kids come up with questions like that, and how the hell do you answer them? I'm a cop, not a goddamned philosopher.
I searched my memory banks for some lingering scrap of Sunday school wisdom that might not answer her question outright but would at least offer a smidgen of comfort. I came up totally empty-handed.
"Daddy told me Joey's in heaven now," Jennifer continued when I said nothing. "Is that true?"
"Yes." I answered quickly, not daring to hesitate. "I'm sure he is."
I tried to sound as convincing as possible although I personally had grave doubts as to her brother's eternal destination. The Joey Rothman I knew seemed a most unlikely prospect for halo and wings.
There was another long silence while Jennifer waggled the toe of her scuffed baby tennis shoes. Reeboks, naturally.
"What's Mother going to do now?" she asked, breaking the silence with another totally unexpected question. I wasn't at all sure I understood what she was asking.
"What do you mean?"
More tears spilled out of Jennifer's eyes, but she maintained a surprising level of composure. "Mother always liked Joey best." She spoke the words slowly and guardedly, but with unwavering conviction. She paused and swallowed hard before she continued. "If Joey's dead, will she still love me?"
Jennifer Rothman had dragged me entirely out of my depth in the child psychology department. The Smothers Brothers may have elevated the old "Mom always liked you best" shtick to a money-making art form. The same routine coming from a mourning, grief-stricken seven-year-old child was anything but funny. Her look of utter abandonment sliced through my heart like a hot knife.
Before I could tell her I was sure she was mistaken, before I could offer the reassurance that I was sure her mother loved her just as much as she had loved Joey, the dining room door crashed open once more. Marsha Rothman, Mother herself, hurried inside.
"Mother, Mother," Jennifer wailed, letting loose a cloudburst of noisy sobs. She clambered off the couch and raced toward her mother, catching Marsha Rothman in a desperate tackle as the woman started across the room.
"Joey's dead," Jennifer whimpered, burying her face in her mother's woolen skirt. "Joey's dead."
"I know."
Marsha Rothman's usually unemotional face was distorted by her own grief. Distractedly she placed both hands on Jennifer's heaving shoulders. "Where's Daddy?" she asked.
Jennifer sobbed all the harder and didn't answer.
Feeling like an eavesdropper, I followed Jennifer across the room and stood waiting for the two of them to notice me. Melting mascara had left muddy tracks on Marsha's pallid cheeks. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who has spent years in search of the perfect tan, but now there was no trace of color in her skin. She looked pale, gaunt almost, but not a lock of her perfectly sculpted haircut was out of place.
I was only a few feet away, but she didn't see me. I didn't necessarily like the woman, but at a time like that, personal preferences don't mean much. Marsha Rothman's stepson was dead, and I would do whatever I could to help.
"I'm sorry about Joey," I said quietly, wanting to let her know I was there without startling her.
Despite my cautious tone, Marsha Rothman jumped when I spoke but regained her composure. My words of condolence seemed to strengthen her somehow. She swallowed and stiffened.
"Thank you," she answered formally. "Thank you very much. Do you have any idea where I could find my husband?"
"He went down the hall," I told her. "Probably into Louise Crenshaw's office. The detectives have been using that for a base of operations."
She nodded and then looked down
"Dead means he won't ever come back, doesn't it?" she asked eventually.
I nodded. "That's right. Not ever."
"How come?"
How come people don't come back after they're dead? Where the hell do kids come up with questions like that, and how the hell do you answer them? I'm a cop, not a goddamned philosopher.
I searched my memory banks for some lingering scrap of Sunday school wisdom that might not answer her question outright but would at least offer a smidgen of comfort. I came up totally empty-handed.
"Daddy told me Joey's in heaven now," Jennifer continued when I said nothing. "Is that true?"
"Yes." I answered quickly, not daring to hesitate. "I'm sure he is."
I tried to sound as convincing as possible although I personally had grave doubts as to her brother's eternal destination. The Joey Rothman I knew seemed a most unlikely prospect for halo and wings.
There was another long silence while Jennifer waggled the toe of her scuffed baby tennis shoes. Reeboks, naturally.
"What's Mother going to do now?" she asked, breaking the silence with another totally unexpected question. I wasn't at all sure I understood what she was asking.
"What do you mean?"
More tears spilled out of Jennifer's eyes, but she maintained a surprising level of composure. "Mother always liked Joey best." She spoke the words slowly and guardedly, but with unwavering conviction. She paused and swallowed hard before she continued. "If Joey's dead, will she still love me?"
Jennifer Rothman had dragged me entirely out of my depth in the child psychology department. The Smothers Brothers may have elevated the old "Mom always liked you best" shtick to a money-making art form. The same routine coming from a mourning, grief-stricken seven-year-old child was anything but funny. Her look of utter abandonment sliced through my heart like a hot knife.
Before I could tell her I was sure she was mistaken, before I could offer the reassurance that I was sure her mother loved her just as much as she had loved Joey, the dining room door crashed open once more. Marsha Rothman, Mother herself, hurried inside.
"Mother, Mother," Jennifer wailed, letting loose a cloudburst of noisy sobs. She clambered off the couch and raced toward her mother, catching Marsha Rothman in a desperate tackle as the woman started across the room.
"Joey's dead," Jennifer whimpered, burying her face in her mother's woolen skirt. "Joey's dead."
"I know."
Marsha Rothman's usually unemotional face was distorted by her own grief. Distractedly she placed both hands on Jennifer's heaving shoulders. "Where's Daddy?" she asked.
Jennifer sobbed all the harder and didn't answer.
Feeling like an eavesdropper, I followed Jennifer across the room and stood waiting for the two of them to notice me. Melting mascara had left muddy tracks on Marsha's pallid cheeks. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who has spent years in search of the perfect tan, but now there was no trace of color in her skin. She looked pale, gaunt almost, but not a lock of her perfectly sculpted haircut was out of place.
I was only a few feet away, but she didn't see me. I didn't necessarily like the woman, but at a time like that, personal preferences don't mean much. Marsha Rothman's stepson was dead, and I would do whatever I could to help.
"I'm sorry about Joey," I said quietly, wanting to let her know I was there without startling her.
Despite my cautious tone, Marsha Rothman jumped when I spoke but regained her composure. My words of condolence seemed to strengthen her somehow. She swallowed and stiffened.
"Thank you," she answered formally. "Thank you very much. Do you have any idea where I could find my husband?"
"He went down the hall," I told her. "Probably into Louise Crenshaw's office. The detectives have been using that for a base of operations."
She nodded and then looked down
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