The Last Precinct

He takes a deep breath and tosses his scalpel back on the cart.

"I'll go talk to her and see what else we can find out." I walk off. "Buzz Rose when you're ready. Thanks, Jack." I pause to meet his eyes. "We'll talk later? We've never had that cup of coffee. We never even wished each other Merry Christmas."

I find Mrs. White in my conference room. She has stopped crying and is in a deep, depressed space, staring without blinking, lifeless. She barely focuses on me when I walk in and shut the door. I tell her I just looked at Be

Be

that a hunter was looking for a deer he shot earlier and found

her son's body, and Be

"Mrs. White," I say, "was something going on with Be

"Well, he's been moody." She is steadier now. She is talking about Be

"What do you mean by 'moody'?"

"He would go in his room a lot and shut the door. Stay in there listening to music with the headphones on. He gets a smart mouth now and again, and he didn't used to be that way. I've been concerned." Her voice catches. She blinks, suddenly remembering where she is and why. "I just don't know why he had to do something like that!" Tears seem to spurt out of her eyes. "I know there're some boys at church he's been having a hard time with. They tease him a lot, calling him pretty boy"

"Did anyone tease him yesterday?" I ask.

"That very well could be. They're all in Sunday School together. And there's been a lot of talk, you know, about those killings in the area." She pauses again. She doesn't want to continue down a path that leads to a subject both foreign and aberrant to her.

"The two men killed right before Christmas?"

"Uh huh. The ones they say were cursed, because that's not how America started, you know. With people doing things like that."

"Cursed? Who says they were cursed?"

"It's the talk. A lot of talk," she goes on, taking a deep breath. "With Jamestown being just down the road. There's always been stories about people seeing ghosts of John Smith and Pocahontas and all the rest of it. Then these men are murdered right near there, near Jamestown Island, and all this talk about them being, well, you know. Being u

"Did you and Be

"Some. I mean, everybody's been talking about those men killed and burned and tortured. People've been locking their doors more than usual. It's been spooky, I must admit. So Be

"Possibly he got teased a lot yesterday at church?" I guide her along. "Do you think maybe the boys made comments about so-called hate crimes, about gays and maybe implied…?"

"Well," she blurts out. "Well, yes. About curses against people who are u

"Any possibility Be

Jack is on the line. Be

"Tell him where I am." I hang up.

"Be

"How did he react to that?" I ask her.

"I don't remember him saying anything."

"When was this?"

"Maybe three weeks ago. Right after they found that second body and all the news came out about them being hate crimes."

I wonder if Stanfield has any idea how much damage he has caused by leaking investigative details to his goddamn brother-in-law. Mrs. White is chattering nervously as dread builds with her every step down the hallway. I escort her to the front of the office and through a door that takes us into the small viewing room. Inside are a couch and table. There is a painting of a peaceful English countryside on the wall. Opposite the sitting area is a wall of glass. It is covered with a curtain. On the other side is the walk-in refrigerator.

"Why don't you just sit and make yourself comfortable," I tell Mrs. White and touch her shoulder.

She is tense, frightened, her eyes riveted to the drawn blue curtain. She perches on the edge of the couch, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. I open the curtain and Be

"The rope prevented the blood from flowing back to his heart," I explain. "So his face is congested."

She gets up and moves closer to the window. "Oh my baby," she whispers. "My sweet child. You're in heaven now. In Jesus' arms in paradise. Look, his hair's all wet like he's just been baptized. You must have given him a bath. I just need to know he didn't suffer."

I can't tell her that. I imagine when he first tightened the noose around his neck, the roaring pressure in his head was very frightening. He had begun the process of terminating his own life, and he was awake and alert long enough to feel it coming. Yes, he suffered. "Not long," is what I say. "He didn't suffer long, Mrs. White."

She covers her face with her hands and weeps. I draw the curtain and lead her out.

"What will you do to him now?" she asks as she woodenly follows me out.

"We'll finish looking at him and do some tests, just to see if there's anything else we need to know."