As much as Dupree loved the energy and pulse of Manhattan, Brooklyn felt more like home. She’d lived there until she’d turned seventeen, a monumental crossroad that redefined her life and overshadowed her fond childhood memories. That’s when she and her mother stopped talking. Every time she drove the busy streets of Brooklyn, she felt overwhelmed with nostalgia and sweet memories turned sour. Except for police-related work, this was no longer her turf.
“There it is,” T.J. said, pointing to a beautiful all-brick home.
After parking the car, they walked up the short flight of stairs leading to the front porch and entrance of Ms. Crawford’s home. Two English Ivy plants hung from hooks on either side of the front door. A wooden bench—similar to those you see in a park—sat in the corner of the porch. She didn’t want to be reminded, but the architecture resembled her mother’s home. The home her mother decided to sell shortly after Dupree, a reckless teen, got pregnant and abandoned all sense of reason. Owning the home free and clear, Dupree’s mom was able to pay cash for a comfortable one bedroom apartment on 5th Avenue in Manhattan.
Before Dupree could knock, the door swung open. The woman, presumably Dr. Crawford’s mother, was likely in her sixties, but didn’t look a day over fifty. Dupree didn’t know if it was Neutrogena, Nivea, or the juice from aloe vera plants, but whatever regimen Ms. Crawford followed to look so young was working well.
“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown. Are you Ms. Crawford?”
“My dear husband’s long gone, but I still prefer Mrs. Crawford if you don’t mind.”
“May we have a word with you?” Dupree asked.
Mrs. Crawford studied the detectives’ faces with striking intensity. Her eyes darted back and forth as if she were trying to read their minds. “You’re here to deliver some bad news about my daughter, aren’t you?”
The question caught Dupree off guard. “May we come in and talk?”
Mrs. Crawford stepped to the side and invited them in. “Please have a seat.”
Dupree and T.J. sat next to each other on the light brown sofa. Mrs. Crawford sat adjacent to them on a straight back chair. Dupree removed a digital recorder from her purse and set it on the cocktail table. “Do you mind if we record this conversation?”
“Do whatever you must.”
Dupree noticed a small table covered with a lace doily. On top of the table she saw about a dozen framed photographs. One of them—a full-face portrait one might have taken for a graduation—caught Dupree’s eye. Dupree pointed at the portrait. “Is that a photograph of your daughter?”
Mrs. Crawford nodded. “The day she graduated from Harvard with a Ph.D. in physiology. Third in her class. She also holds double Master’s Degrees in chemistry and biology. My Lauren is a real brainiac.” Mrs. Crawford folded her hands on her lap and studied the portrait of her daughter. “How did you know I have a daughter?”
For an instant, Dupree lost her voice.
Mrs. Crawford looked at Dupree with troubled eyes. “Say what you have to say, Detective.”
Dupree eyed T.J. who hadn’t uttered a sound since entering the home. “I’m so, so sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter was… murdered last night.”
Dupree expected an explosive response. Most of the time, next of kin reacted with violent outbursts, gut wrenching screams, and uncontrollable sobbing. But everyone processed devastating news differently. One time, a young mother whose daughter had been kidnapped, raped, and strangled, began swearing and swinging her fists at Dupree. But Mrs. Crawford seemed remarkably composed. Too composed. With some people, Dupree had learned, the immediate shock and unwillingness to accept the fact that a loved one was killed suppresses the reality of it all. But then, weeks, sometimes months later, a residual shockwave crashes over the victim’s survivors and the agony begins.
With her eyes full of tears, hands trembling, Mrs. Crawford asked, “How did my Lauren… die?”
Loathing the words as they slipped off her tongue, Dupree whispered, “A gunshot wound.”
“Where did you find her?”
“In the backseat of her car.”
“Was she… assaulted?
Dupree knew what she meant. “We don’t believe she was sexually assaulted, Mrs. Crawford, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“God have mercy,” Mrs. Crawford said. Tears dripped down her cheeks.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Dupree said.
Mrs. Crawford’s tears turned to heartbreaking sobs. She covered her face with her hands.
At this particular point in time, Dupree hated her job. She’d rather be working in a Pennsylvania coal mine or scrubbing toilets—anything other than this. “We don’t have to continue with this conversation, Mrs. Crawford. We can do it another time.”
“Do you think it’s going to be easier for me in a week? A month? Ten years from now?”
Dupree and T.J. remained silent and waited for her to regain her composure.
Mrs. Crawford stood with great effort and shuffled towards the table covered with photographs. She picked up the portrait of her daughter, pressed it to her chest, and eased herself onto the chair. For a few moments, the grief-stricken woman stared at her daughter’s photograph.
“Now I understand why Lauren was concerned for her welfare,” Mrs. Crawford whispered. “She’d always had the keenest sixth sense.”
“She knew she was in danger?” Dupree almost shouted.
“For a while she had this eerie feeling that someone was following her.”
“Someone in particular?” T.J. asked.
Mrs. Crawford shook her head. “Not exactly. It was just one of those unexplainable inklings. I told her to leave the research and get a traditional job; something out of the limelight. But that was the shortest conversation in history. I don’t think even a death threat could have stopped her from continuing with her research.”
“You mentioned that your daughter earned a Ph.D. and two master’s degrees?” Dupree said. “What did she do for a living?”
“I’ll try to tell you the whole story, but first I need to use the bathroom.” Mrs. Crawford stood, her body teetering slightly. Afraid she might fall, Dupree ambled over to her and held onto her arm. “Are you okay?”
“Not at all.”
“Want me to walk you?” Dupree asked.
“I can manage,” Mrs. Crawford said and shuffled down the hall.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Dupree could hear Mrs. Crawford’s pitiful sobs.
“I hate this,” Dupree said. “Really friggin’ hate this!”
“It’s not the most pleasant part of our job.”
Dupree listened carefully but could no longer hear Mrs. Crawford crying. She looked around the living room. It so reminded her of her mother’s home. The windows and baseboards were trimmed with thick mahogany-colored gumwood, appearing to be about an inch thick and six inches wide. Hefty beams spanned the ceiling, and exquisite crown moldings trimmed the angle between the ceiling and the walls. The hardwood floors were stained a few shades lighter than the rest of the wood trim and were finished to a lustrous shine. Mounted above the wood-burning fireplace, a thick wooden mantle was covered with what appeared to be antique vases, figurines, and a pendulum clock.
Mrs. Crawford returned and set a box of tissues on her lap. Her eyes were red and swollen. She removed several tissues and blotted her eyes. “Thanks so much for waiting. My bladder isn’t what it used to be.” She tapped her temple with her index finger; her face had a look of total confusion. “Where were we?”
“You were going to tell us about your daughter’s career,” T.J. reminded her.
“Oh, yes, Lauren’s career. She’s worked for several high profile companies doing all kinds of research—technical research that’s way over my head. But a few years ago, my doctor diagnosed me with stage III pancreatic cancer. And the prognosis offered little hope. If you know anything at all about this terrible disease, you know that it’s almost always fatal. I underwent the traditional treatment that included aggressive chemotherapy, which has to be what hell is like. I lost about thirty pounds, had no appetite, spent hours near a bathroom because the waves of nausea were unpredictable and overwhelming. And of course, I lost all of my hair. Even my eyebrows.